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POPULAR NOVELS.

By ICay Agnes Fleming.

I.— GUY EARLSCOUBT'S WIFE.
II.— A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
III.— A TERRIBLE SECRET.
IV.— NORRIXE'S REVENOK

v.- A MAD MARRLAGE.

" Hn. FlemlnK'n ntorica are Browing mora and mora popu-
lar every (lay. Thi'lr dclinuntionri of clmrnctar,
lifc-Uko conversatlonx, llnKhog of wit, ooo-
■tnntly vnryliw bccikh, nnd deeply In-
tenwtlng plotn, combine to plaoo
their author in the very
first ntiik of Modem
Noveliata"

AH pabUihed onUorm with thia Tolome. Frioa fl.TS
each, and aBut/rtt by mall, on noeipt of ivioa, by

O. Vr. OARLETON Sn CO.«
Now York.

'GUY

NORINE'S REVENGE,

AND

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

MAY AGNES FLEMING,

AUTiiuR or

"ouY earlscourt's wife," "a wonderful woman,"

"a terrible secret," "a mad

marriage," etc.

*&.

\ , /o^3V?'»^

NEW YORK:

G. W. Carleton & Co., PublisherSy

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.,
MDCCCLXXV.

^'"■^ar-tg,-

4-TZ

I87S-

John K. Thow & Son, Printkrii,
aoj-aij Kast 12111 St., Nkw Vokk.

II
II
I\

VII
VII

I>
>

XI
XII

XVI
XVII

xi:
x:

XXI

XXII

CONTENTS.

:o:

NORINE'S RKVENGE.

L'HAPTKR. r\r,m.

I.— Two Ulack Kyes and their Work 7

II.— A Wise Man's Folly 18

III. — Mr. Laurence Thorndyke 35

IV. — The lawyer's Warning 42

V.—" I will l)e your Wife " 55

VI.— Before the Wedding 69

VII. — The Gathering Storm 78

VIII.— Fled 94

IX.—" Mrs. Laurence " 102

X.—" A Fool's Paradise " 109

X I. — Gone 12a

XII.— The Truth 131

XIII. — Mr. Liston's Story 142

XIV. — A Dark Compact 150

XV.—" A Fashionable Wedding " 1 59

XVI. — " His name is Laurence Tliorndyke " 167

XVII.— A Letter from Paris 178

XVItL— After Four Years 185

XIX. — "Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad ".. 196

XX. — Norine's Revenge 211

XXI. — "The .mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind

exceedingly small 215

XXII. — "The way of the Transgressor is hard." 225

XXIII. — "Jenny Kissed me." 231

■n

"5*i;

wmm

VI CONTENTS.

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

CHAPTER. i-ACB.

I.— Sir Noel's Deathbed 243

II. — Captain Everard 252

III.—" Little May " 262

IV. — Mrs. Wcymorc 272

V. — A Journey to London 283

VI.— Guy 2S8

VH.— 'ol. Jocyln 298

VIII.— Lady Th'ctford's liall 307

^ IX. — (iuy Legard 317

X. — Asking in Marriage 325

XI. — Cn the Wedding eve 334

XII. — Mrs. Weymore's Story 346

XIII. — "Tliere is many a slip " 354

XIV.— Parted 363

XV. — After Five Years 369

XVI. — At Sorrento 373

XVII.— At Home 376

A DAKK CONSriRACY 379

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE 393

^"^

NORINE'S REVENGE.

CHAPTER I.

TWO BLACK EYES AND THEIR WORK.

|HE early express train from Montreal to Port-
land, Maine, was crowded.

Mr. Richard Gilbert, lawyer, of New York,
entering five minutes before starting time,
found just one seat unoccupied near the door. A crusty
old farmer held the upper half, and moved grumpily
toward the window, under protest, as Mr. Gilbert took the
place.

The month was March, the morning snowy and blowy,
slushy and sleety, as it is in the nature of Canadian March
mornings to be. The sharp sleet lashed the glass, people
shivered in multitudinous wraps, lifted purple noses, over-
twisted woolen clouds and looked forlorn and miserable.
And Mr. Gilbert, congratulating himself inwardly on having
secured a seat by the stove, opened the damp Montreal
True Witness, and settled himself comfortably to read.
He turned to the leading article, read three lines, and
never finished it from that day to this. For the door
opened, a howl of March wind, a rush of March rain
whirled in, and lifting his eyes, Mr. Richard Gilbert saw
in the doorway a new passenger.

NOR /NETS REVENGE.

The new passenger was a young lady, and the young
lady was the prettiest young lady, Mr. Gilbctt thought,
in that first moment, he had ever seen.

She was tall, she was slim, she was dark, she had
long loose, curly black hair, falling to her waist, z .J two
big, bright, black, Canadian eyes, as lovely eyes as the
wide earth holds. She stood there in the doorway, faltering,
frightened, irresolute, a very picture — the color coming
and going in the youthful, sensitive face, the luminous
brown eyes glancing like the eyes of a startled bird.
She stood there, laden with bundles, bandboxes, and
reticules, and holding a little blinking spaniel by a string.

Every seat was i ''ed, no one seemed disposed to
dispossess themselves, even for the accommodation of youth
and beauty. Only for six seconds, though ; then Richard
Gilbert, rose up, and quietly, and, as a matter of course,
offered his seat to the young lady. She smiled — what a
smile it was, what a bright little row of teeth it showed,
dimpled, blushed — the loveliest rose-pink blush in the
world, hesitated, and spoke :

" But, monsieur 1 " in excellent English, set to a delici-
ous French accent. " But, monsieur will have no place."

"Monsieur will do very well. Oblige me, mad-
emoiselle, by taking this seat."

" Monsieur is very good. Thanks."

She fluttered down into the seat, and Mr. Gilbert dis-
posed of the many bundles and boxes and bags on the
rack overhead. He was smiling a little to himself as he
did so ; the role of lady's man was quite a new one in this
gentleman's cast in the great play of Life. The grumpy
old farmer, with a grunt of disapprobation, edged still
further up to the window.

•w"

youn
shy,

M
finds
chari
of y(
youtl
face
heavt

Ml
the
articl
plung
to th
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bert i
then 1
matet
stand
and h
all.
own
finds
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little
He
hard-
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worn;

nVO BLACK EYES AND THEIR WORK.

" Monsieur can sit on the arm of the scat," suggests the
young lady, glancing up with a pretty girl's glance — half
shy, half coquettish ; " it is so very fatiguing to stand."

Monsieur avails himself of the offer immediately, and
finds he is in an excellent position to examine that very
charming face. But he does not examine it : he is not one
of your light-minded, mustache-growing, frivolous-headed
youths of three-or-four-and-twenty, to whom the smiling
face of a pretty girl is the most fascinating object under
heaven.

Mr. Gilbert casts one look, only one, then dra' s forth
the True IVilmss and buries himself in the leading
article. The last bell rings, the whistle shrieks, a
plunge, a snort, and they are rushing madly off in-
to the wild March morning. The young lady looks
about her, the grumpy farmer is between her and the
window, the window is all blurred and blotted ; Mr. Gil-
bert is fathoms deep in his paper. She gives a little sigh,
then lifts her small dog up in her lap, and begins an ani-
mated conversation with him in French. FroUo under-
stands Canadian French, certainly not a word of English,
and he blinks his watery eyes, and listens sagaciously to it
all. The farmer looks askance, and grunts like one of his
own pigs j the lawyer, from behind his printed sheet,
finds the words dancing fantastically before his eyes, and
his brain taking in nothing but the sweet-spoken, foolish
little prattle of mademoiselle to Frollo.

He is thirty-five years of age, he is a hard-headed,
hard-working lawyer, he has a species of contempt for all
women, as bundles of nerves and nonsense, fashions and
foolery. He is thirty-five ; he has never asked any
woman to marry him in his life ; he looks upon that

NORINE'S REVENGE.

foolish boy-and-girl idiocy, called love, as your worldly-wise
cynics do look upon it, with a sneer and a scoff. Pretty
girls he has met and known by the score — handsome
women and clever women, but not the prettiest, the hand-
somest, the cleverest of them all has ever made his well-
regulated legal pulses beat one throb the quicker in all
his five-and-thirty years of life. Why is it then that he
looks at this little French Canadienne with an interest he
has never felt in looking at any of the bright New York
beauties he has known so long ? Simple curiosity, no doubt
— nothing more.

" She looks like a picture I once saw of Joanna of Na-
ples," he thought, " only Joanna had golden hair. I hope
the similarity to that very improper person ends with the
outward resemblance."

He returned to his newspaper, but somehow politics
and cable dispatches, and Our Foreign Relations, had lost
their interest. Again and again, under cover of the friendly
sheet, his eyes wandered back to that fair drooping face,
that piquant profile, those long eyelashes, and the rippling
black tresses falling from beneath the litde hat. The
hat was trimmed with crape, and the graceful figure wore
dingy black.

" Who is she ? " Mr. Gilbert found himself wondering ;
" where is she going ? and for whom is she in mourning ? "

And then, conscious of his own folly and levity, he pulled
himself up, and went back for the dozenth time to the
True Witness.

But — his hour had come, and it would not do. The
low French babble to the dog rang in his ears, the dark
mignonne face came between him and the printed page,
and blotted it out.

■^■C

riVO BLACK EYES AND THE/R WORK. i j

"She is much too young, and— yes, too pretty to be
travelling alone. I wonder where is she going ; and if her
friends will meet her? Very imprudent to allow a child like
this to travel alone. She hardly looks sixteen."

His interest — fatherly, brotherly of course, in this
handsome child was increasing every moment. It was
something not to be explained or comprehended. He
had heard of such imbecility as " love at first sight," but
was it likely that he, a man of five-and-thirty, a lawyci-,
without an ounce of sentimentality in his composition
should make an idiot of himself over a French Cana-
dienne, a total stranger, a bread-and-butter-eating school-
girl at his time of life. Not likely. She interested him
as a pretty picture or marble Venus, or other work of art
might — just that.

He di' 1 not address her. Lawyers are not bashful as a
body. Mr. Gilbert was not bashful individually, but
something, for which he knew no name, held him silent
now. If that grumpy, over-grown farmer were only out of
the way, he thought, instead of sitting sulkily there star-
ing at the falling rain, he could no doubt find some-
thing to say. '

Fate favored him, his evil angel " cursed him with the
curse of an accomplished prayer." At the very next sta-
tion the surly husbandman got up and left ; and the mis-
tress of Frollo, moving close to the window, lifted those
two orbs of wondrous brown light to the lawyer's grave
thoughtful face, and the sweet voice spoke :

"Will monsieur resume his place now ? "

Monsieur needed no second bidding. He resumed it,
threw aside his paper, and opened conversation in the
usual brilliant and original way :

. . M

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

" The storm seems to increase — don't you think so ?
Abominable weather it has been since March came in, and
no hope of its holding up to day."

" Oh, yes, monsieur," mademoiselle answered, with ani-
mation ; " and it is such a pity, isn't it? It makes one low-
spirited, one can see nothing, and one does like so to see
the country as one goes along."

" Was she going far ? " the lawyer inquired.

" Oh, very far ! " Mademoiselle- makes a little Gallic
gesture, with shoulders and eyebrows and hands all togeth-
er to express the immensity of the distance.

" A great way. To Portland," with a strong accent on
the name of that city. " Monsieur knows where Portland
is?"

" Yes, very well — he was going there himself en route to
New York. You, mademoiselle," he adds, inquiringly,
" are going on a visit, prob.ibly ?"

Mademoiselle shakes her pretty head, and purses her
pretty lips.

" Monsieur, no — I am going home."

" Home ? But you are French."

" But yes, monsieur, certainly French, still my home
is there. Papa and mamma have become dead," the brown
eyes fill, " and Uncle Louis and Aunt Mathilde have seven
of their own, and are poor. I am goin;^ to mamma's
relatives, mamma was not French."

" No ? " Mr. Gilbert says in sympathetic inquiry.

" No, monsieur. Mamma was Yzn-kee, a New England
lady, papa French Canadian. Mamma's friends did not
wish her to marry papa, and she ran away. It is five years
ago since she died, and papa — papa could not live without
her, and two years after the good God took him too."

i:mm

nVO BLACK EYES AND THEIR WORK.

The tearful brown eyes look down at her shabby black
dress. " Monsieur beholds I wear mourning still. Then
Uncle Louis took me, and sent me to school, but Uncle
Louis has so many, so I wrote to mamma's brothers in
Portland, and they sent a letter back and money, and told
me to come. And I am going — Frollo and me."

She bends over the little dog, her lips quivering like the
lips of a grieved child, and the lawyer's middle-aged
heart goes out to her in a great compassion.

" Poor little lonely child 1 " be thinks, watching the
sweet overcast face : " I hope they will be good to her,
those Yankee friends." Then aloud. " But you are very
young, are you not, to travel this distance alone ? "

" I am seventeen, and I had to travel alone, there was
no one to come with me. My Uncle Kent will meet me
at Portland."

" You are Mademoselle Kent ? " he says with a smile.

" No, monsieur, my name is Bourdon — Norine Kent
Bourdon. "

" Have you ever seen those relatives to whom you are
going?"

" Once. They came to see mamma when she was dead.
There are three — two uncles ind an aunt. They were
very kind. I liked them very much."

" I trust you will be happy in your new home, Miss
Bourdon," the lawyer says gravely. " Permit me to offer
you my card. If you ever visit New York I may meet you
again — who knows ? "

The young lady smiles as she reads the name.

"Ah — who knows ? I am going out as governess by-and-
by. Perhaps I shall write to you to help get me a situation."

" What a frank, innocent child it is 1 " thought Mr. Gil-

^^ri

NORINE'S REVENGE.

bert, looking down at the smiling, trustful face: "othei
girls of her age would be bashful, coquettish, or afraid of
a masculine stranger. But this pretty child smiles up in
my face, and tells me her little history as though I were
her brother. I wish I were her brother, and had power to
shield her from the hardships of life. Any service in my
power I shall always be happy to render you, my dear young
lady," he said; " if at any time you apply to me, believe
me I shall do my utmost to serve you."

■Mademoiselle Norine Kent Bourdon looked up into the
grave, genial face, with soft, trustful eyes that thanked
him. She could not have defined it, but she felt he was a
man to be trusted— a good man, a faithful friend and an
honorable gentleman.

The train flew on.

As the afternoon wore away the storm increased. The
trees rocked in the high wind, and the ceaseless sleet beat
against the windows. Miss Bourdon had a novel in her
satchel, an j:nglish novel, and she perused a few pages
of this work at intervals, and watched the storm-blotted
landscape flitting by. She made small French remarks to
Frollo, and she refreshed herself with apples, gingerbread
and dyspeptic confectionery. But, all these recreations
palling after a time, and as the darkness of the stormy
March day closed, drowsiness came, and leaning her head
against the window, the young lady fell asleep.

Mr. Gilbert could watch her now to his heart's content,
and he did watch her with an interest all-absorbing, and
utterly beyond his comprehension. He laid his railway
rug lightly over her, and shielded her from all other rnale
eyes, with jealous care. What was it that charmed him
about this French girl ?

tfllKltrrr :«» ««»¥*•?*■ -1

rrro BLACK EVES AND THEIR WORK.

He could no more have told you then than he could ever
have told you afterward. It was w ten, it was Kismet ;
Jiis fate had come to him as it comes to all, in unlooked-
for form. She looked, the poetic simile came to the unpoet
ical mind of the lawyer — like a folded rose, the sweetness
and bloom yet unbrushed from the leaves.

Mademoiselle did not awake until the train stopped ;
then she opened her eyes bewildered. But Mr. Gilbert
gathered up the boxes and bundles, drew her hand under
his arm, and led her out of the cars, and up to the big noisy
hotel, where they were to stop for the night. Miss Bour-
don took her supper seated beside her friend, at the long,
crowded table, and was dazzled, and delighted. It was all
so new to her; and at seventeen, novelty is delight. After
supper her protector gave her into the hands of a cham-
bermaid, told her at what hour they started next morn-
ing, bade her good-night, and dismissed her.

Were Richard Gilbert's dreams that night haunted
by the vision of a dark, soft face, two dark tender
eyes, and the smile of an angel ? Richard Gilbert
only knows. But this is certain: when Mademoiselle
Bourdon descended the stairs next morning he was
standing at the dining-room door awaiting her, and his
calm eyes lit up, as few had ever seen them light in his life.
He led her into breakfast, and watched her hearty»
school-gi"-! morning appetite with pleasure. Then, there
being half-an-hour to spare before the train started, he
proposed a little stroll in the crisp, cool sunshine that had
followed yesterday's storm. It was very fair, there in
that lovely valley in Vermont, with the tall mountains
piercing the heavens, and the silvery lakes flashing like
mirrors below.

A'OM/A'E'S REVEXGE.

U was past noon when they reached Portland. The
usi.al rush followed, but Norine, safe under the protecting
wing of Mr. Gilbert, made iier way unscathed. She looked
e.ngeriy amon;; the crowd in the long depot, and cried out
at hist at sight of a familiar face.

" There, monsieur— there I Uncle Reuben is standing
yonder with the blue coat and fur cap. He is looking
for me. Oh 1 take it 2 to him at once, please. "

Mr. Gilbert led Miss Bourdon up to where a blulf-Iook-
iug, middle-aged countryman stood — " Down East " from
top to toe.

" Uncle," cried Norine, holding out both hands, eagerly,
" I have come."

And then, heedless of the crowd, of Mr. Gilbert, made-
moiselle flung both arms around Uncle Reuben's neck with
very French effusion, and kissed him, smick — smack, on
both cheeks.

" Hey ! bless my soul ! it i:. you, is it.'" Uncle Reuben
exclaimed, extricating himself. " It is, I swow, and growed
out of all knowin'. You're welcome, my dear, and I'm
right glad to have you with us, for your poor mother's
sake. You ain't a look of her, though — no, not one —
Gustave Bourdon all over. And how did you manage on
your journey ? I tell you, we was all considerable uneasy
about you. "

He looked at her tail companion as he ceased, half sus-
piciously, half inquiringly, and Miss Bourdon hastened
to introduce them.

" This gentleman is Mr. Gilbert, uncle. He has been
very kind to me all the way. I don't know what I should
have done but for him. He has taken care of me ever
since we left Montreal. "

TIVO DLACK EVliS AND THEIH WORK.

"'I'haiiky, sir — much obligetl to you for looking after
this little gill. Come along and speiul the day with us at
my place, Kent I'arm. "

"Thanks, vciy much," the lawyer answered ; " I regret
more than I can say that circumstances render that
pleasure impossible. I must be in New York to-morrow,
but the very next time I am in Portland I shall certainly
avail myself of your kind invitation. Miss Bourdon, until
that time comes, good-by."

He shook hands with her, and saw her led away by her
uncle, with a feeling of strange, yearning regret. A two-
seated country sleigh stood near. Uncle Reuben helped
her in, took his seat beside her, tucked her up, said
"Ga'lang, " and they were off. Once she looked back, to
smile, to wave her hand to him in adieu. One more
glimpse of that brunette face, of that rare smile, of those
black Canadian eyes, and the clumsy sleigh turned an
acute angle, and she was gone.

Gone. A blank seemed to fall, the whole place turned
desolate and empty. With a wistful look in his face he
turned slowly away.

" Poor little girl 1 " the lawyer thought. " I hope she will
be happy. She is so pretty — so pretty 1 "

^^m

CHAPTER II.

A WISE MAN S FOLLY.

R. Richard Gilukkt went to New York, .md
the pirl with the black Ciinadian eyes and float-
ing hair went with him — in spirit, that is to say.
That dark, piquant face ; that uplifted, gentle
glance ; that dimpling smile haunted him all through the
upward journey ; haunted and lit up his dingy office, and
came between him and Blackstone, and Coke upon
Littleton, and other legal lights.

Her bright, seventeen-year old face formed itself into a
picture upon every page of those mouldering, dry-as-dust
tomes, looked at him in the purple twilight, in the sunny
mornings, in the dead waste and middle of the night.
He had become " A Haunted Man," in short, Mr. Gilbert
was in love.

And so. " how it came let doctors tell," all of a sudden
Mr. Gilbert found that business required his presence Down
Ivist early in July. It was trifling business, too, under-
strappers in the office "thought, that could very well have
(lone without his personal supervision ; but Mr. Gilbert
reasoned otherwise ; and, with a very unwonted glow about
the region of the heart, packed his portmanteau, and
started for Portland, Me.

The hot July sun was blazing in the afternoon sky and
the streets of Portland were blistering in the heat, as the
New York lawyer walked from the cars to his hotel.

That important business which had brought him so many
miles was transacted in a couple of hours, and then he re-
turned to his hotel to dress and dine. Dress! — when had
Richard Gilbert in his plain business pepper-and-salt suit
and round-topped straw hat, ever taken so much pains
with his toilet before, ever sported such faultless broad-
cloth in July, ever wore a diamond pin in his snowy linen,
ever stood so long before the glass, ever felt so little
satisfied with the result ? When had the crow's feet around
mouth and eyes ever shown so plainly, when had his tall,
bald forehead ever appeared so patriarchal, when had he
ever looked so dreadfully middle-aged, and plodding and
priggish in his own legal eyes ? Ah, when indeed ?

He hired a light wagon and a bony horse at the nearest
livery stable, and inquired the way to Kent Farm. Kent
Farm was three miles distant, he found, and the white,
dusty road lay like a strip of silver between the golden,
green fields. The haymakers were at work, the summer air
was sweet with perfume, the fields of buckwheat waved, the
birds sang in the branches of the elms, the grasshoppers
chirped until the drowsy air was alive, and far beyond all,
more beautiful than all, the silver sea lay asleep under the
sparkling sun. Pretty houses, all white and green, were
everywhere ; and more than one Maud Miiller leaned on
her rake, and looked up under her broad-brimmed hat as
this thoughtful Judge rode by. He rode very slowly, so
slowly that it was nearly an hour before he reached his
destination and drew up at the gate of Kent Farm.

Had he been wise to come ? What was this young girl,
this child of seventeen, to him ? What could she ever be ?
Youth turns to youth, as flowers to the sun. What if he
found her the plighted wife of some stalwart young farmen

«1.|

NOXINE'S REVENGE.

some elegant dry-goods clerk of the town ? What ? His heart
contracted with a sharp, sudden spasm, and told him what ?

Kent Farm at last. Half a mile from any other house,
on the summit of a green, sloping eminence, an old red,
weather-beaten farm-house its once glaring color toned
and mellowed down by the sober hand of Time. A charm-
ing old place, its garden sloping down to the roadside,
its lilac trees in full bloom, A wide-spreading old-fash-
ioned garden, with rose bushes, and gooseberry bushes,
-currant bushes, sunflowers, and hollyhocks, and big,
gnarled old apple trees, mixed up in picturesque confusion.

Seated in a chair of twisted branches, under one
of these crooked, blossoming apple trees, the sunlight tan-
gled in her shining hair, and the mignonne face, sat Norine
Kent Bourdon, reading a novel.

He opfened the gate. Her book was interesting— she
did not hear. He walked up the gravelled path, and drew
near. Then she looked up, then half rose, in doubt for
a moment and then — to the day of his death, until all
things earthly, will Richard Gilbert remember the flush of
joj^ the flash of recognition, the glad cry of welcome, with
which she flung aside her book and sprang towards him,
both hands outstretached .'

" Monsieur 1 monsieur I " the sweet voice cried. " Ah,
monsieur ! how glad I am to see you. "

She gave him her hands. The lovely, laughing face
the eyes of fathomless light, looked up into his. Yes,
she was glad to see him, glad with the impulsive
gladness of a little younger sister to see an indulgent
brother, old and grave, yet beloved. But Mr, Gilbert, hold-
ing those hands, looking into that eager, sparking face,
drew no such nice distinctions.

A WISE MAN'S FOLLY.

" Thank you, mademoiselle. You have not quite for-
gotten me, then, after all ? "

" Forgotten you, monsieur ? Oh, my memory is better than
that. You have come to pay us that promised visit, have
you not ? Uncle Reuben has been looking for you ever since
the first of June, and Aunt Hester is never so happy as
when she has company. You have come to stay, I know."

"Well, I'm not sure about that, Miss Bourdon. I
may remain a week or two, certainly. New York is not
habitable after the first week of July, but I am stopping at
the Preble House. ! am too much of a stranger to tres-
pass on your good uncle's hospitality."

" You have been kind to me, monsieur, and you are a
stranger no more. Besides, it is dull here— pleasant but
dull, and it will be a second kindness io enliven us with a
little New York society. "

She laughed and drew away her hands. The golden
light of the July afternoon gilded the girlish face, upon
which the New York gentleman gazed with an admiration
he did not try to hide.

"Dull," he repeated ; "you don't find it dull, I should
think. Your face tells a very different story,"

Mademoiselle shook back her rippling satin hair, and
made a little French moue t/iutine.

" Ah, but it is. Only the fields and the flowers, the
trees and the birds, the eating and sleeping, and read-
ing. Now, flowers and fields and birds are very nice
and pleasant things, but I like people, new faces, new
friends, pleasure, excitement, change. I ride the horse, I
milk the cows, I pick the strawberries, I darn the stoc' jngs,
I play the piano, I make the beds, I read the novels. But
I see nobody — nobody — nobody, and it is dull."

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" Then you prefer the old life and Montreal ? "

" Montreal ! " Miss Bourdon's black eyes flashed out, as
your black eyes can. "Monsieur," solemnly, "I adore
Montreil. It was always new and always nice there;
bright and gay and French. French ! it is all Yankee
herf,, not but that I like Yankees too. Aunt Hester
thinks," a merry laugh, "there never was anybody
born like me, and Uncle Reuben thinks I would be an
angel if I didn't read so many novels and eat so many
"custard pies. And, monsieur," with the saucy uplifted
coquettish glance he remembered so well, "iiyou find out
I'm not an angel don't tell him, please. I wouldn't have
him undeceived for the world."

" I don't think I shall find it out, mademoiselle. I quite
agree with your uncle. Here he comes now."

Reuben Kent came out of the open front door, smoking
a pipe. He paused at sight of his niece in friendly collo-
quy with a strange gentleman. The next moment he recog-
nized him, and came forward at once in hearty welcome.

" Wal, squire," Mr. Kent said, " you /:ev come, when I
had e'enamost gi'n you up. How dye deow ? 'Tarnal hot,
ain't it? Must be a powerful sight hotter, though, up to
York. How air you. You're lookin' pretty considerably
spry. Norry's glad to see you, /know. That gal's bin a
talkin' o' ye continual. Come in, squire — come in. My
sister Hester will be right glad to see ye."

What a cordial welcome It was ; what a charming agri-
cultural person Mr. Reuben Kent, one of nature's Down
East noblemen, indeed. In a glow of pleasure, feeling
ten years younger and ten times better looking than
when he had started, the New York lawyer walked up to
the house, into the wide, cool hall, into the " keepin' room,"

A WISE MAN'S FOLLY.

and took a seat. A pleasant room ; but was not everything
about Kent Farm pleasant, with two large western win-
dows, through which the rose and golden light of the low
dropping sun streamed over the store carpet, the cane-seat-
tu chairs, the flowers in the cracked tumblers, and white,
delf pitchers. Traces of Norine were everywhere ; the
piano in a corner, the centre-table littered with books,
papers, magazines and scraps of needle-work, the two
canaries singing in the sunny windows, all spoke
of taste, and girlhood. There were white muslin cur-
tains, crocheted tidies on every chair in the room, a
lounge, covered with cretonne in a high state of glaze and
gaudy coloring, and the scent of the hay fields and the
lilacs over all. No fifth-avenue drawing-room, no satin-hung
silver-gilt reception-room, had ever looked one half so ex-
quisite in this metropolitan gentleman's professional eyes.
For there, amid the singing birds and the scented roses,
stood a tall, slim girl, in a pink muslin dress — and where
were the ormolu or brocatelle could embellish any room as
she did ?

Uncle Reuben went in search of Aunt Hester, and re-
turned with that lady presently ; and Mr. Gilbert saw a
bony little woman with bright eyes and a saffron complex-
ion. Miss Kent welcomed him as an old friend, and
pressed him to " stay to tea."

" It's jest ready," she remarked, — a maiden lady wns
Aunt Hester, — "we've ben waitin' for brother Joe, and he's
jest come. There ain't nothing more refreshing, I think
myself, than a nice cup o' hot tea on a warm day."

Uncle Reuben seconded the motion at once.

"We can't offer you anything very grand — silver spoons
and sech — as you get at them air hotels, but sech as it is,

1^
I?

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

and Hester's a master hand at crawlers and hot biscuit,
you're most niightly welcome. Norry, you fetch him along,
while I go and wash up."

Miss Bourdon obeyed. Mr. Gilbert did not require ail
that pressing, if they had but known it. There was no
need to apologize for that " high tea." No silver teaspoons,
it is true, but the plated-ware glistened as the real Simon
Pure never could have done ; and no hotel in Maine, or
out of it, could have shown a snowier table-cloth, hotter,
"Whiter, more dyspeptic biscuits, blacker tea, redder straw-
berries, richer cream, yellower ginger-bread, or pinker
cold-sliced ham. Mr. Gilbert ate ham and jelly, straw-
berries and tea, hot biscuit a-^-! cold ginger-bread— in a
way that fairly warmed Aunt Hester's heart.

" And we calk'late on keeping you while you're down
here, Mr. Gilbert," Uncle Reuben's hearty voice said.
" It's a pleasant place, though I say it as hadn't ought to
—a heap pleasanter than the city. Our house ain't none
too fine, and our ways may be homespun and old-fashioned,
but I reckon Norry and Hester kin make you pretty tol'bel
comfortable ef you stay."
"Comfortable!"

He looked across at that face opposite; comfortable
in the same house with her 1 But still he murmured some
faint objection.

" Don't mention trouble, sir," said Uncle Joe, who was
the counterpart of Uncle Reuben ; " you've ben kind to
our little Norry, and that's enough for us. Norry, hain't
you got nothin' to say ? "

"I say stay!" and the bewildering black eyes flash-
ed their laughing light .across at the victimized law-
yer. " Stay, and I'll teach you to milk and make butter,

the

A WISE MAN'S FOLLY.

and feed poultry, and pick strawberries, and improve your
mind in a thousand rural ways. You shall swing me when
Uncle Joe is too busy, and help me make short-cake, and
escort me to 'quiltin' bees,' and learn to rake hay. And
I — I'll sing for you wet days, and drive you all over the
neighborhood, and let you *ell me all about New York and
the fashions, and the stores, and the theatres, and the
belles of Broadway. Of course you stay, "

Of course he stayed. It is so easy to let rosy lips per-
suade us into doing what we are dying to do. He stay-
ed, and his fate was fixed — for good or for evil — fixed.
That very night his portmanteau came from Portland, and
the " spare room " was his.

Supper over, Uncles Reuben and Joe lit their pipes, and
went away to their fields and their cattle — Aunt Hester
" cleared up, " and Miss Bourdon took possession of Mr.
Gilbert. She wasn't the least in awe of him, she was
only a bright, frank, fearless, grown-up child. He was
grave, staid, old — is not thirty-five a fossil age in the eyes of
seventeen ? — but venerable though he was, she was not
the least afraid of him.

She led her captive — oh, too willing, forth in triumph
to see her treasures — sleek, well-fed cows, skittish ponies,
big horses, hissing geese, gobling turkeys, hens and
chicks innumerable. He took a pleased interest in them
all — calves and colts, chickens and ducklings, ganders
and gobblers, listened to the history of each, as though
he had never listened to such absorbing biographies in all
his life before.

How rosy were the lips that spoke, how eager llie sun-
ny face uplifted to his, and when was there a time that
Wisdom did not fall down and worship Beauty ? He liked

NORINE'S REVENGE.

to think of her pure and sweet, absorbed in these inno-
cent things, to find neither coquetry nor sentimentalism
in this healthy young mind, to know her ignorant as the
goslings themselves of all the badness and hardness andi
cruelty of the big, cruel world.

They went into the garden, and lingered under the
lilacs, until the last pink flush of the July day died, and
the stars came out, and the moon sailed up serene. They
- found plenty to say ; and, as a rule, Richard Gilbert rare-
ly found much to say to girls. But Miss Bourdon could
talk, and the lawyer listened to the silvery, silly prattle
with a grave smile on his face.

It was easy to answer all her eager questions, to tell
her of life in New York, of the opera and the theatres, and
the men and women who wrote the books and the poems
she loved. And as she drank it in, her face glowed and
her great eyes shone.

" Oh, how beautiful it all must be !" she cried, to hear
such music, to see such plays, to know such people 1 If
one's life could only be like the lives of the heromes of
books— romantic, and beautiful, and full of change. If
one could only be rich and a lady, Mr. Gilbert 1 "

She clasped her hands with the hopelessness of that
thought. He smiled as he listened. ^^

« A lady. Miss Bourdon ? Are you not that now ? " Miss
Bourdon shook her head mournfully.

"Of course not, only a little stupid country girl, a far-
mer's niece. Oh ! to be a lady— beautiful and haughty and
admired, to go to balls in diamonds and laces, to go to
the opera like a queen, to lead the fashion, and to be wor-
shipped by every one one met 1 But what is the use of
wishing, it never, never, never, can be."

■"HiJt,*,!

A WISE MAN'S POLL Y.

" Can it not "t I don't quite see that, although the
ladies you are thinking of exist in novels only, never in
this prosy, work-a-day world. Wealth is not happiness —
a worn-out aphorism, but true now as the first day it was
uttered. Great wealth, perhaps, may never come to you
but what may seem wealth in your eyes may be nearer
than you think — who knows ? "

He looked at her, a sudden flush rising over his face,
but Norine shook her black ringlets soberly.

" No, I will never be rich. Uncle Reuben won't hear
of my going out as governess, so there is nothing left but
to go on with the chicken-feeding and butter-making and
novel-reading forever. Perhaps it is ungrateful, though,
to desire any change, for I am happy too."

He drew a little nearer her ; a light in his grave eyes, a
glc^w on his sober face, warm words on his lips. What
was Richard Gilbert about to say? The young, sweet,
wistful face was fair enough in that tender light, to turn
the head of even a thirty-five year-old-lawyer. But those
impulsive words were not spoken, for " Norry, Norry 1 "
piped Aunt Hester's shrill treble. " Where's that child
gone ? Doesn't she know she'll get her death out there in
the evening air "

Norine laughed.

"From romance to reality I Aunt Hester doesn't
believe in moonlight and star-gazing and foolish longings
for the impossible. Perhaps she is right ; but I wonder if
she didn't stop to look at the moon sometimes, too, when
she was seventeen ? "

It was a very fair opening, given in all innocence. But
Mr. Gilbert did not avail himself of it. He was not a
" lady's man " in any sense of the word. Up to the pres-

il ill

«MP

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

gi !

ii:;

ent he had never given the fairest, the cleverest among
them a second glance, a second thought. The language
of compliment and flirtation was as Chaldaic and Sanscrit
to him, and he walked by her side up to the house and
into the keeping-room in ignoble silence.

The little old maid and the big old bachelors were as-
sembled here, the lamp was lit, the curtains down and
the silvery shimmer of that lovely moon-rise jealously
shut out. Norine went to the piano, and entertained her
~^audience with music. She played very well, indeed. She
had had plenty of piano-forte-drudgery at the Convent
school of the Grey Nuns in her beloved Montreal. She
sung for them in the voice that suited her mignonne face,
a full, rich contralto.

She sang gayly, with eyes that sparkled, the national
song of Lower Canada : " Vive la Canadiennc, " and the
New York lawyer went up to bed that first night with its
ringing refrain in his ears :

" Vive la Canadienne ct ses beaux yeux,
£t sts beaux yeux tous doux,
Et ses beaux yeux."

*' Ah 1" Richard Gilbert thought, " well may the habithns
sing and extol the beaux yeux of their fair countrywomen,
if those bright eyes are one-half as lovely as Norine Bour-
don's." ^

He stayed his fortnight out at the old red farmhouse ;
and he who ran might read the foolish record. He, a sober,
practical man of thirty-five, who up to the present had
escaped unscarred, had fallen a victim at last to a juvenile
disease in its most malignant form. And juvenile disor-
ders are very apt to be fatal when caught in mature years.
He was in love with a tall child of seventeen, a foolish

A WISE AfAN'S FOLLY.

little French girl, who looked upon him with precisely the
same affection she felt for Uncle Reuben.

" What a fool I am," the lawyer thought, moodily, " to
dream a child like that can ever be my wife ? A sensible,
practical young woman of seven-and-twenty is nearer your
mark, Richard Gilbert. What do I know of this girl,
except that she has silken ringlets and shining black
eyes, and all sorts of charming, childish, bewitching ways.
I will not make an idiot of myself at my age. I will
go away and forget her and my folly. I was a simpleton
ever to come."

He kept his word. He went away with his story untold.
He bade them all good-bye, with a pang of regret more
keen than any he had ever felt before in his life. Perhaps
the little brown hand of mademoiselle lingered a thought
longer than the others in his ; perhaps his parting look
into those beaux yeux was a shade more wistful. He was
going for good now — to become a wise man once more,
and he might never look into those wonderful, dark eyes
more.

Norine was sorry, very sorry, and said so with a frank
regret her middle-aged lover did not half like. He might
be unskilled in the mysteries of the tender passion, but he
had an inward conviction that love would never speak
such candid words, neyer look back at him with such crystal
clear eyes. She walked with him to the gate ; her ebon
curls a stream in the July breeze.

" Will you not write to me sometimes ? " Mr. Gilbert
could not help asking. " You don't know how glad I shall
be to hear of — of you all."

Mademoiselle Bourdon promised readily.

" Though I don't write very good letters," she remarked

NORINE'S RE VENGE.

deprecatingly. " I get the spelling wrong, and the gram-
mar dreadfully mixed when I write in English, but I
want to improve. If you'll promise to tell me of all my
mistakes, I'll write with pleasure."

So what were to be the most precious love letters on
earth to the gentleman, were to be regarded as " English
composition," by the lady. Truly, the French proverb
saith : " There is always one who loves, and one who is
loved."

-- Mr, Gilbert returned to New York, and found that pop-
ulous city a blank and howling wilderness. The exercises
in English composition began, and though both grammar
and spelling might get themselves into hopeless snarls, to
him they were the most eloquent and precious epistles
ever woman penned. He had read the letters of Lady Mary
Wortley Montague, but what were those vapid epistles to
Miss Bourdon's? He watched for the coming of the
Eastern mail ; he tore open the little white envelope ;
he read and re-read, and smiled over the contents.

And time went on. August, September, October
passed. The letters from Miss Norine Bourdon came
like clock work, and were the bright spots in Richard
Gilbert's hard-working, drab-colored life. He wrote her
back; he sent her books and music, and pictures and
albums, and pretty things without end, and was happy.
And then the Ides of dark November came, and all this
pastoral bliss was ended and over.

The letters with the Down-east post mark ceased ab-
ruptly, and without any reason ; his last two remained un-
answered. He wrote a third, and fell into a fever while
he waited. Was she sick, was she dead, was she — .
No, not faithless, surely, he turned cold at the bare

A WISE MAN'S FOLLY.

thought. But what was it ? The last week of November
brought him his answer. Very short, very unsatisfactory.

"Kent Farm, Nov. a8, i860.
"Dbar Mr. Gilbbrt— You must pordon me for not replying to your last
letters. I have been so busy. A gentleman met with an acridcnt nearly three
weeks ago, close by our house, broke his left arm, and sprained his right ankle.
I liave had to take care of him. Aunt Hetty has so much to do all the time
that she could not We are all very welt, and send you our best wishes. I am
Very much obliged for the pretty work-box, and the magazines, etc And I am,
dear Mr. Gilbert, with the most affectionate sentiments,

" NORINR K. DOURDON.

" P. S.— The gentlenun is greatly better. He is with us still. He Is very
nice. Ife is from your city. N."

In the solitude of his legal sanctum, Richard Gilbert,
with frowning brow and gloomy eyes, read this blighting
epistle. His worst fears were realized, more than realized.

There was a gentleman in the case. A gentleman who
absorbed so much of Miss Norine Bourdon's time that she
could not answer his letters. And he was " greatly better "
and he was from your city. Confound the puppy I He
was young and good-looking, no doubt ; and he must meet
with his accident, at her very door j precisely as though he
were enacting a chapter out of a novel. Of course, too, it
was his arm and his ankle that were smashed, not his
villainous face. And Norine sat by his bedside, and
bathed his forehead, and held cooling draughts to his
parched lips, and listened to his romantic, imbecile de-
lirium, etc., etc., etc. She sat up with him nights ; she
read to him ; she talked to him : she sang for him. He
could see it all.

Mr. Gilbert was a Christian gentleman, so he did not
swear. But I am bound to say he felt like swearing. He
jumped up ; he crushed that poor little letter into a ball ;
he strode up and down his ofHce like a caged (legal) tiger.

I \

NORWE'S REVENGE.

The green-eyed monster put forth its obnoxious claws, and
never left him for many a dreary year. It was that atro-
cious postscript, so innocently written, so diabolical to
read. " He is greatly better. He is with us still. He is
very nice." Oh, confound him ! what a pity it had not been
his neck.

Suddenly he paused in his walk, his brows knit, his
eyes flashing, his mouth set. Yes, that was it, he would
do it, his resolution was taken. He would go straight to
Kent Farm, and see for himself. And next morning at 8
o'clock the express train for Boston bore among its pas-
sengers Mr. R. Gilbert, of New York.

The train whirled him away, and as the chill, murky De-
cember landscape flew by, he awoke all at once to a sense
of what he was about. Why was he going ? what did he
mean ? to ask Norine Bourdon to be his wife ? certainly
not. To play dog in the manger, and keep some more
fortunate man from loving and marrying her ? most certain-
ly not. Then why had he come ? At this juncture he set
his teeth, took up the Herald and scowled moodily at its
printed pages all day long.

He slept that night in Boston, and next morning re-
sumed his journey. He reached Portland before noon,
dined at his usual hotel, and then, as the afternoon sun
began to drop low in the wintry sky, set out on foot for
Kent Farm.

How familiar it all was ; how often, when the fields were
green, the trees waving, and the birds singing, he had
walked this road beside Norine. But the fields were white
with snow to-day, the trees black, gaunt skeletons, and the
July birds dead or gone. All things had changed in four
months — why not Norine as well ?

A Vy/SE AfAN'S FOLLY.

It was four by the lawyer's watch as he raised the latch
of the garden gate, and walked up the snow-shrouded path.
There stood the gnarled old apple tree, with its rustic chair,
but the tree was leafless, and the chair empty. Doors and
windows had stood wide when he saw them last, with sun-
shine and summer floating in ; now all were closed, and
the Decembci blasts howled around the gables. Ihere
was no one to be seen, but the red light of a fire streamed
brightly out through the curtains of the keeping-room.

He went slowly up the steps, opened the front door, and
entered the hall. The door of that best apartment stood
half open, light and warmth, voices and laughter came
through. Mr. Gilbert paused on the threshold an in-
stant, and looked at the picture within.

A very pretty picture.

The room was lit by the leaping fire alone. Seated on a

low stool, before the fire and beside the sofa, he saw

Norine. She was reading aloud the lovely story of Lalia

Rookh. He had sent her the green and gilt volume

himself. She wore a crimson merino dress, over which

her black hair fell, and in the fantastic firelight how fair

the dark, piquant face looked, the dark eyes were bent

upon her book, and the soft voice was the only sound
in the room.

On the sofa, perilously near, lay the, "gentleman " of her
letter— the hero of the broken arm and sprained ankle,
who was " very nice." And Richard Gilbert looking, gave
a great start.

He knew him.

His worst fears were realized. He saw a man both young
and good-looking— something more, indeed, than good-
looking. The face was thin and pale, but when was that

NORINE'S REVENGE.

a fault in the eyes of a girl !— a tall figure in a dark
suit, brown hair, and silken blonde mustache artistically
curled. Surely a charming picture of youth and beauty on
both sides, and yet if Mr. Gilbert had seen a cobra di capella
coiled up beside the girl he loved, he could hardly have
turned sicker with jealous fear."

" Laurence Thorndyke," he thought blankly " of all the
men in the wide world, what evil fortune has sent Laurence
Thorndyke here 1 "

mmmm

m^i

CHAPTER III.

MR. LAURENCE THORNDYKE.

HE little dog FroUo, curled up beside his mis-
tress, was the first to see and greet the new
comer. He rushed forward, barking a friendly
greeting, and the young lady looked up from
the book she was reading, the young gentleman from
the face he was reading at the same moment, and be-
held the dark figure in the doorway.

Norine Bourdon sprang to her feet, blushing violently,
and came forward with outstretched hand. It was the first
time he had ever seen her blush — like that — the first time
her eyes had fallen, the first time her voice had faltered.
She might be glad to see him, as she said, but all the old,
frank, childish gladness was gone.

" I have taken you by surprise," he said, gazing into
her flushed face and shrinking eyes, " as I did once before.
I get tired of New York and business very suddenly
sometimes, and you know I have a standing invitation
here."

"We are very glad — / am very glad to see you, Mr.
Gilbert," Norine answered, but with an embarrassment, a
restraint altogether new in his experience of her. " We
missed you very much after you went away."

The young man on the sofa, who all this time had been
calmly looking and listening, now took an easier position,
and spoke :

i;ii

ft.,.

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" Six-and-twenty-years experience of this wicked world
hi' taught me the folly of being surprised at anything
under the sun. But if I had not outlived the power of
wondering, centuries ago, I should wonder at seeing Mr.
Richard Gilbert out of the classic precincts of Wall
street the first week of December. I suppose now you
wouldn't have looked to see me here ? "

He held out a shapely, languid hand, with a diamond
ablaze on it. The lawyer touched it about as cordially as
Ihough it had been an extended toad.

"I certainly would not, Mr. Thorndyke. I imagined,
and so did M»- Darcy, when I saw him last, that you were
in Boston, practicing your profession. "

" Ah ! no doubt 1 So I was until a month ago. I suppose
it never entered your — I mean his venerable noddle, to
conceive the possibility of my growing tired practicing my
profession. Such is the fact, however. Even the hub of
the universe may pall on the frivolous mind of youth, and
I've 'thrown physic to the dogs, I'll none of it,' for the
present at least. My patients — ^few and far between, I'm
happy to say, will get on much more comfortably, and
Stand a much better chance of recovery without me."

" Indeed 1 I don't doubt it at all. But your uncle r "

" My uncle can't hope to escape the crosses of life any
more than poorer and better men. All work and no play
makes, what's his name, a dull boy. There will be a row
very likely, the sooner my venerated relative is convinced
that my talents don't lie in the bleeding and blistering,
the senna and salts line, the better. They don't."

" Don't they ? It would be difficult to say, from what I
know of Mr. Laurence Thorndyke, in what line they da
lie. May I ask what you mean to do ?"

. ''-.->

-H-

AfR. LAURENCE THORNDYKE.

" I shall go in for sculpture," responded Mr. Laurence
Thorndyke, with the calm consciousness of superior
geniuf. " Other men have made fame ana fortune by art,
and why not I ? If my hypocondriacal adopted uncle would
only shell out, send me to Rome, and enable n>e to study
the old masters, I have the strongest internal conviction
that—"

"That you would set the world on fire with your
genius. That you would eclipse the Greek Slave. No
doubt — I have known others to think so before, and I
know the sort of ' fame and fortune' they made. How do
you come to be here ? " Very curtly and abruptly, this.

" Ah I — thereby hangs a tale," with a long tender
glance at Norine." I am the debtor of a most happy
accident. My horse threw me, and Miss Bourdon,
happening along at the moment, turned Good Samaritan
and took me in."

" I don't mean that," Mr. Gilbert said, stiffly ; " how do
you come to be in Maine at all ? "

"I beg your pardon. Tom Lydyard — the Portland
Lydyards, you know — no I suppose you don't know, by
the by. Tom Lydyard was to be married, and invited,
me over on the auspicious occasion. Tom's a Harvard
man like myself, sworn chums, brothers-in-arms, Da-
mon and P}rthias, and all that bosh; and when he
asked me down to his wedding, could I — I put it to
yourself, now, Gilbert, could I refuse ? I cut the shop, I
turned my back on blue pills and chloral, I came, I saw, I —
mademoiselle, may I trouble you for a glass of lemonade ?
You have no idea, Mr. Gilbert, what a nuisance I am, not
being able to do anything for myself yet.'

" Perhaps I have " was, Mr. Gilbert's frigid response.

^fS^.

NORINE'S REVENGE.

i ;'■■

s <

The sight of Norine bending over that recumbent fig-
ure gave him a sensation of actual physical pain. He
knew what this languid, graceful, slow-speaking young
Sybarite's life had been, if she did not.

Just at that moment — and it was a relief. Aunt Hester
entered, followed by Uncles Reuben and Joe. No restraint
here, no doubt about his welcome from them, no change
in the place he held in their ester "n and affection. Tea
was ready, would everybody please to come.
- Mr. Thorndyke's fractured limb was by no means equal
to locomotion, so Uncle Reuben wheeled him, sofa and
all, into the next room, and Aunt Hester and Norine vied
with each other in waiting on him. It comes natural to
all women to pet sick men — if the man be young and
handsome, why it comes all the more naturally.

Mr. Thorndyke wasn't sick by any means — that was
all over and done with. He'took his tea from Aunt Hes-
ter's hand and drank it, his toast and chicken from Norine
and ate them. He talked to them both in that lazy,
pleasant voice of his, or lay silent and stroked his mus-
tache with his diamond-ringed hand, and looked hand-
some, and whether the talk or the silence were most danger-
ous, it would have puzzled a cleverer man than Richard
Gilbert to tell. To sit there listening to Aunt Hester chirp,
ing and Uncle Reuben prosing, and see the blue eyes mak-
ing love, in eloquent silence, to the black ones, was almost
too much for human nature to endure. She sat there silent,
shy, all unlike the bright, chattering Norine of the summer
gone, but with, oh 1 such an infinitely happy face I She sat
beside Laurence Thorndyke — she ministered to that con-
valescent appetite of his, and that was enough. What
need of speech when silence is so sweet?

9¥m

MR. LAURENCE THORNDYKE.

Supper ended, Mr. Thorndyke was wheeled back to
his post in the front room beside the fire. Norine never
came near him all the rest of the evening, she sat at the
little piano, and poured out her whole heart in song.
Richard Gilbert, full of miserable, knawing jealousy,
understood those songs ; perhaps Laurence Thorn-
dyke, lying with half-closed eyes, half-smiling lips,
did too. They were old-fashioned songs that the lawyer
had sent her, favorites of his own : " Twere vain to tell thee
all I feel," and " Drink to me only with thine eyes." Yes,
the meaning of those tender old ballads was not for him.
It was maddening to see Laurence Thorndyke lying there,
with that conscious smile on his lips ; he could endure no
more — he arose with the last note, abruptly enough, and
bade them good-night.

"What! so early, Gilbert ? " Thorndyke said, looking at
his watch. " What a dickens of a hurry you're in. You've
got no clients in Portland, have you ? and Miss Bourdon, is
going to sing us half-a-dozen more songs yet."

Mr. Gilbert paid no attention whatever to this flippant
young man. He turned his back upon him indeed, and
explained elaborately to Uncle Reuben that it was im-
possible for him to remain longer to-night, but that he
would call early on the morrow.

" He is very much changed," remarked Aunt Hester,
thoughtfully J " don't you think so, Norry ? He's nothing
like so pleasant and free, as he used to be."

" Particularly grumpy, I should say," interposed Mr.
Thorndyke. " ' Pleasant and free ' are the last terms I
should think of applying to Richard Gilbert. Not half a
bad fellow either, old Gilbert, but an awful prig— don't
you think so, Miss. Bourdon ? "

I" Id

NOR INK'S REVENGE.

If:

"I like Mr. Gilbert very much," Miss Bourdon
answered, strumming idly on the keys; " and I think him
pleasant. He seemed out of spirits to-night, though, I
fancy."

It was bright, frosty starlight as the lawyer walked
back to town. He walked rapidly, his head well up, a
dark frown clouding his face.

" Any one but Thorndyke— any one but Thorndyke I "
he was thinking bitterly. Alas 1 Mr. Gilbert, would you not
-have been jealous of the Archbishop of Canterbury had that
dignitary been " keeping company " with Miss Bourdon ?
" And she loves him already — already. A very old story to
Laurence Thorndyke. Six-and-twenty years, a well-shaped
nose, two blue eyes, a mustache, and the easy insolence of
the • golden youth' of New York. What else has he but
that ? What else is needed to win any woman's heart ? And
hers is his, for good or for evil, for ever and ever. He
is the Prince Charming of her fairy tale, and she has
caught his wandering, artist fancy, as scores have caught
it before. And when I tell her the truth, that his
plighted wife awaits him, what then ? Little Norine ! to
think that you should fall into the power of Laurence
Thorndyke."

Yes, she was in his power — ^for she loved him. Had it
all not been so delightfully romantic, so like a chapter
out of one of her pet novels, that first meeting, when
Fate itself had flung him wounded and bleeding at her
feet ? Was it not all photographed forever on her mind, a
picture whose vividness time never could dim ! It had
befallen in this way :

On the afternoon of the third of November Miss Bourdon
had driven over in the light wagon from the farm to the

MJ-:f\M

MR. LAURENCE THORNDVKE. 41

city, to receive her usual, eagerly-looked-for package from
Mr. Gilbert. It had been dark and windy from early
morning. As the afternoon wore on, the sky grew darker,
the wind higher. She got her bundle of books, visited
one or two stores, one or two friends, and night had fallen
before she turned old Kitty's head towards Kent Farm.
A faint and watery moon made its way up through the
drifts of jagged cloud, and the gale howled through the
street as though it had gone mad. It was a bnely
and unpleasant ride; but old Kitty could have made her
way asleep, and Norine sang to herself as she drove
slowly along. They were within a quarter of a mile of
the house, when Kitty pricked up her red ears, gave a
neigh of alarm, and shied from some long, dark object
lying motionless across her path. Norine bent over and
looked down. There, she saw, lying on his face, the
prostrate form of a man.

Was he drunk, or was he dead ? She was out in a
twinkling, and bending above him. There was blood on
his clothes, and on the dusty road. She turned his face over
until the pallid moon shone upon it. Dead, to all seeming,
the eyes closed, life and consciousness gone.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Laurence Thorndyke was
lying in the best bedroom of Kent Farm, with Aunt Hester
and Norine bending over him, and Uncle Joe scudding
along on horseback for a doctor. All their efforts to
bring him out of that fainting fit were vain. White and
cold he lay ; and so Norine Bourdon, with a great pity
in her heart, looked first upon the face of Laurence
Thorndyke.

^4)S-

I!;
il

CHAPTER IV.

THE lawyer's warning.

R. Gilbert appeared in no hurry to revisit his
friends at Kent Farm. It was late in the af-
ternoon of the next day before he came slowly

along the quiet country road. He had passed

the morning idly enough, staring from the hotel win-
dow, down at the peaceful street and the few straggling
passers by. After his three o'clock dinner he had put
on hat and overcoat, and leisurely taken his way over the
familiar ground.

It was a gray December afternoon, with a threatening
of coming storm in the overcast sky. A few feathery
flakes whirled already through the leaden air, an icy blast
blew up from the sea, the road was deserted, the dreary
fields snow-shrouded and forsaken. And only yesterday
it seemed he had walked here by her side, the golden grain
breast high, and the scarlet poppies aflame in the gardens.
His youth had come back to him with that sunlit holiday.
If he had spoken then, who knew what her answer might
have been. But he had let the hour and the day go by, and
now it was too late.

The snow ." l.es were whirling faster and faster as Mr. Gil-
bert opened the gate and approached the house. He could
see the rose light of the fire through the curtained windows,

»,

THE LAWYER'S WARNING.

and a slight, graceful figure seated at one, scwitig. The
brown rattling stems of hop vines twining around it, like
sere serpents, made a framework for the girlish head and
fair young face. All the floss silk curls were bound back
with scarlet ribbon, and the luminous black eyes were fixed
on her work. They saw the tardy visitor, however, and with
a bright, welcoming smile she sprang up, and ran to open
the door.

" How late you are. We thought you were not coming
at all. I have been looking for you all day." She held
out her hand, far more like Norine of old than last night,
and led the way back into the parlor. There on his comfort-
able sofa, by his comfortable fire, reposed of course the five
feet, eleven inches of Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. Mr. Gil-
bert gave that invalid a nod several degrees icier than the
elements out doons.

"Ah, you have come I I told Norine you would." —
Norine 1 it had come to that then — " I know you to be
one of those uncompromising sort of characters, Gilbert,
who never break their word. Have you your cigar case
about you ? I should like a smoke."

" Miss Bourdon is present, Mr. Thorndyke."

" So she is — for which Allah be praised. But Miss Bour-
don is the most sensible, as she is most charming of young
ladies. She gave me carte blanche ages ago to smoke as
much as I please. Didn't you Norry ? She fills my pipe,
she even lights it when this confounded shoulder twitches
more than usual."

Richard Gilbert set his teeth v/ith inward fury. To sit
here, and listen to Laurence Thorndyke's insolent familiar
ity, his lover like — " Norry," drove him half wild.

" I have not my cigar-case," he answered, more and more

r®

ipo^

NORINE'S REVENGE.

frigidly ; " and if I had, I don't know that I should counte-
nance such a trespass on common decency as to let you
smoke one here. How long before your doctor thinks you
fit to be removed ? "

" Oh, not for weeks yet ; it was a deuce of a fracture, I
can tell you. Why, pray? My insignificant movements, as a
rule, are all unworthy Mr. Gilbert's attention."

" Your uncle is my friend, sir," the lawyer replied, " and
I prefer not to see him hoodwinked. I recommend you
""Strongly to write and explain your position, or I shall take
an early opportunity of doing so myself."

" Will you ? How very kind you are. But isn't it a pity
to give yourself so much unnecessary trouble ? I believe
Mr. Hugh Darcy did invest you with a species of authority
over my actions, but at six-and-twenty, don't you think a
fellow ought to be let loose from the leading strings ? And
what would you have ? I couldn't help accepting Tom Lyd-
yard's invitation. I couldn't help my horse taking fright
and throwing me. I couldn't help breaking my arm, and
spraining my ankle, and I can't help being in the seventh
heaven of happiness and comfort with two such nurses as
Miss Kent and Miss Bourdon. Don't be unreasonable,
Gilbert. Norine — ma belle, I am utterly exhausted with all
this talking. What are you laughing at ? Do pray favor
me with my meerschaum and a light."

The pleasant lazy voice stopped, the pleasant smile
turned upon Norine.

Miss Bourdon laughing at this passage of arms arose
with alacrity to obey, and the lawyer, looking unspeakably
grim got up, too.

" Permit me to say good-by, Miss Bourdon. I start for
New York to-night. Can I see your uncle a moment be-

THE LA WYEK'S WARNING.

fore I go ? " The door opened as he asked the question
and Aunt Hester came into the room.

" I heard your voice as I passed through the hall," she
said. " Surely you ain't going so soon ? "

" I regret I must, my business requires my immediate
return. 1 have only time to say good-by and speak a
word to your brother. Where shall I find him ? "

" In the stable, most likely. I'll go with you."

"Thanks. Farewell, Miss Bourdon."

Again their hands met, she looked perplexed and wist-
ful, but she did not urge him to stay. With a second stiff
nod to Mr. Thorndyke, the lawyer strode out of the room
after Aunt Hetty.

" A word to her brother," muttered Mr. Thorndyke to
himself looking after them. " I think I know what that
means. ' That fellow, Thorndyke, is a spendthrift, a gam-
bler, a flirt, an engaged man. Don't let him have any-
thing to say to Norine.' That will be about the sum and
substance of it. To think of his falling in love at his time
of life, when he's old enough and big enough to know bet-
ter. But then middle-aged fools are the worst of all fools.
And you come a day after the fair, Mr. Richard Gilbert.
Your word of warning is just two weeks too late. I owe
you two or three little grudges for your espionage of the
past, and for two or three little games blocked, and I think
I see my way clearly to wiping them out at last. A thou-
sand thanks my charming littl' lurse." Aloud to Norine,
entering with pipe and pipe-light :

" What should I ever do without you ? "

Mr. Gilbert, escorted by Aunt Hester, reacheS the stable,
where Uncle Reuben stood busily curry-combing Kitty.

" I want to speak half-a-dozen words in private to you,

^^^Wnt*** ..^

I'
ii

JVOH/NE'S REVENGE.

Kent," the lawyer began, abruptly enough, "You will
tell your good sister here at your convenience, if you see
fit. You :Tiust excuse my seeming rudeness, Miss Kent,
and say goodby, now."

He shook hands with her cordially, and watched her
out of sight. Then he turned to her brother.
" We are quite alone ? " he asked.
" Quite, squire. Take a seat."

He brought forward a stool, but Mr Gilbert waved it away.
" " No, no, what I have to say will take but a minute, and
then I shall be going. I want to speak to you of that
young man who is your guest — Laurence Thorndyke."
" Wal, squire."

"You have not known me very 1^ Mr. Kent,
but I think, I hope, you have known mc enough to

trust me, to believe what I say, to understand I have no
selfish motive. It is for " — he paused a moment — " it is
for your niece's sake I speak, you can hardly take a deep-
er interest in her welfare than I do."

Was there ever so slight a tremor in the grave, steady
voice, or did Reuben Kent only fancy it ? He paused in
Kitty's toilet and looked at him keenly.
" Wal, squire ? " he said again.

" Laurence Thorndyke is no fit, no safe companion for
your niece. He is not a good man, he is as false as he is
fascinating. She is only seventeen, she knows nothing of
the world, nothing of such men as he, and believe me,
Kent, it won't do."

Reuben Kent looked up, a sudden flash in his eye, a
sudden redness in his face.
" Go on," he said, curtly.
" I am afraid Miss Bourdon cares more for him already

THE LAWYER'S WARNING.

than — " He paused again and averted his face. " You
know what I mean. He is handsome, and she is only a
girl. She will grow to love him, and he could not marry
her if he would, he is already engaged, and unless I
mistake him greatly, would not if he could. Mr. Kent,
this young man will go away, and Norine will be neither
the better nor the happier for his coming."

His voice was husky. Something of the pain he felt
was in his face. The farmer stretched forth and caught
the lawyer's hand in a hard grip.

"Thanky, squire," he said ; " I ain't a man to jaw much,
but I believe ^(?«, and am obliged to you for this. If that
young jacknapes from York tries > come any of his city
games down here, by the Lord Jchosaphat 1 I'll lay him
up with something worse than a broken a .n I "

" Can you not avert the danger ? " suggested Mr.
Gilbert. " It may not be too late. Send the fellow away."

" Wal, squire, you see that mightn't be doing the square
thing by him. It would look unpleasantly like turning
him out. No, I can't send him away until the doctor says
he's fit to go, but, by ginger, I'll send her I "

"Will she go?"

Uncle Reuben chuckled.

" We won't ask her. I'll fix it off. We've some cousins
thirty miles up country, and they've invited her time and
again, but, somehow, we've never felt — ^Joe and me — as
though we could spare her afore. It's powerful lonesome,
I tell ye, squire, when Norry ain't around. But now — I'll
lake her to-morrow morning."

" The best thing you can do. And now, before it gets
any later and stormier, I will be off. Good-by, Mr. Kent,
for the present."

4
11

l?f^

fci

NORINETS REVENGE.

You'll be along

" Good-by, and thanky, squire, thanky,
again ?oon, hey ? "

" Well, perhaps so," replied the lawyer, coloring slight-
ly. " Take care of your niece, Kent, and good-by to you."
They parted at the gate. Reuben Kent watched the
stalwart form of the lawyer out of siglit, then walked slow-
ly and thoughtfully back to the house and the sitting-
room. Mr. Thorndyke, in a deep, melodious tenor, was
reading aloud " Lucille," and Miss Bourdon, with flushed
cTieeks and glistening eyes of light, was listening.

The reading ceased at the farmer's entrance j the spell
was broken, and Norine looked up.

" Has Mr. Gilbert gone, Uncle Reuben ? "
"Yes."

He said it with unusual gravity, regarding young Thorn-
dyke. The girl saw the change in his usually good
humored, red-and-tan face, and went over and threw an
arm around his neck.

" What is it, uncle ? Something gone wrong ?"
«« No— yes. Nothing that can't be set right, I hope.
Where's your aunt ?"

" In the kitchen baking cake. Shall I rui» and call

her ? "

" No, I'll go myself."

He left the room. Mr. Thorndyke watched him.

" It is as I thought," he said to himself. " My label is up,
'dangerous.' What has Gilbert been saying ? Has he given
Uncle Reuben my whole interesting biography? Has
he told him I drink, I gamble, I make love to pretty girls
wherever I meet them ? All right, my legal duffer ; you
have set your forty-years-old heart on pretty, black-eyed,
belle Norine, and so have I. Now, let's see who'll win."

•«!r

THE LAWYER'S WARNING.

Mr. Kent found his sister in the kitchen, baking, as
Norine had said, cakes for tea, their fragrant sweetness
perfuming the hot air. In very few words he repeated to
her the lawyer's warning.

" We might a seen it ourselves, Hetty, if we hadn't been
blinder than bats. I'll take her up to Abel Mei zeath-
er's to-morrow, and just leave her thar till this ere chap
goes."

" Will you tell her, Reuben ? " Aunt Hetty asked.

" No ; I kinder don't like to, somehow. She'll guess
without any telling, I reckon. If I told her, she might
tell him, there ain't never no countin' on gals, and then
he'd be after her hot foot. Least said's soonest mended.
Jest call her down to help you, Hetty, and keep her here
as long as you can. What with his poetry reading, his
singing, his fine talk, and good-lookin' face, he's enough
to turn any gal's head."

" It was very good of Mr. Gilbert to tell you, Reuben."

" Very."

They looked at each other, and smiled. Poor Richard
Gilbert ! Your cherished secret was very large print after
all.

" Mr. Gilbert's her best friend, and sets heaps by her,",
said Uncle Reuben rising. " Call the girl at once, Hetty."

He left the kitchen and Aunt Hester obeyed. Norine
was summoned from " Lucille," and Mr. Thorndyke — to
look after the cakes, to make tea, to roll out the short-cakei
to butter the biscuits, to set the table. For once Aunt
Hester turned lazy and left everything to Norine. She had
not breathing space until supper was on the table.

After supper it was as bad. Contrary to all precedent,
instead of going to tho piapo, Norine got a basket of socks

NORINE'S REVENGE.

to darn. She looked at the heap and the rents with laugh-
ing dismay. ,

"All these for me, Aunty I I'll never get through in
the world, and I want to practice my new songs with Mr.
Thorndyke."

"Mr. Thorndyke will excuse you, I am sure," Aunt
Hetty answered quietly. " You sing a great deal more for
him than you darn for me. You darn very badly — it is
time that you learned something useful. Here is your
needle and ball, my dear, go to work at once."

Miss Bourdon made a little wry face ; Mr. Thorndyke's
laughing blue eyes looked knowing. Love and music
were to be exchanged for cooking and darning, all thanks
to Mr. Gilbert.

Aunt Hester placed herself between her guest and her
niece, and kept her post like a very duenna all the even-
ing. No poetry, no music, no compliments, no love-
making, only silence and sock-darning. Laurence Thorn-
dyke reclining on his lounge, even his efforts at con-
versation falling flat, saw and understood it all perfectly.
By Gilbert's order the ewe lamb was to be guarded from
the wolf. And his spirit rose with the resistance

" Guard her as you like," he said inwardly, — " watch her
as you will, I'll baffle the whole of you yet. If I cared
nothing for the girl, and I don't care much, I would still
conquer you here, if only for the pleasure of paying off
Richard Gilbert. Meddling old prig! There was that
affair of Lucy West, he had to bring that to light, and
old Darcy was within an ace of disinheriting nie. He wants
to marry this little black-eyed, sentimental French girl him-
self — more fool he — and it shall be my pleasant and profit-
able occupation to nip that middle-aged romance in the

***--*

THE LA WVEIVS WARNING.

bud. I flatter myself I am rather more than a match for
Aunt Hetty."

But Mr. Thorndyke was yet to learn whether he was or
no. At no time, well or ill, was this elegant young doctor
addicted to the vice of early-rising. It was mostly noon
when, half-carried in the strong arms of Uncle Reuben
and Joe, he reached the parlor.

Norine, however, was up with the lark — that is to say,
there were no larks in December, but with the striking six
of the kitchen clock. On the morning following the stock-
ing darning,' as the family assembled together for their
seven o'clock breakfast. Uncle Reuben said :

" Norry, I'm a going to give you a treat to-day — some-
thing you've been wanting this long time."

Norine opened her black eyes, and held the portion of
buckwheat cake on her fork, suspended in space.

" A treat I Something I've been wanting this long time I
You darling old dear, what is it ? "

" Don't ask me, it's a secret, it's to be a surprise.
Have you finished breakfast ? Wal, run and put on the
best duds you've got, while I go round and gear up Kitty."

" Kitty ! Then we're going somewhere. Now Uncle
Reuben "

" It ain't a mite o' use, Norry, I ain't agoin' to tell.
Be off and clap on your Sunday fixins, while I get around
the cutter."

" You're going to take me to the city and buy me some-
thing — a silk dress, perhaps. Oh, uncle! what a dear
old love you are 1 I'll be ready in ten minutes."

Uncle Reuben's heart smote him a little as he received
Norine's rapturous kiss, but there was no drawing back.
He left the house, while Miss Bourdon flew off singing like

M^.

NORINETS REVENGE.

a skylark, to make her toilet. A new silk— yes, that was
it — a new wine-colored silk with black lace trimming. If
Mr. Thorndyke admired her in last winter's dingy red me-
rino, how would he be dazzled by the wine-colored silk ? In
fifteen minutes her rapid toilet was made, and looking
charming in her holiday attire she came running back to
Uncle Reuben. The sleigh was drawn up before the door ;
she sprang into her seat beside him. Aunt Hetty, in the
doorway, was smiling good-by, the bells jingled, the whip
cracked, Kitty tossed her head and darted away into the
frosty morning sunshine.

" Not going to the city, uncle 1 " cried Norine " now,
where on earth can you be taking me ? "

" To Merryweather's my dear," calmly responded
Uncle Reuben, " where you have been teasing me to take
you these three months. There! ain't that a pleasant
surprise ? "

There was a blank silence for a moment — the silence of
great amaze. He looked at her askance. A surprise be-
yond a doubt, but a pleasant one. Well, that was another
question. Her face had changed ominously all in a mo-
ment.

" To Merryweather's ? " she repeated. " Thirty miles I "

"Exactly, my dear — to stay two or three weeks, as
they've been wanting you to do. I didn't tell you, be-
cause I wanted to surprise you. I knew you would be
pleased to death."

" But uncle I can't ! " exclamed the girl, vehemently.
" I can't go. I have nothing to wear. My trunk and all
my things are at home."

" Jest so ; the cutter wouldn't hold your trunk ; but Joe,
he's going out 'bout the end of the week, and he'll fetch it.

THE LA WYEIVS WARNING.

Make your mind easy, my dear ; Aunt Hetty will forget
nothin'."

Norine made no reply. The sunny face wore the darkest
expression Uncle Reuben had ever seen it wear yet. Was
Mr. Gilbert right — was the mischief done — was it too late,
after all ?

He drove on. The blank silence lasted. He had
never dreamed the laughing face of his little Norine could
wear the look it wore now. She spoke after a long pause,
in a tone of sullen inquiry :

" I wish you had told me last night, Uncle Reuben. It
seems very odd going off in this way. What will Mr.
Thorndyke say ? "

" What business is it of his ? " placidly inquired Uncle
Reuben.

An angry flush rose up over Norine's face.

" He will think it very strange — very strange ; I did not
even say good-by."

"I'll explain all that."

" And Aunt Hetty — how will she ever get along with-
out me, with the house work to do, and Mr. Thorndyke
to wait on, and everything."

" He won't be to wait on long, he'll be able to return
to his friends in Portland in a week, and to tell the truth,
I shan't be sorry to be rid of him. As for you, Norry, by
the way you object, one would think you didn't want to go,
after all."

Again Norine flushed angrily.

" I don't object to going," she said, in a tone that con-
tradicted her words. " It is the manner of going I don't
like. I do think you might have told me last night, Uncle
Reuben."

>■■

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1^

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£1 '; *

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'^.

NO NINE'S REVENGE.

Uncle Reuben stopped the cutter abruptly, and looked
• at her.

" Shall I turn and drive back ? " he asked.

What could she say ? The black eyes emitted an angry
flash, the voice that answered was sharp and petulant.

" No — go on."

He drove on, without another word. Norine lay back
in the sleigh, wrapped her cloak about her, pulled a little
•veil she wore, over her face, and was silent. A great
fear, a great dismay, a great foreboding filled Uncle Reu-
ben's heart. Had this girl lived with them so long, made
herself so dear, and hidden the nature that was within
her, after all ? What lay under luat sparkling surface that
had seemed as clear as limpid water ? Dark depths he
could never fathom, depths undreamed of as yet by herself.
Was she — ^he wondered this vaguely, with a keen sense of
pain — the gentle, affectionate, yielding child they had
thought her, or a self-willed, passionate, headstrong woman,
ready, woman-like, to throw over her oldest and truest
lEriends if they stood between her and the man she loved ?

say,
ther
he t

She

with

dim

For

Mr.

his

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ters.
Nor:

chaptp:r v.

"I WILL BE YOUR WIFE."

ISS Bourdon's visit to the family of Mr. Abel
Merryweather lasted just three weeks and two
days, and unspeakably dull and empty the old
red farmhouse seemed without her. Uncle Joe
had gone out with her trunk on Saturday, and with the
news that everybody was well, and Mr. Thorndyke was
to go for gf^od the following Monday.

" To New York ? " Norine asked, turning very pale.

" I reckon so,*' Uncle Joe responded, coolly ; " that's to
say, he's to stop a few days in Portland with his friends
there ; he's going to spend the rest of the winter South — so
he told Hetty — down to Maryland somewhere."

Norine set her lips, and turned away without a word.
She would have given half her life to be able to return
with Uncle Joe, but she was far too proud to ask. Some
dim inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn upon her.
For some cruel reason they did not wish her to be with
Mr. Thorndyke, and they had sent her here to be out of
his way.

They were the dullest three weeks of the young lady's
life. It was a pleasant place, too— Mr. Abel Merry-
weather's, with a jolly, noisy houseful of sons and daugh-
ters, and country frolics without end. Two months ago,
Norine had looked forward to this visit with delight.

1 1^
II !i;

: '" I

I I

'^,«

NORINE'S REVENGE.

But in two months the whole world had changed ; and
now, there was no sunshine in heaven, no gladness on
earth, since a well-looking, well-dressed young man from
the city would light her life with his smile no more.

Mr. Thorndyke did depart the following Monday. He
had been considerably surprised on first missing Norine,
and inquired of Aunt Hetty where she was. The reply
was very brief and reserved.

" Uncle Reuben has taken her away to visit some friends."
" Mr. Thorndyke fixed his large, blue eyes full upon the
speaker's face. Aunt Hester, never looking at him, went
on arranging the furniture.

" How long will she be gone ? " he asked, at length.

"That depends upon circumstances," replied Miss
Kent ; " probably some weeks."

Mr. Thorndyke said no more. Aunt Hetty poured out
his tea, arranged his buttered toast and boiled eggs, and
left the room. It had been Norine's labor of love hitherto,
Norine's bright face that smiled across the little round
table, instead of the withered, sallow one of Aunt Hetty.
He sat alone now over his noon-day breakfast, an inex-
plicable look on his handsome face.

" So," he thought, " they have gone even farther than I
anticipated, thay have spirited her away altogether. Poor
little girl ! pretty little Norry I I believe I am really fond
of you, after all. I wonder if she went willingly ? " he
smiled to himself, his vanity answered that question pret-
ty accurately. " It's rather hard on her, a modern case
of Elizabeth and the exiles. It's all my friend Gilbert's
doing, of course. Very well. It is his day now, it may be
mine, to morrow.

The intervening days were hopelessly long and dreary

"/ tV/LL BE YOUR WIFE,"

to Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. How fond he had grown
of that sparkling brunette face, those limpid eyes of
"liquid light," he never knew until he lost her. That
pleasant, homely room was so full of her — the closed
piano, the little rocker and work -stand by the window, her
beloved books and birds. Life became, all in an hour,
a horrible bore in that dull red farm-house. Come
what might to ankle and arm, ailing still, he would go at
once. He dispatched a note to his friends in Portland,
and early on Monday morning drove away with Mr. Thomas
Lydyard, his friend.

" Good-by Miss Kent," he said, as he shook hands
with her on the doorstep. " I can never repay all your
kindness, I know, but I will do my best if the opportunity
ever offers. Give my very best regards to Miss Bourdon,
and tell her how much I regretted her running away."

And so he was gone. Uncle Reuben watched him out
of sight with a great breath of relief.

"Thank the Lord he's gone, and that danger's over."

Ah, was it ? Had you known Mr. Laurence Thorndyke
better, Reuben Kent, you would have known, also, that the
danger was but beginning.

Mr. Thorndyke remained four days with his friends in
the city, and then started for New York. Reuben Kent
heard it with immense relief and satisfaction.

"He's gone, Hetty," he said to his sister, "and the
good Lord send he may never cross our little girl's path
again. I can see her now, with the color fading out of
her face, and that white look of disappointment coming
over it. I hope she's forgot him before this."

" Will you go for her to-day ? " Aunt Hetty asked. " It's
dreadful lonesome without her."

iri

NORfNE'S REVENGE.

" Not to-day. Next week will do. She'll forget him
faster there than here, Hetty."

It wanted but three days of Christmas when Uncle
Reuben went for his niece, and it was late on Christmas
eve when they returned. The snow was piled high and
white everywhere. The trees stood up, black, rattling
skeletons around the old house. All things seemed to
have changed in the weeks of her absence, and nothing
jjiore than Norine Bourdon.

She sank down in a chair, in a tired, spiritless sort of
way, and let Aunt Hetty remove her wraps. She had
grown thin, u. the past fortnight, and pale and worn-look-
ing.

" You precious little Norry," aunt Hetty Raid, giving
her a welcoming hug. "You can't tell how glad we are to
have you back again ; how dreadfully we missed you. I
expect you enjoyed your visit awfully now ? "

" No," the young girl answered, with an impatient sigh j
it was dull."

" Dull, Norry ! with four girls and three young men in
the house ? "

" Well, it was dull to me. I didn't care for their
frolics and sleighing parties and quilting bees. It was
horridly stupid, the whole of it."

" Then you are glad to be home again ? "

"Yes."

She did not look particularly glad, however. She
leaned her head against the back of the chair, and closed
her eyes with weary listlessness. Aunt Hetty watched
her with a thrill of apprehension. Was her fancy for
their departed guest something more than mere fancy ?—
had she not begun even to forget yet, after all ?

thini
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mam.

"/ IV/LL BE YOUR WIFE."

She opened her eyes suddenly while Aunt Hetty was
thinking this, and spoke abruptly.

" What did Mr. Thorndyke say when he found I was
gone ? "

" Nothing. Oh — he asked how long you were going to
stay. "

"Was that all?"

" That was all."

" Did he not inquire where I had gone ? "

" No, my dear."

Norine said no more. The fire-light shone full on her
face, and she lifted a book and held it as a screen. So
long she sat mute and motionless that Aunt Hetty fancied
she had fallen asleep. She laid her hand on her shoulder.
Norine's black, sombre eyes looked up.

" I thought you were asleep, my dear, you sat so still.
Is anything the matter ? "

"I am tired, and my head aches. I believe I will go to bed.

" But, Norry, it is Christmas five. Supper is ready, and — "

" I can't eat supper — I don't wish any. Give me a cup
of tea, aunty, and let me go. "

With a sigh, aunty obeyed, and slowly and wearily
Norine toiled up to her room. It was very cosy, very
pleasant, very home-like and warm, that snug upper
chamber, with its striped, home-made carpet of scarlet and
green, its blazing fire and shaded lamp. Outside, the
keen, Christmas stars shone coldly, and the world lay
white in its chill winding sheet of snow.

But Norine thought neither of the comfort within nor the
desolation without. She sank down into a low chair
before the fire and looked blankly into the red coals.

" Gone 1 " something in her head seemed beating

Ite*,-

1 ii'

NOKINE'S REVENGE.

that one word, like the ticking of a clock; "gone— gone
— gone forever. And it was only thirty miles, and the
cars would have taken him, and he never came. And
thought, I thought, he liked me a little."*

It was a dismal Christmas eve at Kent Farm ; how were
they to eat, drink and be merry with Norine absent. No she
had not begun to forget ; the mischief was wrought, every
room in the house was haunted by the image of the
'lyouth who had loved, and who rode away."

The New Year dawned, passed, and the ides of Feb-
ruary came. And Norine — she was only seventeen, re-
member, began to pluck up heart of grace once more, and
her laugh rang out, and her songs began to be as merry,
almost, as before the coming and going of Prince
Charming. Almost ; the woman's heart had awakened in
the girl's breast, and the old childish joyousness could
never be quite the same. He never wrote, she never
heard his name, even Mr. Gilbert had ceased to write.
March came. "Time, that blunts the edge of things,
dries our tears and spoils our bliss," had dried all
hers long ago, and the splendor of Laurence Thorndyke's
image was wofuUy dimmed by this time. Life had flown
back into the old, dull channels, comfortable, but dull.
No letters to look for now from Mr. Gilbert, no books, no
music, everybody forgot her, Richard Gilbert, Laurence
Thorndyke — all.

She sighed a little over the quilt she was making — a
wonderful quilt of white and " "" arkey red," a bewilder-
ing Chinese puzzle to the uninitiated. It was a dull March
afternoon, cheerless and slushy, the house still as a tomb,
and no living thing to be seen in the outer world, as she
sat alone at her work.

M':

^^i^,^

"/ WILL BE YOUR WIFE."

"What a stupid, dismal humdrum sort of life it is,"
Miss Bourdon thought, drearily, " and I suppose it will
go on for thirty or forty years exactly like this, and I'll
dry up, and wrinkle and grow yellow and ugly, and be an
old maid like Aunt Hetty. I think it would be a great
deal better if some people never were born at all."

She paused suddenly, with this wise generality in her
mind. A man was approaching — a tall man, a familar and
rather distinguished-looking man. One glance was enough.
With a cry of delight she dropped the Chinese-puzzle quilt,
sprang up, rushed out, and plumped full into the arms of
the gentleman.

" Oh, Mr. Gilbert I " she cried, her black eyes, her whole
face radiant with the delight of seeing some one, " how
glad I am to see you I It has been so dull, and I thought
you had forgotten us altogether. Come in — come in."

She held both his hands, and pulled him in. Unhappy
Richard Gilbert I Who is to blame you for construing
that enthusiastic welcome to suit yourself ? In fear and
foreboding, you had approached that house — ^you had
looked for coldness, aversion, reproaches, perhaps. You
had nerved yourself to bear them, and defend yourself,
and instead — fAis.

His sallow face flushed all over with a delight more
vivid than her own. For one delicious moment his breath
stopped.

" And so you have thought of me, Norine I "

" Oh, so often ! And hoped, and longed, and looked
for your coming. But you never came, and you never
wrote, and I was sure you had forgotten me altogether."

Here was an opening, and — he let it fall dead 1 He
might be a clever lawyer, but certainly he was not a clever

ili! f

lir

far

^5 ij :;

NORINE'S REVENGE.

lover. He was smiling, and yes, actually blushing, and
tingling with delight to his finger ends. Her radiant,
blooming face was upturned to him, the bl ck eyes lifted
and dancing, and he looked down upon those sparkling
charms, and in a flat voice — said this :

" We have had a great deal of snow lately. How are
your uncles and aunts ? "

But the young lady's enthusiasm was not in the least
dampened. He was her friend, not her lover, he was a
kindly gleam of sunshine across tlie dead level of her sad-
colored life.

" They are all very well, thank you, Mr. Gilbert, and
will be very glad to see you. Sit down and take off your
overcoat. You'll stay for tea, won't you, and all night ?
Oh, how pleasant it is to see you back here again I "

Happy Mr. Gilbert 1 And yet, if he had stopped to an-
alyze that frank, glad, sisterly welcome, he would have
known it the most ominous thing on earth for his hopes.
Had he been Laurence Thorndyke she would never have
welcomed him like this. But just now he took the goods
the gods provided, and never stopped to analyze.

" Perhaps I was mistaken after all about Thorndyke,"
he thought, " he has gone for good, and I never saw her
look more brightly blooming. Atter all a girl's fancy for
a handsome face, and a flirting manner, need not be very
deep or lasting. It was only a fancy, and died a natural
death in a week. How fortunate I spoke in time, and
how clear and true she rings 1 I will ask her to be my
wife before I leave Kent Farm."

He had come to ctake his fate — " to win or lose it all,"
to lay his life at her ixet, but he had hoped for nothing
like this. He loved her — he knew it now as your staid

"/ WILL BE YOUR WIFE."

middle-aged men do once in a lifetime. He had waited
until he could wait no longer — she might refuse, he had
little hope of anything else, but then at least, any cer-
tainty was better than suspense.

Mr. Gilbert's greeting from the Kent family was all
that mortal man could look for. They had guessed his
secret; perhaps they also guessed his object in coming
now. He was very rich, and above them no doubt, but
was there king or kaiser in all the world too good for their
beautiful Norine.

He stayed to tea. After that meal, while Aunt Hetty
was busy in the kitchen, and the men about the farm-yard,
he found himself alone in the 'ront room with Miss Bour-
don. She stood looking out through the undrawn curtains
at the still, white, melancholy winter night.

The first surprise and delight of the meeting past, she
had grown very still. His coming had brought other
memories rushing upon her as she stood here in that pret-
ty attitude looking out at the frosty stars.

She was nerving herself to ask a question. Without turn-
ing round, and speaking very carelessly, she isked it.

" I suppose Mr. Thorndyke is in New York. Have you
seen him lately ? "

A jealous pang shot through the lawyer's heart. She
remembered yet.

" I see him very often," he answered, promptly, and a
little coldly ; " I saw him the day I left. He is about to
be married."

She was standing with her back to him, fluttering in a
restless sort of way. As he said this she suddenly grew still.

" The match is a very old affair," Mr. Gilbert went on,
resolutely ; " he has been engaged nearly two years. His

)♦

NORlNErS REVENGE.

uncle, Mr. Darcy, wishes it very much. The young lady
is an heiress, and extremely handsome. They are very
much attached to one another, it is said, and are to be
married early in the spring.

She did not move— she did not speak. A blank uncom-
fortable silence followed, and once more poor Mr. Gilbert's
heart contracted with a painful jealous spasm. If she
would only turn round and let him see her face. Who was
to understand these girls I

" What ! all in the dark, Norry ? " cried Uncle Reuben's
cheery voice, as he came bustling in redolent of stable
odors. " Come, light up, and give Mr. Gilbert a song."

She obeyed at once. The glare of the lamp fell full
upon her, what change was it that he saw in her face ?
She was hardly paler than usual, she rarely had much
color, but there was an expression about the soft-cut child-
ish mouth, an unpleasant tightness about the lips that quite
altered the whole expression of the face.

She opened the piano and sung— sung and played bet-
ter than he had ever heard her before. She sang for
hours, everything she knew— Mr. Thorndyke's favorites
and all. She never rose until the striking of ten told her
that bedtime had come.

The lawyer stayed all night ; but in that pleasant guest-
chamber that had lodged his rival last, he slept little. Was
she in love with Thorndyke, or was she not ? Impossible to
judge these women— any girl in her teens can baffle the
shrewdest lawyer of them all. He lay tossing about full of
hope, of love, of jealousy, of doubt, his fever at its very
climax.

" I'll endure this torture no longer," he resolved, sullen-
ly. " I'll ask her to marry me to-morrow."

"/ WILL BE YOUR IVIFE."

V/ith Richard Gilbert to resolve was to act. Five sec-
onds after they had met, shaken hands, and said good-
morning, he proposed a sleigh ride. The day was mild
and sunny, the sleighing splendid, and a sleigh ride to a
New Yorker a rare and delightful luxury. Would she go ?
Yes, she would go, but Miss Bourdon said it spiritlessly
enough. And so the sleigh was brought round, and at ten
o'clock in the crisp, yellow sunshine, the pair started.

But it must have been a much duller spirit than that of
Norine that could have remained dull in that dazzling sun-
shine, that swift rush through the still frozen air. A lovely
rose-pink came into her pale cheeks, a bright light into
her brown eyes, her laugh rang out, she was herself as
he had first known ner once more.

" How splendid winter is, after all I " she exclaimed ;
" look at those crystallized hemlocks — did you ever see
anything so beautiful ? I sometimes wonder how I can find
it so dreary."

" You do find it dreary, then ? "

" Oh, so dreary — so long — so humdrum — so dull ! " She
checked herself with one of her pretty French gestures.
" It seems ungrateful to say so, but I can't help it. Life
seems hardly worth the living sometimes here."

" Here I Would it be better elsewhere ? "

" Yes — I think so. Change is always pleasant. One
grows dull and stupid living in one dull stupid place for- °
ever. Change is what I want, novelty is delight."

" Let me offer it to you then, Norine. Come to New
York w#h me."

" Mr. Gilbert I With you I "

" With me — as my wife, I love you, Norine."

It was said. The old formula, the commonplace words

<\\

66 .

NORTNE'S REVENGE.

!!.«'

that are to tell all that is in a heart full to overflowing. He
sat very pale, beyond that and a certain nervous twitching
of his face there was nothing to tell that all the happiness
of his life hung on her reply. For her — she just looked at
him blankly, incredulous — ^with wide open eyes of wonder.

" Your wife ! Marry you ! Mr. Gilbert 1 "

"I love you, Norine. It seems strange you have not
known it until I tell it. I am double your age, but I will
do my best to make you happy. Ah, Norine, if you knew
how long I have thought of this — how dearly I love you,
you would surely not refuse. I am a rich man, and all I have
is yours. The world you have longed to see, you shall
see. Be my wife Norine, and come with me to New York."

The first shock of surprise was over. She sat very still,
looking straight out before her at the dazzling expanse of
sun and snow. His words awoke no answering thrill in
her heart, and yet she was conscious of a sense of pleasure.
Be his wife — well, why not ? The prospect of a new life
broke upon her — the bright, exciting, ever-new life of a
great city. She thought of that, not of Richard Gilbert.

"Speak to me, Norine," he said, "for Heaven's sake
don't sit silent like this — only to answer no. For good or
evil, let me have my answer at once."

But still she sat mute. She had lost Laurence Thorn-
dyke — lost — nay he had never been hers for one poor
second. He belonged to that beautiful, high-bred heiress
whom he was to marry in the spring. She would read it
in the papers some day, and then — her own blank, empty,
aimless life spread before her. She turned suddenly to
the man beside her, with something of the look her face
had worn last night when she had first heard of Thorndyke's
marriage.

good

«/ WILL BE YOUR WIFE."

" You are very good," she answered, quite steadily. " I
will be your wife if you like."

" Thank Heaven I " — he said under his breath. " Thank
Heaven ! "

Her heart smote her. She was giving him so little — he
was giving her so much. He had always been her good,
kind, faithful friend, and she had liked him so much.
Yes, that was just it, she liked him so well she could never
love him. But at least she would be honest.

" I — I don't care for — I mean I don't love " she broke

down, her eyes fixed on her mutt. '^Oh, Mi. Gilbert, I
do like you, but not like that. I — I know I'm not half
good enough ever to marry you."

He smiled, a smile of great content.

" You will let me be the judge of that, Norry. You are
quite sure you like me ? "

" Oh, yes. I always did, you know, but I never — no
never thought you cared for — Oh, dear me ! how odd it
seems. What will Uncle Reuben say ? "

Mr Gilbert smiled again.

" Uncle Reuben won't lose his senses with surprise, I
fancy. Ah, Norry, Uncle Reuben's eyes are not half a
quarter so bright nor so black as yours, but he has seen
more than you after all."

And then all the way home he poured into her pleased
listening ear the story of her future life. It sounded like
a fairy tale to the country girl. A dazzling vista spread
before her, a long life in " marble halls," Brussels carpets,
satin u^olstery, a grand piano, pictures, books, and new
music without end. Silk dresses, diamond ear-rings, the
theatres, the opera, a carriage, a waiting-maid — French, if
possible — her favorite heroines all had French maids.

J?%.

NOR /NETS REVENGE.

Long Branch, Newport, balls, dinners — her head swam
with the dazzle and delight of it all. Be his wife — of
course she would be his wife — to-morrow, if it were prac-
ticable.

But she did not say this, you understand. Her face was
all rosy and dimpling and smiling as they drove home ;
and alas for Richard Gilbert, how little he personally had
to do with all that girlish rapture. He saw that well-
pleased face, and, like a wise man, asked no useless ques-
tions. She was going to be his wife, everything was said
in that.

\\\

)♦

CHAPTER VI.

BEFORE THE WEDDINO.

jHE sober March twilight lay low on the snowy
earth when the sleigh whirled up to the door.
The red fire-light shone through the windows,
and they could see Aunt Hetty bustling about
the kitchen. Neit.,.f had spoken for a time, but now
Norine turned to him, as she lightly sprang out.

"Say nothing of this to-night," she said, hurriedly;
"wait until to-morrow."

She was gone before he could answer, and he drove
round to the stable. Uncle Reuben was there, and Mr.
Gilbert remained with him until Aunt Hetty's voice was heard
calling them to supper. The lawyer was standing in the
doorway, watching the solemn stars come out, a great
silent grayity on his face. But oh, so happy, too — so deep-
ly, unutterably happy.

The supper table was spread, lamp-light beamed, fire-
light glowed, and Aunt Hetty awaited them impatient, lest
her warm milk biscuits and sugared " flap-jacks " should
grow cold.

Norine stood leaning against the mantel, looking dream-
ily into the red fire. How pale she was, how strangely
grave and thoughtful. Yet not unhappy, surely, for she
glanced up in her lover's face with a quick blush and

>•

«!■ ^

vll

I.'

i'S

SM j't

It!

ill

NORINE'S REVENGE.

smile, and talked to him shyly throughout supper. La-
ter still she played and sang for him the songs and pieces he
liked best, played a game of euchre with him, and if she
thought of Laurence Thorndyke, who had taught her the
game, Richard Gilbert did not know it.

" She will learn to love me," he thought. " My pretty,
dark-eyed darling 1 I will love her so much. I will so
gratify her in everything. I will be so devoted, in all
ways, that she cannot help it. Please Heaven, her life shall
be a happy one with me."

Norine retired early. Her long drive had made her
tired and sleepy she said ; but she did not go to sleep.

Moon and stars shone crystal clear, pearly bright. She
blew out her lamp, wrapped a shawl about her, and sat
down by the window. Weirdly still lay everything, ivory
light, ebony shadows, no sound but the rattling of the
skeleton trees in the wintry night wind. No living thing
was visible far or near. There was only the star-gemmed
sky above, the chill, white world below. She could read
her heart in the holy hush of the night, and look into the
life that was dawning for her, by its solemn light. Rich-
ard Gilbert's wife I How strange and unreal that seemed.
She liked him very much as she might have liked an
indulgent elder brother, but love him — no I She might
have deluded herself into thinking so, had Laurence
Thomdyke's splendid image never dazzled her. She
knew better now — the knowledge had come upon her all
at once, transforming her from a child to a woman.

•* If I had never met him," she thought, " I might have
been a happy wife, but now 1 Now can I ever learn to for-
get him, and to give Mr. Gilbert his place ?"

She covered her face with her hands, alone as she was.

BEFORE THE WEDDING.

Alas for Richard Gilbert I congratulating himself at that
very moment on having won for his very own the fairest,
the sweetest, the truest of her sex.

Miss Bourdon sat mournfully musing there until long
past bedtime, long past midnight. Moonlight and star-
light paled presently, the prospect grew gloomy, the air
bitter cold, and shivering and miserable, the girl crept
away to bed. Even then she could not sleep — her nerves
were all unstrung and on edge. She lay broad awake
trying to imagine what her life would be like as Mr. Gil-
bert's wife. The fairy world of her dreams and her
books would open to her. Costly dresses and jewels, a
fine house in New York, her carriage and servants, sum-
mer travel and winter balls — all this he had promised her.
And there in the midst of it all, once again she would
meet Laurence Thorndike. It would be part of the
romance, she as the wife, he as the husband of another,
and the weak silly heart fluttering under the bedclothes,
gave a great bound. Then she remembered that it would
be wicked to wish to see him — a sin to be happy in his
presence ; but do what she would, the hope of meeting
him again, was at the bottom of her willingness to become
the lawyer's wife.

When Norine descended to breakfast next morning, she
found Mr. Gilbert standing in the open doorway, looking
out at the frosty sunshine. He came forward to meet her,
his face suddenly radiant.

" I have been waiting to waylay you," he said, smiling,
" I want you to let me tell your uncle to-day."

" You are in a hurry," Norine answered, rather impa-
tiently.

" Yes, my darling. Why should I not be? And Ire-

NO FINE'S REVENGE.

turn to New York early next week. You say yes— do you
not, Norine ? "

She smiled, and gave him her hand. She had said " yes "
to a more important proposition, he had been very good
to her, why should she not please him ?

" Do as you like, Mr. Gilbert. Tell my uncle i£ you
choose."

" And if he consents, Norine— as I think he will— when
shall I tell him our marriage is to take place? I want it
to be soon, my dearest girl, very soon, for I don't feel as
though I could live much longer without you. Come, my
little wife I name an early day."

" Oh, I cannot I I don't know when. Next summer some

time."

" That is indefinite," he laughed. " Allow me to be de-
finite. Say early next May."

" No, no, no ! that is too soon— greatly too soon I I
couldn't be ready."

" Then, when ? I won't be selfish, but you must be mer-
ciful, mademoiselle, and not keep me in suspense too long."

She laughed her old gay laugh.

" Patience, monsieur ; patience stands chief among the
virtues. Will June do — the last ? "

"The first, Norine."

Aunt Hetty was coming through the hall. Norine dart-
ed away.

" Have it as you will I Don't you want me to help you

with breakfast, auntie ? "

Mr. Gilbert smilingly looked after his bright little prize,
so soon to be his bright little wife, then turned to Aunt Hetty.

" Where is your brother this morning, Miss Kent ? I
wish to speak to him."

■*■ ^%

BEFORE THE IVEDD/A'G.

" In the stable, I think. Shall I go and see ? "

" Not at all. I will go myself."

He walked away, humming a tune, in the happiness of
his heart. Ah 1 shone ever winter sun so brightly before,
looked ever the work-a-day world so paradisiacal as now 1
Tlie earth and all thereon was transformed as with an en-
chanter's wand to this middle-aged legal gentleman in
love.

Uncle Renben, busy among his cattle, looked up in
some surprise at sight of his early visitor.

"Don't let me interfere with your work, Kent," the
lawyer said. " You can attend to your horses and listen,
too. I must leave the day after to-morrow ; my business
has been too long neglected, and I have something of im-
portance to tellyQu before I go. Something I hope— I
believe, you will notT>e sorry to hear."

The eyes of the two men met. There was a peculiar
smile on the lawyer's face, a happy light in his eyes, and
Reuben Kent's countenance grew suddenly bright with
intelligence.

" Is it about Norry ? "

A smile and a nod answered him.

" Then I reckon I can guess. You have asked her to
marry you ? "

" Exactly. But how, in the name of everything wonder-
ful have you found it out .' "

Uncle Reuben's eyes twinkled shrewdly.

" I ain't a lawyer, Mr. Gilbert, but I can see as far into
a milestone as any other man. Do you think I s'posed it
was to see me and Joe and Hetty you came to Kent Hill
so often ? No, sir ! I see you had a hankering after our
little girl from the first."

NOR MPS REVENGE.

!. ' x ;

:.:',?

Mr. Gilbert actually blushed. And he had guarded his
precious secret so carefully, he had thought.

" Well, Mr. Kent, I trust I have your approval ? "

Reuben Keui stretched out his big brown paw, and
grasped the lawyer's white hand.

" I give her to you with all my heart, sir. I'd rather see
her your wife than the wife of the President. I've been
hoping this long time it would come to this. She's a good
girl, as good as she's pretty, and I know she'll make you
a good wife."

Not one word of the honor done them or her by the
wealthy lawyer's offer — not one thought of it. In Reuben
Kent's eyes no king or kaiser on the wide earth would
have been too good for his beautiful Norine.

" And when is it to be, sir ? " he asked.

" The wedding? " smiled Mr. Gilbert. " The first week
of June. If I possibly can, I will run down here once or
twice between this and then, but I am doubtful of its
being possible. I have neglected business somewhat of
late, and it has accumulated. You will tell your brother
and sister, Kent ? "

They walked back to the house together to breakfast.
Norine saw in her unck's face that he had been told, and
blushed beautifully. How very, very near and real, it
seemed to bring it, this telling Uncle Reuben.

Mr. Gilbert took her out for a walk after breakfast, and
Uncle Reuben availed himself of the opportunity to
inform his sister and brother. They were no more sur-
prised than he had been, and equally pleased, but Aunt
Hetty cried quietly, woman-fashion, for all that.

" We will miss her so much," she said j " the old house
will seem like a tomb without her. He is a good man, a

I' • i

PEFORE THE WEDDING.

rich m.in, and a gentleman — I ought to rejoice for her
sal<e, but it docs seem hard at first to give her up for
good."

"These things will happen, Hetty," said Uncle Reu-
ben, philosophically, but sighing, too; "it's nater. We
ought to think of nothing but the Lord's goodness in
giving her such a man as Mr. Gilbert for a husband."

So it was settled. When Norine came back from her
walk. Aunt Hetty kissed her, shook hands with the lawyer,
and the betrothal was quietly over. There was no scene,
and no tears, but the good wishes for both, were none the
less heartfelt for that.

The day after to-morrow came. Mr. Gilbert went, and
the preparations for the wedding began. Norine's "set-
ting out " was to be on a scale of unprecedented magnif-
icence. Uncle Reuben had money, and did not grudge
spending it. Aunt Hetty took her into town, and a whole
day was spent shopping — the big family carryall went
home in the evening filled to repletion with dry goods.
A seamstress and a dressmaker were engaged, both to
come out on the following day, and Norine, in the pleasant
bustle and hurry, actually forgot Laurenge Thorndyke for
eight consecutive hours.

The two seamstresses came to Kent Hill the following
morning, and great and mighty were the measuring and
cutting that ensued. The " keeping room," was given up
to them and the bride elect, and all day long, and for
many days after, their busy needles flew. Before the end
of the week it was know far and wide that pretty Norry
Kent, as she was called there, had made a great conquest,
and was about to be married to one of the richest lawyers
in New York.

;♦

lit]

NORINE'S REVENGE.

Mr. Gilbert's letters came like clock-work every week,
and Ncrine's replies went dutifully the day after. They
were not much like love-letters on either side, particularly
on hers, but Mr. Gilbert's were deeply and tenderly affec-
tionate, better than all the rhapsodies ever written. His
presents, too — and such presents, poured in, in a cease-
less stream. Jewelry that half turned the pretty bride's
head with its dazzling splendor, laces that fairy fingers
alone could have woven, pretty, costly bijouterie of all kinds.

" How good he is — how good he is ! " Norine thought,
in a burst of gratitude. " I ought to love him — I will
love him — who could help it in time, and I v/ill make him
as happy as ever I can."

She mifljht have kept her word ; it would surely have
been no impossible task to learn to love Richard Gilbert.
She meant it in all sincerity — his generosity had already
kindled a deeper feeling than me'-e gratitude in her heart.
The dazzle of Laurence Thornd)ke's image was slowly
but surely dimming, and she could sing blithely once
more as she bent over her work, or ^ripped about the
rooms. Who could be unhappy in white silk and lus-
trous pearls, orange blossoms and Mechlin lace, with rich
rings a-sparkle on every finger, and glittering bracelets
clasping the lovely arms ? The color came back to Miss
Bourdon's cheek, the girlish brightness to her lovely
Canadian eyes — once more her gay girl's laugh rang out —
once more the tripping French ballads made melody
through the old gray rooms. You see she was not quite
eighteen, poor child, and so much is possible for young
persons of eighteen.

The weeks flew by — busy dreams ; March passed, Apn!
passed. The wedding day was drawing very near. May

came
thefi
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work
and '
and I
in th(
and I
be he
her i
Hill
serpe

Ell

Ml&l

BEFORE THE WEDDING.

came, mellow with sweet spring blossoms and sunshine, and
the first half was over. The first Thursday in June was to
be the day of days, not quite a fortnight off now. The
world had woke up for her wedding, Norine thought, snow
and dreariness were gone, spring, in Eden-like freshness
and bloom was with them. All day long the birds sang
in the sunlight ; the garden was gay with odorous grasses
and blossoms. In three days more the bridegroom would
be here to claim his bride, to leave no more until he bore
her away by his side. Yes, it was a new Eden. Kent
Hill in its spring-tide resurrection, but, as once before, the
serpent was close at hand.

■m

1 1

lit

|||:l;

;' ft !

CHAPTER VII.

THE GATHERING STORM.

HE last week came — the last night of the last

week.

A radiant moonlight night. Over the blue

. listy hill-tops the silver half-moon sailed, and
at the garden gate stood the pretty bride elect, alone,
gazing with eyes of dreamy darkness at the mystic, light.
N'l soui\d but the "sounds of the silence" broke her
reverie, he twitter of a bird in its nest, the light flutver
of the cool wind, the slipping of a snake in the under-
brush. Gretn ana silvery spread the wide fields of Ker t
Hill ; dark, cool and perfumy the pine woods, long and
white the dusty, high nad — over all the spr":kling stan\
and crystal moon.

Leaning on the gate, stood Norin». A trifle thinner
and paler than of old, very pale in the cold, white :r<oon-
rays, but very fair a..d sweet the mignonne face. Something
almost pathetic in the pallid beauty of the night touched
her, the great dark eyes looked v.ith wistful sadness up
to the starry sky. She stood there thinking of the new
life to begin in a few days now — the life that seemed to
recede and grow more and more unreal the nearer it came.

be e:

THE GATHERING STORM.

Its novelty and brightness blinded her no more— distance
had lent enchantment to the view— to-night she only knew
she was about to marry a man she did not love.

The past arose before her. Laurence Thorndyke's smil-
ing, cynical, handsome face floated in the haze like a vision,
her girl's fancy returned . th tenfold sweetness and
power. If he were only to be the bridegroom on Thursday
next ! A passionate longing to see him once more, to hear
his voice, filled her whole soul with unutterable desire.
In the moonlight she stretched out her arms involunta-
rily—in the silence she spoke, a heart-sob in every word :

" Laurence 1 " she cried, " come back ! "

The icacifcis leaves fluttered around her, the wind touch-
ed her face and swept by. She leaned wearily against

the gate.

"Laurence!" she whispered, "Laurence! Laurence!
If I could only see you once more— only once— if I knew
you had not quite forgotten me— if I could only bid you
good-by before we part forever, I think everything would
be easy after that."

Had the thought evoked his phantom ?

Who was that coming along the silent road ? A tall,
slender figure, wearing a loose, light overcoat, strangely,
bewilderingly familiar. That negligent, graceful walk,
that uplifted carriage of the head— surely, surely she
knew both. She leaned forward in breathless expecta-
tion—her lips apart, her eyes alight. Nearer and nearer
he came, and the face she had longed to see, had prayeil
to see, looked down upon her once more with the old
familiar smile.

Laurence Thorndyke !

She leaned against the gate still in breathless hush,

Ift

NORINE'S REVENGE.

pale, terrified. She could not speak, so intense was her
surprise, and the voice for whose sound she had hungered
and thirsted with her whole foolish, romantic heart sound-
ed in the silence :

" Norine 1 "

She made no answer ; in her utter astonishment and
swift joy she could only stand and gaze, speechless.

" Norine, I have come back again. Have you no word
of welcome for your old friend ? "

Still she did not speak— still she stood looking as though
she never could look enough— only trembling a little now.

" I have startled you," he said very gently, " coming so
unexpectedly upon you like a ghost in the moonlight.
But I am no spirit, Norine— shake hands."

He leaned across the closed gate, and took both her
hands in his warm, cordial clasp. They were like ice.
Her eyes were fixed almost wildly upon his face, her lips
were trembling like the lips of a child about to cry.

" Won't you speak then, Norine ? Have I startled you
so much as that ? I did not expect to see you or any one
at this hour, but I had to come. Do you hear, Norry ?
I had to come. And now that we have met, Norine,
won't you say you are glad to see me again ? "

She drew away her hands suddenly — covered her face
and broke into a passion of tears. Perhaps she had grown
hysterical, her heart had been full before he came, and
it needed only this shock to brim over. He opened the
gate abruptly and came to her side.

"Speak to me, Norine! My own — my dearest, don't
cry so. Look up, and say you are not sorry I have come ! "

She looked up at him, forgetful of Richard Gilbert and
her wedding day, forgetful of loyalty and truth.

THE GATHERING STORM.

" I thought you had forgotten me," she said. " I thought
I would never see you again. And oh, I have been so
miserable — so miserable 1 "

" And yet you are about to be married, Norine ! " At
that reproachful cry she suddenly remembered the New
York lawyer, and all the duties of her life. She drew her
hands away resolutely in spite of his resistance and stood
free — trembling and white.

" You are going to be married to Richard Gilbert,
Norine ? "

" Yes," she said, falteringly ; " and you — you are going
to be married, too ? "

"I?" in astonishment] "I married! Who can have
told you that ? "

" Mr. Gilbert."

" Then it is the first time I have ever known him — law-
yer though he be — to tell a falsehood. No, Norine, I am
not going to be married."

She caught her breath in the shock, the joy of the words.

'■'■Not going to be married! Not going — Oh, Mr.
Thorndyke, don't deceive me — don't ! "

" I am not deceiving you Norine — why should I ? There
is but one whom I love ; if she w'll be my wife I will mar-
ry — not unless. Can you not guess who it is, Norine ? Can
you not guess what I have come from New York to say
before it is too late ? I only heard of your projected mar-
riage last week — heard it then by merest accident. Ah,
Norine ! if you knew what a shock that announcement
was. Ever since I left here I have been trying to school
myself to forget you, but in vain. I never knew how utter-
ly in vain until I heard you were the promised wife of
Richard Gilbert, I could stay away no longer — I felt I

'.'it'

NORINE'S REVENGE.

must tell you or die. It may seem like presumption, like
madness, my coming at the eleventh hour, and you the
promised bride of another man, but I had to come. Even
if you refused me with scorn, I felt I must come and hear
my doom from your lips. They have urged me to marry
another, an heiress she is, and a ward of my uncle's— he
even threatens to disinherit me if I do not. But I will be
disinherited, I will brave poverty and face the future boldly
so that the girl I love is by my side. Helen is beautiful, and
will not say no, they tell me, if I ask, but what is that lo me
since I love only you. Norine, tell me I have not come
too late. You don't, you can't care for this elderly law-
yer, old enough to be your father. Norine, speak and tell
me you care only for me."

" Only for you -- only for you 1 " she cried, " O, Lau-
rence, I love you with all my heart ! "

There was a sound as she said it, the house door open-
ing. In the moonlight Aunt Hetty's spare, small figure
appeared in the doorway, in the silence her pleasant voice
called :

" Norine 1 Norine I come in out of the dew dear
child."

Some giant hemlocks grew near the gate — Laurence
Thorndyke drew her with him into their black shadow, and
stood perfectly still. Brilliant as the moonlight was. Aunt
Hetty might brush against them and not see them in the
leafy gloom.

" I must go," whispered Norine ; " she will be here in a
moment in search of me. Laurence, let me go."

" But first — I must see you again. No one knows I am
here, no one must know. When does Gilbert arrive ? "

" To-morrow," she answered, with a sudden shiver.

"1
Min(
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Hal

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wife
sam

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iti

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THE GA THERING STORM.

" My darling, don't fear— you are mine now, mine only.
Mine you shall remain." His eyes glittered strangely in
the gloom as he said it. "We cannot meet to-morrow ;
but we must meet to-morrow night."

"No," she faltered, "no— no. It would be wrong,
dishonorable. And I dare not, we would be discovered."
" Not if you do as I direct. What time do you all retire?
Half-past ten?"

" Mostly."

"Then at eleven, or half-past, the coast is sure to be
clear. At eleven to-morrow night I will be here just with-
out the gate, and you must steal out and meet me."

" Laurence 1 "

" You must— you will, if you love me. Are you not my
wife, or going to be in a few days, which amounts to the
same thing. Will Gilbert stop here ? "

" I don't know. Yes, I suppose so."

" Well, even if he does it will not matter. You can steal
out unheard and unobserved, can you not?"

« Yes— no. I don't know. Laurence 1 Laurence 1 I

am afraid." ,

" Of what ? Of whom ? not of me, Nonne ?
She shivered a little, and shrank from his side.
" It seems so stra i^e, so bold, so wrong. I ought not,

it is wicked— I don't know what to do."

" Then you don't care for me at all, Norine ? "

He knew how to move her. The reproachful words went

to her heart. Care for him 1 He doubted that.

" You will come," he said, that exultant gleam in his

eyes again, "my loyal little girl 1 I have a thousand things

to say to you, and we can talk uninterruptedly then. When

was your wedding to be ?

iiiS

i i

1,1'

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" Next Thursday."

" And this is Sunday night. To-morrow afternoon Gil-
bert will be here. You see how little time we have to
sjjare, Norine. You must meet me, for on Thursday you
shall be my wife — not his I "

" Norry I Norry ! " more loudly this time, called the
voice of Aunt Hetty, still in the doorway, " where on
earth is the child ? "

" Let me go — let me go I " Norine cried in terror, " she
will be here directly."

" You will meet me to-morrow night, promise first?"

" Yes — yes — ^yes I Only let me go."

He obeyed. Retreating into the shadow of the
trees, he watched her glide out in the moonlit path, and
up to the gate. He heard her ascend the steps, and then
Aunt Hetty's voice came to him again.

" Goodness gracious, child 1 where have you been ? Do
you want to get your death, out in your bare head and the
dew falling like rain ? "

He could not catch Norine's faint reply. A second
more, and again Miss Hester Kent was shrilly to be heard.

" Land of hope ! whatever ails you. Norry ? You are.
whiter than the dead. Oh, I know how it will be after to-
night — you'll be laid up for a week."

He heard the house door close. Then he was alone
with the rustling trees, and the bright, countless stars. As
he stepped out into the crystal radiance, his face shone
with exultant delight — alas I for Norine I not with happy
love.

" I knew it ! " he thought to himself in his triumph ; " I
knew I could take her from him at the very church door.
Now, Richard Gilbert ! whose turn is it at last^-who holds

THE GATHERING STORM.

the winning trump in the game ? You have baffled, and
foiled, and watched me many a time, notably in the case
of Lucy West — when it came to old Darcy's ears through
you, and he was within a hair's breadth of disinheriting me.
Every dog has his day. Yours is over — mine has come.
I'he wheel has revolved, and Laurence Thorndyke, gam-
bler, trickster, libertine, as you paint him, is at the top.
You have not spared me in the past, my good Gilbert,
look to yourself now, for by all the gods I'll not spare
you ! "

While Mr Thorndyke, with his hat pulled low over his
brows, walked home to the obscure hotel at which he
chose to stop, Norine was up in her room alone with her
tumultuous heart. She had complained of a headache
and gone at once. The plea was not altogether false —
her brain was whirling, her heart throbbing in a wild tu-
mult, half terror, half delight. He had come back to her,
he loved her, she was going to be his wife ! For over
an hour she sat, hiding even in the dusk her happy
face in her hands, with only this one thought pulsing
through all her being — she was to be his wife !

By and by she grew calm and able to think. No thought
of going to bed, or doing anything so commonplace as
sleeping occurred to her. She wrapped herself in a shawl,
seated herself by the window, and so for hours and hours sat
motionless.

After all was love worth what she was about to give
up for it — home, friends, a good man's trust, her soul's
truth and honor? Was Laurence Thorndyke worth more
to her than all the world beside, more than the peace of
her own conscience. Richard Gilbert loved her, honored
her, trusted her, she had taken his gifts, she had pledged

, .„ . _>...'iiti^i-iA»«i_l'-*?''

NORWE'S REVENGE.

herself to be his wife. This very day, dawning yonder
over the hills of Maine, would see him here to claim
her as his own forever. Was one sight of Laurence
Thorndyke's face, one touch of his hand, one seductive
tone of his voice sufficient to make her fling honor and
truth to the winds, desert her best, her only friends, break
her plighted husband's heart, and make her memory a
shame and pain to them all forever ? Oli, what a wretch
she was, what cruel, selfish passion this love she felt must
be I

The sun rose up between the fleecy clouds, filling the
world with jubilant brightness, tiie sweet scents of sun-
rise in the country perfumed the warm air. Norine threw
up her window and leaned out, worn and fevered with
her night's vigil. That meeting under the trees seemed a
long way off now, it was as if she had lived years in a few
brief hours. Presently there was a rap at the door, and
Aunt Hetty's voice outside spoke.

" Are you up, Norry ? is your headache better, dear ? "
" Much better, aunty — I'll be down directly."
" Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," said aunty,
and Norine got wearily up, and bathed her face, brush-
ed out her tangled curls, shrinking guiltily from her own
pallid face in the glass.

" How wretchedly haggard I look," she thought, drear-
ily ; " surely every one who looks at me will read my
guilt in my face."

She went down stairs. Aunt Hetty nearly dropped
the sweet, smelling plate of hot muffins at sight of her.

" You're whiter than a ghost, child I " she cried. " You
told me you were better."

"I am better, aunty. Oh, pray don't mind my looks.

THE GA THERING STORM.

La3t night's headache has made me pale — I will be as well
as ever after breakfast."

But breakfast was only a pretence as far she was con-
cerned, and the day wore on and the fair, young face kept
its pallid, startled look. She could do nothing, neither
read or sew, she wandered about the house like a restless
spirit, only shrinking from that Bluebeard's chamber,
where all the wedding finery was spread. How was
she to meet Mr. Gilbert, and the fleeting hours were
hurrying after one another, as hours never had hurried
before.

The afternoon sun dropped low, the noises in the fields
grew more and more subdued, the cool evening wind
swept up from the distant sea. Norine sat in the wicker
chair in the garden under the old apple-tree and waited —
waited as a doomed prisoner might the coming of the ex-
ecutioner. A book lay idle on her lap, she could not
read, she sat there waiting — waiting^waiting, and school-
ing herself for the ordeal.

Presently, far off on the white road, rose up a cloud of
dust, there came the rolling of wheels, she caught a
glimpse of a carriage. She clasped her hands together
and strove to steady herself. At last he was here.
Out of the dusty cloud came a buggy, whirling rapidly up
to the gate — out of the buggy came Richard Gilbert, his
eager face turned towards her. His quick eye had
espied her ; she rose up to meet him, calm in the very
depth of desperatioti. Mr. Gilbert sprang out and caught
both her hands in his.

" My dear, dear girl ! My own Norine ! how glad I am
to be with you once more ! But how pale you look. Have
you been ill ? "

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

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NORINES REVENGE.

" Oh, no — that is — only my old friend, headache. Here
comes Aunty Hetty and Uncle Reuben to welcome you."

She drew back, thankful for the diversion, feeling-hot
and cold by turns, and not daring to meet his eye. Their
laughter, their gay greetings were only a confused hum in
her ears, she was looking at the clump of hemlocks, and
feeling — oh, such a false, treaclierous guilty creature.

" How dazed you look, little girl ! " her happy lover said
laughing ; " am I such an ogre, then, in your sight .' "

He drew her hand beneath his arm, with the air of one
who assumes a right, and led her to the house. They
were alone together in the parlor, and she was trying to
call her wandering mind to order, and listen to him and
answer his questions. She could see with terror that he
was watching her already with grave, troubled eyes. What
was it, this pale, still change in her ? Dread of her ap-
proaching marriage, maiden timidity, or worst of all — was
the thought of another man haunting her still ?

Tea time came and was a relief ; after tea, Mr. Gil-
bert proposed a walk. Norine took her hat passively, and
went out with him into the hushed and placid twilight.
The pale primrose light was fading out of the western sky,
and a rising wind was tossing the arms of the hemlocks
•where she stood with another lover last night.

It was a very silent walk. They strolled along the
lonesome road, with the primrose light growing grayer
and grayer through the velvety meadows, where the quiet
cows grazed. Something of the dark shadows deepening
around them seemed to steal into the man's heart, and
dull it with nameless dread, but there was no voice in
the rising wind, in the whispering trees, in the creeping
gloom, to tell him of what was so near.

I 1

THE GATHERING STORM.

A very silent walk — the last they would ever take.
The little talking clone, Mr. Gilbert did himself. He told
her that all his preparations for his bride, all his arrange-
ments lor her comfort were made. Their home in New
York's stateliest avenue was ready and waiting — their wed-
ing tour would be to Montreal and Niagara, unless Norine
had some other choice. But she would be glad to see
once more the quaint, gray, dear old Canadian town —
would she not ?

" Yes, she would ever be glad to see Montreal. No, she
had no other choice." She shivered as she said it,
looking far off with blank eyes that dare not meet his.
" Niagara would do very well, all places were alike to her.
It was growing cold and dark," — abruptly this — " suppose
they went home."

Something in her tone and manner, in her want of in-
terest and enthusiasm, hurt him. More silently than they
had come they recrossed the darkening fields. The moon
was rising as they drew near the house, forcing its way
up through dark and jagged clouds. She paused suddenly
for a moment, with her pale face turned towards it. Mr,
Gilbert paused, too, looking at the lowering sky.

" Listen to the wind," he said. " We will have a change
to-morrow."

" A change I " she said, in a hushed sort of voice. " Yes,
the storm is yerj' near."

" And you are shivering in this raw night wind. You
are white and cold as a spirit, my darling. Come let us
go in."

His baggage had arrived — a trunk and valise stood in
the hall as they entered. The sister and brothers sat in
holiday attire in the keeping room, but very grave and

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

quiet. The shadow that had fallen on Richard Gilbert in
the twilight fields seemed to have fallen here, too,

Norine sat at the piano, her face turned away from the
light, and played the melodies he asked for. From
these she drifted gradually into music more in accordance
with her mood, playing in a mournful, minor key, until
Mr, Gilbert could endure the saddening sweetness no
longer.

" Your music is very melancholy, my dear," he said
quietly, " Will you not sing us something instead,"

" Not to-night, I think. I find my headache has not
altogether departed. If you will kinc'.Iy excuse me, I will
retire."

She got up as she spoke, lit a lamp, and with a brief
goodnight, was gone.

It was not yet ten o'clock, but there was little induce-
ment to linger now. Mr. Gilbert owned to being rather
fatigued, took his light, and departed. Before half-past
ten all were in their rooms, the doors and windows secured
for the night. By eleven all were asleep — all save one.

Norine sat at her window, her light shaded, her watch
(one of Richard Gilbert's presents to his bride elect) open
before her, gazing out into the gusty darkness, and wait-
ing. Her hands were tightly clasped together, silent,
tearless sobs shook her at times as remorse swept through,
her soul, and yet not for one minute did she think of with-
drawing f roin her tryst. But she would not fly with Laurence
Thomdyk — no, no ! Every best impulse within her cried
out she would not, she could not. She was a wretch for
even thinking of it — a wretch for going to this meeting,
but she would only go to say farewell forever. She loved
him, but she belonged to another man j it would be better

THE GATHERING STORM.

to die than to betray him. She would bid Laurence
Thorndyke go to-night, and never see him more.

The threatening storm seemed drawing very near. The
moon was half obscured in dense clouds ; the wind tore
around the gables ; the trees tossed their long, green
arms wildly aloft. Within the house profoundest silence
reigned.

Half-past eleven I the hour of tryst ; she seemed to count
the moments by the dull beating of her heart. She rose
up, extinguished her lamp, put on a waterproof, drawing
the hood over her head, took her slippers in her hand,
and opened the door. She paused and listened, half choked
by the loud throbbing of her heart, by guilty, nameless
dread. All was still — no sound but the surging of the
trees without ; no glimmer of light from any room. She
stole on tiptoe along the passage, down the stairs, and
into the lower hall. Noiselessly she unlocked the door,
opened it, and was out in the windy dark, under the gloom
of the trees. One second's pause, her breath coming in
frightened gasps, then she was flitting away in the chill night
wind to meet her lover. She reached the gate, leaned
over it eagerly, straining her eyes through the gloom.

" Laurence 1 " she said, in a tremulous whisper. " Lau-
rence, I have come."

" My own brave little girl I "

A tall figure stepped forward from beneath a tree, two
warm hands clasped hers.

" Norry, you're a trump, by Jove ! Come out at once.
All is ready. You must fly with me to-night,"

But she shrank back — shocked, terrified, yet Jonging
with all her soul to obey.

" No, no 1 " she cried. " I can never go—never I never I

■?r

jffs-

NORINerS REVENGE.

never 1 O Lawrence I I have come here to bid you good-
by forever 1 "

His answer was to laugh aloud. His face was flushed
his blue eyes gleaming — Mr. Laurence Thorndyke, bold
enough at all times, had primed himself with brandy for
to-night's work, until he was ready to face and defy devils
ad men.

" Good-by forever I " he repeated. " Yes, that's so like-
ly, my darling. Come out here, Norry — come out. I've
no notion of talking with a five-barred gate between us.
So old Gilbert came down to his wedding this afternoon
didn't he ? By Jubiter ! what a row there will be to-mor-
row, when the cage is opened, and the bird found flown.

He laughed recklessly aloud, as he opened the gate
and drew her out.

" Not if I know it, Norry. No dry-as-dust, grim, solemn
owl of a lawyer for my little Canadian rosebud, old as the
everlasting hills, and priggish as the devil. No, no ! we'll
change all that. Before morning dawns you and I will be
safely in Boston, and before another night falls you'll be
my blessed little wife — the loveliest bride from Maine to
Florida, and I the most blissful of bridegrooms. All is
ready — here are my horse and buggy — the sloop sails
in an hour, and then — let them catch us who can I "

Either the excitement of his triumph, or the French
brandy, had set Mr. Laurence Thorndyke half wild. He
drew her with him, heedless of her struggles, her passionate
protest.

" Can't go ? Oh, that's all bosh, my darling ! you've got
to come. I love you, and you love me— (sounds like a
child's valentine, don't it ?) — and you don't care that
for old Dick Gilbert. You won't go ? If you don't I'll shoot

myself
to shoo
I don't
moon's
upon r
angel,
that,
me for
get in,

He!

Stun
only Is
horse \
forwan
scream

A w
like th
mingle

THE GA THERING STORM.

myself before morning — I swear I will ! You don't want me
to shoot myself, do you ? I can't live without you, Norry, and
I don't mean to try. After we're married, and the honey-
moon's over, I'll fetch you back to the old folks if you like,
upon my sacred honor I will. Not a word now, my little
angel, I won't listen. Of course you've scruples, and all
that. I think the more of you for them, but you'll thank,
me for not listening one day. Here's the carriage — ^get in,
get in, get in ! "

He fairly lifted her in as he spoke.

Stunned, terrified, bewildered, she struggled in vain. He
only laughed aloud, caught up the reins, and struck the
horse with the whip. The horse, a spirited one, darted
forward like a flash ; there was a girl's faint, frightened
scream.

" O Laurence ! let me go I "

A wild laugh drowned it-^they flew oyer the ground
like the wind. Norine was gone I His exultant singing
mingled with the crash of the wheels as they disappeared.

" She is won I they are gone over bush, brake and scsir ;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinvar."

CHAPTER VIII.

fled!

R. GILBERT wr jt to his room, went to his bed,
but he did not go to sleep. He lay awake so
long, tossing restlessly, that, at last, in disgust,
he got up dressed himself partly, and sat down
in the darkness by his open chamber window ; to have it
out.

What was the matter with Norine? Headache; she
had said — ^but to eyes sharpened by deep, true, love, it
looked much more like heartache. The averted eyes,
the faltering voice, the pallid cheeks, the shrinking form,
betokened something deeper than headache. Was she
at the eleventh hour repenting her marriage ? Was she
still in love with Laurence Thorndyke ? Was she pin-
ing for the freedom she had resigned ? Was there no
spark of affection for him in hsr girl's heart after all ?
" I was mad and presumptuous to dream of it," he
thought. " I am thirty-six — she is seventeen. I am not
handsome, nor brilliant, nor attractive to a girl's fancy
in any way — she is all. Yes, she is pining for him, and
repenting of her hastily-plighted troth. Well, then, she
shall have it back. If I loved her tenfold more than I do,
and Heaven knows to love her any better than I do
mortal man cannot, still I would resign her. No woman

FLED I

shall ever come to me as wife with her heart in the
keeping of another man. Better a thousand times to part
now than to part after marriage. I have seen quite too
much, in my professional capacity of marrying in haste
and repenting at leisure, to try it myself. I will speak to
her to-morrow ; she shall tell me the truth fearlessly and
frankly while it is not yet too late, and if it be as I dread,
why, then, I can do as better men have done— bear my
pain and go my way. Poor, pretty little Norry I with her
drooping face and pathetic, wistful eyes— she longs to tell
me, I know, and is afraid. It is a very tender heart, a
very romantic little heart, and who is to blame her if it
turns to him, young and handsome as she is herself, in-
stead of to the grave, dull, middle-aged lawyer. And yet,
it will be very hard to say good-by."

He broke down for a moment, alone as he was. A
great flood of recollection came over him— the thought of
parting— now— was bitter indeed. A vision rose before
him— Norine as he had seen her first, standing shyly down-
cast in the train, her dark, childlike eyes glancing im-
ploringly around, the sensitive color coming and going in
her innocent face. She arose before him again as he had
seen her later, flushed and downcast, sweet and smiling,
bending over Laurence Thorndyke, with " Love's young
dream " written in every line of her happy face. Again
as he had seen her that day when he spoke, pale, startled,
troubled, afraid to accept, afraid to refuse, and faltering
out the words that made him so idiotically happy, with
her little, white, handsome face, keeping its startled
pallor.

" Yes," he said, " yes, yes, I see it all. She said 'yes,'
because it is not in her yielding, gentle, child's heart to

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

.'• \

say no. And now she is repenting when she thinks it too
late. But it is not too late ; to-morrow I will speak and
she will answer, and if there be one lingering doubt in her
mind, we will shake hands and part. My little love 1 I
wish for your sake Laurence Thorndyke were worthy of
you, and might return ; but to meet him again is the
worst fate that can befall you, and in three months poor
Helen Holmes will be his bride."

Hark ! was that a sound ? He broke off his reverie to
listen. No, all was still again — only the surging of the
wind in the maples.

"It certainly sounded like the opening of a door below,"
he thought ; "a rat perhaps — all are in bed."

He was looking blankly out into the windy darkness.
This time to-morrow night his fate would be decided.
Would he still be in this room, waiting for Thursday
morning to dawn and give him Norine, or —

He broke oE abruptly again. Was that a figure moving
down in the gloom to the gate ? Surely not, and yet some-
thing moved. A second more, and it had vanished. Was
this fancy, too ? He waited, he listened. Clearly through
the dusk, borne on the wind, there came to him the faint,
far-off sound of a laugh.

" Who can it be ?" he thought, puzzled. " No fancy this
time. I certainly heard a laugh. Rather an odd hour and
lonely spot for mirth."

He listened once more, and once more, fainter and farther
off, came on the wind that laugh. Did he dream, or did a
cry mingle with it? The next instant he started to his feet
as the loud, rapid rush of carriage wheels sounded through
the deep silence of the night. What did it mean j
Had some one stealthily left the house and driven

FLED!

away ? He rose, drew on his coat, and without his boots,
quitted his room, and descended the stairs.
The house door stood ajar— some one had left them and

driven away.

He walked to the gate. Nothing was to be seen, noth-
ing to be heard. The gloomy night sky, the tossing trees,
the soughing wind, nothing else far or near.

" It may have been Reuben or Joe Kent," he thought.
" and yet at this time of night and in secret ! And there
was a cry for help, or what certainly sounded like one.
No need to puzzle over it, however— to morrow will tell.
A New England farm house is about the last place on earth
to look for mysteries."

Mr. Gilbert went to bed again, and, somewhere in the
small hours, to sleep. It was rather late when he awoke,
and an hour past the usual breakfast time when, his toilet
completed, he descended the stairs. The storm had come
in pouring rain, in driving wind, in sodden earth, and
frowning sky.

Aunt Hetty was alone, the table was laid for two, a
delightful odor of coffee and waffles perfumed the air.
She looked up from her sewing with a smile as he bade
her good-morning.

" I was just wondering if you and Norry meant to keep
your rooms all day. Oh, you needn't make any apology ;
it is as easy to wait breakfast for two as for one. The
boys and me "—(they were the " boys " still to Miss Hester
Kent)—" had oure at seven o'clock. Now sit right down
Mr. Gilbert, and I'll go and rout out Norry, and you and
her can have your breakfast sociably together. You'll
have a good many sociable breakfasts alone together, I
dare say, before long. Gloomy sort of day now, ain't it ?"

NOR INK'S REVENGE.

" Norine is not clown then ? " the lawyer said, startled a
little, yet hardly knowing why.

" Not yet. She ain't often lazy o' mornings, ain't Norry,
neither. You wait, though. I'll have her down in ten
minutes."

He looked at her .is though to say something, changed
his mind suddenly, and took seat. Miss Kent left the room.
Five minutes passed. Then she came rushing down the
stairs, and back to his side, all white and frightened.

" Mr. Gilbert, Norine's not in her room 1 Her bed was
not slept in at all last night 1 " She sat down all at once,
pressing her hand hard over her heart. " I'm," she said,
panting, " I'm very foolish, I know, but it has given me
a turn."

He rose to his feet. He knew it then ! As well as he
ever knew it in the after time, Richard Gilbert knew it all
at that moment, Norine had fled.

" It was she, then, who left the house last night," he
said, in a hushed voice ; " and it was a man's laugh 1 Was
it— My God ! Was it—"

He stopped, turning white with the horror of that
thought.

" Call your brothers," he said, his voice ringing, his face
setting white and stern as stone. " We must search for
her at once. At all costs we must find her — must bring
her back. Quick, Miss Kent I Your brothers! I am
afraid Norine has fled."

" Fled 1 "

" Fled — run away from home, for fear of marrying me.
Don't you understand. Miss Kent ? Call your brothers, I
say every minute may be worth a life — or more 1 Quick 1 "

She obeyed — stunned, stupefied by the shock, the horror

FLED.

of her amaze. The two men rushed wildly in, frightened
by their sister's incoherent words. Rapidly, clearly, Rich-
ard Gilbert told them what he had heard last night, told
them even what he feared most.

" Thorndyke has come back, and either persuaded her
to run away with him or forcibly abducted her. I feel
sure of it. I heard him laugh, and her cry last night as
plainly as I hear my own voice now. There is not a
moment to be lost. On with your coats ! out with the horses,
and let us be off. Better she were dead than with him.''

They are gone, and the woman sits alone, stunned,
speechless, unable to realize it, only dumbly conscious
that something awful has happened. Norine has gone I
Fled on the very eve of her bridal with another man.
Norine— little Norrie, who but yesterday seemed to Tier as
a young innocent child.

The woman sits and weeps alone by her desolate hearth.
The men go forth into the world, and forget their grief
for the time in the excitement of the search— the men, who
have the best of it always.

All his life long that miserable day remained in Richard
Gilbert's memory more as a sickening dream than as a
reality. He suffered afterward— horribly— to-day he was
too dazed to suffer or feel. Whether found or not, No-
rine Bourdon was lost to bim forever ; dumbly he felt that,
but she must be found. At all costs, she must be brought
back from Laurence Thorndyke.

The two men acted passively under his orders— awed
into silence by the look on his set, white face. Even to
them that day remained as a dizzy dream. Now they-
were at the station, listening to Gilbert's rapid, lucid in-
quiries and description, and the clerk shook his head.

lOO

NORINE\S REVENGE.

" No," he said ; " so far as he could recollect, no two
parties answering the description, had left by the earliest
train that morning."

Then Mr. Gilbert went backward, and tried the regis-
ters of the various hotels for the name of Thorndyke. It
did not appear, but in one of the lesser hotels the question
was solved.

" Thar hain't ben nobody here answerin' to that air,"
said the Down-East innkeeper ; " but thar hes ben a chap
callin' himself Smith — ^John Smith. That may be the cove
you want. Likely's not, ye know, if he's ben up to any
of his larks, he would give a false name, ye know. He
come Saturday night— staid Sunday and Monday, paid his
bill last evenin', and made himself scarce. Shouldn't be a
mite surprised, now, if he's the rooster you're after."

" Describe him," the lawyer said, briefly.

" Wal, he was a good-lookin' young fellow as ye'd wish
to see. Tall and slim and genteel, city clothes, a niouslache,
blueish eyes, and sorter light hair— a swell young chap,
sech as we ain't used to in our house."

" Thorndyke ! " the lawyer muttered, between his
teeth.

" He never stirred out all Sunday," pursued mine host,
" until after nightfall. Then he started off afoot, and it
was past eleven when he got back. All day Monday he
loafed about his room the same way, and on Monday even-
nin', as I said, he paid his bill, got a buggy somewhere,
and drove off. And I calk'late, square, he'd been a drink-
in', he kinder looked and talked that way. That's all I
know about Mr. John Smith."

They telegraphed along the line, but without success.
Nothing satisfactory could be discovered. It was noon

FLED.

lOI

Mr. Gilbert

now— there was a train for Boston at two.

looked at his watch. • • „, , •« t

« I will not return with you," he said, decisively. I
will go on to Bostoi. I am positive he will take her there
Meantime, you will leave no stone unturned to track the

fugitives here." .

" I'll go with you to Boston," said Uncle Reuben, quietly ;
« if he's taken her there, my place is on the ground Joe will
do all he can here. And by the Lord 1 when I ^^ see h.m,
I'll make it the dearest night's work he ever did in his life

So it was arranged. In the dismal loneliness of the
pouring afternoon, Joe Kent drove back alone to Ken
Hill and to the tortured woman waiting there. Who knew ?
thought quiet Joe. Perhaps Mr. Gilbert and Reuben had
been too hasty, after all. Perhaps Norine was back.

But Norine was not back. The house was empty and
desolate-Aunt Hetty sat crying alone. She had gone
and left no trace behind, not one word, no note, no letter.
Her clothes were all untouched, except those she had worn,
and her waterproof cloak. Surely she had never meant
to run away, or she would have gone differently from that,
and left some line of farewell, some prayer for pardon be-
hind. It must be as Mr. Gilbert had said-the villain had
taken her by force. • u^ *i,o

And while the rainy afternoon deepened into night, the
two sad, silent men sat side by side, flying along to Boston.
At every station inquiries were made, but no one had seen
anything of a young girl and a young man answering the
description given. So many came and went always it was
impossible to remember. So when night fell m lashing
rain and raw east wind the lawyer and the farmer were m
Boston, and no trace of runaway Norine had been found.

iij : "■

i i

CHAPTER IX.

'MRS. LAURENCE.

Bourdon.

[T was eleven o'clock on the Wednesday morn-
ing following that eventful Monday night. In
an upper room, a private parlor of a Boston
hotel, seated in an easy chair, was Miss Norine
They had arrived this morning, and in the hotel
book their names were registered " Mr. and Mrs. John
Laurence."

At the present moment Miss Bourdon is alone. Her dark
face is very pale, her eyelids are red from much weeping ;
at intervals, as she sits and thinks, the lovely dark eyes
fill, the childlike lips quiver, and a sob catches her breath.
And yet she is not really very unhappy. Is she not with
Laurence ? Before another hour passes will she not be his
wife ? and what is the love of aunt or uncle, what the friend-
ship of a thousand Mr. Gilberts compared to the bliss of
that ? Truth to tell, the first shock of consternation at
her enforced flight over, Norine had found forgiveness easy.
She was only seventeen, remember ; she was intensely ro-
mantic ; she loved him with her whole, passionate heart
— a heart capable, even at seventeen, of loving, and — who
was to tell ? — perhaps of hating very strongly. And most
girls like bold lovers. It was a very daring coup de main,
this carrying her off, quite like something in a last century
novel, and with his tender, persuasive voice in her ear,

*<MRS. LAURENCE."

103

his protecting arm about her waist, with her own heart
pieaLg for him, Norine was driven away a not unw.lUng

''"'i'hlve arranged everything, my pet," said Mr. Thorn-
dyke • "rooms are engaged at the W— House, Boston, and
a dericalf riend of mine is to perform the ceremony very
^uch on the quiet. You don't object to being marned m
rhote7parlor, and by a Congregationalist mm.ster do
'uT By-and-by we'll take a run over the border and have
\L thing done over again in the sacred precmcts of Notre
DmedfMontreal.ifyoulike. ^^^ ^l^l^^'^^^^^^
must be sub rasa, my darling. The old boy -I mean my
Tespcted uncle Darcy-wiU cut up deuced rough, you
kno^ when he first comes to hear it He expects me to
marT; his pet, Nellie Holmes; so does Miss Nelhe, .1
Te truth must be told. So I would have done, too, .f f ate
IndaUken limb had not thrown me upon r- protec-
'ron And from that hour, my darling, my fate was sealed.
Of all the eyes, blue, black, brown, green, or gray, for kU -
f4 wholeslle slaught., c^mend m^ . tho. ^of a^f^

Stlrnt^^-^^-h^^^^^
I've engaged, over Chelsea way. down by the sad sea
wives 't^Lpend the honeymoon. And there for one bless-
Id mJnth we'll forget all the uncles and -ts,^^^^^^^^^^^^^
yers and heiresses in Christendom, and 'do love among
Ihe roses. You forgive me for carrymg you off m this
right knightly fashion-you do, don't you, Norry? Ah ! I
know you do ; but look up, my own love, and tell me so.
' and so make my happiness complete."

With a little fluttering sigh Norine obeyed, clmging
close to her hero's side in the darkness.

■ t! ai'i

104

NO RISE'S REVENGE.

" But you'll let me write home when we are married, and
tell them, Laurence, won't you ? They have been so good
to me, always — always, and they will think, oh yes, they
will think such dreadful things of me now."

" They will forget and forgive, never fear, Norry. People
always come round when they can't do anything else. Of
course you shall write to them — of course you shall do for
the future precisely as you wish, and I will only exist to ful-
fil your commands. But not just yet, you know ; not until
uncle Darcy relents and forgives. Because, my pet, I
haven't a dollar in the world of my own, except my allow-
ance from him, and I can't afford to offend him. But I'll
soon bring him round. Let him see you once, and all
will be forgiven. The man doesn't exist, old or young,
who could resist you. "

All this was very delightful, of course ; and in such rose-
colored, romance-flavored talk, the time sped ftn. Norine's
spirits rose with the brisk drive in the teeth of the night
gale. She was with Laurence ; she was never to part
from him more. All life held of rapture was said for her
in that. It was rather a drawback, certainly, that she
might not tell them at home of her felicity at once, but she
would just drop them a line from Boston to say she was
safe and well and happy, that they were not to worry about
her, and to beg Mr. Gilbert's — poor Mr. Gilbert's — ^pardon.
That much Laurence would consent to, of course. To be
married in a hotel parlor, by a Congregational ist Minister
was also ever so little of a drawback, to a little French
Canadienne, but one must not expect unalloyed earthly
happiness. And had not Laurence said they would go
one day to Montreal — dear old Montreal, and be re-
married in Notre Dame ? Then she would visit Aunt

"MRS. LAURENCE."

105

H
^

Hetty and Uncle Reuben ; then she would go to New
York and plead with Mr. Darcy for her beloved husband,
and Mr. Darcy would grant that pardon, and then—
what then ? Well, nothing then, of course, only live and|
be happy forever after 1 The sloop, in which Mr. Thorn-
dyke had engaged passage, was ready to sail. Norine was
consigned to the care of the captain's wife for the trip,
and was soon so utterly prostrate with mal tie mer, that love
and Laurence were forgott-^n.

To tell the truth, Mr. Thorndyke was miserably sea-sick
himself ; but this mode of travel had been forced upon him
by the exigencies of the case. The pursuers must be
thrown off the track. Gilbert would surely suspect and
follow ; if they went by rail, he would inevitably hunt them
down. ' So, of necessity, he chose the sloop, and with a
head wind and driving rain, spent Monday night, Tuesday,
and Tuesday night sea-sick and prostrate. Wednesday
morning came and they were in Boston. It came in pour-
ing rain and leaden sky, and the bleak easterly wind your
Bostonian dreads. They drove to the hotel. Miss Bourdon
dreadfully ashamed of her old waterproof, and ascended
to their private parlor. Mr. Thorndyke ordered breakfast
to be served here at once, and both partook of that repast
when it came, with very excellent appetites. Mr. Thorn,
dyke had had some more brandy, which tonic, doubt-
less, stimulated his appetite, his resolution and his love
together. Then he put on his hat, looked at his watch,
and departed on matrimonial business intent.

" I'll be off for the Reverend Jonas Maggs (his name's the
Reverend Jonas Maggs) at once, and make you Mrs.
Thorndyke before you eat your dinner. And I'll order
a few things here— a hat, for instance, a sacque, and a few

^H<'^

106

NORINE'S REVENGE.

dresses and gloves. I'll be back in an hour or two at the
longest. You won't be lonely, my darling, while I'm gone?"
She had answered him "no," and with a very affec-
tionate embrace, he had left her. But in his absence she
did grow lonely, did grow saddened and remorseful. What
must they think of her at home ? They had discovered her
flight by this time— all was consternation and terror. They
would wonder what had happened— why she had gone,
whither, and if alone. -sAunt Hetty she could see weeping
and refusing to be comfd^ted ; her uncles shocked, speech-
less, terrified; Mr. Gilbert pale, stern, and perhaps
guessing the truth. He had loved her, very truly and
dearly, and Thursday next was to have been his wedding
day. Oh ! what a cruel, wicked, heartless, ungrateful
wretch she must be now in his sight ! How he would scorn
and despise her — how they all would ! Would they ever
forgive her for this shameful flight— this cold-bjooded
treachery ? One day she might, perhaps, come face to face
with Mr. Gilbert, in the busy whirl of New York life, and
how would she ever dare to meet his angry, scornful eye ?
As Laurence's wife, the deepest bliss life could give would
be hers, but through all her life long, even in the midst of
this bliss, the trail of the serpent would be over all still, in her
undying shame and remorse. The ready tears of seventeen
fell, until all at once Miss Bourdon recollected that Lau-
rence would be here presently with the clergyman, and
that it would never do to be married with red eyes and a
swollen nose. She sprang up, bathed her face, brushed
out her long silky black hair, and by the time she had
made herself pretty and bright, Mr. Thorndyke's light step
came flying up the stairs, three at a bound, and Mr.
Thorndyke's impetuous tap was at the door.

"MRS. LAURENCE:'

107

" Come in," she said, her heart beginning to flutter, and
the bridegroom came in, handsome, smiling, eager, follow-
ed by a seedy-looking personage in rusty black, and the
professional " choker " of ding-y white.

" Out of patience, Nonwe ? But I could not come an
instant sooner, and i; is only half-past eleven. My friend,
the Reverend Jonas Maggs, Miss Bourdon, soon to be
transformed into Mrs. Laurence Thorndyke; and the
sooner the better. Here's the ring, Norry, bought hap-
hazard—let's see if it fits the dear little finger. So ! as
if you were born in it. Now then, Mr. Maggs, pity the
impatience of ardent love, and get on with the cere-
mony. "

High spirits these for a runaway match. The handsome
face was flushed, the blue eyes feverishly bright, a strong
odor of cigars and cognac pervaded Mr. Thorndyke's
broadcloth. The Rev. Mr. Maggs coughed, a meek,
clerical cough, looked furtively and admiringly at. the
bride, drew forth a book, and " stood at ease." Mr.
Thorndyke drew Miss Bourdon up before him, the ring
between his fingers, an odd sort of smile on his lips. For
Norine, she had grown ashen white; now that the supreme
moment had come, she was trembling from head to foot
Even to her inexperience there was something bizarre,
something wrong and abnormal, in this outre sort of
marriage. A bride without bridal dress, veil or blossoins ;
without bridesmaid, or friend ; a bridegroom splashed with
mud and rain drops, without groomsman or witness. And
the Rev. Mr. Maggs, for a holy man, was as dirty and
disreputable a specimen of the class as one might wish to
see. She stood by his side, pale to the lips, afraid of— she
knew not what As in a dream she heard Mr. Maggs

1.. ■ ,

Ifi

108 NORINE'S REVENGE.

gabbling over some sort of ceremony. As in a dream she
saw the ring slipped over her finger. As in a dream she
saw him shut up his book with a slap, and heard him pro-
nounce them man and wife. Then for the first time she lifted
her eyes, full, clear, questioning to the face of Laurence
Thorndyke. For the first time, perhaps, m his own
experience of himself he shrank before their crystal clear,
childishly innocent gaze. His were still full of that
intolerable light of triumph-that exultant smile yet lin-

eered on his lips. , , • ^

HedrewMaggs aside and slipped a cnsp greenback, into

his hand. Then the reverend gentleman resumed his hat,

bowed to the bride, wished her joy with an unctuous smile,

and slowly took himself out of the room. . . .. „

" My dear little wife 1 " Laurence Thorndyke said. You
have made me the happiest man in America to-day.
For the next four weeks, in our pretty Chelsea cottage, it
shall be ou r business to forget that the world holds another
human ere tr.re than our two selves. "

" And I've ^ti\Ayou off, I think, my friend Gilbert, with
compound interest." Mr. Thorndyke added, mentally, as
a rider to that prettj' little speech. " V m not over and
above rich this morning, but I'd give a cool hundred to

see your face. " , ^.„^ .. j

And so, while not half a mile off, Richard Gilbert and
Reuben Kent were searching, with the aid of a detective
officer, every hotel in Boston, a hack was rattling over the
stones to Chelsea Ferry, bearing to their bridal home
Laurence Thorndyke and Norine.

CHAPTER X.

"A fool's paradise."

IHE little house was like a picture — like a doll's
house, the whitest, the brightest, the trimmest,
the tiniest of all tiny houses. It nestled down
in a sheltered nook, with its back set com-
fortably against a hill. Its pretty little garden full of pret-
ty little flowers, climbing roses and scarlet-runners all
over its inviting porch, and away beyond, Chelsea beach,
like a strip of silver ribbon, and the dimpling sea, smiling
back the sunshine. No other house within a quarter of a
mile, the dim, dark woodland rising up in the background,
the big, bustling, work-a-day world shut out on every
hand. Could Laurence Thorndyke, if he had searched
for half a lifetime, have found a more charming, more
secluded spot in which to dream out Love's Young Dream?
And the dream was pretty nearly dreamed out now.
For the fourth week had come, and the days of the
honey month were drawing to a close. If the truth must
be told, the honey had cloyed upon Mr. Thorndyke's
fastidious palate before the end of the second week, had
grown distasteful ere the end of the third— had palled
entirely at the beginning of the fourth. In other words,
the honey-moon business and doing " love in a cottage,"
buried alive here, was fast becoming a most horrible bore.

NO NINE'S REVENGE.

"If I had been very much in love with the girl"
thought Mr. Thorndylie, communing with his own heart,
" it might have been different — even then, though, let it
have been ever so severe a case of spoons, I don't think
I could have stood another week of this deadly lively sort
of thing. But I wasn't very much in love. If you know
yourself, Laurence Thorndyke, and you flatter yourself
you do, it isn't in you to get up a grande passion for any
body. There was Lucy West, there is Helen Holmes,
"here is Norine Bourdon. I don't believe you ever had
more than a passing fancy for any of them, and your motto
ever has been • lightly won lightly lost.' "

He was lying upon a sofa, stretched at full length, his
hands clasped behind his head, a cloud of cigar smoke
half-vailing his handsome, lazy, bored face, his eyes fixed
dreamily upon the sparkling sea. Down on the strip of
tawny sand he could see Norine, looking like a Dresden
china shepherdess in her white looped-up dress, some blue
drapery caught about her, a jaunty sailor hat on her
crushed dark curls, and a cluster of pink roses in her belt.
" She's very pretty, and all that," pursued this youthful
philosopher and cynic, looking at her with dispassionate
eyes, "but is the game worth the candle ? Three weeks and
two days, and I'm sick and tired to death of this place, and

alas ! my pretty Norry— of you I ' Men were deceivers

ever.' I suppose it was much the same in old Shakspeare's
time as it is now. It is all very well to pay off Gilbert, and
wipe out the old scores, but it is not at all very well to be
disinherited by old Darcy. If it comes to his ears it's all
up with my chance of the inheritance, and my marriage
with Helen. . And, upon my word, I shouldn't like to lose
Helen. She's good-looking, she's good style, she can talk

Lii'l

"A FOOL'S PARADISE,"

III

on any subject under Heaven, and she's twenty thousand
df)llars down on her wedding-chiy. Yes, it will never do
to throw up my chances there, but how to drop quietly out
of this— that's the rub. There'll be the dickens to pay
with Norinc, and sometimes I've thought of late, gentle as
she is, much as she loves me — and she does love me, poor
little soul — that she's not one of the milk-and-water sort to
sit down in a corner and break her heart quietly. I wish
—I wish— I wish I had left her in peace at Kent Farm I "
She was beckoning to him gaily at that moment. He
shook off his disagreeable meditation, put his long limbs
down off the sofa, took his straw hat, and sauntered forth
to join her.

The little house— Sea View Cottage, its romantic mis-
tress had named it, was owned by the two Miss Waddles.
The two Miss Waddles were two old maids. Miss Waddle,
the elder, taught school in Chelsea. Miss Waddle, the
younger, was literary, and wrote sensation stories for the
weekly papers, poor thing. In addition, they eked out their
income by taking a couple of summer boarders, for people
as a rule don't become millionaires teaching school or
writing for the papers. Miss V/addle, the younger, immersed
in ink and romance, looked after the young man with eyes
of keen professional interest.

" How grumpy he looks," thought Miss Waddle; " how
radiant she looks. He's tired to death of it all already ;
she's more and more in love with him every day. The first
week he was all devotion, the second week the thermometer
fell ten degrees, the third week he took to going to Boston
and coming home in the small hours, smelling of smoke
and liquor, this fourth he yawns in her face from
morning until night. And this is what fools call the

113

NORINE'S REVENGE.

honey-moon. Moonshine enough, so far as I can see, but
precious little honey. "

Miss Waddle stabbed her pen down in the inkstand,
took a deep and vicious dip, and plunged wildly into
literature once more. Mr. 'I'horndyke, listlessly, wearily
and unutterably bored, joined the idol of his existence.

In the Chelsea cottage they were known as " Mr. and
Mrs. Laurence." For Norine, she was radiantly happy-
no weariness, no boredom for her. The honey grew sweeter
■ to her taste every day ; but then women »s a rule have a
depraved taste for unwholesome sweetmeats ; the days Mr.
Thorndyke found so long, so vapid, so dreary, were bright,
brief dreams of bliss to her. She had written her short
explanatory note home during the first week, and had
given it to Laurence to post. Laurence took it, glad of an
excuse over to Boston, and on the ferry-boat tore it mto
fifty minute fragments and cast them to the four wiyds of
Heaven. Norine had written a second time, and a third.
Her piteous little letters met the same fate. That was
one drawback to her perfect Paradise-there was a second,
Laurence's growing weariness of it all.

" If he should become tired of me ; if he should repent
his hasty marriage ; if he should cease to love me, what
would become of me ?" she thought, clasping her hands
in an agony. " Oh, mon Dieu 1 let me die sooner than
that. I know I am far beneath him— such lovely, accom-
plished ladies as my darling might have married— but
ah, not one of them all could ever love him better than poor

Norine ! "

She hid her fears ; the tears she shed over their silence
and unforgiveness at home were tears shed in solitude and
darkness, where they might not offend or reproach him.

"A FOOVS PARADISE."

She tried every simple little art to be beautiful and attractive
in his sight. Her smiling face was the last thing he saw,
let him quit her ever so often — her smiling face looked
brightly and sweetly up at him let those absences be ever
so prolonged. And they were growing more frequent and
more prolonged every day. He took her nowhere — his
own evenings, without exception now, were spent in lioston,
the smallest of the small hours his universal hours for
coming home. And not always too steady of foot or too
fluent of speech at these comings, for this captivating
young man was fonder of the rattle of the dice-box, the
shuffling of the pack, and the " passing of the rosy " than
was at all good for him.

"Laurence," Norine's bright voice called, "you know
everything. Come and tell me what is this botanical
specimen I have found growing here in the cleft of the
rocks."

She held up a spray of blue blossom. Laurence looked
at it languidly.

" I know everything, I admit, but I don't know that.
If you had married old Gilbert now, my darling, your thirst
for information might have been quenched. There isn't
anything, from the laws of the nations down to the name of
every weed that grows, he hasn't at his learned legal
finger ends. Oh, Lord, Norry, what a long day this has
been — fifty-eight hours if one."

He casts himself on the sands at her feet, pulls his
hat over his eyes, and yawns long and loudly. Her
happy face clouds, the dark, lovely eyes look at him
wistfully.

" It is dull for you, dear," she says, tenderly, a little tre-
mor in the soft, sweet tones ; " for me the days seem all

^^m

, , . NO NINE'S RE VENGE.

114

too short-I am so happy, I suppose." He glances up at
her, struggling feebly with a whole mouthful of gapes.

" You «r. happy, then, Norry, are you? Almost as
happy as when at home; almost as happy as if you had
Lnfed that ornament of society, Richard G.lbert, instead
of the scapegrace and outlaw, Laurence fhorndyke?

She clasped her hands, always her habit when moved.

" So happy 1" she said, under her breath ; " so perfectly,
utterly happy. How could I ever have thought of marrying
any one but^ou, Laurence-you whom I loved from the very

""^^AnT-'-he has the grace to hesitate a little-" 't wo^'d
make you very unhappy if we were forced to part, 1 suppose,

^°'part> " She starts, grows very white, and two dilated
eves turn to him. " Laurence, why do you ask me
that? Unhappy? Mon Dieu! it would kill me -just

He laughs a little, but uneasily, and shifts away from the
gaze of the large, terrified eyes.

» Kill you ? No, you're not the sort that die so easily.
Don't look so white and frightened, child ; I didn't mean
anything, at least, not anything serious ; only we have been
almost a month here and it is about time I went to pay my
respected Uncle Darcy a visit. He has taken to asking
unpleasant questions of late-where I am, what I am
doing, why I don't report myself at headquarters-meamn?
his house in New York. Norry, there's no help for it;
I'll have to take a run up to New York."

She sits down suddenly, her hand over her heart,
white as the dress she wears.

« Of course I need not stay long," Mr. Thomdyke

"A FOODS PARADISE."

pursues, his hat still over his eyes; "but go I must, there's
no alternative. And then, perhaps, if I get a chance, I
can break it to him gently — about you, you know. I hate
the thought of leaving you, and all that— nobody more ;
but still, as I've told you, I'm absolutely depending upon
him ; the exchequer is running low and must be replenished.
Conjugal love is a capital thing, but a fellow can't live on
it. Love may con t and love may go, but board goes on
forever. You'll stay here with the two Waddles, do fancy
work, read novels, and take walks, and you'll never find
the time slipping by until I am back. You don't mind, do
you, Norine ? "

" How long will you be gone ? " she asks, in an odd,
constrained sort of voice.

" Well, two or three weeks, perhaps. I shall have busi-
ness to attend to, and — and all that. But I'll be back at
the earliest possible moment, be sure of that."

She does not speak. She stands looking, with that
white change in her face, over the sunny sea.

" Come, Norine ! " he exclaims, impatiently, " you're
not going to be a baby, I hope. If you love me, as you
say you do—" She turns and looks at him, and he
alters the phrase suddenly, with an uneasy laugh. " Well,
since you love me so well, Norry, you must try and have a
litde common sense. Common sense and pretty girls are
incompatible, I know ; but really, my dear child, you can't
expect that our whole lives are to be spent billing and coo-
ing here. It would be very delicious, no doubt " — a great
yawn stifles his words for an instant — " but — ^by Jove !
who':, this ? "

He raises himself on his elbow, pushes back his hat, and
stared hard at an advancing figure. Norine follows his

ii6

NORINEPS REVENGE.

glance, and sees, stepping rapidly over the sand, the small,
slim figure of a man.

•' The— devil !" says Laurence Thorndyke.

He springs to his feet, and stands waiting. The man
advances, comes near, lifts his hat to the lady, and looks
with a calm glance of recognition at the gentleman. He is a
pale, thin, sombre little man, not too well dressed, with keen,
small, light blue eyes, and thin, decisive, beardless lips.

" Good-day, Mr. Thorndyke," he says, quietly.

" Liston— it is Liston 1" exclaims Mr. Thorndyke, a red,
angry flush mounting to his face. " At your usual inso-
lent tricks, I see— dogging me ! May I ask—"

"How I have found you out?" Mr. Liston interrupts,
in the same calm, quiet voice. " I knew you were here
three weeks ago, Mr. Thorndyke. I saw Maggs— the
Reverend Jonas Maggs — in Boston."

He lifts his light, keen eyes for one second to Laurence
Thorndyke's, then drops them to the sands. The red
flush deepens on the young man's blonde face, his blue
eyes flash steely fire.

" By Heaven, you have ! " he exclaims, in as uppressed
voice. " Has the drunken fool — "

Liston interrupts again :

" I beg your pardon, Mr. Laurence, but if you will step
aside with me, I would like to say a few words to you.
Meantime, here are two letters— one from your uncle, the

other—"

" H'm ! All right Liston I " Thorndyke says, hastily, and
with a warning glance. " My uncle has sent you to hunt
me up as usual, I suppose."

" As usual, Mr. Laurence. He commands your imme-
diate presence in New York."

"A FOOLS PARADISE."

Again the color mounts to the young man's face, again
his eyes flash angry fre.

" Do you mean to say, Liston, that you or that d

snivelling hypocrite, Maggs — "

" Mr. Thorndyke," says Mr. Listen, interrupting for the
third time, and raising his voice slightly, " I have a word
to say to you in private— if the young lady will excuse

you."

He bows in a sidelong sort of way to Norine, and watch-
es her furtively beneath his drooping eyelids. She is
standing very still, her eyes on one of the letters—a
square, perfumed, rose-colored letter superscribed in a lady's
delicate tracery, and bearing the monogram " H. H."
Thorndyke thrusts both abruptly into his pocket, and
draws her aside.

"Go back to the house, Norine," he says hastily. "I
must hear what this fellow has to say. He's secretary-
confidential clerk, valet, factotum generally, to my uncle.
And I wish the devil had him before he ever found me
out here I "

She obeys passively, very pale, still.

«« That snivelling hypocrite, Maggs ! " she is repeat-
ing inwardly. " What a dreadful way to speak of a clergy-
man I"

Mr. Thorndyke rejoins Mr. Liston, a scowl on his face,

his brows lowering and angry.

« Well ? " he demands, savagely.

" Well," the new-comer's quiet voice repeats, " don't lose
you temper, Mr. Laurence — I haven't done anything.
Your uncle told me to hunt you up, and I have hunted
you up — that is all."

" When did he tell you, confound him ? "

ii8

NORINEPS REVENGE.

! i

l!
i'

" One week ago, Mr, Laurence,"

" A week ago } I thought you said — "

" That I met Maggs three weeks ago ? So I did. That he
was beastly drunk ? So he was. That he told me all ? So
he did. That I have kept my eyes upon you, off and on,
ever since ? So I have. Mr, Laurence, Mr. Laurence, I
wonder you're not afraid."

A suppressed oath — no other reply from Mr, Laurence.
He gnaws his mustache, and digs vicious holes with his
boots in the soft sand,

"You're a bold card, Mr, Laurence," pursues Mr, Liston's
monotonous voice. " You've played a good many daring
games in your life, but this last daring game I think, has
put the topper on the lot, I fancied mock parsons, sham
marriages, and carrying off young ladies by night, went
out of fashion with Gretna Green and Mrs, Radcliffe's
romances. If ever Mr. Darcy hears of it, the sooner you
take a rope and hang yourself, the better."

Another smothered imprecation of rage and impatience
from Mr. Thorndyke, " If I only had Maggs here," he
says, clenching his fist

" You would punch his head for him— very likely.
But I don't know that even that would do much good.
He's got the jim-jams to-day, poor brute, the worst kind.
For you, Mr, Laurence — how long before this play of yours
is played out ? "

" I'm going to New York to-morrow," growls Mr. Laurence
Thorndyke. " I was just telling her so as you hove in sight. "

" Ah 1 you were just telling her so — the play is played
out, then. May I ask, Mr. Laurence, though it is none of
my business, how the poor thing takes it ? "

" No, you mayn't ask," replies Mr, Laurence, with ferocity,

"A FOOL'S PARADISE."

119

" as you say it's none of your business. Liston ! look here,
you're not going to turn State's evidence, are you — honor
bright ? You are not going to tell the old man."

His angry voice drops to a pleading cadence. Mr. Lis-
ton's shifty light eyes look up at him for a moment.

" Do I ever tell Mr. Laurence ? It is late in the day to
ask such a question as that.

" So it is. You're not half a bad fellow, old boy, and
have got me out of no end of scrapes. Get me out of
this and I'll never forget it — that I swear. One of these
days you -shall have your reward in hard cash — that I
promise you."

" When you marry Miss Holmes ? It's a bargain, Mr.
Laurence— I'll try and earn my reward. What is it you
want me to do ? "

" I'm going to New York to-morrow," Thorndyke says,
hurriedly. " I must invent some excuse for the governor,
and what I say you are to swear to. And when peace is
proclaimed you must come back and tell her. I can't do
it myself — by George, I can't."
" Is that all ? " asked Mr. Liston.

" You'll look after her — poor little soul 1 and, if she
wishes it, take her to her friends. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry —
for her sake and for my own. But it's rather late for all
that. Liston, is Richard Gilbert in town ? "

"He is in town. He has been to see your uncle.
He has been speaking of this girl. My wordl Mr.
Laurence, you'll have to do some hard swearing to prove
an alibi this time."

" Curse the luck ! Tell me what Darcy said to you,
Liston, word for word."

"Mr. Darcy said this: 'Liston, go and find young

IZF

i!^Si»?Slfe3SS

i2e

NORINE'S REVENGE.

Thorndyke (he never calls you young Thorndyke except
when he's very far gone in anger, indeed), and fetch him
to me. And hark'ee, fellow I no lying from you or him.
If what I hear of him be true, I'll never look upon his
false, cowardly face again, living or dead.' He was in one
of his white rages, when the less said the better. That was
a week ago, I had known all about you for two weeks be-
fore. I bowed, kept my own counsel, and — here I am."

" You're a trump, Liston I And he gave you this letter ? "

" He gave me that letter. You'll find it considerably
shorter than sweet. The other came from Miss Holmes,
a few days ago— he sent that too."

" She doesn't know—"

" Not likely. She will though, if the old man finds
out, and then you're cake's dough with a vengeance. How
do you suppose the lltde one (she's very pretty, Mr.
Laurence — you always had good taste), how do you sup-
pose she will take it ? "

Mr. Thorndyke's reply was a groan.

" For Heaven's sake don't ask me, Liston I It's a horri-
ble business. I must have been mad."

" Of course — ^madlv in love."

" Nothing of the sort — not in love at all. It was pure
spite — I give you my word — not a spark of real love in the
matter, except what was on her side. Gilbert was going
to marry her, you know."

" I know."

" And I hate him as I hate the —

" Prince of evil ! I know that, too."

"You know everything that's my opinion. What a
detective was lost in you, old boy. Perhaps you know
why I hate him ? "

" A FOOL'S PARADISE."

121

" He has blocked one or two little games of yours.
And he ' peached ' in that affair of Lucy West."

" Liston I what an infernal scoundrel you must think
me 1 When you recall Lucy West, I wonder you don't hate
me tenfold more than I hate Gilbert."

" I do think you an infernal scoundrel," replies Mr.
Liston, coolly. " As for hating — well I'm one of the for-
giving sort, you know. Besides, there's nothing made by
turning informer, and there is something to be made, you
say, by keeping mum. Now suppose you go back to the
house, and her, she's pining for you, no doubt, and tell
her you're off to-morrow. I'll call for you with a light
wagon about noon. Until then good-day to you."

Thorndyke seized his hand and shook it.

" I don't know how to thank you, Liston ! You're the
prince of good fellows. And I haven't deserved it-^I
know that." ;;3 ; h-.i y_

He strode away. If he could only have seen the look
'' the prince of good fellows " cast after him 1

" ' You don't know how to thank me,' " he thought,
with sneering scorn. " You fool I You blind, conceited,
besotted fool I ' When I recall Lucy West you wonder I
don't hate you I ' Was there ever a time, my perfumed
coxcomb, when I did not hate you ? And you'll reward me,
will you ? Yes, I swear you shall, but not in that way.
Poor little girl 1 how young she is, how pretty, and how in-
nocent. She has had her fool's paradise for three weeks
—it ends to-day." -

MMMf

^fK

CHAPTER XI.

GONE.

AURENCE THORNDYKE strode rapidly
back OTcr the sands to where Norine stood.
She had not gone into the house, she was
leaning against a green mound, her hands
hanging listlessly before her, the white, startled change on
her face still. Laurence was going away— in an aimless
sort of manner she kept repeating these words over anil
over, Laurence was going away I

" I've made a devil of a mess of it," thought Mr. Thorn-
dyke, gnawing his mustache with gloomy ferocity. " What
an unmitigated ass I have been in this business ! Liston's
right — a mock marriage is no joke. I can make my es-
cape from her now, but the truth's got to be told, and that
soon. And what is to hinder her taking her revenge and
blowing me sky-high, as I deserve ? One whisper of this
affair, and Darcy disinherits me, Helen jilts me, and then
— ^good Heaven above ! what a fool I have been."

Yes, Mr. Thorndyke had been a fool, and was repenting
in sackcloth and ashes. To gratify a passing fancy for a
pretty face may be a very pleasing thing — to take revenge
upon a man who has interfered with one's little plans, may
also be a pleasing thing, but to cut off one's own nose
to spite one's own face, i-^ something one is apt to regret
afterwards. It was Mr. Thorndyke's case. He had taken
Richard Gilbert's bride from him at the very altar, as one

GONE.

123

may sny, and he had gloated over his vengeance, but what
was to hinder Norine Hourdon from rising, strong in her
wrongs and betrayal, and ruining him for life ? She was
the gentlest, the most yielding of human beings now, and
she loved him ; but is it not those whom we have once
loved best, we learn afterwards to hate most bitterly ? He
had cruelly, shamefully wronged and deceived her — what
right had he to look for mercy in return ? As he had sown,
so must he reap.

She scarcely turned at his approach. How pale she was,
and the large dark eyes she lifted were full of a child's
startled terror.

" Norine," he abruptly began, " there is no help for it —
I must go to New York to-morrow."

Her lips trembled a little.

"To-morrow," she repeated, under her breath — "so
soon I "

" Rather short notice, I admit, but then you see it — it isn't
for a lifetime. All husbands and wives part once in a while
and survive it. Come, Norine," with irritated impatience,
" don't wear that woe-begone face I I'm not to blame, I
can't help it. You don't srppose I want to leave you. But
here's Liston — my uncle's man. You heard him yourself.
You saw the letter commanding my return."

" The letter," she repeated, looking at him ; " there were
two 1"

" Ah — ^yes — two, so there were. But the other was
merely a note from a friend. I leave at noon to-morrow,
so see that my valise is packed, and everything all right,
that's a good child. And do try to get rid of that white,
reproachful face, unless you want it to haunt me like the
face of a ghost."

-^-'M-..

{ ^iiMj>^.kwiife>yi»«b>M.>#«&^vu.'j^.fe-^gife~t.<y^^

-areOf^im^^S^!^'

124

NORixi-ys Ri:rr:xGr..

He spoke with irritated petulance — at war with her, with
himself, and his smoulderiiifi; ill temper l)reakiiig forth. It
was the first time he had ever spoken sharply to her. A
faint Hush rose to her checks. She clasped both hands
nround his arm and looked up in his moody, discontented
face with piteous imploring eyes.

" Don't be vexed, Laurence ; I don't mean to reproach
you, indeed, and I know you cannot help it. Only, dear, I
1 JVC you so much, and — and it is our first parting, and I
!iave been so happy here — so happy here — "

For a minute her voice broke, and she laid her face
against his shoulder.

Mr. Thorndyke smothered a suppressed groan.

"O Jupiter! here it is I Tears, and scenes and hys-
terics. I knew how it would be, they all will do it,
every chance. Norine I" — aloud and still impatient — " for
pity's sake, don't cry — it's something I can't stand. Here !
I'll throw my uncle, his fortune and favor, and all the hopes
and ambitions of my life to the winds, and stay here, and
bill and coo, all the rest of my life. If I can't go in peace I
won't go at all."

She lifted her head as if he had struck her. Something
in his tone, in his words, in his face, dried her tears effect-
ually, iit once and forever.

" I beg your pardon, Laurence," she said, suddenly, in an
altered voice. "I won't cry any more. Shall I go and
pack your valise now or leave it until to-morrow morning ? "

He glanced at her uneasily. The dark, soft eyes looked
far away seaward, the delicate lips had ceased to tremble,
the small handsome face had grown resvylulely still. What
manner of woman, he wondered, was this girl going to
make?

coxii.

125

" Norinc ! You arc not ofTciulod ? "

"OfTcndcd — with you, Laurence? No, that is not pes-
sible."

" You love mc so much, Norine ? "

" I have given you proof whether I love you or no. I
am your wife."

" Yes, of course, of course I " hastily ; " but Norine — see
here — suppose in the future I did some great wrong — de-
serted you for instance — no, no I don't look at me like that
— this is only a suppositious case, you know 1 "

The large dark eyes were fixed full upon him. He
laughed in rather a Hurried way, and his own shifted and
fell.

" Go on," she said.
( " Suppose I deserted you, and it was in your power to take
revenge, you would hate me and take it — would you not ?"

Into the dark, tender eyes there leaped a light — into
the youthful, gentle face there came a glow — around the
soft-cut, child-like mouth there settled an expression entire-
ly new to Laurence Thorndyke. One little hand clenched
unconsciously — she caught her breath for a second, hard.

" Yes," she said, " I would ! "

The answer staggered him — literally and tnily stag-
gered him. He had not expected it — he had looked for
some outbreak of love, some tender, passionate protest.

" Norine ! " he cried, " you would ! Do you know what
you are saying? You would hate me, and ruin me for life,
if you could ? "

She looked at him full.

" If you deserted me, would you not hate me ? Would I
not be ruined for life ? And does not the Book of books
say : " An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for

^^^

120

A'CA'/AVi'.V AVi VENGE.

a life. Yos, Laurence— if I did not go m.id and die, I
would hale you more then 1 love you now, and be revenged
if I could I "

Then there was a silence. He had grown pale as her-
self, and stood quite motionless looking at the sea. He
knew what he had to expect at last.

Norine was still clinging to his arm. He disengaged it
abruptly, and without a word or look, walked away from
her. A moment she stood — then two little hands clasped
the arm once more, a pleading voice spoke, and the sweet,
tender face of Norine looked imploringly up at him.

" Laurence — dearest Laurence I I have angered you
again. But you asked me a question and I had to answer
it. I'orgive me."

He turned away from her resolutely.
" There is no forgiveness needed, Norine. I admire
your truthful and plain-spoken spirit. Only you see I
thought Norine Bourdon a loving, gentle, forgiving little
soul, who care J for me so much that she was ready to for-
give me seventy-times-seven, and I find, according to her
own showing, she is a strong-minded woman, ready to
wreak vengeance for the first wrong done her — ready for
love or hatred at a moment's notice. It is well you told me
— it is always best to understand one another. No, we
won't have any tender scenes, if you please, Mrs. Laurence
— I have found out exactly what they are worth." He
pulled out his watch. " I have business over in Boston,
and as it is growing late I will be off at once. If I am very
late — as is likely — I must beg you will not sit up for me.
Good-afternoon."

He lifted his hat ceremoniously, as to an indifferent ac-
quaintance, and walked deliberately away.

*« •UWVM^^IiAl'Ul'M'

cchv/-:.

127

She stood slock still where he had left her, and watched
the tall, active figure out of sight. Then she sat down,
feeling suddenly weak and faint, and lay l)ack against the
green mound. For a moment sea, and sky, and sands
swam before her in a hot mist, and then the.'aini less pass-
ed away, leaving her tearless and trembling.

What did he mean?

He had talked of deserting her.> Did he mean it? A
liand of ice seemed to clutch her heart at the thought. No,
no, no I he had only been trying her — proving what her
love was worth. And she had answered him like that
she would hate him and be revenged. He had called her
a " strong-minded woman," — a term of bitter reproach —
and no wonder. No wonder he was angry, hurt, outraged.
Why had she said such a horrible thing ? She hardly
knew herself — the words seemed to have come to her in-
stinctively. Were they true ? She did know that either
— ^just now she knew nothing but that Laurence had left
her in anger for the first time, that he would probably not
return until to-morrow morning, the fateful to-morrow
that was to take him from her for — how long ?

She broke down then, and laying her face against the
soft, cool grass, gave way to a storm of impassioned weep-
ing, that shook her like a reed. " The strong-minded wo-
man " was gone, and only a child that had done wrong and is
sorry — a weak girl weeping for her lost lover, remained.

The afternoon waned, the twilight fell, the wind arose
chilly from the sea. And pallid as a spirit, shivering in
the damp air, silent and spiritless, the younger Miss Wad-
dle found her when she came to call her in to supper.

She drank her tea thirstily, but she could eat nothing.
Immediately tvfter the lonely meal, she hastened to her

128

A'OR INK'S REVEXGE.

room, and throwing a shawl around her, sat down in the
easy chair by the window to watch and wait. He had
told her not to sit up for him— it would annoy him proba-
bly to be disobeyed, but she could not go to bed, for in the
darkness and the quiet, lying do\.M, she knew how she
would toss wakefully about until she had thought herself
into a fever.

Night fell. Outside the sea spread black, away until it
melted into the blacker sky. The wind sighed fitfully,
tlie stars shone frostily bright. Inside, the little piano in
the parlor, played upon by the elder Miss Waddle, after her
day's teaching, made merry music. In the intervals, when
it was silent, the younger Miss Waddle read chapters aloud
from her latest novel. Ten, eleven struck, then the parlor
lights went out, doors were locked, and the Misses Waddle
went up stairs to their maiden slumbers.

The pale 'lUle watcher by the window sat on, hoping
against hope. He might come, and be it late or early she
must be awake and waiting, to throw herself into his
manly arms and implore his lordly pardon. She could
never sleep more until si e had sobbed out her penitence
and been forgiven. But the long, dark, dragging, lone-
ly hours wore on. One, two, three, four, and the little,
white, sad face lay against the cold glass, the dark,
mournful eyes strained themselves through the murky
gloom to catch the first glimpse of their idol. Five !
the cold gray dawn of another day crept over sea and
woodland, and worn out with watching, chilled to the bone,
the child's head fell back, the heavy eyelids swayed and
drooped, and she lay still.

So, when two hours later Mr. Laurence Thorndyke,
smelling stronger than ever of cigars and brandy, as the

, *

GONE.

129

younger Miss Waddle's disgusted nose testified, came into
the silent chamber, he found her. The pretty head, with
all its dark, rippling ringlets, lay against the back of the
chair, the small face looked deathly in its spent sleep.
She had watched and waited for him here all night. And
remembering how, over the card table and the wine bottle,
his night had been passed, utterly forgetful of her, the
first pang of real unselfish remorse this young gentleman
had ever felt, came to him then.

" Poor little heart 1 " he thought ; " poor little, pretty
Norine. I wish to Heaven I had never heard of Gilbert's
projected marriage— I wish I had never gone back to Kent
P\arm."

Five hours later, and white and tearless, Norine is cling-
ing to him in the speechless pain of parting. T<! there
some presentiment, that she herself cannot understand,
even now in her heart, that it is forever ?

" XyQn\— don't look so white and wild, Norry ? " he is say-
ing hurriedly. " I wish, I wish I need not leave you.
Little one— little Norry, whatever happens, you— you'll
try and forgive me, won't you ? Don't hate me if you can

help it."

She does not understand him— she just clings to him, as
thoujjh death were easier than to let him go.

" Time's up, Mr. Laurence I " calls out the sharp voice
of little Mr. Liston, sitting in the light wagon at the door ;
" if you linger five minutes more we'll lose our train."

" Good by, Norine — good by 1 "

Ke is glad to be called, glad to break away from the
gentle arms that would hold him there forever. He kiss-
es her hurriedly, frees himself from her clasp, and leaves her
standing stricken and speechless in the middle of the floor.

130

NORINE'S REVENGE.

"Thank Heaven that's over ! " he says, almost savagely ;
" drive like the devil, Liston ! I won't breath freely until I
am out of sight of the house."

Mr. Liston obeys.

She stands where he has left her, rigid, tearless, white,
listening to the rapid roll of the wheels over the gravel,
over the road, growing faint and fainter, and dying out far
off. Then she sinks down, and she and her lover have
parted forever.

CHAPTER XII.

THE TRUTH.

BLEAK autumnal afternoon, a gr.iy, fast-drift-
ing sky overhead, a raw wind sweeping up from
the shore, the sea itself all blurred and blotted
out in the chilly, creeping fog. At the parlor-
window of Sea View Cottage, Norine stands looking wist-
fully, wearily out. Three weeks have passed since her hus-
band left her — it is seven weeks altogether since the memor
able night of her elopement. These last three, lonely weeks
have wrought their sad, inevitable change. The small
face has grown smaller, the large dark eyes seem unnatur-
ally large for the wan face. A sad, patient light fills them.
The slight form has grown fragile, the hands that hang
loosely clasped before her are almost transparent. As she
stands here watching, waiting, she slips, unconsciously, her
wedding ring up and down her finger. So thin that fin-
ger has grown that every now and then the ring drops
loosely off altogether. Within, it is pleasant enough. A
fire burns brightly in the grate, Miss Waddle's canaries
bask in the heat, singing blithely, and the younger Miss
Waddle sits at her desk immersed as usual, fathoms deep
in ink, and romance. The inspiration of genius is evident-
ly strong upon the younger Miss Waddle this afternoon,
for her pen rushes madly along the paper, her hair is un-

n,2

NURTA'irS REVENGE.

combed and twisted in a tight knot at the back of her
head. Profound stillness reigns, the ticking of the clock,
the purring of puss on the rug, the chirping of the canaries,
tlie light fall of the cinders, the sighing of the fitful wind,
and the monotonous scrape, scrape, scrape, of the literary
lady's pen — that is all.

At last —

" There I " cries the younger Miss Waddle, drawing a
deep, intense breath of relief, " I've done with you for one
day! Let the printer's devil come when he likes, I'm
ready for him."

She nods at the blotted and scratched pile of MSS.
wipes her pen in her hair, falls b-ick in her chair, and
looks at the clock.

" Half-past five, as I'm a sinner, and the kitchen fire
not lit yet. 'Lizabeth will be home to her tea at six, as
hungry as a bear. A minute ago I was writing up the
sayings and doings of dukes and duchesses, now I must
go and kindle the kitchen stove. Such is life — with
authoresses, but a step from the sublime to the ridiculous.
Mrs. Laurence, my dear child, it's of no use your strain-
ing the eyes out of your head. Whether there's a letter for
you or not, my sister won't be here with it for the next
half hour."

Norine clasped her hands.

" Oh ! " she said, " surely, there will be a letter for me
today."

" I hope so, I'm sure. It's uncommonly odd Mr.
Laurence doesn't write, but then, as a rule, I believe men
hate letter writing. Maybe he's on his way here and
doesn't think it worth while — it will come out all right,
depend upon it. So cheer up, Mrs. Laurence, my deari

THE TRUTH.

'33

and don't wear that woful face. You've grown as thin as
a shadow during the last two weeks. You must take care
or your handsome husband will be disenchanted when he
sees that pallid countenance. Tell you what, Mrs. Laurence,
you ought to have something to do."

"Something to do?" Norine said faintly.

" Something to do, my dear — sewing, drawing, playing,
reading, writing — anything but moping about this wa} —
waiting, waiting, waiting, and getting the horrors. It
dosen't fetch him any the sooner, nor a letter from him
either, and it is just killing you by inches. What a pity
now," said the younger Miss Waddle, gathering up her
manuscript in a heap, " that you couldn't write a story.
You couldn't, I suppose ? "

" I am afraid not," Norine replied, smiling. " I am not
at all clever in any way. I only wish I could write stories
and earn money as you do."

" Yes, it's very nice and handy," said the younger Miss
Waddle, " when you're not ' respectfully declined.' /have
been 'respectfully declined ' oftener than I like to think
of. But I am going to make a hit this time, if I die for
it."

" Yes," said Norine, gazing in respectful awe at the
smeary looking pile of writing; "what do you call it ? "

" This," said the authoress, slapping her hand on the
heap, " is my first novel, to run in serial form in the Flag
of the Free. Its name is the ' Demon Dentist ; or the
Mystery of the Double Tooth ! ' What do you think of
that?"

"The Demon — what?" asked Mrs. Laurence, rather
aghast.

" * The Demon Dentist' The title is rather a striking

134

NOR/NE'S PEVENGE.

one, I think, and Sir Walter Scott says a good name is half
the battle. And, I flatter myself, the plot is as original as
the title. Lord Racer, only son of the Earl of Greenturf,
the hero of the story, steals the Lemon stone, the magnifi-
cient family diamond, and hides it — where do you think ?
Why he goes to the Demon Dentist, gets his wisdom tooth
excavated, buries it in the cavernous depths of the molar,
has it cemented up again, and there it is 1 Search is made,
but no one thinks of looking in Lord Racer's lower jaw,
of course. Wilkie Collins has written a novel about a
man who steals a diamond in his sleep, but I rather think
my idea is a step ahead of Mr. Wilkie Collins. Finally
the Demon Dentist murders Lord — oh gracious, me I
here's 'Lizabeth, and tea not ready."

Miss Waddle the younger jumped up in consternation^
scuttled the ^^ Demon Dentist,'^ headforemost, into her
desk, and made a rush for the kitchen, as Miss Waddle
the elder opened the parlor door.

Norine took a step forward, her face flushing, her eyes
kindling with eager hope, her breath coming quick. She
did not speak a word, and one glance into Miss Waddle's
pitying face answered that breathless look.

" No letter yet, Mrs. Laurence," she said very gently.
" I waited for the mail."

She did not speak a word. She sat down suddenly,
sick — sick to the very heart with the bitter sense of the
disappointment. The flush faded from her face, the light
from her eyes ; she drew a long, dry, sobbing breath, folded
her arms on the table and laid her face upon them.

"Poor little soul!" thought the elder Miss Waddle,
looking at her in silent compassion. " What brutes men
are."

THE TRUTH.

135

Miss Waddle's experience of the nobler sex was limited,
but her sentiment in the main was a correct one. It was
peculiarly correct in the present instance, for since that
morning three weeks ago, when Laurence Thomdyke had
left Sea View Cottage, not a word, not a message, not a
letter had come from him. How the lonely, longing girl,
left in the dull little house, watched and waited, and
prayed, and grew sick to the soul, as now, with disappoint-
ment, only those who have watched and waited in vain, for
the one they love best on earth, can know.

Was he sick— was he dead— v. as he faithless. Why,
why, why did he not write?

They were the two questions that never left the girl's
mind. She lost the power to sleep or eat, a restless fever
held her. She spent her days, the long, vapid, sickening
days, gazing down the road he must come, the nights
in wakeful, frightened thought. The one event of the
twenty-four dreary hours, was the coming home of the elder
Miss Waddle from Chelsea; the one hope that upheld her,
the hope that each day she would bring her a letter. All
this long, bleak day she had lived on that one feverish
hope, and now she was here, and there was none — none !

The moments wore on. She lay there prostrate, crushed,
never moving or lifting her head. Miss Waddle the elder
bent over her with tears of compassion and indignation
in her kindly, spinster eyes.

" Dear child, " she said, " don't take on like this.
Who knows what to-morrow may bring ? And if it brings
nothing, there isn't a man on earth worth breaking your
poor heart for, as you're doing. They're a set of selfish,
heartless wretches, every one— every blessed one ! " said
the elder Miss Waddle, vindictively ; " so come along and

136

A'0/n/A'E's heikxgi-:.

have a cup of tea, and don't pine yourself to death for him.
I daresay, if the truth were known, he's not pining much
for you. "

Norinc lifted her face — such a sad, pathetic, patient little
face.

" Don't, Miss Waddle," she said, " you mean well, I am
sure, but I can't bear it. He does not intend to forget or
neglect me. He is ill— I know that. He is ill, and I
don't know where he is, or how to go to him. No,
I don't wish any tea, a mouthful of food would choke me,
I think. I will go down to the beach instead. I — I would
rather be alone."

The gentle lips quivered, the gentle voice trembled
over the loyal, wifely words. Not neglectful, not faith-
less, only ill, and unable to write — she crushed every
other thought out of her heart but that. She rose, took
her hat, and quitted the room. Miss Waddle looked after
her, and shook her head dismally.

" Poor dear ! " she thought, " only ill, indeed I Mr.
Laurence, if that be his name, is a very good-looking
young man, and there, it's my opinion, the young man's
goodness begins and ends. He may not have deserted
her, but it looks uncommonly like il. Why, he was tired
of her before they were here a week."

Then Miss Waddle, the elder, went and took " tired
Nature's sweet restorer, balmy" — tea, and Mrs. Laurence,
with all hope and life crushed out of her fair young face,
went down along the sands, where so often in the first happy
days they had wandered together. Only seven weeks ago
since she had left all for him — friends, home, lover, truth
and honor — why, it seemed years to look back upon. She
felt old and worn and tired — a horrible creeping fear

THE TRUTH.

clutched her heart. Why did he not write— why did he
not come ?

She reached the little grassy hillock and sat down, too
weak and spiritless, even to walk on. Cold and gray, the
twiligiit was falling, cold and gray spread the low lying
twilight sky, cold and gray the dim sea melted into it in
the distance, cold and gray like her life. It was very
lonely, no human being besides herself was so be seen,
not even a sea bird skinuned the sullen waters. With
her hands folded in her lap, her sad, yearning eyes fixed
on the dreary sea, she sat still, thinking, thinking. Why
did he not write — why did he not come ?

Suddenly, coming as if from the cottage, a figure
appeared in view, the solitary figure of a man, moving
rapidly toward her over the sands. She looked up quickly,
uttered a faint cry of recognition and hope. As he had
come abruptly upon them ( nee before, Mr. Liston came
abruptly upon her .igain. 'i'hen it had been to bear her
darling away from her — nr w it was to bring her news of
him, she knew.

She did not rise to meet him. Her heart beat so fast
with alternate hope and fear that for an instant she turned
faint. In that instant he was beside her. He lifted his hat.

" Mrs. Laurence ? " he said, interrogatively, " they told
me at the house I should find you here. They wished to
call you in, but this is a better place for our meeting, so I
sought you out."

She made a breathless, impatient gesture.

" You have a letter for me ? " she said, hurriedly ; " he
sent you — he is well ? "

" He sent me— yes. And he is wjil — oh, yes. I have
a note for you, too, from him, but I will not show it to you

138

NORINE'S REVENGE.

just yet, if you will allow me. My dear young lady, I have
come — he has sent me on a very hard and embarrassing
errand, indeed."

Something in the man's face, in the man's tone, even
more than his words, made her look quickly up. To his
dying day, James Liston never forgot the haunted, terrified
look in those dilating, dark eyes. She laid her hand
over her fast beating heart, and spoke with a ' eflort.

" He is well, you say ? " she panted.

*' He is well, Mrs. Laurence. It were better for you ho
were dead."

" Sir ! " she cried, the light leaping to her eyes, the
flush to her face ; " how dare you 1 He is my husband —
how dare you say such a thing to me 1 "

" He is not your husband,"

The low, level, monotonous voice spoke the dreadful
words, the small, light, glimmering eyes were fixed im-
movably upon her with a look, half-contemptuous, half-com-
passionate, in their depths.

She rose slowly to her feet, and stood blankly staring at
him. Was the man mad ?

" Not my — " she paused irresolute. Should she run
away from this madman or stand her ground. " Give me
my letter 1 " she said, angrily ; " I have nothing more to
say to you I "

" Because I tell you Laurence Thorndyke is not your
husband ? My child, it is true."

His tone was solemn— his face full of compassion.
What a child she was, he was thinking ; how she loved
him. What was there about this young fellow that women
should give up all that made their lives most dear, for
his sake ?

■A

THE TRUTH.

'39

" I told you, Mrs. Liiurenco, I have been sent here on a
hard and painful errand. He sent me. ' Conscience
makes cowards of us all.' He is a coward as well as a
villain, and he had not the courage to face you himself. You
have been watching and waiting for his return, I know.
Watch and wait no longer; you will never see Laurence
Thorndyke again."

A cry broke from her lips — a cry that rang in his ears his
life long — a cry not loud, but exceedingly bitter.

" In Heaven's name, speak and tell me what is it you
mean ? "

" This : You are not a wife — Laurence Thorndyke never
married you. He deceived and betrayed you from the first ;
he has deserted you forever at the last. That is the task
he has set me. I am but a poor diplomat to break bad
news, as they call it, to any one, so I blurl '.at the truth at
once. After all, it is the same in the end. He never meant
to marry you — he never cared for you enough. He hated
Richard Gilbert — that was the beginning and end of it. He
hated Gilbert, Gilbert loved you, and was about to make
you his wife ; to revenge himself on Gilbert, he went back
to Kent Hill and carried you off. He knew you loved him,
and it would not be a difficult task. It seems easy enough
for all women to love Laurence Thorndyke."

The last words, spoken more to himself than to her,
were full of bitterness. A great stillness had fallen upon
her— her eyes were fixed on his face, her own strained and
fixed.

" Go on," she said, her teeth set hard.

" He took you away — how, you know best, and in Boston
that mockery of marriage was gone through. Miss Bourdon
the man Maggs was an actor, not a clergyman, a besotted

-:i-X.-_-r JL.T_^

140

A'OAVAvrs RrA'i:xaE.

tirunkarcl, whom fifty dollars at any time would buy,
rotten body and a iiithy soul. ' Slie is as green as the
fields she came from'; that is wiiat I'horndykesaid to Maj;;gs,
'as innocent as her native daisies. She'll never know the
dilTerence, but she's one of the sort that will love a fellow to
desperation, and all that sort of thing, and cry like a water-
spout at parting, but who won't listen to a word without
her wedding ring. Let her have her wedding ring — always
take a short cut on a journey if you can.' So you got
your wedding ring, and without license or witnesses, and by
a half-drunken actor a sham ceremony was gone through.
You were married to the scoundrel, for the sake of whose
handsome f.ace you gave up home and friends, and the love
.'•nd honor of such a man as Richard (Jilbert — one of the
best and noblest men America holds to-day! "

The hand, pressed over her heart, clutched it tighter, as

n a spasm of uncontrollable pain.

" Go on," she said again.

" There's not much to tell. He brought you here, and
in a week was bored to death and sick of it all. He was
only too glad of the chance to go, and — he will never come
back. Here is his note — read it — here is the money he
gave me, to pay your board and take you back to your home
in Maine. He thinks it is the best thing you can do."

With all the color stricken out of her face — dumb, stilh
white, tearless, and rigid, she had been standing in her
awful despair. But at these last words she came back sud-
denly as it were from the dead.

" He said t/iat .?" she asked hoarsely. " He told you to
take me b.ack there — like this ? "

" He did."

" My curse upon him — my curse follow him through life ! "

THE TRUTH.

14!

The man before her actually recoiled, Sim hid iipliftid
one arm, and in the gathering d.irkness of the night, slie
stood before him white and terrible. So, for a sec(jnd —
then she came back to herself, and tore open the note
Only half a dozen brief lines — the Irageilies of lite are
ever quickly written.

" Helieve all that Liston tells you. I have been the
greatest scoundrel on earth to you, my poor Norine. I
don't ask you to forgive me — that would not be human, I
only ask you to go and — if you can — forget.

"L. T."

No more. She looked up — out over the creeping night,
on the sea, over the lonely, white sands, and stood fixed
and mute. The letter she had looked for, longed for,
prayed for, she had got at last 1

In the dead stillness that followed, Mr. Liston felt more
uncomfortable, perhaps, then he had ever felt before in the
whole course of his life. In sheer desperation he broke it.

"You are not angry with me, I hope, Mrs. Laurence ; I
am but his uncle's servant — when I am ordered I must obey.
He was afraid to write all this ; it would be a very damag-
ing confession to put on paper, so he sent me. You are
not angry with me ? "

She put her hand to her head in a lost, dazed sort of way.

" Angry with you .' Oh, no — why should I be .' My
head feels strange — dizzy, — I don't want to hear any
more to-night. I think I will go home."

She turned slowly. He stood watching her with an anx-
ious face. What he knew would come, came. She had
walked some dozen yards, then suddenly — without warn-
ing, word or sound, she fell heavily, face downward, like a
stone.

CHAPTER XIII.

MR. LISTON'S story

NOTHER autumnal twilight, ghostly and gray,
is creeping over the Chelsea shore. In her
pleasant chamber in the Chelsea cottage, Noriiie
lies on her white bed and looks out upon it.
Looks out, but sees nothing. The dark, burning, brilliant
eyes might be stone blind for all they see of the windy,
fast drifting sky, of the strip of wet and slippery sands,
of the white-capped sea beyond. She might be stone
deaf for all she hears of the wintry soughing of the wind, of
the dull, ceasless boom of the sea on the shore, or the
light patter of the chill rain on the glass. She lies here
as she has lain from the first — rigid — stricken soul and
body.

Last evening, a little later than this, the Misses Waddle
had spmng from their seats with two shrill little shrieks
at the apparition of Mr. Liston entering hastily with Mrs.
Laurence lying dead in his arms. Dead to all outward
semblance, at ftrst, but when they had placed her in bed,
and applied the usual restoratives, the eyelids quivered,
the dusk eyes opened, and with a strange, shuddering sob,
she came back to life. For one instant she gazed up into
the kindly, anxious faces of the spinster sisters ; then
memory came back with a rush. She was not Laurence's
wife ; he had betrayed and cast her off ; she would never

MR. LISTON'S STORY.

143

•■

look upon his face again in this world. With a low moan
of agony the sisters never forgot, she turned her face to
the wall and lay still. So she had lain since.

A night and a day had passed. She had neither slept
nor eaten — she had scarcely moved — she lay like a stone.
All night long the light had burned, all night long the
sisters stole softly in and out, always to find the small,
! i:^id figure, as they had left it ; the white face gleaming
like marble in the dusk ; the sleepless black eyes, wild
and wide. They spoke to her in fear and trembling. She
did not heed, it is doubtful if she heard. In a dull, dumb
trance she lay, curiously conscious of the figures flitting
to and fro ; of whispered words and frightened faces ; of
the beat of the rain on the glass ; of the black night lying
on the black sea, her heart like a stone in her bosom.
She was not Laurence's wife — Laurence had left her for
ever. These two thoughts kept beating, beating, in hearty
and brain, and soul, like the ceaseless torment of the
lost.

The new day came and went. With it came Mr. Liston
— pale, quiet, anxious. The Misses Waddle, angry and
curious, at once plied him with questions. What was it all
about ? What had he said to Mrs. Laurence ? Where was
Mr. Laurence ? Was it ill news of him ? And little Mr.
Liston, with a face of real pain and distress, had made
answer " Yes, it was ill news of Mr. Laurence. Would
they please not ask him questions ? He couldn't really
tjU. For Heaven's sake let them try and bring that poor
suffering child round. He would pay every cent due
(hem, and take her away the moment she was able to
travel.

He sits in the little parlor now, his head on his hand,

144

NOJf/NE'S REVENGE.

gazing out at the gloomy evening prospect, with a very
downcast and gloomy face. He is alone, a bit of fire
flickers and falls in the grate. Miss Waddle the elder is
not yet at home from her Chelsea school. Miss Waddle
the younger, in a glow of inky inspiration, is skurrying
through a thrilling chapter of "The Mystery of the
Double Tooth," and within that inner room, at which he
gazes with such troubled eyes, " one more unfortunate "
lies battling with woman's utter despair.

"Poor soul," Mr. Liston says inwardly. "Will she
perish as Lucy West perished, while he lives and marries,
is rich, courted, and happy? No, I will tell her the
truth sooner, that she is his wife, that the marriage was
legal, though he does not suspect it, and when Helen
Holmes is his wife she shall come forward and convict him
of bigamy, and my lordly Mr. Laurence, how will it be
with you then ! "

" Mr. Liston."

He had literally leaped to his feet with a nervous cry.
He had heard no sound, but the chamber door had opened
and she had come forth. Her soft French accented voice
spoke bis name, in the shadowy gloaming she stood
before him, her face white and still, and awfully death-like.
As she came forward in her white dressing gown, her
loose black hair falling, her great black eyes shining
she was so unearthly, so like a spirit, that involuntarily he
recoiled.

" I have startled you," she said. " I beg your pardon.
I did not know you were here, but I am glad you are. To-
morrow I will leave this house — to-night I should like to
say a few words to you."

She was very quiet, ominously quiet. She sat down as

* m%

\i\

MR. usToyrs story.

145

i*^

she spoke, close to the fire ; her hands folded in her lap,
her weird looking ejes fixed on his face. Nervously
Mr. Liston got up and looked around for a bell.

" Shall I ring, I mean call, for lights. I am very glad
to see you up, Miss Bour — I mean Mrs. Laurence."

" Thank you " she answered gently " and no, please —
don't ask for a lamp. Such a wretch as I am naturally
prefers the dark. Mr. Liston," with strange, swift
abruptness, " I have lain in there, and within the last
few hours I have befi able to think. I believe all
that you have told me, I know what I am — as utterly
lost and forlorn a sinner as the wide earth holds. I
know what he is — a greater villain than if, on the night I
saw him first, he had stabbed me to the heart. All this I
know. Mr. Liston, will you tell me something more.
Are you Laurence Thorndyke's friend or enemy?"

In the course of his forty years of life, Mr. Liston had
come across a good many incomprehensible women, but
perhaps, he had never been quite so completely taken
aback before. She spoke the name of her betrayer, of the
man she had loved so passionately, and in one moment
had lost for ever, without one tremor or falter. The
sombre eyes were looking at him full. He drew nearer to
her — a great exultation in his soul. This girl was made of
sterner stuflf than Lucy West. Laurence Thorndyke's
hour had come.

•'Am I Laurence Thorndyke's friend or enemy? His
enemy. Miss Bourdon — his bitterest enemy on earth for
the last five years."

" I thought so. I don't know why, but I thought so.
Mr. Liston, what has he done to you ?"

" Blighted and darkened my life, as he has blighted and

146

NORINE'S REVENGE.

darkened yours. He was hardly one-and-twenty then, but
the devil was uppermost in him from his cradle. Her
name was Lucy West, I had known her from babyhood,"
was almost double her age, but when I asked her to marry
me she consented. I loved her well, she knew that
I could take her to the city to live, that was the desire
of her heart. I know now she never cared for me, but
they were poor and pinched at home,and she was vain of
her rose-and-milk skin, of her bright eyes and sparkling
teeth.

" I was old, and small, and plain, but I could give her
silk dresses and a house in town, a servant to wait upon
her, and she was ready to marry me. I was then what I
am now, Mr. Darcy's land steward, agent, confidential
valet, all in one. Young Mr. Laurence came home from
Harvard for his vacation ; and full of admiration for this
bright young beauty, proud and fond beyond all telling of
her, I took him down with me to show him the charming
little wife I was going to marry. No thought of distrusting
either ever entered my mind, in my way I loved and
admired both, with my whole heart. Miss Bourdon, you
know this story before I tell it, one of the oldest stories
the world has to tell.

" We remained a fortnight. Then I had to go back to
New York. It was August, and we were to be married in
October. He returned with me, stayed a week with his
adopted uncle, then returned to Boston, so he said. One
week later, while I was busily furnishing the pretty house
I had hired for my little Lucy, came a letter from Lucy's
mother. I see at this moment, Mrs Laurence, the sunny,
busy street at which I sat stupidly staring, for hours
after I read that letter. I hear the shouts of the

i
u
s

is
ve

• A

MR. US TON'S STORY.

147

children at play, the hot, white quiver of the blazing August
noonday.

" Lucy had gone, run away from home with a young
man, nobody knew who for certain, but everybody thought
with the young gentleman I had brought there, Mr.
Thorndyke. I had trusted her, Mrs. Laurence, as I tell you
I had loved and trusted them both entirely. I sat there
stupefied , I need not tell you what I suffered. Next day
I went down to the village. Her mother was nearly crazed,
the whole village was gossipping the shameful story. He
— or some one like him, had been seen haunting the out-
skirts of the village, she had stolen, evening after evening,
to some secret tryst.

" She had left a note — ' she couldn't marry old Liston,'
she said ; ' she had gone away with somebody she liked ten
thousand times better. They needn't look for her. If he
made her a lady she would come back of herself, if not — but
it was no use their looking for her. Tell Mr. Liston she was
sorry, and she hoped mother wouldn't make a fuss, and
she was her affectionate daughter, Lucy.'

" I sat and read the curiously heartless words, and I
knew just as well as if she had said so, that it was with
young Laurence she had gone. I knew, too, for the first
time, how altogether heartless, base, and worthless was this
girl. But there was nothing to be said or done. - 1
went back to New York, to my old life, in a stupid,
plodding sort of way. I said nothing to Mr. Darcy. I sold
off the pretty furniture. I waited for young Mr. Laurence
to return ; he did return at Christmas — handsome, high-
spirited, and dashing as ever. But he rather shrank from
me, and I saw it. I went up to him on the night of his
arrival, and calmly asked him the question :

148

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" ' Mr. Laurence, what have you done with Lucy West ? '

" He turned red to his temples, he wasn't too old or too
hardened to blush then, but he denied everything. Lying,
—cold, barefaced lying, is one of Mr. Thorndyke's prin-
cipal accomplishments.

"'Heknewnothingof Lucy West— how dared I insinuate
such a thing ! ' Straightening himself up haughtily. ' If
she had run away from me, with some younger, better
looking fellow, it was only what I might have expected.
But fools of forty will never be wise;' and then, with a
sneering laugh, and his hands in his pockets, my young
pasha strolls away, and we spoke of Lucy West no more.

" That was five years ago. One winter night, a
year after, walking up Grand street about ten o'clock,
three young women came laughing and talking loudly
towards me. It needed no second look at their painted
faces, their tawdry silks, and gaudy 'jewelry,' to tell what
they were. But one face— ah ! I had seen it last fresh
and innocent, down among the peaceful fields. Our eyes
met ; the loud laugh, the loud words, seemed to freeze on
her lips— she grew white under all the paint she wore. She
turned like a flash and tried to run— I followed and
caught her in five seconds. I grasped her arm and held
her fast, savagely, I suppose, for she trembled as she looked

at me.

" ' Let me go, Mr. Liston,' she said, in a shaking voice ;

' you hurt me ! '

" ♦ No, by Heaven,' I said, ' not until you answer me half
a dozen questions. The first is : ' Was it Laurence Thorn-
d)ke with whom you ran away ? '

" Her eyes flashed fire, the color came back to her face,
her hands clenched. She burst forth into such a torrent of

MR. LIsrON'S STORY.

149

words, choked with rage, interlarded with oaths, that my
blood ran cold, that my passion cooled before it. She
had been inveigled away by Tliorndyke, there was no
sham marriage here — no promise of marriage even ; I will
do him that justice, and in six months, friendless and penni-
less, she was adrift in the streets of New York. She was
looking for him night and day, if ever she met him she
would tear the very eyes out of his head I

" Would she go home ? I asked her. I would pay her
way — her mother would receive and pardon her.

" She laughed in my face. What ! take my money — of
all men ! go back to the village where once she had queened
it over all the girls — like this ! She broke from me, and
her shrill, mocking laugh came back as she ran and
joined her companions. I have never seen her since.

" That is my story, Miss Bourdon. Two years have passed
since that night — my dull life goes on — I serve Mr. Darcy
— I watch Mr. Thorndyke. I have come to his aid more
than once, I have screened his evil deeds from his uncle
as I have screened this. He is to be married the first
week of December to Miss Helen Holmes, a beautiful girl
and an heiress. The last duty I am to perform for him is
to hush up this story of yours, to restore you to your friends
like a bale of damaged goods. But I think his time has
come ; I think it should be our turn now. It is for you and
me to say whether he shall inherit his uncle's fortune
— whether he shall marry Helen Holmes or not."

il"

CHAPTER XIV.

A DARK COMPACT.

|HE twilight had deepened almost into dark-
ness. Mr. Liston unconsciously, in the excite-
ment of the tragedy of his life, told now for
the first time, had risen, and was walking up
and down the room. His quiet voice, never rising above its
usual monotonous level, was yet full of suppressed feeling
and passion. Now, as he ceased, he looked toward the
still figure sitting so motionless before the smouldering fire.
She had not stirred once, the fixed whiteness of her face
had not altered. The large, luminous eyes looked into the
dying redness in the grate, the lips were set in one tense
tight line. Until last night she had been but a child, the
veriest child in the tragic drama of life, the sin and shame,
the utter misery of the world to her a sealed book. All at
once the black, bitter page had opened, she was one of the
lost herself, love, truth, honor — there were none on earth.
A loathing of herself, of him, of life, filled her — an unspeak-
able bitterness weighed her down body and soul.

" You do not speak. Miss BourHon," Mr. Liston said,
uneasily. " You — you have not fallen asleep ? "

" Asleep ! " she laughed a little, strangely sounding
laugh. " Not likely, Mr. Liston ; I have been listening to

. -w^t THr-"^T '"*~1P»"''J*V*'^'^*"' ■

A DARK COMPACT.

151

your story — not a pleasant story to listen to or to tell. I
am sorry for you, I am sorry for her. Our stories are
strangely alike — we have both thrown over good and loyal
men to become a villain's victim. We have no one to thank
but ourselves. More or less, we both richly deserve our
fate."

There was a hard, reckless bitterness in the words, in
the tone. She had not shed a tear since the blow had
fallen.

Mr. Liston paused in his walk and strove to read her
face.

" Both ? " he said. " No, Miss Bourdon. She, perhaps,
but you do not. You believed yourself his wife, in all
honor and truth ; to you no stain of guilt attaches. But all
the blacker is his dastardly betrayal of you. Without even
the excuse of loving you, he forced you from home, only
to gratify his brutal malice against Richard Gilbert. He
told me so himself \ out of his own mouth he stands con-
demned."

She shivered suddenly, she shrank as though he had
struck her. From first to last she had been fooled ; that
was, perhaps, the crudest, sharpest blow of all, to know
that Laurence Thorndyke had never for one poor instant
loved her, that hatred, not love, had been at the bottom of
it all.

" Don't let us speak of it," she said, hoarsely. " I—
I can't bear it. O Heaven ! what have I done ? "

She covered her face with her hands, a dry, shuddering
sob shaking her from head to foot.

" If I could only die," she thought, with a pang :^f horri-
ble agony and fear ; " If I dared only die ! "

" Listen to me, Mrs. Laurence," Mr. Liston said, stead-

152

AORLVE'S REVENGE,

ily, and as if he read her thouglits. " Don't despair; you
have something to live for yet."

"Something to live for?" she repeated, in the same
stifled tones. "What?"

" Revenge."

"What?"

" Revenge upon Laurence Thorndyke. It is your right
and your duty. His evil deeds have been hidden from
the light long enough. Let his day of retribution come —
from your hand let his doom fall."

She looked up. In the deepening dusk the man's face
was set stern as stone.

" From my hand ? How ? "

" By simply telling the truth. Come with me to New
York ; come with me before Hugh Darcy and Helen
Holmes, and tell your story as it stands. ^Iy word for it,
there will be neither wedding nor fortune in store for
Laurence Thorndyke after that."

Her black eyes lit and flashed for a moment with some
of his own vengeful fire. She drew her breath hard.

'■ You think this? " she said.

" I know this. Stern, rigorous justice to all men is
Hugh Darcy's motto. And Miss Holmes is as proud, and
pure, and womanly as she is rich and beautiful. She
would cast him off, though they stood at the altar."

Her lips set themselves tighter in that tense line. She
sat staring steadfastly into the fire, her breast rising and
falling with the tumult within.

The little clock on the mantel ticked fast and loud ; the
ceaseless patter, patter of the autumnal rain tapped like
ghostly fingers on the pane. Down on the shore below
the long, sullen breakers boomed. The man's heart beat

A DARK COMPACT.

'53

as he waited. He had looked forward to some such hour
as this, for five long years, to plot and plan his enemy's
ruin. And in this girl's hands it lay to-night.

At last.

" She loves him, does she not ? " She asked the question
huskily.

"Do you mean Miss Holmes? Only too well, I fc.ir,
Mrs. Laurence. As I iiave said, it comes easily to all of
you to lose your hearts to Mr. Thorndyke."

She never heeded the savage sarcasm of his tone. A
tumult of temptation was warring within her.

" And she is young and gentle, and pure and good ? "
she went on.

" All that and more. A beautiful and gracious lady as
ever drew breath."

" And I am not his wife. And you tell me she loves
and trusts him. Yes I it is easy to do that ! If she casts
him off she will break her own heart. She at least has
never wronged me — why should her life be blighted as mine
and Lucy West's have been ? Mr. Liston, as much as I
ever loved Laurence Thorndyke, I think I hate him to-
night — " her black eyes flamed up in the dusk. " I want
to be revenged upon him — I will be revenged upon him,
but not that way."

" Madam, I don't know what you mean."

" I mean this, Mr. Liston — and it is of no use your
growing angry — I will not stab Laurence Thorndyke
through the innocent girl who loves him. I have fallen
very low, but not quite low enough for that. Let her
marry him — I shall not lift a finger — speak a word to pre-
vent it. She at least has never wronged me."

" No, she has never wronged you, but do you think you

154

AVK/A'E'S KF.VEXGE.

can do her a greater wrong than by letting her become tlie
wife of a heartless scouiulrel and libertine ? I thought
better of you, Miss Bourdon. Laurence Thorndyke is to
escape, then, after all ? "

Her eyes flashed — literally flashed in the firelight.

" No I So surely as we both live he shall not escape.
But not in that way shall he be punished."

" Then, how "

" Not to-night, Mr. Listen ; some other time we will
talk of this. When did you say the — the wedding was to
take place ? "

" The first week of December. They will spend the
winter South. She is a Southerner hy birth, although at
present residing with her guardian, Mr. Darcy, in New
York. I am to understand, then, you will not prevent
this marriage ? "

" I will not prevent it. I have had my fool's paradise — so
no doubt had Lucy West, why should not Helen Holmes?"

" Very well, then. Miss Bourdon." He spoke in his
customary cold, monotonous voice. " My business this
evening is almost concluded. At what hour to-morrow
will it be most convenient for you to leave .' "

" To leave 1 "

" To return to your friends in Maine, Such were Mr.
Thorndyke's orders. As you have no money of your own,
I presume you are aware you cannot remain here. Up to
the present I am prepared to pay what is due the Misses
Waddle — I am to escort you in safety to Portland. After
that — ' the world is all before you where to choose.' Such
are my master's orders."

She rose to her feet, suppressed passion in every line of
her white face, in every tone of her voice.

A DARK CO MP ACT.

I5S

. '^

" The coward I " she said, ahnost in a whisper. " The
base, base, base coward 1 Sir, I will never go home ! I
will go down to the sea yonder, and make an end o£ it all,
but home again — never I "

"Ah, I thought not 1" he said quietly. "Then, Miss
Bourdon, may I ask what you mean to do ? You cannot
stay here."

'• No, I cannot stay here," she said bitterly. " I am
utterly friendless and homeless to-night. I don't know
what to do."

" Let me tell you. Come to New York."
«' Sir ! "

«• Our hatred of Laurence Thorndyke is a bond between
us. You shall never be friendless nor homeless while I
live. I am old enough to be your father ; you may trust
me, and never repent it, that I swear. See here I this is
what I mean to do for you. Sit down once more."
She obeyed, looking at him in wonder and doubt.
" Helen Holmes lives with Hugh Darcy. She is as
dear as a daughter to him. He is one of those old, world-
worn men who love to have youth and beauty about them.
She reads for him his newspaper and books of poetry and
romance ; he is as fond of verse and fiction as a girl in
her teens. She plays the piano and sings for him— he has
a passion for music. Now, can you play and sing ? "

" Yes."

" Then here is my plan. He is soon to lose Miss
Holmes, and some one like her in her place he must have
—that he told me himself. A young girl to read aloud
his pet books, to play in the long winter evenings his pet
music, to sing his favorite songs, to read and write his let-
ters—to brighten the dull old house generally by her pres-

■ . ■ ryj-ia ^ ijt 'V *-* ' '*^'* *'^

156

NORINE'S REVENGE.

ence — to look pretty and fair and sweet always ; that is
what he wants. Salary is no object with him. You will
have a happy home, light ami pleasant work, plenty of
money. Will you lake it ? "

" I5ut— "

" You will suit him exactly. You are young enough, in
all conscience — pretty enough, ii you will pardon my say-
ing so, to brighten even a duller house than that. You
play, you sing, you can read aloud. What more do you
want ? You need a home. There is a home. And " — a
long pause — " who can tell what may come of it ? "

She was looking up, he was looking down. Their
eyes met. In the darkness they could yet look at
each other long and steadily for a moment. Then hers
fell.

" How old is Mr. Darcy ? " she asked in a subdued
voice.

" He is seventy-eight, old, feeble, and easily worked upon.
I say again — who knows what may come of it ? To be
disinherited is the only thing in heaven or earth Laurence
Thorndyke is afraid of. Anil old men of eighty, with stub-
born minds and strong resentments, do sometimes make
such strange wills."

Again there was a pause. Then Norine Bourdon spoke
firmly.

" I will go with you to New York."

He drew a long breath of relief.

" I thought you would. You will not repent it, Mrs.
I/uirence. By-the-by, would you mind leaving that name
behind you? "

She looked at him inquiringly.
''You will accompany me to New York as my niece,

A DARK COMPACT.

157

Jane Listen. I have a niece of that name, a widow, out in
Oregon. As my niece, Mrs. Jane Liston, from the coun-
try, looking for work in tiie city, I will introduce you to my
landlady, a most respectable woman. As my niece, Jane
Liston, I will present you to Mr. Darcy. We don't want
Master Laurence to see our little game. If you went
as Mrs. Laurence, or Miss Kent, even, he would. He
will be sure to hear the name of Miss Holmes' successor."
" ]}ut — you have forgotten — I may meet him. That " —
her lips quivering—" I could not bear."

" No danger at all. You will not go there until they are
off on their wedding tour. They do not return until May.
In five months, judiciously made use of, great things may
happ-in."

She rose up, with a long, weary-worn sigh.

" I am in your hands, Mr. Liston. Friendless, money-
less, helpless, I suppose I ought to thank you for this, but
—I cannot. I know it is not for my sake you are doing it,
but for the sake of your revenge. Say what you like of
me when we go to New York ; I am ready to follow where
you lead. Just now I am tired — we will not talk any more.
Let us say good-night."

She gave him her hand ; it was like ice.
uneasily.

" And you will not fail me? " he asked.

" I shall not fail you," she answered. In what either
said, it was not necessary. They understood— revenge
upon Laurence Thorndyke.

" To-morrow at twelve I will call for you here to take
the train for New York. You will be ready ? "

" I will be ready." The door closed behind the small
white figure, and he was alone.

He let it fall

.[rrjBi.— 7- T 'g.—ETT g- .-T-,r. -i Tr-aa^-.«^g*

158

NORLVE'S REVENGE.

Alone, and he had not told her the truth, that in his
opinion the marriage was legal.

" Another time," he thought ; " big.~-r)y is an ugly crime.
Let us wait until he marries Miss Holmes."

■A

'ii

Mr.

CHAPTER XV.
"a fashiokable wedding."

NOTHER night had passed, another day had
come. At twelve sharp Mr. Listen and a hack-
ney carriage had come for " Mrs. Laurence."
Her trunks had been packed by her own-hands.
Listen had settled the claim of the Misses Waddle,

and white and still she had come out, shaken hands with
the kindly spinsters, entered the hack, fallen back in a cor-
ner, her hand shading her eyes, and so was driven away
from the Chelsea cottage forever.

" And dead and in her shroud," said the younger Miss
Waddle, melo-dramatically, " she will never look more like
death than she does to-day."

She had scarcely slept the night through. That pleas-
ant cottage chamber overlooking the sea was haunted for
her, full of memories that nearly maddened her to-night.
With all her heart she had loved — with all her soul she had
trusted. She stood here in the darkness, forsaken, deceived.
She hardly knew whether it were passionate love still, or
passionate hatred that filled her now. The boundary line
between strong love and strong hate is but narrow at
the best. A tumult that was agony filled heart and
brain. He had never cared for her ; never, never ! Out of
pure revenge upon Richard Gilbert he had mocked her
with the farce of love — mocktd her from first to last, and
wearied of her before one poor week had ended.

i6o

NO NINE'S REVENGE.

" Lightly won, lightly lost," man's motto always, never
more true than in her case. Without one pang he had cast
her off contemptuously, glad to be rid of her, and h;id
sent his uncle's servant to take her back to the home
she had disgraced, the hearts she had broken. Siie
clenched her hands — in the darkness she was walking up
and down her room, and hoarse, broken murmurs of a
woman scorned and outraged came from her lips. She could
picture him even at this hour seated by the side of the girl
he was so soon to marry, his arm encircling her, his eyes
looking love into hers, his lips murmuring the old false
vows, sealing them with the old false caresses. Face down-
ward she flung herself upon the bed at last, wild with the
remorse, the despair of her own thoughts.

" Oh," she cried ; " I cannot bear it ! I cannot, I cannot."

The darkness wrapped her, the deep silence of the
night was around her. Up stairs the Misses Waddle slept
their vestal beauty sleep, commonplace and content. A
month ago she had pitied their dull, loveless, ploddii.ij
lives. Ah, Heaven ! to be free from this torturing pain
at her heart, and able to sleep like them now. But even
to her sleep came at last, the spent sleep of utter exhaus-
tion.

The morning sun was shining brightly when she awoke.
She got up feeling chilled and stiff, worn and grown old.
Mechanically she bathed and breakfasted — Miss Waddle
the younger gazing askance at her white cheeks and lustre-
less eyes. Mechanically she returned to her room, and
began packing her trunks. And then, this done, she sat
with folded hands by the window, looking out upon the
sparkling sea, until noon and Mr. Liston should come.
Her mind was a blank ; the very intensity of the blow be-

»A FASHIONABLE WEDDING."

I6l

^m.

numbed pain. Last night she had lain yonder, and writhed
in her torture ; to-day she felt almost apathetic — indiffer-
ent to past, present, and future. And so, pale and cold,
and still, Mr. Liston had found her, so she had shaken
hands, and said good-by to the Misses Waddle, and so she
had been driven away from her " honeymoon paradise " to
begin her life anew.

They reached New York. If Mr. Liston had indeed
been the fondest of uncles, he could not have been more
afifectiona'.oly solicitous for the welfare and comfort of his
charge. She was indifferent to it all — unconscious of it in-
deed, looking upon all things with dull, half-sightless eyes.

" Take good care of her, Mrs. Wilkins," he said to his
landlady ; " she is ailing, as you can see, and don't let her
be disturbed or annoyed in my absence. She has had
trouble lately, and is not like herself,"

It was a shabby-genteel boarding-house, in a shabby-gen-
teel street, close upon East Broadway. At first "Mrs.
Liston " had her meals served in her room, and spent her
time, for all Mrs. Wilkins could see, in sitting at the
window, wiih idly-lying hunds, gazing out into the dull
street. Mr. Liston was absent the chief part of the day,
and Mrs. Liston steadfastly kept her room ; but in the
evenings, always closely veiled, Mrs. Wilkins observed he
could prevail upon her to go out with him for a walk. He
was kind to her, the girl vaguely felt — she would obey him,
at least ; and, since she could not die and make an end of
it all, why, she might as well take a little exercise for her
health's sake. He was veiy good to her, but she felt no
gratitude — it was not for her sake, but for the sake of the
grudge he owed their mutual foe. Their mutual foe ! Did
she hate Laurence Thorndyke she wondered. There

l62

NORINE'S REVENGE.

were times when her very soul grew sick with longing for
the sight of his face, the tone of his voice, the touch of his
hand, and the sound of his name from Mr. Liston's lips
had power to thrill her to the inmost heart still.
Gradually, as the weeks passed, matters changed.

" Time, that blunts the cdRe of things,
Drica our tears and six)ils our bliss,"

was quietly at work for Norine. She came down to the
public table, and the pale, spirituelle beauty of the invisi-
ble and mysterious Miss Liston caused a profound sensa-
tion among the boarders. Next, she took to spending
the long afternoons in the dingy boarding-house parlor,
playing upon the jingling, toneless boarding-house piano
such melodies of mournful sweetness that Mrs. Wilkins and
her handmaidens of the kitchen paused in their wor! to
listen, and wonder, and admire.

"That young woman has seen trouble," Mrs. Wilkins
said, shaking her head. She had her own opinion — a
pretty correct one — of what nature that trouble was ; but
her beauty and her youth were there to plead for her.
She was a lady to her finger-tips, that was evident ; and—
most potent reason of all with Mrs. Wilkins — Mr. Liston
had been her boarder and friend for the past ten years.

So December came.

How the time had gone Norine could hardly have told—
it did go somehow, that was all. Trouble, remorse, despair,
do not kill ; she was still alive and tolerably well, could
eat and sleep, play the old tunes, even sometimes sing the
old songs. She looked at herself in a sort of dreary won-
der in the glass. The face she saw a little paler than of
old, was fair and youthful still — the bright hair glossy and

'^■■

"A FASHIONABLE WEDDING''

163

abundant as ever. She had read of people whose hair
turned gray with trouble ; hers had passed and left no
sign, only on the lips that had forgotten to smile, the eyes
that never lit into gladness or hope, and the heart that lay
like lead in her bosom.

The crisp, frosty December days seemed to fly, bring-
ing with them his wedding-day. Every hour now the
old agony of that night in the Chelsea cottage came back
to stab her through. The seventh of December was the
day — could she bear it ? — and it was in her power even yet,
Mr. Liston told her, to prevent it. Twice during the last
fortnight she had seen him, the first time, when, closely
veiled, her dress had brushed him on Broadway. He was
advancing with another gentleman, both were smoking, both
were laughing gayly at some good story Thorndyke seemed
to be telling. Handsome, elegant, well-dressed, nonchalant,
he passed her, actually turning to glance after the graceful
figure and veiled face.

" That figure should belong to a pretty girl," she had
heard him say. " Deuce take the veils, what do they wear
'em for. There — there's something oddly familiar about
her, too."

She had turned sick and faint, she leaned against a store
window for a moment, the busy street going round and
round. So they had met and parted again.

The second time it wa? almost worse. Mr. Liston had
taken her to the opera — in her passionate love of music she
could forget, for a few brief hours, her pain, when, coming
out, in the crush, they had come almost face to face. His
bride elect was on his arm, by instinct she knew it, a tall,
stylish girl, in sweeping draperies, with blonde hair, blue
eyes, and a skin like pearl. He was bending his tall

164

NO AVNE' S REVENGE.

head over her, devotedly; both looked brilliantly hand-
some and happy.

" For Heaven's sake, come this way ! " Liston had
cried, and drawn her with him hurriedly in another direc-
tion. She had been literally unable to move, standing,
white and wild, gazing upon him. Presently came the
fateful wedding day. All the night pteceding she lay
awake, the old tempest of feeling going on within her.

Should she denounce him, or should she not, on his
wedding-day? Should she take his bride from him at the
very altar, and proclaim him to the world as the liar and
betrayer he was, or shouKl she wait ? She could not
decide. When morning came her mind was in as utter a
tumult as ever.

" Have you decided ? " Mr. Liston asked her. " Shall
Laurence Thorndyke leave his uncle's house to-day,
with his bride by his side, or as an outcast and a pauper,
scorned by all ? It is for you to say."

" I don't know," she answered, hoarsely. " Take me to
the church — I will decide there."

He had taken her, led her in, placed her in one of the
pews, and left her. His manifold duties kept him with
Mr. Darcy ; he would be unable to join Norine again that
day.

The church filled ; an hour before the ceremony it was
crowded. Then they came ; the bridegroom a trifle pale
and nervous, as bridegrooms are wont to be, but, as
usual, handsome of face and elegant of attire. Then on
her guardian's arm, the bride, a dazzling vision of white
satin, Honiton lace, pearl, orange blossoms, gold hair, and
tender drooping face. A breathless hush fills the church
— in that hush the officiating clergyman came forth — in

•"i^l

^m»K»^.

'•s

"A FASHIONABLE WEDDING."

165

that hush the bridal party take their places, a flock of
white briilcsmaids, a group of black gentlemen. And
then a voice out of that great stillness speaks.

" If any here know of just cause or impediment why
these two should not be joined in the bonds of matrimony,
let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."

Mr. Liston turns his quiet face and watchful eyes
to one particular pew, to one slender figure and veiled
face The five seconds that follow are as five centuries
to the bridegroom. His face is quite white, his gloved
fingers are like ice. He glances up at Liston, and then —
the ceremony begins. What a horrible time it takes,
Laurence Thorndyke thinks ; what a horrible ordeal a
fashionable public marriage is. Does a dingy hotel par-
lor rise before him, the rain beating on the windows, and
a pale, wistful face look up at him, while a mockery of this
solemn rite is being gabbled through by a tipsy actor ? Is
it the fair, happy, downcast face of his bnde he sees or
that other face as he saw it last, all white and drawn in
the anguish of a last farewell ?

"What God hath joined together let no man put asunder !"

It is over. He draws a long, hard breath of relief.
Come what may, Helen is his wife.

They rise ; they file slowly and gracefully out of the
church; the bride hanging on the bridegroom's arm.
Closely, very closely, they pass one particular pew wherein
a solitary figure stands. She has risen with the rest ; she
has flung back her veil, .^nd people who glance at her
stop involuntarily and look igain. The face is like stone,
the dark eyes all wild and wide, the lips apart ; she stands
as if slowly petrifying. But the bridal party do not see
her J they pass on, and out.

Binajugmwi i

i66

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" Who is she ? " strangers whisper. " Has she known
Laurence Thorndyke ? "

Then they too, go, and all is over.

The wedding parly enter their carriages and are whirled
away. Mr Listen sees his employer safely oflf, then returns
hurriedly to the church. He is angry with Norine, but it
is his duty to look after her, and something in her face to-
day has m.idc him afraid. There is nothing to fear, how-
ever ; she is very quiet now ; she sunk dcTwn upon her
knees, her head has fallen forward upon the rail. He
speaks to her ; she does not answer. He touches her on
the shoulder ; she does not look up. He lifts her head—
—yes, it is as he feared. The edifice is almost deserted
now ; he takes her in his arms and carries her out into
the air. For the second time in her life she has fainted
entirely away.

CHAPTER XVI.

"his name is LAURENCE THORNDYKE."

GRAY March afternoon is blustering itself out
in the streets of New York — a shxte-colored sky,
fast drifting with black, rainy clouds ; the wind
sobs and shivers in great dusty soughs, and
pedestrians bow involuntarily before it, and speed along
with winking and watery eyes.

In a quiet, old-fashioned street — for there are quiet, old-
fashioned streets even in New York — there stands a big,
square, dingy, red brick house, set in a square of grass-
grown front garden, a square of brick paving in the rear.
Two slim poplars — "old maids of the forest," lift their
tall, prim green heads on either side of the heavy hall
door. The house looks comfortable, but gloomy, and
that is precisely what it is, this dun-colored spring day,
conjortable, but gloomy. There are heavy curtains of
dark, rich damask dnaping the windows. Through the
clear panes of one of the upper windows you catch the
flicker and fall of a red coal fire, and the sombre beauty
of a girl's face.

She stands in the large, handsome room, alone, a long,
low room, with a carpet of rich, dull crimson velvet, cur-
tains of dull crimson satin damask, papered walls, dull
crimson, too. There are oil paintings in gilded frames,
ponderous mahogany chairs, tables and footstools ; but
there is nothing bright in the apartment save the cheerful
red fire. It is all dark and oppressive — not even except-

i68

NOK/XITS REVEXGE.

ins the Rirl. The p.ilc face that looks gloomily out at (he
fast drifting sky, at the fast-fading light, is smilclcss and
sol)er as all thq rest. And yet it is a yoiilhfiil face, a
beautiful face, a face that six months ago bloomed with
a childish brightness and bloom, the face of Norine
Bourdon.

It is close upon four months since she entered this
house, as companion, secretary, amanuensis, to Mr. Hugh
Darcy. Now she stands here debating within herself
whether she shall go to him to-night and tell him she must
leave. She shrinks from the task. She has grown
strangely old and wise in these four months ; she knows
something of the world — sf)mething of what it must be
like to be adrift in New York, friendless and penniless,
with only eighteen years and a fair face for one's danger-
ous dower. Friendless she will be ; for in leaving she
will deeply irritate Mr. Darcy, deeply anger Mr. Liston,
and in all the world, it seems to Norine, there are only
those two she can call friends.

And yet — friends I Can she call even them by that
name ? Mr. Liston is her friend and protector so long as
he thinks she will aid him in his vengeance upon his en-
emy. Mr. Darcy— well, how long will Mr. Darcy be her
friend when he discovers how she has imposed upon him ?
That under a false name and history she has sought the
shelter of his roof— she, the cast-off of his nephew ? He
likes her well— that she knows ; he trusts her, respects her
— how much liking or respect will remain when he knows
her as she is "i

" And know he shall," she says, inwardly, her lips com-
pressed. " I cannot carry on this deception longer. For
the rest I would have to leave in any case— //i^^ return in

'\<-^^Bi^^tS^^i*^:v>':^e^f»^^»iii\i^

" LA U RE NCR THORN J) VA'E."

169

May, and I cannot, I cannot meet them. Mr. Listen may
say what he pleases, it were exsier to die than to stay on
and meet him ;iyain — like that."

She has not forgotten. Such first, passionate love as
slie gave Laurence Thorndylve is not to be out-lived and
trampled out in four months ; and yet it is much more
abhorrence than love that fills her heart with bitterness
now.

"The dastard I" she thinks, her black eyes gleaming
dangerously ; " the coward I How dare he do it I One day
or other he shall i)ay for it, that 1 swear ; but I cannot meet
him now. There is nothing for it but to go and tell Mr.
Darcy I must leave, and take my chance in the world,
quite alone."

She leaned her forehead against the cold, clear glass
with a heavy heart-sick sigh. The first keen poignancy
of her pain was over, but the dull, deadly sickening ache
was there still, and would be for many a day. Hate him
she might, long for retaliation she did, but not once could
she think of him the happy husband of Helen Holmes
without the very heart within her growing faint with dead-
ly jealousy. The sound of his name, the sight of his
letters, had power to njove her to this day. In the
drawing-room below a carefully-painted portrait of the
handsome face, the bright blue eyes, the fair, waving
hair, hung— a portrait so true, that it was torture only to
look at it, and yet how many hours had she not stood
before it, her heart full of bitterness— until burning tears
filled and blinded her dark impassioned eyes.

Now he and his bride were coming home to this house,
and she was expected to stay here and meet them. Ek-
pected by Mr. Darcy, who had learned to love her almost

170

NORINE'S REVENGE.

as a daughter ; expected by Mr. Listen, who had told her
she must confront Laurence Thorndyke in this very house,
and show him to uncle and wife as he really was — a coward,
a liar, a seducer.

" I cannot do it 1 " she said, her hands clenching togeth-
er. " I cannot meet him. Mon Dieu, no 1 not yet — not
yet."

She had been introduced into the house just two weeks
after the marriage as " my niece from the country — Jane
Lision." As Jane Listen she had remained here ever
since, winning "golden opinions" from all the household.
She had found Mr. Darcy a decrepit, irritable old invalid,
bored nearly to death since his ward's wedding — lonely,
peevish, sick. He had looked once into the pale, lovely
face, and never needed to look again to like her. Trouble
and tears had not marred her beauty. A little of the
bloom — there never had been much — all of the sparkle,
the gay brilliance that had charmed Richard Gilbert were
gone ; but the eighteen-year-old face was very sweet, very
lovely, the dark Canadian eyes, with their unutterable
sadness and pathos, wonderfully captivating ; and old
I-ugh Darcy, with a passion for all things fair and young,
had become her captive at once.

" You suit me fifty times better than Helen," he said
often, drawing the dark loops of shining hair fondly through
his old fingers. "Helen was a rattle pate. Never mird
— matrimony will tame her down, though the lad's fond of
her enough, and will make her a very good sort of husband,
I dare say, as husbands go. But you, little woman, with
your soft voice — you have a voice like an ^'olian harp,
Jennie, your deft fingers, your apt ways — you are a treas-
yre to a cross old Dachelor. You are a nurse born, Jen-

■ ai.t<iMaj..-fk-j^)^>.',^^-^>(|-^^ ^^

"■LAURENCE THORNDYKE:'

171

■•

nie, child ; how did I ever get along all these years with-
out you ? "

He meant it, every word, and a moonlight sort of smile,
sweet and grateful, if very sad, thanked him. Once she
had lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it, passionate
tears filling her eyes.

"la treasure ! Oh, Mr. Darcy ! You do not know
what you say. I am a wretch — a wretch unworthy of your
kindness and trust. But one day I shall tell you all."

He had wondered a little what she meant. *' Tell him
all ! " What could the child have to tell ? She was so
young — so pathetically young to be widowed — what story
lay in her life.' The very oldest of all old stories, no
doubt — a beloved one lost. He sighed as he thought
it, bald-headed, hoary patriarch that he was. He had
had his story and his day. The day had ended, the
story was read, the book closed and put away, years and
years and years ago. In the gallant and golden days of
his youth he had met and loved a girl, and been (as he
believed, as she told him,) loved in return. He left her
to make a home and a competence — he was no millionaire
in those far-off days, save in happiness — to return in a
year and marry her. Eight months after there came to
him his letters, his picture, his ring. A richer knight had
entered the lists, and the lady was borne off no unwilling
captive. A commonplace, every-day story — nothing new
at all.

He took his punishment like a man, in brave silence,
and the world went on, and years and riches and honors
came, and a man's life was spoiled forever, that was all. As
be recalls it, old, white haired, half paralyzed, now in the
twilight of seventy odd years, he can remember with curious

172

NORINE'S REVENGE.

vividness how brightly the July sun shone down on the hot,
white pavement of the streets below, the cries of the chil-
dren at play, the quivering glare of the blazing noontide,
as he sat in his office and read the words that renounced
him. Twenty-seven years ago, but the picture was engra-
ven on Hugh Darcy's brain, never to be blotted out.
Twenty-seven years ago, and when the fortunate rival had
fallen in the battle of life, ten years later ; when his feeble-
souled wife had followed him to the grave, Hugh Darcy's
revenge upon her had been .o step forward and take the
child of that marriage to his heart and home to rear him
as his own son, to make his will in his favor, leaving him
sole heir to a noble inheritance.

Laurence Thorndyke had sown his wild /""t:;. Well,
most young men go in for that kind of agriculture, and the
seed sown had not yet begun to crop up. He was happily
married, and done for, and for himself Mr. Darcy meant
to keep his little " Jennie " with him always, to travel about
with her this coming summer, and leave he* a '>:indhome
portion at his death. " For of course," said Mr. Darcy,
" she will forget the husband she has lost, and make some
good man happy after I am gone."

He had settled her little romance quite to suit himself.
She had crept with her quiet, gentle, womanly ways into
his iinnost heart — a ve^-y kindly heart in spite of life's
wear and te?.r ; very kindly, yet with a stubborn sense of
justice, anr' of right and wrong underlying all. Kindly,
yet terribly, obstinately, ur. forgiving to anything like im-
morality, deception or dishonor.

" I love the child almost better than Helen," he thought
sometimes. " I don't want to lose her, and yet I should
like to see her safely she!<^ered under a husband's wing be-

"LAURENCE THORNDYKEP

173

fore I go. There's Richard Gilbert now. I've often meant
to introduce him to her, but somehow she always slips out
of the room and the house when he sends up his card. I
wonder if he's got over the loss of that girl last fall.
Some men do get over that sort of thing they say. I hope
Laurence had nothing to do with it. Gilbert suspected
him, I know, but then — 'give a dog a bad name and hang
him.' Yes, my little Jennie wouldn't make half a bad wife
for Dick Gilbert. I'll introduce him the very next time he
comes."

Mr. Darcy sits before his study fire this chill afternoon
alone. Liston left some hours ago. It is not yet dinner
time, and his companion — where is she ? He looks im-
patiently around — while he took his afternoon nap she has
left him. He listens a moment to the wailing voice 01 the
wind, sobbing in a melancholy way about the house, then
reaches forth nervously, and rings the bell.

" Send Mrs. Liston here," he says to the servant who
answers.

This gray twilight hour is haunted for him, with melan-
choly flitting faces, dead and gone. He will have Mrs.
Liston in to sing and play and exorcise the ghosts. No-
body ever sang Scotch songs or played Scotch melodies
half so sweetly, thinks the worn old man, as his little
companion.

The door opens and she enters. Her tread, her touch,
her garments, are always soft and noiseless. She comes
gliding forward in the gloaming, not unlike a ghost herself.
Her pale face seems almost startlingly pale in contrast with
the black dress she wears. In its whiteness her great
dusk eyes look bigger and blacker than ever. It strikes
Mr. Darcy.

174

NOR INK'S REVENGE.

" Child," he says, " how pale you are. Come over here
and let me look at you. You are more like a -spirit of the
twilight than a young lady of tiie period."

He draws her affectionately to him, and she sinks on
her knees by his chair. There is no light but the dull
glow of the fire j he tilts up her chin, and gazes smilingly
down into the lovely sombre eyes.

" ' Oh, fair, pale Margaret,' " he quotes. " Little one,
what is it ? You promised to tell me sometime. Why not
to-night?"

" Why not to-night ? " she repeats. " To-night be it, t'aen.
But first, is that a letter on the table ? "

" Oh, by-the-by, yes— I nearly forgot all about it. An-
other letter from our mated turtle doves in Florida. 1 see
by the post-mark they are in Florida now. I have kept it
for you to read, as usual."

She takes it quite calmly; she knows that big, bold
chirography well, and the day comes back to her when
Mr. Liston brought to the Chelsea cottage the brief, pitiless
note in the same hand — her death warrant. She seats her-
self on a hassock near the big invalid chair, and by the
light of the fire reads Laurence Thorndyke's letter.

It is the gay letter of a happy bridegroom whose bride
bends over his shoulder smiling while he writes. He tells
of their travels, of how well -^nd handsome Helen is look-
ing ; that in another month for ceriain they will be at
home. And with best love and all the kisses he can
spare from Nella, he is, as ever, his affectionate nephew,
Laurence Thorndyke. ^

She finished the letter and laid it down.
" Coming home," Mr. Darcy repeats. " Well, I am al-
ways glad to see the boy, always fond of Nella. And we

»f

■r'Ti.r-W^n'.;'-'!!- •aMucsm*

« LA URENCE THORN D YKEP

175

will all go to Europe together in May— you to take care
of the old man, my dear, and help him laugh at the turtle
doves billing and cooing. And in sunny France, in fair
Italy, we will see if we cannot bring back roses to these
white cheeks."

The dark eyes lift, the grave young 'ce rpeaks.
" Thank you," she says. " You are always kind, Mr.
Darcy, but I cannot go."
"Jennie! Cannot go?"

"1 cannot go Mr. Darcy. I am sorry to leave you;
more sorry than I can say, but you must get another at-
tendant and companion. I am going away."
" Mrs. Listen ? "

" I am not Mrs. Liston— my name is not Jennie— I am
not Mr. Listen's niece. From first to last I have deceived
you. I have come to tell you the truth to-night, although
it breaks my heart to see you angry. I will tell you the
truth, and then you will see that I must go. My name is
not Jane Liston. It is Norine Bourdon."

There is a pause. He sits looking at her, astonishment,
anger, perplexity, doubt all in his face, and yet he sees
that she is telling the truth. And Norine Bourdon— where
has he heard that name before ? Norine Bourdon ! A
foreign-sounding and uncommon name, too. Where has he

heard it ?

" I do not wish you to blame Mr. Liston too much," the
quiet voice goes on. " He is to blame, for he suggested
the fraud, but I was ready enough to close with it. I had
not a friend nor a home in the world that I dared turn to,
and I could not face life alone. So I came here under a
false name, false in everything, and broke your bread, and
took your money, and deceived you. I am not what you

I' M . I W

176

NORTIVE'S REVENGE.

think me ; I am a giil who has been lured from her home,
deceived and cast off. A wiclced wretch who fled from
her friends, who betrayed a good man's trust, who promised
to marry him, and who ran away from him with one
who betrayed her in turn. You have heard of me before
— heard from Richard Gilbert of Narine Bourdon."

A faint exclamation comes from his lips.

Yes, yes, yes, he sees it all. This is that girl — " Norine
Bourdon ! " He remembers the odd French name well now.

" I will tell you my story, Mr. Darcy — my wicked and
shameful story, and you shall turn me out this very night
if you chocse. I am the girl your friend, Richard Gilbert,
honored with his respect and love ; whom he asked in
marriage. I loved another man, a younger, handsomer
man, but he had left me, forever, I thought, and wearied of
my dull country life, sad and disappointed, I accepted
him. The man I loved hated Mr. Gilbert. Liston will
tell you why, if you ask him. In that hatred he laid a
plan of revenge. He cared nothing for me ; he was be-
.trothed to a beautiful and wealthy lady ; I was but the poor
little fool to whom a wise man had given his heart — what
became of me did not matter. Three days before my wed-
ding-day he came to me and urged me to fly with him.
He loved me, he said ; he would make me his wife ; he
would come for my answer the next night. I must meet
him ; I must go with him. At night, when they all slept,
I stole from the house to meet him ; not to fly with him,
the good God knows — to refuse him, to forget him, to keep
to my duty if my heart broke in the keeping. He had a
horse and carriage waiting, and — to this day I hardly know
how — he made me enter it, and drove me off. I cried out
for help ; it was too late ; no one heard me. He soothed

" LA URENCE THORND VKE."

i77

me with his specious promises, and perhaps I was not
difficult to soothe. It was too late to go back ; I thought he
loved me and went on. He took me to Boston. There, next
morning in the hotel, without witnesses, we were married.
A man, a clergyman, he told me, came, a ceremony of some
sort was gone through, we were pronounced man and wife.
" He took me with him to a cottage he had engaged by
the sea shore. For three weeks he remained with me
there, tired to death of me, I know now. Then he was
summoned to New York to his home, and I was left. Mr.
Darcy, he never came back.

" I waited for him weeks and weeks — ah, dear Heaven I
what weeks those were. Then the truth was told me.
His uncle's servant was in his confidence. I was deserted.
I had never been his wife, not for one hour. The man
who had come to the hotel was no clergyman ; he
was going to be married in December ; I was to go back
to my friends and trouble him no more. That was my
fate. I had been betrayed from first to last, and he had
done with me forever.

" Well, that is more than six months ago. I don't know
whether hearts ever break except in books. I know I am
living still, and likely to live. But not here. I have de-
ceived you, Mr.' Darcy, but I tell you the truth to-night.
And to-night, if you like, I will go."

He rose slowly to his feet ; swift, dark passion in his
eyes — swift, heavy anger knitting his shaggy brows. He
held to the arms of his chair and looked down upon her,
his face set hard as iron.

" Sit there ! " he ordered. " Tell me the scoundrel's name."

The dark eyes looked up at him ; the gravely quiet voice
spoke.

" His name is Laurence Thorndyke."

■'^'rffsr^sssiss&f'^

:i3iJ^

CHAPTER XVII.

A LETTER FROM PARIS.

iT is a sunny summer afternoon. The New
York pavements arc blistering in the heat,
and even Broadway looks half deserted. Up-
town, brown stone mansions are hermetically
sealed for the season, the " salt of the earth " are drinking
the waters at Saratoga, gazing at the trembling rapids of
Niagara, or disporting themselves on the beach at Long
Branch. The workers of the earth still burrow in their
city holes, through heat, and dust, and din, and glare, and
among them Richard Gilbert.

He sits alone this stifling August afternoon, in his down-
town office. The green shades that do their best to keep
out the white blinding glare and fail, are closed. The
windows stand wide, but no grateful breeze steals in. He
sits at his desk in a loose linen coat, multitudinous docu-
ments labelled, scattered, and tied up before him. But it
is a document that does not look legal, that is absorbing
his attention. It is a letter, and the envelope, lying beside
him on the floor, bears the French postmark. He sits
and re-reads with a very grave and thoughtful face. " It
is queer," he is thinking, " uncommonly queer. She must
be an adventuress, and a clever one. Of course she has
wheedled him into making a new will, and the lion's share
will go to herself. Hum! I wonder what Thorndyke
will say. Come in."

A LETTER FROM PARTS. 179

He pushes the paper away, and answers a discreet tap at
the door.

" Lady and gentleman to see you, sir," announces a clerk,
and the lady and gentleman enter.

" Hope we don't disturb you, squire," says the gentle-
man, and Mr. Gilbert rises suddenly to his feet. "Me
and Hetty, we thought as how it would keinder look bad
to go back without droppin' in. Hot day, squire — now
ain't it?"

" My dear Miss Kent— my dear Uncle Reuben, this is
an unlooked-for pleasure. You in the city, and in the
blazing month of August. What tempted you?"

" Well, now, blamed if I know. Only Hetty here, she's
bin sorter ailin' lately, and old Dr. Perkins, he said a
change would do her a heap of good, and Hetty, she'd
never seen New York, and so — that's about it. Squire !
we've had a letter."

He says it abruptly, staring very hard straight before
him. Aunt Hetty fidgets in her chair, and Richard Gil-
bert's pale, worn face grows perhaps a shade paler.

" A letter," he repeats ; " from her i "

" From her. Two letters, if it comes to that. One from
this here town last Christmas — t'other from foreign parts
a week ago. I want to show 'em to you. Here's number
one."

He takes a letter in an envelope from his pocket, and
hands it to the lawyer. It seems almost a life-time ago,
but the thrill that goes through Richard Gilbert at sight
of that writing still !

" Last Christmas," he says glancing at the postmark, a
shade of reproach in his tone. " And you nevtir told
me!"

l l ! J»-i.lJ!fA.j4i:

i8o

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" I never told you, squire. It ain't a pleasant sort o'
tiling to talit about, least of all to you. She doesn't de-
serve a thought from you, Mr. Gilbert — "

The lawyer stopped him with a gesture.

" I have forgiven her long ago," he answers ; " she
did not care for me. Iktter she should fly from me before
marriage than after. Thank Heaven she is alive to write
at all."

He opens the note. It is very short.

" Dear Aunt Hetty — Dear Uncle Reuben — Dear Uncle
Joe — if you will let me, unworthy as I am, still call you
by the dear old names. This is the third time I have
written since I left home, but I have reason to think you
never received the first two letters. I wrote then, as I
write now, to beg you on my knees for forgiveness. Oh I
to see your dear faces once more — to look again on the
peaceful old home. But it cannot be. What 'shall I say
of myself ? I am well — I am busy — I am as happy as I de-
serve, or can ever expect to be. I am safely sheltered in a
good man's house. I have been to blame, but oh, not so
much as you think. Some day I will come to you and
tell you all. Yours, Norine.

" P. S. — He is well. I have seen him since I came to
New York twice, though he has not seen me. May the
good God bless him and forgive me. N. K. B.

Richard Gilbert read that postscript and turned away his
head. He had been near her, then, twice, and had never
known it. And she cared for him enough to pray for him still.

" Here's the other," said Reuben Kent, " that came a
week ago."

He laid a large, foreign-looking letter on the desk, with
many stamps, and an Italian post-mark.

A LETTER FROAf PARIS. |8|

" From Florence," the lawyer said ; "how can she have
got there ? "

It was as short as the first.

" She was well. Foreign travel had done wonders for
her health and spirits. She was with kind friends. Im-
possible to say when she would return, but always, whether
at home or abroad, she was their loving niece, Norine

IkjUKDON."

That was all. Very gravely the lawyer handed them
back.

" Well, squire," Mr. Kent said, " what do you think } "

" That I am unutterably glad, and thankful to know she
is alive and well, and with friends who are good to her.
It might have been worse — it might have been worse."

" You believe these letters, then ? "

•"Undoubtedly I believe them. She is travelling as com-
panion, no doubt, to some elderly lady. Such situations
crop up occasionally. I see she gives you no address to
which to write. "

" I don't know that I should care to write if she did.
Vou may forgive her, squire, but by the Lord Harry 1 /
aint got that far yet. If she didn't run away with young
Thorndyke, what did she run away at all for ? "

" Because she cared so little for me, that facing the
world alone was easier than becoming my wife. We won't
talk of it, Mr. Kent. How long do you remain in town ?"

Uncle Reuben rose.

" We go to-day, thank fortin'. How you, all of you, man-
age to live in such a Babel beats me 1 Can't you strike
work, Mr. Gilbert, and run down to see us this blazin'
summer weather ? "

Mr. Gilbert shook his head with a smile.

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I82

NOR INK'S REVENGE.

" I am afraid not. I am very busy ; I find hard work
does me good. Well, good-by, old friend. I am sincerely
glad to have read those letters — sincerely glad she is safe
and well."

Then they were gone, and Richard Gilbert sat down alone
in the hot, dusty office. But the dusty office faded away,
and in its place the rich greenness of meadows came, the
sweet, new-mown hay scented the air, green trees and
bright flowers surrounded him instead of dry-as-dust legal
tomes. And fairer, brighter, sweeter than all, came float-
ing back the exquisite face of Norine, the dark eyes gleam-
ing, the white teeth sparkling, the loose hair blowing, the
soft mouth laughing. And once she had promised to be
his wife !

"Mr. Thorndyke, sir?"

The voice of his clerk aroused him. The fairy vision
faded and fled, and Richard Gilbert, in his grimy office,
looked grimly up into the face of Laurence Thorndyke.

" How do, Gilbert? " says Mr. Thorndyke, nodding eas-
ily ; " hope I don't intrude. Was loafing down town, and
thought I would just drop in and see if there was any news
yet from the old man."

Mr. Thorndyke has lost none of the easy insouciance
that sits upon him so naturally and becomingly. He is in
faultless Broadway-afternoon-promenade costume, but he
is not quite as good-looking as he used to be. His hand-
some face looks worn and tired, dissipated, and a trifle
reckless, and the old flavor of wine and cigars hangs about
him still. He draws a chair towards him, and sits astride
upon it his arms folded over the back.

" The old man ? " Mr. Gilbert repeats, still more grimly,
" You refer to Mr. Darcy, I presume ? "

A LETTER FROM PARIS.

183

"Who else. To Darcy, of course — and be hanged to
him. Any news yet ? "

" There is news, Mr. Thorndyke. Will you be kind
enough, in talking of my old and valued friend, — and yours
once, — to speak a little more respectfully?"

" A little more fiddle-dee-dee I " retorts Mr. Thorndyke.
" Confound the old bloke, I say again ! What business
has he cutting up the way he has cut up ever since my
marriage ? I did everything I could to please him — I
leave it to yourself, Gilbert, I did everything I could to
please him. He wanted me to marry Helen. Well, haven't
1 married Helen ? He wanted us to go with him to
Europe in May. Didn't we come back from the South
in April, to go with him in May as per agreement ? And
what do we find ? Why, that the venerable muddle-head
has started off on his own hook, with old Liston and some
girl that he's taken in — adopted, or that bosh — a niece of
Liston's. Started off without a word — without one blessed
word of excuse or explanation to Helen or me. That's
four months ago, and not a letter since. Then you talk
of respect 1 By Jove, sir, I consider myself — Helen con-
siders herself, shamefully treated. And here we are broil-
ing alive in New York this beastly hot weather, instead
of doing the White Mountains, or Newport, or somewhere
else, where a man can get a breath of air, waiting for a
letter that never comes. You've heard from him, you say
— now what has the old duffer to say for himself ? "

" He has nothing to say for himself. I have not heard
from him. I said I had heard 0/ him. How is Mrs.
Thorndyke ? "

" Well enough in health — devilish cross in temper. The
old story — I'm a wretch, drink too m-ich, gamble too much,

1 84

NORINE'S REVENGE.

spend too much, keep too late hours. Tell you what,
Gilbert, matrimony's a fraud. Whilst I thought Nellie was
the old man's pet and I was his heir, it was all well
enough ; blessed if I know what to think now. Are you
going to tell me what you have heard </ him ? "

In silence, and with a face of contemptuous disgust, Mr.
Gilbert takes up the French letter, points to a column, and
watches him. This is what Mr. Thorndyke, with a face of
horror, reads:

" I presume you know that your old friend and client,
Hugh Darcy, died here two days ago. The bulk of his
fortune, I hear, is left to the beautiful young widow, Mrs.
Liston, whom he had legally adopted. She takes his
name, and with her own rare loveliness, and Darcy's half
million, Mrs. Liston-Darcy is destined to make no ordinary
sensation when she returns to New York."

CHAPTER XVIII.

AFTER FOUR YEARS..

BRITING again — eternally writing ! One would
think it was Mrs. Jellyby. Confound the
scribbling, I say. Do, for Heaven's sake, put
it down, Nellie, and let us have some dinner ! "
Thus — impatiently, angrily — Mr. Laurence Thorndyke
to the wife of his bosom. It is five o'clock, of a brilliant
summer afternoon, a stiflingly close and oppressive after-
noon, in the shabby street, in the shabby tenement where-
in Mr. and Mrs. Thorndyke dwell. The scene is a dingy
parlor — ingrain carpet, cane chairs, fly-blown wall paper,
and a lady in a soiled and torn wrapper discovered at a
table rapidly writing. A child of two years, a little boy,
with Laurence Thorndyke's own blue eyes and curling
locks, toddles about the floor. In a basket cradle there
is coiled up a little white ball of a baby. The lady jogs
this cradle with her foot as she writes. A lady, young and
handsome, though sadly faded, her profusion of light hair
all towsy and uncombed, her brows knit in one straight
frowning line. She pauses in her work for a second to
glance up — anything but a loving glance, by the by — and
to answer :

" I don't know Mrs. Jellyby, Mr. Thorndyke. Did she
write to keep herself and her children from starving, I
wonder, while her husband gambled and drank their sub-

186

NORTNE'S REVENGE.

stance ? As to dinner— couldn't you manage to get that
meal in the places you spend your days and nights ? There
is some bread and butter on the kitchen table— some tea
on the kitchen stove. Joanna will give them to you if
you like. You are not likely to find champagne and orto-
lans in a tenement house."

And then, the pretty lips setting themselves in a tight,
unpleasant line, Mrs. Thorndyke goes back to her work.

She writes very rapidly, in a bold, firm hand, heedless
of the child who prattles and clings to her skirts. They
are law papers she is copying, in that clear, legible chiro-
graphy.

For in three years it has come to this. Four tiny ten-
ement rooms in a shabby, crowded street, soiled and torn
wrappers, bread and tea dinners, one small grimy maid of
all work, a drunkard and gambler instead of her brilliant
bridegroom, and law papers to copy all day and far into
the night, for the friend ot her girlhood, Mr. Richard Gil-
bert, to "keep the wolf from the door."

" D your catlap? " says Mr. Thorndyke, with a scowl

of disgust. " I say, Nellie, do stop that infernal scribble,
scrabble, and send out for oysters, I haven't eaten a
mouthful to-day— I had such a splitting headache this
morning, and I haven't a sou left."

" And how many sous do you suppose /have left ? " the
wife demands with flashing eyes. " I paid the landlord
the rent to-day, and I have to buy coal to-morrow. Oys-
ters ! " she laughs, scornfully. " I have forgotten what they
are. As to your headache — probably if you had drank
less whiskey last night, you would not have suffered so
severely this morning. What there is in the house you
are welcome to. I shall send for nothing."

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

187

The lips tighten still more — she goes resolutely on with
her writing.

Mr. Thorndyke relieves his mind by an oath and a growl,
as he flings himself heavily upon a lounge. His wife
writes on and pays no attention. She has grown accus-
tomed to be sworn at — it hardly affects her now.

He lies and watches her with gloomy eyes. Those tliree
years have changed him deepening the reckless, dissipa-
ted look worn and aged him strangely. Handsome he is
still, but haggard, the brilliant eyes dimmed and bloodshot,
the hand tremulous, an habitual scowl on his brow,

" What does Gilbert pay you for that bosh ? " he asked.

" About three times as much as he would pay any one
else. You see he knew my father, and doesn't care to look
on and see my father's daughter starve. Be kind enough
not to talk to me, Mr. Thorndyke — I don't wish to make
mistakes."

" Day has been when you liked to have me talk to you
well enough," retorts, Mr. Thorndyke, with another sullen
oath.

"Yes, I was a fool — no need to remind n e of it. No
one can regret it more than I do. Happily that day is
past. You have cured me signally of my folly."

There is a pause. Mrs. Thorndyke immovably writes.
Mr. Thorndyke lies sullenly and looks on. At last —

" She has come," he says, abruptly,,

His wife lifts her eyes.

" Mrs Liston Darcy — devil take her ! And I am a going
to see her to-night ! "

Still that silent questioning gaze,

" I met Allison out there — he hasn't cut me if all the rest
have ; and she is to be at a party at his house. I am going."

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1 88

NOR/NE'S REVENGE.

" May I ask why ? What can you possibly have to say
to Mr. Darcy's heiress " ?

" I shall see her, at least. They tell me she is pretty.
I must own I always had a weakness for pretty and pleasant
women. I must own also I never see one at home."

Her eyes flash at the sneer.

" I am quite aware, Mr. Thorndyke, of your predilec-
tion for pretty women. Haven't you paid rather dearly
though for the fancy ? Was the brief society of Miss Lucy
West and Miss Norine Bourdon sufficient compensation
for the loss of a fortune .' "

He rises to his feet, his face flushing dark, angry red.

" You know that ? " he exclaims.

She laughs contemptuously.

" I know that ; I know much more than that. You did
not show me the letter left by Mr. Darcy for you at his
death, but you did not destroy it. That letter I have read.
He states his reasons for disinheriting you plainly enough,
does he not ? And for my part, all I have to say is, served
you right."

She rises, gathers her papers together, binds them up,
and without looking at him, sweeps from the room.

"Joanna!" she calls, "look after Laurie and baby. I
am going down town."

She dresses herself hastily, and in her cheap hat and
muslin dress, manages somehow to look stylish and dis-
tinguished still. She takes an omnibus, rides to Wall
street, and enters Mr. Gilbert's office.

Mr. Gilbert receives her with cordial kindness, takes the
papers, glances over them, pronounces them well done,
and gives her two crisp five-dollar greenbacks. The color
comes into her pale cheeks.

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

189

" You pay me so much more than the copying is worth,"
she falters. "Oh, Mr. Gilbert, good, kind, faithful friend,
what would become of me and my babies but for you ? "

He stops her with a quick gesture.

" Hush 1 not one cent more than the work is justly worth.
And all is gone then, Mrs. Thorndyke ? "

" All ! all I " she says, drearily ; " long ago."

•* I know that your marriage portion was squandered the
first year, but ?4r. Darcy left you ten thousand dollars at
his death. It was left to you — he could not touch it. You
should have kept that."

" Should have kept it ! He could not touch it ! " She
laughs bitterly. '' My dear Mr. Gilbert, don't you know
that a married woman can be kicked or kissed into any-
thing? I will do Mr. Thorndyke the justice to say he
tried both methods while there was a dollar left. If it
were not for my children I would have left him long ago —
if it were not for them I could wish I were dead, Mr.
Gilbert." She lays her hand upon his arm and looks up
into his face with blue, glittering eyes. " I have read the
letter Mr. Darcy wrote him before he died."

"You have.*" the lawyer says, startled.

" I know the story of Norine Bourdon. Oh, Mr. Gilbert
if you were not more angel than man you would let Lau-
rence Thorndyke's wife and children starve before your
eyes I "

" Hush ! " he says again huskily, " for pity's sake,
Nellie. I only wish you would take the money without
the work. The betrayer of a loving and innocent girl is
in the hands of God — there I leave him. But for you — do
you not know that Mrs. Liston-Darcy has made a proposal
to me for you ? "

190

NORWE'S REVENGE.

" For me ? No. I know that she has arrived, that is all.
You have seen her, then ? "

" Not yet. Slie is coming to-day; I expect her every
moment. She sent me a note telling me of it. It is this:
when your life with your husl)iind becomes unendurable —
when he forces you to leave him, she is instructed to pro-
vide for you and your children. It was Mr. Darcy's wish
— it is hers. A iiome and a competence are yours any day
on that condition."

There was a tap at the door,

"Mrs. Liston-Darcy, sir," announced the clerk.

" I will go," Helen said, rising hastily. " The day when
I shall be glad to accept Mrs. Darcy's offer may not be
far distant. I cannot meet her now. You will send me
more work to-morrow ? Thank you a thousand times, and
good-by."

She flitted from the room. In the outer office sat a lady
dressed in a black silk walking costume, and wearing a
close veil of black lace. The next instant Mrs. Thorn-
dyke was in the street, and Mrs. Darcy was being ushered
into Mr. Gilbert's sanctum.

He looked at her curiously. Rather tall, slender, grace-
ful, elegant, that he saw, but — what was there about her
that so suddenly made his pulses leap ?

Still veiled, she sat down.

" I am a little late for my appointment," she began ; " I
was unexpectedly detained. I have not kept you waiting,
I hope ? "

He turned pale — he sat quite silent. He heard the
voice, but not the words : his eyes were riveted upon the
veil. Who waa this woman ?

" Mr. Gilbert," she said, falteringly, " I see you know me."

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

'91

She lifted her veil, and sat before him revealed — Noriiie.

Norine I After four years— Norine. A gray, ashen pallor
came over his face even to his lips. She trembled and
shrank before his gaze; she covered her face with her
hands and turned away.

" Forgive me 1 " she said, brokenly. " Oh, forgive me I
If you knew how I have suffered, indeed you might."

He put his hand to his head in a dazeil w.ay for a
second. Then, with a sort of shake, he aroused himself
to every-d.iy life .igain.

" Norine," he said, " is it indeed you ? Little Norine I
They told me it was Mrs. Liston-Darcy."

"It is Mrs, Darcy. I am Hugh Darcy's adopted
daughter."

He stared at her bewildered.

" You! Her name was Jane Liston."

" Her name was Norine Bourdon. There w.is no Jane
Liston. That was the name under which I was first intro-
duced into Mr. Darcy's house, by which I had been known
to the few of Mr. Darcy's friends whom I met, and, to
save endless inquiries, it was the name published from
first to last. Mr. Darcy knew all my story, knew all
about me. But you, Mr. Gilbert— it is very late in the
day to ask your forgiveness for the great wrong I did you
four years ago, but from my heart I do ask it."

She clasped her hands together with the old gesture

the dusky eyes filled and brimmed over. But if the famil-
iar gesture moved him, if the tears touched him, Richard
Gilbert did not show it.

"I forgave you long ago, Mrs. Darcy," he said, very
coldly : " pray do not think of me at all, and accept my
congratulations upon your great accession of fortune."

-t|;

193

NOKLVICX RElT.XCi:.

Her head drnppi'd, her checks (hishod. Those three
years had tli:iiij;ed her into a l)Laiiliful, self-possessed,
calm-eyed woman ; but her faltering voice, her drooping
head, Iier downcast eyes were very luimble now.

" I did wrong — wrong too great for forgiveness ; but if
suffering can atone for sin, then surely I have atoned.
Let me tell you the story of that bitter time. It is your
due, and mine."

He bent his head. With lips compressed and eyes fixed
upon the desk before him, he listened while she faltered
forth her confession.

" I had no thought of going that night when I left the
house. Oh ! believe this if you can, Mr. Gilbert — no
thought, as Heaven hears me, of flying with him. I was
in the carriage and far away, it seems to me, before I real-
ized it; and then — listening to his false words and promises
— it seemed too late to turn back, and I went on."

She told him the story of the after-time — of all — truth-
fully and earnestly, up to the night of her confession to
Mr. Darcy.

" He was like a man beside himself with fury," she said.
" Liston came to indorse my words and tell the story of
Lucy West. Then he swore a mighty oath that he would
never look upon Laurence Thorndyke's face again. So,
without a word, we went away — he and I, and Liston. No
father could be kinder, no friend truer. I believe the blow
hastened his end. We went to France, to Italy. All the
time he was failing. When he knew he must die, he told
me what he intended — he would make me his daughter
legally and leave me all.

" Mr. Gilbert, I had vowed within myself to be revenged
upon Laurence Thorndyke sooner or later. This was the

tshWMC."

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

193

bL'ginninji; of my rcvenpc. He imulL liis will, Iciiviiijr all
to me, except ten thousand dollais to llfleii 'i'liorndyke,
and an annuity to Liston. Three days after he died.

" Wiiat came after, you know — how Laurence Thorndyke,
with all his might, sought to have that will set .iside, and
how signally he failed. Mr. Darcy gave his reasons to you
and to him plainly and clearly. For his own crimes he
was disinherited. Mr. Darcy's fortune was, and is, mine.

" For the rest, these three years I have spent wandering
over Europe. I have come home to remain this summer
and winter, then I gi. back. I have come, too, to ask your
forgiveness and theirs down at home. Mr. Gilbert — it is
more than I ought to ask, but, — will you not say, ' I par-
don you' ? "

She held out her hands imploringly, her eyes full of tears.
He took them in his and clasped them for a moment, look-
ing straight into her eyes.

" With all my heart, Norlne ! With all my heart I wish
you well and happy ! ' "

Mr. Allison's house is a stately up-town mansion, brown
stone, stucco, and elegance generally ; and Mr. Allison's
house is all alight and alive to-night. Mrs. Allison gives
a reception, and fair women and brave men muster strong ;
and fairest, where all are more or less fair, is the youthful
and wealthy heiress of old Hugh Darcy.

Among the very latest arrivals comes Mr. I>aurence
Thorndyke. Time has been when bright eyes brightened,
fair cheeks flushed, and delicate pulses leaped at his com-
ing. That day is over. Time has also been when among
all the golden youth of New York none were more
elegant, more faultless of attire, than Laurence Thorndyke.

194

NORINE'S REVENGE.

That day also is over. Time has been when the most ex-
clusive, most recherche doors of Fifth avenue flew gladly
open at his approach. That day, likewise, is over. The
places that knew him, know him no more ; he is an outcast
and a Bohemian ; he drinks, he gambles, he is poor ; his
coat is gray at the seams ; bistre circles surround his eyes ;
his haggard, handsome face ttlls the stoiy of his life. Yet
the old elegance and old fascination of manner, linger
still. People rather stare to see him here. Mrs. Alli-
son frowns. She has flirted desperately with him
'• ages " ago ; but really bygones should be bygones, and Mr.
Thorndyke has gone to the dogs in so pronounced a man-
ner, and been disinherited for some dreadful doings, and,
really and truly, the line must be drawn somewhere, and
it is inexcusable in Mr. Allison to have asked him at all.

" No one invites him now," Mrs. Allison says, indignant-
ly. " Both he and Helen are socially extinct. They say
she takes in sewing, and lives in a dreadful tenement house
away over by the East River — and with dear Mrs. Liston-
Darcy here and everything ! Of course it can't be pleasant
for them to meet. He contested the will — if he should
make a scene to-night ! — good heavens ! No doubt he is
half-tipsy — they say he always is half-tipsy — and look at
his dress ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Arthur
Allison, for asking him ! "

" Couldn't help it, Hattie — ^give you my word now," re-
sponds Arthur meekly ; " he as good as asked me to ask
him, when he heard Mrs. Darcy was coming. And he wants
to be introduced, and I've promised, and there's no u^e
malang a fuss now. He isn't tipsy, and I don't believe
there will be a scene. I'll introduce him at once; the
sooner it's over, the better."

• '-ftftrf-jwatito^^^-v

AFTER FOUR YEARS.

195

He goes off uneasily, and leads Mr. Thorndyke into an
inner room, where a lady sits at the piano, singing. A
lady elegantly dressed in white silk, and violet trimmings,
with a white perfumery rose in her black hair. Her face?
is averted — Mr. Thorndyke glares vindictively at the woman
who has ousted him out of a fortune. She is a beautiful
singer, and somehow — somehow, the sweet powerful con-
tralto tones are strangely familiar. Can he have ever
heard her before ?

She finishes. Mr. Allison draws near the piano.

" Mrs. Darcy," he says, clearing his throat, " will you
allow me to introduce to you Mr. Thorndyke ? "

She is laughingly responding to a complimentary gentle-
man beside her. With that smile still on her lips she turns
slowly round, lifting up her eyes. And with a gasping
sound, that is neither word nor cry, Laurence Thorndyke
stands face to face once more with Norine.

mmm

CHAPTER XIX.

"whom the gods wish to destroy they first

MAKE MAD."

ORINE ! And like this, after four years, these
two meet again.

Norine ! His lips shape the word, but no
sound follows. He stands before her destitute
of all power to si->eak or move. Lost in a trance of wonder,
he remains looking down upon the fair, smiling, upturned
face, utterly confounded.

" I am very pleased to meet Mr. Thorndyke. By repu-
tation I know him well."

These audacious words, smilingly spoken, reach his
ear. She bows, taps her fan lightly, and makes some
airy remark to hei host. And still Laurence Thorndyke
stands petrified. She notices, lifts her eyebrows, and ever
so slightly shrugs her shoulders.

" Mr. Thorndyke does not spare me. To which of
my defects, I wonder, do I owe this steady regard ? "

" Norine ! "

The name breaks from his lips at last. He still stands
and stares. '

She uplifts her graceful shoulders once more — the old
French trick of gesture he remembers so well.

" I remind Mr. Thorndyke of some one, possibly," she
says — impatience mingled with her " society manner," this
time — " of some lady he knows ? "

*'WHOM THE GODS IVTSHJ' ETC. 197

" Of some one I once knew, certainly, Mrs. — Ah,
Darcy," he retorts, his face flushing angrily, his old inso-
lent ease of manner returning, " I am not sure that you
would call her a lady. She was a French Canadienne —
her name — would you like to hear her name, Mrs.
Liston-Darcy ? "

"It does not interest me at all, Mr, Thorndyke."

" Her name was Norine Bourdon, and she was like
— most astoundingly \\V^ you I So like that I could swear
you were one and the same."

" Ah, indeed ! But I would not take a rash oath if I
were you. These accidental resemblances are so decep-
tive. Mr. Wentworth, if you will give ir„ your arm, I
think I will go and look at the dancers."

The last words were verj' marked. With a chill, formal
bow to Mr. Thorndyke she took her escort's arm, and turned
to move away. With that angry flush still on his face,
that angry light still in his eyes, Laurence Thorndyke
interposed.

" Mrs. Darcy, they are playing the ' Soldaten Lieder.'
It is a favorite waltz of yours, I know. Will you not give
it to me ? "

She turned upon him slowly, a swift, black flash in her
eyes that made him recoil.

" You make a mistake, Mr. Thorndyke I Of what I
dance or what I do not, you can possibly know nothing.
For the rest, my time of mourning for my dear adopted
father has but just expired. I do not dance at all."

Then she was gone — tall, and fair and graceful as a
lily. And Laurence Thorndyke drew a long breath, liis
face aglow with genuine admiration.

" By Jupiter I " he said \ " who'd have thought it I In

1 98 NORTNE'S RE VENGE.

the language of the immortal Dick Swiveller, ' This is a
staggerer ! ' Who'd have thought she'd have had the pluck 1
And who would have thought she would ever have grown
so handsome ? "

" You do know her, then, Thorndyke ? " his host asked,
in intense curiosity.

Mr. Thorndyke had forgotten him, but Mr. Allison was
still at his elbow. His reply was a short, curious laugh,

" Know her ? By Jove ! I used to think so, but at
this moment I am inclined to doubt it. Have you not
heard her deny it, and ladies invariably tell the truth, do
they not ? * These accidental resemblances are so decep-
tive ! '" He laughed shortly. " So they are, my dear
Mrs. Darcy 1 Yes, Allison, it's all a mistake on my part,
no doubt."

He turned and swung away to escape Allison, and think
his surprise out. His eyes went after her. Yes, there she
was again, the centre of an admiring group of all that was
best in the room. Her beautiful dark face was all alight,
the black, beautiful eyes, like dusk diamonds, the waving
hair most gracefully worn — by odds the most attractive
woman in the rooms. Those years had changed her won-
derfully — improved her beyond telling. The face, clear
cut and calm as marble, the lips set and resolute, the
figure matured and grown firm. About her there was all
the uplifted ease, the ineffable self-poise of a woman of
the world, conscious of her beauty, her wealth, and her
power.

" And this is Norine — little Norry," Laurence Thorn-
dyke thought in his trance of wonder. " I can hardly
believe my own senses. I thought her dead, or buried
alive down there in the wilds of Maine, and lo 1 here she

•■

**WHOM THE GODS WISH;' ETC. 199

crops up, old Darcy's heiress — beautiful, elegant, and ready
to face me with the courage of a stage heroine — the woman
who has done me out of a fortune. This is her revenge I
And I thought her a love-sick simpleton, ready to lie
down and die of a broken heart the hour I left her. By
George! how handsome she has grown. It would be
easy enough for any man to fall in love with her now."

She meant to ignore the past, utterly and absolutely ignore
it — that he saw. Well, he would take his cue from her
for the present, and see how the farce would play. But
— was it Norine ? — that self-possessed regal-looking lady !
Could it be that those dark, calm, haughty eyes had ever
filled with passionate tears at his slightest word of re-
proach ? had ever darkened with utter despair at his go-
ing ? Could it be that yonder beautiful, stately creature
had waited and watched for him in pale anguish, night
after night, his veriest slave ? — had clung to him, white
wj.h direst woe, when he had seen her last? Proud,
uplifted, calm — could it be ? — could it be ?

" Norine, surely ; but not the Norine I knew — a Norine
ten thousand times more to my taste. But how, in Heav-
en's name, has she brought this transformation about?
Mrs. Jane Liston — old Liston's niece. I have it! I
see it all ! Liston is at the bottom of this. It is his
revenge for Lucy West ; and they have worked and plot-
ted together, whilst I, blind fool, thought him my friend,
and thought her too feeble, soul and body, to do anything
but droop and die when I left her."

Yes, he saw it all. Like inspiration it came upon him.
In his own coin he had been paid ; the trodden worms
had turned, and Lucy West and Norine Bourdon were
avenged.

^|m_|-g_||g__-|^-,^_|

200

NORTNETS REVENGE.

Mr. Thorndyke withdrew from every one and gave him-
self wholly up to the study of Mrs. Darcy. 'I'here was no
scene ; Mrs. Allison need not have feared it ; no gentle-
man present " behaved himself " more quietly or decorous-
ly than Mr. Laurence Thorndyke. How wonderfully she
had changed ! how handsome she had grown ! that was
the burden of his musings. And she had loved him once
— ah, yes — "not wisely, but too well." They say first
love never wholly dies out. He didn't know himself ; he
had had so many first loves — centuries ago, it seemed to
him now — they certainly had died out, wholly and entirely.
But with women it was different. Had she quite outgrown
the passion of her youth ? And if it were not for Helen,
who could tell — ,

He broke off, with a sudden impulse, and joined her.
For a moment she was alone, in a curtained recess, wield-
ing her fan with the languid grace of a Castilian, and
watching the daiicei-s. He came softly from behind and
bent his tall head.

" Norine ! "

If she had been stone-deaf she could not have sat more
perfectly still and unheeding.

" Norry ! "

No motion — no sign that she heard at all.

" Mrs. Darcy ! "

She moved slowly now, turning her "graceful shoulder,
and lifting the brown, tranquil eyes '.al to his face.

"Did you address yourself to me, Mr. Thorndyke?"

" Norine, there is no one to hear ; for pity's sake have
done with this farce. Norine I Norine I as though I
should not know you anywhere, under any name."

" Mr. Thorndyke," Mrs. Darcy answered, her soft, sweet

"WHOM THE GODS WISH," ETC. 201

voice singularly calm and clear, " if you persist in this
strange delusion of yours I shall be forced to throw my-
self upon the protection of Mr. Allison. As the disinherited
nephew of the late Mr. Darcy, I have no objection to make
your acquaintance ; in the light of a former friend I utter-
ly refuse to know you. I am Mrs. Darcy. If you insist
upon addressing me by any other name I shall refuse to
hear or answer."

There was no mistaking the tone in which it was said.
His eyes flashed blue fire.

" Take care ! " he said ; " even you may go too far 1
What if I tell the world Mrs. Darcy's past ? "

The dark, disdainful gaze was upon him still.

"Is that a threat, Mr. Thorndyke? I do not know
you, I never have known you. If you say that I have,
I am prepared to deny it, at all times, and in all places.
My word will carry as much weight as yours, Mr,
Thorndyke. I am not afraid of you, and if this is to be the
manner of our conversation, I decline henceforth holding
another."

She arose to go. He saw he had made a mistake. It was
no part of his desire to make an enemy of her.

"Forgive me," he said, humbly — "forgive me, Mrs.
Darcy. The resemblance is very striking; but I am
mistaken, of course. You remind me of one I loved very
dearly once — of one whose loss has darkened my whole
life ! Forgive me, and let me be your friend."

The scorn in the dark, contemptuous eyes ! — it might
have blighted him , but of late years Laurence Thorndyke
was well used to scorn.

"Friend?" she said. " No / I do not make friends
lightly. Acquaintance, if you will, for Mr. Darcy's sake

203

NORINE'S REVENGE.

— for the sake of your great disappointment pecuniarily,
I am willing to be that."

" It was deserved," he faltered, his eyes averted. " I
have repented — Heaven knows how bitterly. That I have
lost a fortune through my own misdeeds is the least of
my punishment."

She turned from him, sick — sick at heart with the utter
scorn she felt. As her gaze wandered away, it fell upon
another face — the face of Richard Gilbert !

He was watching them. As he met her glance he bowed
and walked away. A flush that Laurence Thorndyke had
not for a second called there, came vividly into her pale
cheeks.

" And for this craven — this hypocrite, I fled from him
— spoiling my own life and his forever. Oh, fool I
fool I What can he have but scorn and loathing for me
now."

She arose impatiently. All at once the presence of
Laurence Thorndyke had grown intolerable to her. W th-
out a word of excuse she bent her head to him sli(,htly
and frigidly and moved away.

Mr. Thorndyke was not offended. The course he meant
to pursue in regard to Mrs. Darcy was not yet quite clear.
This, however, was — he would not let her easily offend
him. His friend she should be. Who could tell what the
future might bring forth ? With all her girl's heart and
strength she had loved him once. A fatuous smile
came over his face as he glanced at himself in the mirror.
Not so good-looking as of yore, certainly, but late hours,
hard drinking, and the fierce excitement of the gaming-
table had wrought the evil. He would change all that —
go in for reform — total amendment of life — try sculpture,

"WHOM THE GODS WISH;' ETC. 203

and become a respectable member of society. Meantime
he would see all he could of Mrs. Darcy.

By Jove 1 how handsome she had looked — what thorough-
bred good style she was! .uid if— hidden under all this
outward coldness— the old love still lay, how easy for him
to fan the smoldering embers into bright flames. And
then— ?

A vision rose before him — Helen, in the shabby rooms
at home, writing far into the night, to earn the bread his
children ate. Whilst Helen lived, let his uncle's heiress
love him never so well, what could it avail him ? " There is
the law of divorce," whispered the small voice of the temp-
ter. " To the man who wills, all things are possible. Mr.
Darcy's fortune, and Mr. Darcy's heiress may be yours yet.
You have played for high stakes before to-night, Laurence,
my boy. Play your cards with care now, and you hold
the winning hand ? "

From that night a change began in Laurence Thorndyke
—began on the spot. Once more, that night, he had
spoken to Mrs. Darcy— then it was to say farewell.

" You have told me you will accept me as an acquaint-
ance," he said very quietly. " Life has gone hardly with
me of late, and I have learned to be thankful even for
small mercies. For what you have promised I thank you,
and — will not easily forget it."

She bowed— gleams of scorn in her dark, brilliant eyes.
So they had parted, and very grave and thoughtful Mr.
Thorndyke went home.

The change began. Less drinking, less gambling, better
hourfi. His wife looked on with suspicious eyes. She
had reason to suspect. When Satan turns saint, Satan's
relatives have cause to be on the alert.

204

NORINE'S REVEXGE.

Given up gambling and going to try sculpture ! Leon
Saroni lias given you the run of his studies, has he ? 1 don't
understand all this, Mr. Tliorndyke. What new project
have you in your head now ? "

"Going to turn over a new leaf, Nellie. Give you my
word 1 am," replies Mr. Tliorndyke, keeping his temper
with admirable patience. " Going in for legitimate indus-
try and fame. I nhvays felt I had a genius for sculpture,
I feel it now more than ever. Soon, very soon, you may
throw this beastly copying to tlie dogs, and we will live in
comfort once more."

The wonder and incredulity of his wife's face, as she
turned back to her writing, infuriated him. But he had
his own reasons for standing well, even with her, just at
present.

" Nellie," he said, and he stooped to kiss her, " I've
been a brute to you, 1 know, but — you care a little for me
still ! "

Her face flushed, as a girl's might under her lover's first
caress. Then she covered it with her hands and broke
into a passion of tears.

He soothed her with caresses.

" It will be different now," he said. " Forgive the
past, Nellie, if you can. I swear to do better in the
future."

Forgive I What is there that a wife who loves will not
forgive ? On her wedding-day Helen Thorndyke had
hardly been more blessed. With a glow on her cheeks and
a light in her eyes, strangers there for many a day, she
went back to her drudgery. And smiling a little to him-
self, as he lit his cigar and sauntered to his friend Saroni's
studio, Mr. Thorndyke mused :

»lVnOM THE GODS Il'/S//," ETC.

20$

"They're all alike — all I Ready to forp;ive a man seven-
ty times seven, let liim do as he may. Ready to sell them-
selves body and soul for a kiss! And what is true of
Helen shall be true of Norinc."

So Mr. Thorndyke set to work, and with untiring energy,
be it said " Deserted," he meant to call this production
of genius. It should tell its own story to all. The white,
marble face would look up, all wrought and strained in its
mortal anguish. The locked hands, the writhing figure,
all should tell of woman's woe. The face he had in his
brain — as he had seen it last down there in the light of the
summer noon. All was at stake here — he must not — he
would not fail.

And while Mr. Thorndyke chiselled .marble, Mrs. Thorn-
dyke copied her law papers. She had met Mrs. Darcy
more than once in Mr. Gilbert's office, and Mr. Darcy's
proposal had been laid before her. Her eyes had kindled,
her face flushed as she refused.

" Leave my husband ? Never ! Whatever his errors, he
loves me at least — has always been true to me. All other
things I can forgive. Mr. Darcy meant kindly, no doubt
— so do you, madame, but I refuse your offer, now and
forever. I will not leave my husband."

The gravely beautiful eyes of Mrs. Darcy had looked at
her compassionately.

" Loves you I " she thought — " always been true to you.
Poor little fool 1 "

For she knew better. She and Mr. Thorndyke met often.
Now that he had " gone in for " respectability and hard
work, old friends came back, old doors flew open, society
accepted him again. He was ever an acquisition, brilliant,
handsome, gay. Married, it is true, but his wife never

206

NORLVE'S REVENGE.

appeared. Truth to tell, Mrs. Thornclykc had nothing to
wear. Mr. Thonulykc in some way rejuvenated his ward-
robe, and rose, glorious as the Phoinix, from the ashes of
the shabby past. They met often, and if passionate
admiration — passionate love, ever looked out of man's
eyes, it looked out of his now, when they rested on
Norine.

It was part of his punishment, perhaps, that the woman
he had betrayed and cast off should inspire him with the
one supreme passion of his life.

She saw it all, and smiled, well content. She was not
perfect, by any means. Revenge she had bound herself to
have. If revenge came in this shape — so let it come.
Every pang he had made her suffer he should feel— as she
had been scorned, so she would scorn him. For Mrs.
Thorndyke— well, was it not for Mrs. Thorndyke she had
been forsaken. She was his wife, at least— let his wife
look to herself.

They met constantly. As yet he had never offended in
words. They were friends. She was interested in his
" Deserted " — she visited it in company with some acquaint-
ances at the studio. She had praised it highly. If she
recalled the resemblance to herself, in that day past and
gone, no word nor look betrayed it.

" It will be a success, I am sure," she had said ; " it is
so true to life, that it is almost painful to look at it."

Then he had spoken — in one quick, passionate whisper.

" Norine — forgive me ! "

The dark eyes looked at him, not proudly, nor coldly,
nor angrily now — then fell.

His whole face flushed with rapture.

" I have something to say to you. You are never at

**wiioAr THE GODS WISH;' etc.

207

home w/ien I call. Norinc, I implore you I let me see you
alone — once."

Over her face there came a sudden change — her lips set,
her eyes gleamed. Wiiat it meant he could not tell. He
interpreted it to suit his hopes.

" I will see you," she said, slowly. " When will you
come ? "

" A thousand thanks. This evening if I may."

She bent her head and turned from him.

" Whom the gods wish to destroy they first make mad,"
she thought. " I know as well as you do, Mr. Thorndyke,
what you are coming to say to night, and — I shall not be
the only listener."

He leaned in a sort of ecstasy against his own work.
At last I she would see him — she would hear how he had
repented, how he worshipped her, how the only hope that
life held for him, was the one hope of winning back her
love. Of Helen he never thought — never once. It seemed
so easy a thing to put her away. Incompatibility of temper
— anything would do. And she had the pride of Lucifer.
She would never lift a finger to retard the divorce.

Uta

CHAPTER XX.

norine's revenge.

Y DEAR MRS. THORNDYKE :— Will you
come and spend the evening with me ? Fetch
the little people, I shall be quite alone.

" Jane Liston Darcv."

It was not the first time such notes had come to the
tenement house — not the first time they had been accepted.
Laurence was always away. The late hours had begun
again. The evenings at home were so dreary. It was a
glimpse of the old glad life, before poverty and hard work
had ground her down. Yes, she would go.

Mrs. Darcy, very simply, but very prettily dressed, wel-
comed her. B.aby Nellie she took in her arms and kissed
fondly, but little Laurie, with his father's bold, blue eyes
and trick of face, she shrank from. The father she could
face unmoved ; the old pain actually came back when she
looked at the child.

As they sat, a pretty group in the gas-light, a card was
brought in. Mrs. Darcy put the baby off her lap and
passed the card to Helen.

" Your husband," she said. " He begged for this inter-
view, and — I have granted it. But I wished you to be
present. Whether I do right or wrong, 3'ou shall hear what
he has to say to me. You love and trust him still. You
shall hear how worthy he is of it. But first — have you ever
heard the name of Norine Bourdon ? "

NORINE'S REVENGE.

209

le
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" Norine Bourdon ! the girl whom Laurence — "

" Betrayed by a false marriage — for whom he was
disinherited. I am she."

" You ! " Helen Thorndyke recoiled.
. "It was Norine Bourdon, not Jane Listen, Mr. Darcy
adopted. Have you not then the right to hear what your
husband has to say to me ? But it shall be as you wish."

"I wish to hear," Helen answered, almost fiercely.
" I 7uill hear."

Norine threw open a door.

"Wait in this room. I will leave the door ajar. My
maid shall take the children. And be sure of this — neither
by word nor '00k shall I tempt your husband to say one
word more than he has come to say to-night."

Helen Thorndyke passed into the inner room. Norine
Darcy rang for the servant waiting without.

" Show Mr. Thorndyke up."

He came, bounding lightly and eagerly up the stairs,
and entered. She arose from her seat to meet him. In
full evening dress, his face slightly flushed, his blue eyes all
alight with eagerness, he had never perhaps, in the days
when she had adored him, looked so handsome as now.

She smiled a little to herself as she recalled thai
infatuation ; how long ago it seemed. And for this good-
looking, well-dressed, heartless libertine, she had gone
near to the gates of death.

"Norine!"

He clasped the small hand, shining with diamonds, that
she extended, in both his, his tone, his eyes speaking
volumes.

" Good-evening, Mr. Thorndyke. Will you be seated ?
Quite chilly for September, is it not, to-night ? "

2IO

NO FINE'S REVENGE.

She sank gracefully back into her easy-chair, the gas-
light streaming over her dusk, Canadian loveliness. She
made an effort to disengage her hand, which he still held
fast, but he refused to let it go,

" Mo, Norine I let me keep it. Oh, love, remember it
was once all mine. Norine I Norine ! on my knees I im-
plo' e your forgiveness for the past ! "

He actually sank on one knee before her, covering the
hand he held with passionate kisses. No acting here j
that was plain, at least. The infatuated man meant every
word he said.

" Forgive me, Norine I I know that I have sinned to you
beyond all pardon, but if you knew how I have suffered,
how the memory of my crime has made my whole life mis-
erable, how, to drown the torture of memory, I fled to the
wine-cup and the gambling-table, and to — "

" Marriage with Miss Helen Holmes, heiress and
belle. Oh, 1 know it all, Mr. Thorndyke. Pray get
up. Gentlemen never go on their knees nowadays
except in melodrama. Get up Mr. Thorndyke ; let go
my hand and sit down like a rational being. I insist
upon it."

" A rational being ! " he repeated. " I have ceased to
be that since your return. It is my madness, Norine, to
love you as I never loved any women before in my life."

She laughed, toying with the fan she held.

" My dear Mr. Thorndyke, I remember perfectly well
what an absolute fool I was in the days of our acquaint-
anceship four years ago. Even such a statement as that
might have been swallowed whole. But it is four years
ago, and — you will pardon me — I know what brilliant tal-
ent Laurence Thorndyke has for graceful fiction. To how

NORINE'S REVENGE.

211

many ladies in the course of his thirty years of life has
he made that ardenf declaration, I wonder ? "

" You do not believe me ? '"'

" I do not."

" Norine, I swear — "

" Hush-h-h I pray don't perjure yourself. Was it to tell
me this you came here this evening, Mr. Thorndyke ? "

"To tell you, Norine, what I am sure you do not know.
What I never knew myself until of late, that you and you
alone have ever been my wife ; that our marriage
was a marriage, legal and true — that you, not Helen, are
my lawful wife. To tell you this and much more, if you
will listen. From my soul I have repented of the past ;
how bitterly, none may know. I left you — great Heaven !
I sit and wonder at my own madness now; and all the
time I loved you as I never loved any one else. I married
Helen Holmes — ^yes, I cannot deny it, but what was I to do ?
I was bound to her, she loved me, ' my honor rooted in
dishonor stood,' and I married her. There is horrible
fatality in these things. While I knelt before the altar pledg-
ing myself to her, my whole heart was back with you. I
will own it— despise me more than you do already, if that
be possible — I married her for her wedding dower, and be-
cause I dared not offend Mr. Darcy. Wealth so won
could bring little happiness. I fled from home and her
presence to drown remorse and the memory of my lost
love in drink. So poverty came. I was reckless.
Whether you lived or died I did not know, I dared not
ask — in abandoning you I '^ad spoiled my whole life.
Then suddenly you reappeared, beautiful as a dream, so
far off, so cold, so unapproachable — ^you my love I my love 1
once my very own. You held me at arm's-length — you

212

NORINE'S REVENGE.

refused to listen to a word, and all the time my heart
was on fire within me. 'J o-night I have come to speak
at last. Norine, I have sinned, I have suffered, I have
repented. What more can I say ? I love you madly, I
always loved you. Say you forgive me, or I will never
rise from your feet ! "

Once more he cast himself before her, real passion, its
utmost abandonment, in every tone. She had let him rave
on, never moving, her cold eyes fixed upon him, full of
hard, contemptuous fire.

" You mean all this, Mr. Thorndyke ? Yes, I see you do.
And you love me — ^you always loved me, even when you
cast me off and married Miss Holmes, really and truly i "

" Really and truly ! I swear it, Norine ? "

" No — don't swear, please — it's against my principles
to encourage profanity. But isn't it rather late in the day
to tell me all this ? There is your wife — you don't care for
her, of course, but still you see she is your wife, in the eye
of the world at least. And a gentleman's wife is rather an
obstacle when that gentleman makes love to another lady."

The fine irony of her tone he did not hear — the scorn of
her eyes he did not see. The " madness of the gods " was
upon him — blind and deaf he was going to his doom.

" An obstacle, but an obstacle easily set aside. lu any
case I mean to have a divorce. I never cared for her —
there are times when I loathe her now. A divorce, with
permission to marry again I shall obtain, and then, No-
rine—"

He moved as though to clasp her. With a shudder of
horror and repulsion she waved him back. And still he
was blind.

" And your children, Mr. Thorndyke ? "

NORLXE'S REVENGE.

213

" That shall be as Helen wishes. I don't care for them
— never cared for children. She may keep them if she
wishes. If I had loved her it would be easy to love her
children. You consent then, Norine? It is as I hoped.
You forgive the past. You will again be my wife. Oh,
darling ! my whole life shall be spent in the effort to blot
out the past and make you entirely happy. You love me
still — say it, Norine '. "

He clasped both her hands vehemently. She arose to
answer. Before the words of passionate scorn on her lips
could be spoken the inner door opened and Helen Thorn-
dyke stood on the threshold.

•' Great Heaven ! Helen ! "

He dropped Norine's hands and staggered back. For
a moment he almost thought it her ghost, so white, so
ghastly with concentrated passion was she. She advanced,
— she tried to speak — at first the words died huskily away
upon her dry lips.

" I have heard every word," she panted. " You coward 1
You basest of all base cowards. Though I live for a hun-
dred years, these are the last words I shall ever speak to
you. Living or dying I will never forgive you — livii:g or
dying I will never look upon your face again 1 Norine 1 "

She turned to her suddenly :

" You offered me a home and a competence once, apart
from him. For his sake I refused it then — ^formy children's
sake I ask it now. I have no hope left but in you and —
Heaven."

Her head fell on Norine's shoulder with one dry, hard
sob, and there lay. Norine Darcy drew her to her side, her
arm clasping her closely, and so — faced Laurence Thorn-
dyke.

214

NORINE'S REVENGE.

" ' Every dog has his day'. It is not a very elegant adage,
but it is a true one. Your day has been, Mr. Thorndyke —
mine has come. For it I have hoped, and worked, for it I
have let you go on — for it I have listened to the words you
have spoken to-night — for it I concealed your wife yonder,
that she might hear too. You love me, you say — I am glad
to believe it — since a little of the torture you once made me
feel you shall feel in return. For myself all memory of the
past is gone. You are so utterly indifferent to me, so ut-
terly contemptible in my sight, that I have not even hatred
to give you. To me you are simply nothing. After this
hour I will never see you, never speak to you. For your
wife and children I will provide. You did your best to ruin
me, soul and body, because you hated Richard Gilbert. I
take from you wife and children, and what you value far
more — fortune. I think we are quits, and as there is no
more to be said, I will bid you good-night. Liston 1 show
this gentleman to the door, and admit him here no more."

Then Mr. Liston, pale of face, soft of step, furtive of
glance, appeared on the scene. Still clasping the drooping
form of the outraged wife, Norine moved towards the inner
room.

Thorndyke had stood quite still, his arms folded, listen-
ing to all. The game was up ! A devil of fury, of disappoint-
ment, would possess him by-and-by — just now he only felt
half-stunned. He turned to the door, with a harsh laugh.

" I have heard of men who murdered the women they
loved, and wondered at them. I wonder no longer. By
Heaven, if I had a pistol to-night you would never leave
this room alive, Norine Bourdon 1 "

<*a

CHAPTER XXI.

" THE MILLS OF THE GODS ORIND SLOWLY, BUT THEY GRIND
EXCEEDINGLY SMALL."

T the drawing-room window of the late Hugh
Darcy's old-fashioned house, Hugh Darcy's
heiress sits. It is a dreary November day, a
long, lamentable blast soughs through the city
streets — the two vestal poplars toss their green arms wildly
aloft in the gale, and the sleety rnin goes swirling before it.
At all times a quiet street, it is entirely forsaken to-day.
Far off comes the clatter and jangle of passing street-cars,
the dull roar of the city's ceaseless life. In this by-street
peace reigns.

Yet Norine sits by the window gazing steadfastly out at
the wet, leaden, melancholy afternoon. In her lap some
piece of flimsy feminine handicraft lies — on the table be-
fore her are strewn new books and uncut magazines. But
she neither embroiders nor reads — she lies back against
the crimson velvet of the old chair looking handsome and
listless, her dark, thoughtful eyes, gazing aimlessly at the
lashing rain. Now and then they turn from the picture
without to the picture within, and she sighs softly.

A bright fire burns in the steel grate and lights ruddily
the crimson-draped room. On a sofa drawn up before it,
in a nest of pillows, Helen Thorndyke lies so still, so white,
you might think her dead. But she is not even aslee*
although she lies motionless with closed eyes. Her
seems to have come to an end. Pride she has, an^"

2l6

NORIAE'S REVENGE.

upheld her, but love she has too, and pride cannot quite
crush it out. Since that fatal September night she has
been here — since that night his name has never passed her
lips ; these two women, whose lives Laurence Tiiorndyke
has marred, never tall< of him. She lies here and broods,
broods, broods ever — of the days that are gone and can
never come again.

On the floor near, little Laurie is building a house of
blocks, and squat in the centre of a wool rug baby Nellie
crows delightedly and watches the progress of the archi-
tect. So the minutes tick off, ind it is an hour since
Norine has entered the room.

In the library, before her entrance here, she has had an
interview with Richard Gilbert — it is of that interview and
of him she sits thinking now. Some business connected
with Mr. Darcy's estate has brought him, and she has
asked him, constrainedly enough, for news of Laurence
Thorndyke.

" I keep Liston on his track," she said, playing nervous-
ly with her watch chain. " Helen says little, but she suf-
fers always. And Liston's news is of the dreariest."

The strong, gray eyes of the lawyer had lifted sternly to
her face. No word of censure had ever escaped his lips —
what right had he ? but Norine felt the steady rebuke of
that firm, cold glance. He knew all, and she felt he must
utterly despise her now.

" He has fallen very low," Mr. Gilbert answered, briefly,

" so low that it is hardly possible for him to fall much low-

^r. In losing his wife and children he lost his last hold

respectability, his one last hope on earth."

''•'. deserved to lose them," Norine said, with a flash

'ack eyes.

''THE MILLS OF THE GODS," ETC. 217

"Perhaps so. From all I hear you should know best.
But if stern justice is to be meted to us all, after your
merciless fashion, then Heaven help us ! If vengeance can
gratify you, Mrs. Darcy, you may rest well content. He
has sunk as low as his worst enemy could wish. But —
you might have spared Helen."

Cold, cutting, the words of rebuke fell. He arose,
gathering up his papers, his face set and stern. Her
face drooped — she covered it with her hand, and turned
away.

" She at least had never wronged you," Richard Gilbert
pitilessly went on. " Have you made her any happier,
Mrs. Darcy, by taking her husband from her ? In spite
of his myriad faults she loved him— she trusted him, and
so, neither poverty, hard work, nor neglect could make
her altogether miserable. You led him on— led him on
from the first, in cold blood, working for your revenge.
And when you had crazed his brain by your smiles and
fair words, and allurements, you brought his wife here to
overhear the passion you had labored to inspire. You
madden her in turn, you take her from him, you order
him from your presence like a dog. You took from him
the one good angel of his life— his wife— and gave him up
boldly to the devil. He has earned it all, you have your
revenge, but— as I stand and look at you here, I wonder
— I wonder Myou can be Norine Bourdon."

A dry sob was her answer. He had poured forth the
words, passionate reproach in his voice, passionate anger
in his eyes. And she had shrank away before his just wrath
like a guilty thing.

"His home is a gambler's hell^his food and drink
are the liquid fire called whiskey ; his associates are the

2l8

NORINE'S REVENGE.

scum and refuse of the city. Mrs. Darcy, I wish you joy
of your wo.kl "

«' Spar^ mc," she faltered.

Mr. Gilbert looked silently for a moment at the bowed
figure, then took his hat and turned to go.

" I beg your pardon," he said, very quietly. " I had no
right to speak at all. My only excuse is, that I will not
so offend again. How is Helen ? "

" As she always is. She says nothing ; she lies and
suffers in silence. Will you not see her ? "

" Not to-day ; it is painful to me j I can see it is painful
to her, poor child. Good-afternoon, madam."

He bowed with formal coldness and was gone. So I she
had had her revenge, but was the "game worth the candle"
after all ? Is revenge ever worth its cost, she began to
wonder.

" Vengeance is mine, I will repay." Yes, yes, she was
beginning to see it all? And— Christianity apart — re-
venge, as we wreak it, after our poor light, is so apt to
recoil on ourselves.

So, Norine sits by the window now, thinking over this
pleasant interview and " chewing the cud of sweet and
bitter fancies." Much more bitter than sweet. Until she
had lost Richard Gilbert's good opinion utterly, she had
never known how she prized it.

jc'resently glancing back from the darkening day with-
out, at some lustier shout than usual of Master Laurie,
she finds Helen's large, mournful eyes fixed upon her.
She rises, crosses over, kneels down by the sofa, and kisses
tenderly the wan cheek.

" My dear," she says, " what is it ? "

" Is — ," she falters, " is there any news of him f "

''THE MILLS OF THE GODS" ETC. 219

" No news — only the old story. Nellie I Nellie 1 I begin
to think I have done grievously wrong."

" How, Norine ? "

" By bringing you here that night. I have been sinned
against, but I have also been sinning. I had taken the
fortune he prized so highly ; I should have been content
with that. But I was not. When I returned there was
no thought of him in my mind, except the hope that we
might never meet. We did meet, and when I saw his
growing admiration for myself, I — Nellie, forgive me if
you can — I did encourage it. I wonder at my own wicked-
ness now ; I am sorry, sorry, sorry. I know I should
never have brought you here that night. Badly as he
treated you, you were happier with him than you are now.
And I parted you. Nellie, forgive me 1 "

Something that was almost color flushed into the pale
face — something that was almost light into the blue eyes.
The soft lips set themselves firmly.

" There is nothing to forgive. I thank you for having
brought me here that night. Sooner or later I would have
known all. And I was not his wife he said — you were —
not I. ' In any case, I will have a divorce.' Have
you forgotten those words ? ' I never cared for her — I loathe
her now — I married her for her dower.' Have you for-
gotten that f He deserved all. I don't blame you. We
are only human, and I say again I am glad I know. I suf-
fer, but no blame attaches to you for that suffering. He
was treading the down-hill road before you came ; he is
only finishing the journey as it wou^i^ave been finished
in any case. I hate myself for my own misery. I hate
myself that I cannot tear every thought of him out of my
heart. But I think of the past, and I cannot."

220 NORINE'S REVENGE.

She broke clown suddenly, violently, passionately almost,
for the first time, into wild, hysterical weeping. Norine
took her in her arms, her own tears falling, and let her sob
her sorrow out. The paroxysm was brief as it was stormy.
She drew herself away suddenly, and buried her face,
among the pillows.

" Doi 't mind me, please," she said ; " don't talk to me.
I am ashamed of my own weakness, but — "
Norine kissed her very tenderly.

" I am glad to see you cry, Nellie— anything is better
than this dry, stony grief. I will take the babies down to
supper, and send you up yours. And Nellie, dear, you
must eat it j remember we start on a journey to-morrow."

The journey was to Kent Hill, where they were to stay
over Christmas and New Year. Norinj had made one
flying visit already — had been clasped in Aunt Hetty's .
arms, had kissed Uncle Reuben's sunburnt cheek, had
heard Uncle Joe's husky " Right glad to see you back,
Norry," and— thai, was all. She took the old place, and,
after one twilight talk, the past was never referred to.
Truthfully and simply she told them all, not even except-
ing the darkest part — her own revenge bitterly repented of
when too late. Now she and Helen and the children were
going down for a long visit. One other guest there was
to be— one who had spent every Christmas at Kent Hill
during the past four years — Mr. Gilbert.

" Christm'^s wouldn't seem like Christmas now without
him," Aunt Hetty said. " I don't believe there's his equal
in wide America. ^ gentleman from top to toe, if there
ever was one yet."

The children Aunt Hetty took to her motherly heart at
once— Helen's pale lips she kissed, and Helen was at

*'THE MILLS OF THE CODS," ETC. 221

liomc in five minutes, as thougii she li;i(l known them for
years. It was siicli a blessed, restful place — the tired
heart drew a great sigh of relief, and felt half its weary load
lifted off. For Norine — she was almost the Norine of old,
flying up and down breezy stairways, in and out breezy
rooms, the old songs rippling from her lips, until the
thought of the pale, widowed wife down stairs made her
check them. Then came winter — the first fall of snow—
the first gay sleighing. Little Laurie was wild with delight
— even Helen's pale lips learned to smile. Kent Hill was
working a transformation.

Christmas drew near, and among Norine's pleasnnt
duties came that of decorating Mr. Gilbert's room, '.he
old guest chamber, where he had spent so many happy,
hopeful nights in the time when he had loved her. He
despised her now. Ah, what a wretch she had been ! He
would despise her always. Well, she deserved it all ; it
didn't matter ; but — and then a heavy sigh finished the
thought. She was learning the value of what she had lost
when too late.

Christmas arrived — Mr. Gilbert arrived. And Helen's
wistful eyes looked into his face, and asked the question
her lips were too proud to shape.

" There is no news," he said softly, as he bent over her
chair ; " only the old news. He is well — that is the best I
can tell of him."

No more was said. Norine, proud and humble together,
rather avoided him. Still they were of necessity a great
deal togetlier, indoors and out, and, in the genial glow and
cheerfulness of the Christmas-time, the reserve of both
melted. It began to be like old times — the bright color,
the gay laugh, the light step, the sparkling eyes, the sweet

222

NORINE'S REVENGE.

singing, made Norine the very Norine of four years ago.
And Mr. Gilbert — but Mr. Gilbert was ever quiet and
undemonstrative ; his calm, grave face told little, except
that he was quietly happy ; that you could see.

Christmas passed, New Year passed, Mr. Gilbert went
back to New York. And suddenly a blank fell upon Kent
Hill, sleighing and skating lost their zest — the weather
grew colder, the dull country duller, and Mrs. Darcy, at
the close of January, abruptly announced her intention of
returning to New York also.

" If you are willing to come, Nellie," she said; "of course
if you would rather remain — "

"I would rather go," Helen answered. "I have been
happier here than I ever thought to be again, but I would
rather go."

That settled it. They went. And on the seco'id of
February Mrs. Darcy donned velvet and sables, and se^" off
for Mr. Gilbert's office. Was it altogether for Helen's sake
— altogether for news of Helen's husband? Well, Mrs.
Darcy did not ask herself the question, so no one else per-
haps has any right to do so.

Looking very fresh, very stately, very handsome, she
came like a bright vision into the lawyer's dingy office.
A little desu) .ory talk then — playing with her muff tassels,
she asked the old question :

" Was there any news of him ? "

" Yes," Mr. Gilbert answered this time ; " there is news.
He has been very ill ; he has been in a hospital ; some
blow on the head received in a drunken brawl. I hunted
him up the day he was discharged. A most pitiable object
I found him — penniless, friendless, and still half dazed from
the effects of the blow. I took him to a respectable

''THE MILLS OF THE GODS," ETC. 223

boarding-house, paid a montli's board in advance, and ob-
tained tlie landlady's promise to look after him a little more
than usual. He is there still, but gone back to the old
life. I fear all hope for him is at an end."

Norine's face had fallen in her hands.

" May Heaven forgive me my share in his ruin I Oh,
Mr. Gilbert ! it may not be yet too late. Who knows ? I
will go to him— I will beg his forgiveness— he shnll return
to his wife and children. Give me his address"— she
started impetuously to her feet, her face aglow—" I will
go at once."

He gave it to her without a word, written on a slip of
paper. As she took it, she paused and looked at him with
clasped hands.

" Mr. Gilbert," she faltered, " if— if I do this m\\ you

forgive me ? "

He laid his hand on her shoulder, almost as a father
might, more moved than he cared to show.

" I forgive you now," he answered.

She left the house, entered her carriage, and bade the
coachman drive to the address. Then with a glow of new
hope, new happiness at her heart, she fell back. Yes, she
would atone for her sin— she would labor with all her
strength to reform Laurence Thorndyke, to win forgiveness
from Heaven and her friends. Fifteen minutes brought
her to the street. Before one house a crowd had col-
lected, a suppressed murmur of infinite excitement run-
ning through the throng.

" It is the very house we are looking for, ma'am" said
the coachman, opening the door.

She could not tell why, but some swift feeling of evil
made her get out and join the crowd.

224

AVJiLXETS REVENGE.

"What is it ? " she breathlessly inquired.

" Man jumped from a three-story window and killed him-
self," was the answer.

She pressed forward, her hand on her heart — very pale.

" Why did he do it? " she asked.

" Del. trem., ma'am."

"Jim jams, misses."

" Delirium tremens, madam," interposed a gentlemanly
man, touching his hat. " He jumped from that upper win-
dow, stark crazy, not five minutes ago. Very sad case-
very sad case, indeed. A gentleman once. I knew him
well. Uis name is Laurence Thorndyke."

CHAPTER XXII.
"the way of thk transgressor is hard."

IHE stood for a moment faint, sick, stunned,
unable to speak or move ; then she pressed
foiward, still without a word, through the
throng. All made way for the beautiful,
richly-robed lady with the death-white face and dilated eyes.

"Wife," one whispered, falling away.

" Not his wife — his sister," another conjectured.

" Neither," a third said. " I know her. It's Mrs. Hugh
Darcy, his late uncle's adopted daughter. He has no sister,
and his wife left him long ago."

It is doubtful if she heard ; it is certain she never
heeded. All she felt or knew was that Laurence Thorn-
dyke lay yonder on the blood-stained flags, dying hard.
She was kneeling beside him — a bleeding, mangled heap,
crushed almost out of semblance of humanity.

" Laurence ! Laurence I " she gasped. " Oh, Heaven 1
not dead ! not dead I "

" Not dead, madam," a pitying voice answered — " not
dead yet. I am a physician, and I tell you so. He is
insensible at present, but consciousness will return. You
know him ? "

" Know him ! " She looked into the grave, compassion-
ate face with dazed eyes. " Know Laurence Thorndyke ?
What is it you intend doing with him ? " she asked.

10*

226

A'ORIJVE'S REVENGE.

The medical man shrugged his shoulders.

" Send him to Bellevue, I suppose, unless some friend
steps forward and takes charge of him. They won't want
him there " — signifying the boarding-house — " again. And
if he is sent to a hospital, I wouldn't give much for his
chances of life."

" There is still a chance, then ? "

"Well— you know the formula, 'while there's life there's
hope.' With the best of care, and nursing, and medical
aid, there may be one chance in a hundred for him. With
hospital care and attendance, there's not a shadow."

Then for the space of five seconds a pause fell. The
city street, the gaping, curious crowd around her faded
away, and there arose before Norine a far different and
never-to-be-forgotten picture — a desolate autumn evening ;
a gray, complaining sea, creeping up on its gray sands, a
low, fast-drifting sky lying over it, and on the shore a girl
standing, reading a few brief lines in Laurence Thorndyke's
writing— lines that branded her as a thing of sin and
shame for life — that broke her heart as she read. And
now — her enemy lay here at her mercy. Why should she
lift a finger to save him ? Why not let him go to the hos-
pital and take his chance ? All that man can do to ruin a
woman, body and soul, he had done — why should she lift a
finger to save him now ?

She thought all this in a moment of time. The tempter
stood at her side and rekindled all the pain, and hatred
and horror of him. Then her eyes fell upon the crushed,
bleeding, senseless form at her feet, and she turned from
the dark thoughts within her with horror of herself.

" Well, madam ? " the voice of the medical m;in said, a
little impatiently, " how is it to be ? You evidently know

" THE WA Y OF THE TRANSGRESSOR," &'C. 22/

this unfortunate young man — shall he be removed to the
hospital, or — "

" To my house ! " She rose suddenly, her self posses-
sion returning. " And I must beg of you to accompany
him there. No efforts mur>t be spared to restore him.
Carry him to the carriage at 3nce."

Men came forward, and t\ie insensible figure was gently
lifted, carried to the carriage, and laid upon the cushions.

Norine entered, and took his head in her lap. The
doctor followed.

" Home ! " she said to the coachman, and they drove
slowly back, through the busy streets, to the quiet, red-
brick mansion that for years had been Laurence Thorn-
dyke's home.

" How should she tell Helen ? " All the way that thought
filled Norine.

Through her the wife had left the husband. Was Death
here to separate them still more effectually .' Would he ever
have come to this but for her ? In some way did not this
horror lie at her door ? In all the years that were to come
could she ever atone for the wickedness she had done.

As she sat here she felt as though she were a murderess.
And once she had loved this man — passionately loved him.
" Fiercest love makes fiercest hate." He had cast off that
love with scorn, she had vowed revenge, and verily she had
had it ! Of fortune, of wife and child, and now of life, it
might be, she seemed to have robbed him.

" Oh, forgive me my sin 1 " her whole stricken soul cried
out.

They reached the house, the coachman and the physician
lifted the still senseless man and carried him to an upper
chamber. Summoning her housekeeper to their aid, Norine

'-■

55t

^11 1*^ w.i^Oi.iugig ;,;

228

NORINE'S REVENGE.

left them and went in search of the wounded man's
wife.

She found her in her own room lying listlessly, wearily,
as usual, upon a sofa, gazing with tired, hopeless eyes at the
fire, while her little children played about her. Kneeling
before her, her face bowed upon the pillows, her tears fall-
ing, her voice broken and choked, Norine told the story
she had come to tell. In the room above her husband lay,
injured it might be unto death.

" If he dies," Norine said, her voice still husky, her face
still hidden. "I shall feel, all my life-long, as though I
were his murderess. If he dies, how shall I answer to Heav-
en and to you for the work I have done ? "

Helen Thorndyke had arisen and stood holding by the
sofa for support, an awful ghastliness on her face, an awful
horror in her eyes. Dying ! Laurence dying ! and like this !

"Let me go to him I" she said, hoarsely, going blindly
forward. " You are not to blame — he wronged you beyond
all forgiveness, but I was his wife and I deserted him. The
blame is mine — all mine."

She made her way to the room where they had laid him.
On the threshold she paused, faint almost unto death. The
yellow, wintry sunshine slanted in and filled the chamber.
Upon the white bed he lay, rigid and ghastly. They had
washed away the clotted blood, and the face was entirely un-
injured. Worn, haggard, awfully corpse-like, it lay upon the
pillows, the golden, sparkling sunshine streaming across it.

" Laurence ! Laurence ! Laurence ! "

At that anguished cry of love and agony, all fell back
before the wife. She had crossed the room, she had fallen
on her knees by the bedside, she had clasped the life-
less figure ill her arms, her tears and kisses raining upon

« THE WA Y OF THE TRANSGRESSOR," Gr-C. 229

the still rigid face. All was forgotten, all forgiven, — the
bitter wrongs he had done her. Nothing remained but the
truth that she loved him still, that he was her husband, and
that he lay here before her — dying.

Dying ! No need to look twice in the physician's sombre
countenance to see that.

" He will not live an hour," he said, in answer to No-
rine's agonized asking look ; " it is doubtful whether he
will return to consciousness at all. There is concussion of
the brain, and several internal injuries — any one enougli
to prove his death. Mortal aid is unavailing here."

Dying ! Yes, even to Norine's own inexperienced eyes
the dreadful seal was yonder on the face among the pillows
His wife's arm encircled his neck, her face was hidden on
his bosom, a dull, dumb, moaning sound coming from her
lips. He lay there rigid — as if dead already — all uncon-
scious of that last agonized embrace of love, and forgive-
ness, and remorse.

The doctor left the room, waiting without in case his ser-
vices should be needed. Norine dispatched a messenger
to Mr. Gilbert, another for a clergyman. He might return
to reason, if only for a moment before the spirit passed
away.

" He cannot — he cannot die like this 1 " she cried out,
wringing her hands in her pain. " It is too dreadful ! "

The doctor shook his head.

" Dreadful indeed. But ' the way of the transgressor is
hard.' He will never speak on earth again."

Richard Gilbert came, almost .is pale as the pale remorse-
ful woman who met him. It was the physician who en-
countered and told him the story first. He entered the
room. Norine stood leaning against the foot of the bed.

230

NORINE'S REVENGE.

Helen still knelt, holding her dying husband in her arms,
her face still hidden on his breast. One look told him
that the awful change was already at hand.

And so, with the three he had wronged most on earth
around him, Laurence Thorndyke lay dying. Out of the
hearts of the three all memory of those wrongs had gone,
only a great awe and sorrow left. For Norine, as she stood
there, the old days came back — the days that had been the
most l)lessed of her life, when she had given him her
whole heart, and fancied she had won his in return. Old
thoughts, old memories returned, until her heart was full
to breaking ; and she hid her face in her hands, with sobs
almost as bitter as the wife's own.

The moments wore on — profound silence reigned through
the house. Once doctor and clergyman stole in together,
glanced at the prostrate man, glanced at each other, and
drew back. Priest and physician were alike powerless
here. The creeping shadow that goes before was upon
that ghastly face already Death was in the midst of them.
Without opening his eyes a sudden tremor ran through the
senseless form from head to foot. Helen lifted her awe-
struck face. That tremor shook him for a moment as
though the soul were forcibly rending its way from the
body. Then he stretched out his limbs and lay still.

wmmms^-

1 V !* ^ ^' r-

'^■/^^- 1 ^« ■,:'.; -J ^ '''1

CHAPTER XXIII.

"JENNIE KISSED ME."

IT is a bright but chilly May clay. In the lux-
urious sitting-room of Mrs. Liston-Darcy a coal
fire is burning, and in a purple arm chair before
this genial fire Mrs. Darcy sits.
She is looking very hanasome as she sits here, the bril-
liant morning sunshine streaming across her dusk beauty
and loosely-rippling hair — very handsome in her rose-pink
wrapper, with a soft drift of lace about the slim throat and
wrists. Very handsome, and yet a trifle out of sorts, too ;
for the dark, slender brows are contracted, and the brown,
luminous eyes gaze sombrely enough into the depths of the
fire. She sits looping and uniooping in a nervous sort of
restlessness the cord and tassels that bind her slender
waist, one slippered foot beating an impatient tattoo on
the hassock, her lips compressed in deep and unpleasant
thought. About the room, great trunks half-packed stand ;
in the wardrobe adjoining, her maid is busily folding away
dresses. Evidently an exodus is at hand.

" I cannot go — I shall not go until I see him," she is
thinking ; " it is only what I have richly earned, what my
treacherj- of the past deserves, but it is none the less hard
to bear. I cast off his love once, trampled his heart under
my feet ; he would be less than man to otTer it again to
one so treacherous and un'vorthy. And Nellie is an angel

232

NORINE'S REVENGE.

— who can wonder that he loves her? It is my just pun-
ishment when I have learned how good, how tender, how
noble he is, to see her win him from me— when I have
learned to love him with my whole heart, to see him give
his to her — to lose him in my turn."

She rises with an impatient sigh and walks up and down
the room, trying to crush out the bitter pain of loss— the
envy and rebellion that 7t'/7/ arise within her as she thinks
of Helen Thorndyke the wife of Ricliard Gilbert.

For it has come to this— that society begins to whisper
Helen will speedily doff the weeds of widowhood for the
pale flowing robes of the bride.

It is the second May following Laurence Thorndyke's
tragic death, one year and seven months have passed, and the
most desparing of widows will not despair forever. For the
last half-year, in a quiet way, Helen has been going out a
good deal, and is very much admired. And yet no wife
had ever grieved more deeply, passionately and truly than
Helen Thorndyke in the first dark months following her
husband's death. Remorse had added poignancy to her
natural grief and horror of his dreadful end, and she had
suffered how greatly, only Helen herself will ever know.
But that is nearly two years ago, and Helen is but four-
and-twenty, and

" Time, that blunts the edge of things,
Dries our tears and spoils our bliss."

Time had brought its balm to her, and she could eat,
drink and be merry once more. A great peace has fol-
lowed that tragic time, friends surround her, and foremost
and warmest among them, Richard Gilbert.

In the little cottage, presented her by Norine, where

*' JENNIE KISSED ME.""

233

Helen and her little ones dwelt, the lawyer was a very
frequent visitor. When Mrs. Thorndyke's doors closed
to all others they opened to him. And there Mrs. D.ircy,
a daily comer, met him at least two or three times each
week. It h.id been her wish, after Laurence Thorndyke's
death, that the stricken young widow should still make
her home in her house, but this Helen had refused. She
wanted to be alone, to hide herself somewliere away from
all eyes, and Norine had understood the feeling, and gifted
her with the pretty, vme-covered cottage outside the city's
noise and turmoil. There, with her babies, Helen dragged
through those first miserable months, and lived down her
first bitter agony of remorseful despair.

When the summer, with its fierce, beating sunshine
came they left the city's scorched streets and sun-bleached
parks, for the cool breezes and country sweetness of Kent
Hill. Thither Richard Gilbert, by invitation, followed.
The close intimacy between him and Helen never waned.
The children clung to him, and crowed with delight at
his coming. He seemed never to weary of their small
society. Was it altogether for all their own, or a little
for their mother's sake, Norine wondered, feeling her first
sharp, jealous pangs. He spent a month with them, then
went back. And when September, cool and delicious,
came refreshingly to New York, the two handsome young
widows, with the two little children, followed. In society
that winter, Mrs. Liston-Darcy, the millionaire's heiress,
was admired enorp-^usly. Not alone, for her bank
stock ; for her o.wn bonnie black eyes and rare piquant
loveliness. Many men bowed down before her, younger,
handsomer, more famous men than Richard Gilbert, but
her answer was to one and all the same. None of these

234

NOR INK'S REVENGE.

men touched her heart, to none of them was she inclined
to tell the story of her own dark past. It was a bond
between herself, and Helen, and Mr. Gilbert. In spite of
herself she had learned to love him, to know him, to value
him. She turned her wistful eyes to his face, but those dark,
lustrous looks had fooled liim once — he was not the man to
make himself any woman's puppet, and dance as she pulled
the strings. He saw nothing but that she was rich, far beyond
all riches of his, more beautiful with every passing year,
surrounded by young and handsome men, ready to marry
her at iny moment. She had flung him off, unable to
love him years ago. Was it likely that old, and gray, and
grim, she could care for him now ? He laughed, in a
dreary sort of mockery, at the bare tho Vt. Love and
marriage had gone out of his life for he must be

content with Helen's trust and friendship , ..ilsome more
favored man bore her off, too, with her children ; until
they also outgrew childish loves. That the world coupled
his name with hers, in t/nit way, he absolutely never
dreamed.

Another May had come, and Norine, wearied of it all,
and full of nameless restlessness, took a sudden resolution.
She would go abroad. In travel she would find change and
peace, and when Helen became his wife she, at least,
would not be here to see it.

As she walked up and down, deep in her own somber
thoughts, the boudoir door opened, and Helen herself
came in — she was passing these last days with her friend
— came in looking tall and stately, and very fair in her
trailing black dress, and most becoming widow's cap.

" Mr, Gilbert has come, Nory," she says. " Will you go
down or shall he come up ? "

''JENNIE KISSED MFJ'

235

A lovely rose pink flushes into Norinc's face. She keeps
it averted from Helen as siic replies :

" It doesn't matter, does it ? " with elaborate careless-
ness ; " he may as well come up. I wish to speak to him
on legal business. Susan, you may go for the present."

So Susan goes, and Mrs. Thorndyke returns to the
drawing-room and tells Mr. Gilbert, Norine will see him
up stairs. He goes up stairs, and appears presently be-
fore the mistress of the house, rather paler than usual if
she did but notice it.

"Good-morning, Mr. Gilbert," she says, coming forward
with outstretched hand and a smile. " I heard from Lis-
ten you had returned to t<iwn, and sent for you at once.
I hope you enjoyed your nip to Baltimore?"

"As much as one usually enjoys a flying visit, forced upon
one at a mos*: inopportune time, I went to make a will.
What is thi . N'ellie tells me ? You are going to Europe ? "

" Going to Europe. I am a restless, dissatisfied sort of
mortal, I begin to ihink — never so happy as when on the
wing. Mr. Darcy's death cut short my continental tour
before ; I shall make a prolonged one this time."

He was very grave and pale ; even she noted the pallor
now.

" You are looking ill," she said, drawing closer to him ;
" there is nothing the matter, I hope ? "

" Nothing, thank you. How long do you propose re-
maining away ? "

" Three years at the least."

There was a moment's silence. Norine broke it.

"You said just now your trip to Baltimore was to make
a will. I sent for you this morning on that same errand ;
I am going to make my will."

236

JVOH/JVrS REVENGE.

He lifted his eyes and looked at her.

" Your will ! " he repeated. •

" My will. No, don't look anxious, dear friend ; I don't
think I am going to die. Only, when one intends to spend
three years upon steamers and express trains, one may as well
be on the safe side. If anything should happen, it is well
to be able to give an account of one's stewardship. I want
to provide for Helen and the children. Helen may not need
any help of mine"— the steady, sweet tones shook a little—
" but it belongs of right to the children. Once it was to have
been all their father's. I shall only be giving them back
what is rightly theirs. I wish to leave all I have to them.
To-morrow, Mr. Gilbert, if you are not busy, I will go to
your office and make my will."

Then there was a long, strange pause. In her own
room adjoining, Helen Thorndyke sang softly as she
moved about. The sweet, soft words came clearly to
then- as they stood there :

" Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in.
Time, you thief I who loved to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad ,

Say that health and wealth have missed me.
Say I'm growing old, but add —

Jenny kissed me 1 "

Mr. Gilbert was the first to break the spell of silence.

" You are quite right," he said. " It can do no harm,
only — it will be trouble taken for nothing. You will pass
unscathed the fiery ordeal of steamers and express trains,
and," with a smile, " one day you will marry again and
make to-morrow's legal work null and void."

*' JENNIE KISSED ME»

237

" I will never marry."

She said ^t gravely, and a little coldly. He was watching
her — her eyes were steadfastly fixed upon the fire

" Never marry ? " he echoed, still smiling. " What will
the honorable member from Ohio say to that ? "

" You allude to Mr, More, I suppose," she said, still coldly.
" I am aware gossip has coupled our name :, and gossip is
about as correct in this instance as it usually is."

" You are not engaged to him, then 1 "

" I am engaged to no one. I care nothing for Mr.
More, in the way you mean. Even if I did, I still would
not dream of marrying him."

" And why not ? "

" Why not ? You ask me that — ^you who know the cruel,
shameful story of my past, the story I should have to tell."

" You were far more sinned against than sinning, and
you have atoned."

She looked up suddenly — a swift flash of light in her eyes.

" Mr. Gilbert I You say that 1 If I could only think so,
only hope I had atoned ! "

" You have indeed. I say it with all my heart. Your
revenge has been a noble one. You have blest and
brightened the life of Helen and her children. For him
— he wrought his doom with his own handl You have
atoned."

" To Helen and her children — perhaps yes," she said,
her voice broken and low ; " but the greatest wrong of all
was not done to them. Years ago I sinned against you,
beyond all forgiveness. The remorse of my life is for that.
You did me so much honor, you trusted me so entirely,
and I — ah ! what a wretch I must have been in your eyes,
what a wretch I must be still."

*- ^yjgg'-sBy'Kg^ag'»5-g; - ' J !.«(.i 8gi^ .r><aqgii-

238

NORTNErS REVENGE.

He arose to his feet, moved beyond all power of silence
now.

" Must be still," he repeated. " Norine 1 why do
you make me say this ? I love and honor you beyond
all women."

She gave a low cry, and stood with her hands clasped
together.

" I never thought to say it — ^you force it from me in self-
defence. I loved you then — I love you now. You have
never ceased for one instant to hold your place in my
heart. It is folly, I know, but folly you will not laugh at.
If you wronged me, Norine — and you have — I forgive you
freely, utterly, and I pray Heaven to make you happy in
the love of some happier man."

She stood spell-bound — the shock of surprise was so
utter, but over her face a great joy was breaking.

" And Helen ? " she gasped.

" Helen ? " he looked at her in wonder.

" Did you not know — can it be possible that — ^Mr. Gilbert,
the world says Helen is to be your wife ! "

His look of amaze and consternation was so great that
she laughed outright — Norine's own sweet, soft laugh.

" Good Heaven !" he said. "What preposterous non-
sense 1 Why, only yesterday Helen was urging me to
speak to you — the very folly I am guilty of to-day. She
was absurd enough to imagine I had still a chance left. I
speedily convinced her of the contrary."

" Did you ?" Norine said, a roguish smile dimpling the
pretty mouth. " But then Mr. Gilbert is famous as a
special pleader, and poor Nellie is so weakly credulous. I
don't believe you would find it so easy to convince me."

" Norine I " he stood still, his face pale, his eyes startled,

"JENNIE KISSED ME."

239

" for pity's sake what is it you mean ? Don't let me hope
only to fool me again ! I — I couldn't bear that I "

She came forward, both hands eloquently outstretched,
a smile quivering on her lips, tears in the dusk, lovely
eyes.

" Richard, see ! I love you with all my heart — I have
loved you for years. Let me atone for the past — let me
keep the plight I broke so long ago— let me be your wife.
Life can hold no happiness half so great as that for me I "

And then, as he folded her in his arms close to the heart
that would shelter her forever, Helen's happy voice came
borne to them where they stood.

" Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that hualth and wealth have missed me;

Say I'm growing old, but add—
Jemiy kissed me I "

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

CHAPTER I.

SIR Noel's death bed.

HE December night had closed in wet and
wild around Thetford Towers. It stood down
in the low ground, smothered in trees, a tall,
gaunt, hoary pile of gray stone, all peaks, and
gables, and stacks of chimneys, and rook-infested turrets.
A queer, massive, old house, built in the days of James
the First, by Sir Hugo Thetford, the first baronet of the
name, and as staunch and strong now as then.

The December day had been overcast and gloomy, but
the December night was stormy and wild. The wind wor-
ried and wailed through the tossing trees with whistling
moans and shrieks that were desolately human, and made
one think of the sobbing banshee of Irish legends. Far
away the mighty voice of the stormy sea mingled its hoarse
bass, and the rain lashed the windows in long, slanting
lines. A desolate night, and a desolate scene without;
more desolate still within, for on his bed, this tempestuous
winter night, the last of the Thetford baronets lay dying.

Through the driving wind and lashing rain, a groom gal-
loped along the high road to the village at break-neck

-'■■

244

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

speed. His errand was to Dr. Gale, the village surgeon,
which gentleman he found just preparing to go to bed.

" For God's sake, doctor," cried the man, white as a
sheet, " come with me at once. Sir Noel's killed I "

Dr. Gale, albeit phlegmatic, staggered back, and stared
at the speaker aghast.

" What ? Sir Noel killed ? "

" We're afraid so, doctor ; none of us know for certain
sure, but he lies there like a dead man. Come, quick, for
the love of goodness, if you want to do any service 1 "

" I'll be with you in five minutes," said the doctor, leav-
ing the room to order his horse, and don his hat and great

coat.

Dr. Gale was as good as his word. In less than ten
minutes he and the groom were flying recklessly along to
Thetford Towers.

" How did it happen ? " asked the doctor, hardly able
to speak for the furious pace at which they were going. "I
thought he was at Lady Stokestone's ball."

" He did go," replied the groom ; " leastways he took
my lady there ; but said he had a friend to meet from Lon-
don at the Royal George to-night, and he rode back. We
don't, none of us, know how it happened ; for a better or
surer rider than Sir Noel there ain't in Devonshire ; but
Diana must have slipped and threw him. She came gal-
loping in by herself about half an hour ago, all blown ; and
me and three more set off to look for Sir Noel. We found
him about twenty yards from the gates, lying on his face
in the mud, and as stiff and cold as if he was dead."
" And you brought him home and came for me ? "
" Directly, sir. Some wanted to send word to my lady ;
but Mrs. Hilliard, she thought how vou had best see him

S/H NOEL'S DEATH BED,

245

first, sir, so's we'd know what clanger he was really in be-
fore alarming her ladyship."

" Quite right, William. Let us trust it may not be serious.
Had Sir Noel been — I mean, I suppose he had beendining."

" Well, doctor," said William, " Arneaud, that's his vaky
de chambre, you know, said he thought he had taken
more wine than prudent going to Lady Stokestone's bail,
which her ladyship is very particular about such, you know,
sir."

" Ah I that accounts," said the doctor, thoughtfully ;
" and now, William, my man, don't let's talk any more, for
I feel completely blown already."

Ten minutes' sharp riding brought them to the great en-
trance gates of Thetford Towers. An old woman came out
of a little lodge, built in the huge masonry, to admit them,
and they dashed up the long winding avenue under the
surging oaks and chestnuts. Five minutes more, and Dr.
Gale was running up a polished staircase of black,
and slippery oak, down an equally wide and black and
slippery passage, and into the chamber where Sir Noel
lay.

A grand and stately chamber, lofty, dark, and wainscoted,
where the wax-candles made luminous clouds in the dark-
ness, and the wood-fire on the marble hearth failed to give
heat. The oak floor was overlaid with Persian rugs ; the
windows were draped in green velvet j and the chairs were
upholstered in the same. Near the centre of the apartment
stood the bed, tall, broad, quaintly carved, curtained in
green damask, and on it, cold and apparently lifeless, lay
the wounded man. Mrs. Milliard, the housekeeper, sat
beside him j and Arneaud, the Swiss valet, with a frightened
face, stood near the fire.

246

S/A' Avars HEIR.

" Very shocking business this, Mrs. HiUiard," siiid the
doctor, removing; his hat and gloves — " very shocking. How
is he ? Any signs of consciousness yet ? "

" None whatever, sir," replied the housekeeper, rising.
" I am so thankfid you have come. We, none of us, knew
what to do for him ; and it is dreadful to see him lying
there like that."

She moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination.
Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty passed ; then Dr. Gale turned
to her with a very grave face.

" It is too late, Mrs. Hilliard. Sir Noel is a dead man."

" Dead !" repeated Mrs. Hilliard, trembling, and holding
by a chair. " Oh, my lady ! my lady I "

" I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, " to restore
consciousness. He may last until morning. Send for
Lady Thelford at once."

Arneaud started up. Mrs. Hilliard looked at him, wring-
ing her hands.

" Break it gently, Arneaud. Oh, my lady ! my dear
ladyl so young, and so pretty — and only married five
months ! "

The Swiss valet left the room. Dr. Gale got out his lan-
cet, and desired Mrs. Hilliard to hold the basin. At first
the blood refused to flow — but presently it came in a little
feeble stream. The closed eyelids fluttered ; there was a
restless movement, and Sir Noel Thetford opened his eyes
on this mortal life once more. He looked first at the doc-
tor, grave and pale, then at the housekeeper, sobbing on
her knees by the bed. He was a young man of seven-and-
twenty, fair and handsome, as it was in the nature of the
Thelfords to be.

" What is it ? " he faintly asked. " What is the matter ?

I-

S/JJ NOEL'S DEATH BED.

247

" You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctor answered, sadly ;
" you have been thrown from your horse. Don't attempt
to move — ^you are not able."

"I remember — I remember," said the young man, a
gleam of recollection lighting up his ghastly face. " Diana
slipped, and I was thrown. How long ago is that ? "

" About an hour."

"And I am hurt? Badly?"

He fixed his eyes with a powerful look on the doctor's
face, and that good man shrunk away from the news he
must tell.

" Badly ? " reiterated the young baronet, in a peremptory
tone, that told all of his nature. "Ah ! you won't speak,
I see. I am, and I feel — I feel — Doctor, am I going to
die?"

He asked the question with wildness — a sudden hor-
ror of death, half starting up in bed. Still the doctor did
not speak ; still Mrs Hilliard's suppressed sobs echoed in
the stillness of the vast room.

Sir Noel Thetford fell back on his pillow, a shadow as
ghastly and awful as death itself, lying on his face. But
he was a brave man, and the descendant of a fearless race j
and except for one convulsive throe that shook him from
head to foot, nothing told his horror of his sudden fate.
There was a weird pause. Sir Noel lay staring straight at
the oaken wall, his bloodless face awful in its intensity of
hidden feeling. Rain and wind outside rose higher and
higher, and beat clamorously at the windows ; and still
above them, mighty and terrible, rose the far-off voice of the
ceaseless sea.

The doctor was the first to speak, in hushed and awe
struck tones.

248

S//1 AOE/.'S HEIR.

" My dear Sir Noel, the time is short, and I can do little
ornothinK. Shall I send for the Rev. Mr. Knight?"

The dying eyes turned upon hiin with a steady gaze.

•' How long have I to live ? I want the truth."

" Sir Noel, it is very hard, yet it must be Heaven's will.
Hut a few hours, I fear."

"So soon?" said the dying man. "I did not think —
Send for Lady Thotford," he cried, wildly, half raising him-
self again — send for Lady Thetford at once ! "

"We have sent for her," said the doctor; "she will be
here ver)' soon. But the clergyman. Sir Noel — the clergy-
man. Shall we not send for him ? "

" No ! " said Sir Noel, sharply. " What do I want of a
clerg)'man ? Leave me, both of you. Stay, you can give
me something. Gale, to keep up my strength to the last ? I
shall need it. Now go. I want to see no one but Lady
Thetford."

" My lady has come," cried Mrs. Hilliard, starting to
her feet ; and at the same moment the door was opened by
Arneaud, and a lady in a sparkling ball-dress swept in.
She stood for a moment on the threshold, looking from
face to face with a bewildered air.

She was very young — scarcely twenty, and unmistakably
beautiful. Taller than common, willowy and slight, with
great, dark eyes, flowing dark curls, and a colorless olive
skin. The darkly handsome face, with pride in every fea-
ture, was blanched now almost to the hue of the dying man's ;
but that glittering bride-like figure, with its misty point-lace
and blazing diamonds, seemed in strange contradiction to
the idea of death.

" My lady 1 my lady ! " cried Mrs. Hilliard, with a sup-
pressed sob, moving near her.

.S7A' AV/Cy:s DKATJI BED.

249

The deep, (lurk eyes turned 111)011 her for an instiint,
tlicn wandered buck to llie bed ; but she never moved.

" Ad;i," suid Sir Noel, faintly, "come here. The rest of
you go. 1 want no one but my wife."

'I'iie graceful figure, in its shining robes and jewels,
moved over and dropped on its knees by his side. The
other three quitted the room and closed the door. Husband
and wife were alone with oidy death to overhear.

" Ada, my poor girl, only five months a wife — it is very
hard on you ; but it seems I must go. I have a great
deal to say to you that I can't die without saying. I
have been a villain, Ada— the greatest villain on earth to
you."

She had not spoken— she did not speak. She knelt
beside him, white and still, looking and listening with
strange calm. There was a sort of white horror in her face,
but very little of the despairing grief one would naturally
look for in the dying man's wife.

" I don't ask you to forgive me, Ada— I have wronged you
too deeply for that ; but 1 loved you so dearly— so dearly I
Oh, my God 1 what a lost and cruel wretch I have been 1 "

He lay panting and gasping for breath. There was a
draught which Dr. Gale had left standing near, and he
made a motion for it. She held it to his lips, and he
drank ; her hand was unsteady and spilled it, but still she
never spoke.

"I cannot speak loudly, Ada," he said, in a husky
whisper, " my strength seems to grow less every moment ;
but I want you to promise me before I begin my story that
you will do what I ask. Promise I promise 1 "

He grasped her wrist and glared at her almost fiercely.
" Promise 1 " he reiterated. " Promise I promise 1 "

II*

250

S/H NOEVS HEIR.

" I promise," she said, with white lips.

" May Heaven deal with you, Ada Thetford, as you keep
that promise. Listen now."

The wild night wore on. The cries of the wind in the
trees grew louder and wilder and more desolate. The
rain beat against the curtained glass; the candles
guttered and flared ; the wood-fire flickered and died
out. And still, while hour after hour passed, Ada,
Lady Thetford, in her lace and silk and jewels, knelt
beside her young husband, and listened to the dark
and shameful story he had to tell. She never once faltered,
she never spoke nor stirred ; but her face was whiter than
her dress, and her great dark eyes dilated with a horror
too intense for words.

The voice of the dying man sank lower and lower — it
fell to a dull, choking whisper at last.

" You have heard all," he said, huskily.

"All?"

The word dropped from her lips like ice — the frozen
look of blank horror never left her face.

*• And you will keep your promise ? "

"Yes."

"God bless you ! I can die now. Oh, Ada! I cannot
ask you to forgive me ; but I love you so much — so much 1
Kiss me once, Ada, before I go."

His voice failed even with the words. Lady Thetford
bent down and kissed him, but her lips were as cold and
white as his own.

They were the last words Sir Noel Thetford ever spoke.
The restless sea was sullenly ebbing, and the soul of the
man was floating away with it. The gray, chill light of a
new day was dawning over the Devonshire fields, rainy

^■

J ji. i imi n Htiat-W-j ' HJHHm'-Mu ^ k

SIR NOEVS DEATH BED.

251

and raw, and with its first pale ray the soul of Noel Tliet
ford, baronet, left the earth forever.

An hour later, Mrs. Hilliard and Dr. Gale ventured to
enter. They had rapped again and again ; but there had
been no response, and alarmed they had come in. Stark
and rigid already lay what was mortal of the Lord of
Thetford Towers j and still on her knees, with that frozen
look on her face, knelt his living wife.

" My lady 1 my lady I " cried Mrs. Hilliard, her tears
falling like rain. " Oh 1 my dear lady, come away 1 "

She looked up ; then again at the marble iorm on the
bed, and, without word or cry, slipped back in the old
housekeeper's arms in a dead faint.

CHAPTER II.

CAPT. EVERARD.

IT was a very grand and stately ceremonial, that
funeral procession from Thetford Towers. A
week after that stormy Decembv^r night they

laid Sir Noel Thetford in the family vault, where

generation after generation of his race slept their last long
sleep. The gentry for miles around were there ; and
among them came the heir-at-law, the Rev. Horace
Thetford, only an obscure country curate now, but failing
male heirs to Sir Noel, successor to the Thetford estate,
and fifteen thousand a year.

In a bed-chamber, luxurious as wealth can make a room,
lay Lady Thetford, dangerously ill. It was not a brain
fever exactly, but something very like it into which she
had fallen, coming out of that death-like swoon. It was all
very sad and shocking— the sudden death of the gay and
handsome young baronet, and the serious illness of his
poor wife. The funeral oration of the Rev. Mr. Knight,
rector of St. Gosport, from the words, " In the midst of life
we are in death," was most eloquent and impressive ; and
women with tender hearts shed tears, and men listened
with grave, sad faces. It was such a little while, only
five short months, since the wedding-bells had rung, and
there had been bonfires and feasting throughout the vil-

w>< <Wf .

CAPT. EVERARD.

253

lage ; and Sir Noel, looking so proud and so happy, had
driven up to the illuminated hall with his handsome bride.
Only five months ; and now — and now.

The funeral was over, and everybody had gone back
home — everybody but the Rev. Horace I'hetford, who
lingered to see the result of my lady's illness, and if she
died, to take possession of his estate. It was unutterably
dismal in the dark, hushed old house with Sir Noel's ghost
seeming to haunt every room — very dismal and ghastly
this waiting to step into dead people's shoesf- But then
there was fifteen thousand a year, and the finest place in
Devonshire ; and the Rev, Horace would have facet' a
whole regiment of ghosts, and lived in a vault for that.

But Lady Thetford did not die. Slowly but surely, the
fever that had worn her to a shadow left her ; and, by
and by, when the early primroses peeped through the frost
blackened earth, she was able to come down stairs — to
come down feeble and frail and weak, colorless as death,
almost as silent and cold.

The Rev. Horace went back to Yorkshire, yet not en-
tirely in despair. Female heirs could not inherit Thetford
— he stood a chance yet; and the pale young widow
was left alone in the dreary old mansion. People were
very sorry for her, and came to see her, and begged her to
be resigned to her great loss ; and Mr. Knight preached
endless homilies on patience, and hope, and submission,
and Lady Thetford listened to them just as if they had
been talking Greek. She never spoke of her dead husband
— she shivered at the mention of his name ; but that night
at his dying bed had changed her as never woman changed
before. From a bright, ambitious, pleasure-loving girl,
she had grown into a silent, haggard, hopeless woman.

254

SIR NOEVS HEIR.

All the sunny spring days she sat by the window of her
boudoir, gazing at the misty, boundless sea, pale and mute
— dead in life.

The friends who came to see her, and Mr. Knight, the
rector, were a little puzzl»d by this abnormal case, but
very sorry for the mournful young widow, and disposed to
think better of her than ever before. It must surely have
been the vilest slander that she had not cared for her hus-
band, that she had married him only for his wealth and
title ; and that young soldier — that captain of dragoons —
must have been a myth. She might have been engaged
to him, of course, before Sir Noel came, that seemed to be
an undisputed fact ; and she might have jilted him for a
wealthier lover, that was all a common case. But she
must have loved her husband very dearly, or she never
would have been broken-hearted like this at his loss.

Spring deepened into summer. The June roses in the
flower gardens of Thetford were in rosy bloom, and my
lady was ill again— very, very ill. There was an eminent
physician down from London, and there was a frail little
mite of babyhood lying amongst lace and flannel ; and
the eminent physician shook his head, and looked portent-
ously grave as he glanced from the crib to the bed.
Whiter than the pillows, whiter than snow, Ada, Lady
Thetford, lay, hovering in the Valley of the Shadow of
Death ; that other feeble little life seemed flickering, too
— it was so even a toss-up between the great rival po' <;rs,
Life and Death, that a straw might have turned the scale
either way. So slight being that baby-hold of gasping
breath, that Mr. Knight, in the absence of any higher
authority, and in the unconsciousness of the mother, took
upon himself to baptize it. So a china bowl was brought,

•TSSBI

CAPT. EVERARD.

255

and Mrs. Hilliard held the bundle of flannel, and long,
white robes, and the child was named — the name which
the mother had said weeks ago it was to be called, if a boy
— Rupert Noel Thetford j for it was a male heir, and the
Rev. Horace's cake was dough.

Days went by, weeks, months, and to the surprise of the
eminent physician neither mother nor child died. Sum-
mer waned, winter returned ; the anniversary of Sir
Noel's death came round, and my lady was able to walk
down stairs, shivering in the warm air under all her wraps.
She had expressed no pleasure or thankfulness in her own
safety, or that of her child. Shf* had asked eagerly if it
were a boy or a girl ; and hearing its sex, had turned her
face to the wall, and lay for hours and hours speechless
and motionless. Yet it was very dear to her, too, by fits
and starts. She would hold it in her arms half a
day, sometimes covering it with kisses, with jealous,
passionate lo- e, crying over it, and half smothering it with
caresses ; and then, again, in a fit of sullen apathy, would
resign it to its nurse, and not ask to see it for hours. It
was very strange and inexplicable, her conduct, altogether ;
more especially, as with her return to health came no
return of cheerfulness or hope. The dark gloom that
overshadowed her life seemed to settle into a chronic dis-
ease, rooted and incurable. She never went out ; she re-
turned no visits ; she gave no invitations to those who
came to repeat theirs. Gradually people fell off; they
grew tired of that sullen coldness in which Lady Thetford
wrapped herself as in a mantle, until Mr. Knight and Dr.
Gale grew to be almost her only visitors. " Mariana, in
the Moated Grange," never led a more solitary and dreary
existence than the handsome young widow, who dwelt a

(
1

256 SIR NOEVS HEIR.

recluse at Thetford Towers. For she was very handsome
s ill, of a pale moonlight sort of beauty, the great, dark
eyes and abundant dark hair, making her fixed and
changeless pallor all the more remarkable.

Months and seasons went by. Summers followed
winters, and Lady Thetford still buried herself alive in the
gray old manor — and the little heir was six years old. A
delicate child still, puny and sickly, petted and spoiled,
indulged in every childish whim and caprice. His
mother's image and idol — no look of the fair-haired, san-
guine, blue-eyed Thetford sturdiness in his little, pinched,
pale face, large, dark eyes, and crisp, black ringlets. The
years had gone by like a slow dream ; life was stagnant
enough in St. Gosport, doubly stagnant at Thetford Towers,
whose mistress rarely went abroad beyond her own gates,
save when she took her little son out for an airing in the
pony-phaeton.

She had taken him out for one of those airings on a
July afternoon, when he had nearly accomplished his
seventh year. They had driven seaward some miles from
the manor-house, and Lady Thetford and her little boy
had got out, and were strolling leisurely up and down the
hot, white sands, whilst the groom waited with the pony-
phaeton just within sight.

The long July afternoon wore on. The sun that had
blazed all day like a wheel of fire, dropped lower and
lower into the crimson west. The wide sea shone red with
the reflections of the lurid glory in the heavens, and the
numberless waves glittered and flashed as if sown with
stars. A faint, far-off breeze swept over the sea, salt and
cold ; and the fishermen's boats danced along with the
red sunset glinting on their sails.

CAPT. EVERARD.

257

Up and clown, slowly and thoughtfully, tlie lady walked,
her eyes fixed on the wide sea. As the rising breeze met
her, shi', drew the scarlet shawl she wore over her black silk
dress closer around her, and glanced at her boy. The
little fellow was running over the sands, tossing pebbles
into the sarf, and hunting for shells ; and her eyes left
him and wa.-.dered once more to the lurid splendor of that
sunset on the st.x It was very quiet here, with no living
thing in sight but themselves ; so the lady's start of aston-
ishment was natural when, turning an abrupt angle in the
path leading to the shore, she saw a man coming towards
her over the sands. A tall, powerful-looking man of thirty,
bronzed and handsome, and with an unmistakably military
air, although in plain black clothes. The lady took a second
look, then . .ood stock still, and gazed like one in a dream.
The man approached, lifted his hat, and stood silent and
grave before her.

" Captain Everard ! "

"Yes, Lady Thetford — after eight years — Captain
Everard once more."

The deep, strong voice suited the bronzed, grave face,
and both had a peculiar power of their own. Lady Thet-
ford, very, very pale, held out one fair jewelled hand.

" Captain Everard, I am very glad to see you again."

He bent over the little hand a moment, then dropped it,
and stood looking at her silent.

" I thought you were in India," she said, trying to be at
ease. " When did you return ? "

" A month ago. My wife is dead. I, too, am widowed,
Lady Thetford."

"I am very sorry to hear it," she said, gravely. "Did
she die in India ? "

258

SIR NOEVS HEIR.

" Yes ; and I have come home with my little daughter."

" Your daughter 1 Then she left a child ? "

" One. It is on her account I have come. The climate
killed her mother. I had mercy on her daughter, and
have brought her home."

" I am sorr}' for your wife. Why did she remain in
India ? "

" Because she preferred death to leaving me. She loved
me, Lady Thetford."

His powerful eyes were on her face — that pale, beautiful
face, into which the blood came for an instant- at his words.
She looked at him, then away over the darkening sea.

" And you, my lady — you gained the desire of your
heart, wealth, and a title ? Let me hope they have made
you a happy woman."

" I am not happy."

" No ? But yoa have been — ^you were while Sir Noel
lived ? "

" My husband was very good to me. Captain Everard.
His death was the greatest misfortune that could have
befallen me."

" But you are young, you are free, you are rich, you are
beautiful. You may wear a coronet next time."

His face and glance were so darkly grave, that the
covert sneer was almost hidden. But she felt it.

" I shall never marry again. Captain Everard."

" Never ? You surprise me ! Six years — nay, seven, a
widow, and with innumerable attractions. Oh 1 you can-
not mean it."

She made a sudden, passionate gesture — looked at him,
then away.
" It is useless — ^worse than useless, folly, madness, to

CAPT. EVERARD.

259

lift the veil from the irrevocable past. But don't you
think, don't you, Lady Thetford, that you might have been
equally happy if you had married mei"

She made no reply. She stood gazing seaward, cold
and still.

" I was madly. Insanely, absurdly in love with pretty Ada
Vandeleur in those days, and I think I would have made
her a good husband ; better. Heaven forgive me, than I
ever made my poor dead wife. But you were wise and
ambitious, my pretty Ada, and bartered your black eyes
and raven ringlets to a higher bidder. You jilted me in
cold blood, poor love sick devil that I was, and reigned
resplendent as my Lady Thetford. Ah ! you knew how
to choose the better part, my pretty Ada."

"Captain Everard, I am sorry for the past — I have
atoned, if suffering can atone. Have a little pity, and
speak of it no more!"

He stood and looked at her silently, gravely. Then
he said in a voice deep and calm,

" We are both free. Will you marry me now, Ada? "

" I cannot."

" But I love you— I have always loved you. And you
— I used to think you loved me."

He was strangely calm and passionless, voice and glance,
and face. But Lady Thetford had covered her face, and
was sobbing.

" I did — I do — I always have ! But I cannot marry
you. 1 will love you all my life ; but don't, dotCt ask me
to be your wife."

" As you please I " he said, in the same passionless
voice. " I think it is best myself j for the George Everard
of to-day is not the George Everard who loved you eight

260

S//i NOEL'S HEIR.

years ago. We would not be happy — I know that. Ada,
is that your son ? "
"Yes."

•' I should like to look at him. Here, my little baronet 1
I want to see you."

The boy, who had been looking curiously at the stranger,
ran up at a sign from his mother. The tall captain lifted
him in his arms and gazed in his small, thin face, with
which his bright tartan plaid contrasted harshly.

" He hasn't a look of the Thetfords. He is your own
son, Ada. My little baronet, what is your name ? "

" Sir Rupert Thetford," answered the child, struggling
to get free. " Let me go — I don't know you 1 "

The captain set him down with a grim smile ; and the
boy clung to his mother's skirts, and eyed the tall stranger
askance.

" I want to go home, mamma. I'm tired and hungry."
" Presently, dearest. Run to William, he has cakes for
you. Captain Everard, I shall be happy to have you at
dinner."

" Thanks ; but I must decline. I go back to London
to-night. I sail for India again in a week."
" So soon ! I thought you meant to remain."
"Nothing is further from my intention. I merely
brought my little girl over to provide her a home ; that is
why I have troubled you. Will you do me this kindness,
Lady Thetford?"

" Take your little girl ? Oh I most gladly— most willing-
ly."

"Thanks. Her mother's people are French, and I
know little about them ; and, save yourself, I can claim
friendship with few in England. She will be poor; I

CAPT. EVEJiARD.

:r,i

have settled on her all I am worth— some three hiiiulred a
year; and you, Lady Thetford, you teach her, when
she grows up, to catch a rich husband."

She took no notice of the taunt ; she looked only too
happy to render him this service.

" I am so pleased I She will be such a nice companion
for Rupert. How old is she ? "

" Near\y four."

" Is she here ? "

" No J she is in London. I will fetch her down in a
day or two."

"What do you call her?"

" Mabel— after her mother. Then it is settled, Lady
Thetford, I am to fetch her ? "

" I shall be delighted. But won't you dine with me ? "

" No. I must catch the evening train. Farewell, Lady
Thetford, and many thanks. In three days I will be
here again."

He lifted his hat, and walked away. Lady Thetford
watched him out of sight, and then turned slowly, as she
heard her little boy calling to her with shrill impatience.
The red sunset had faded out ; the sea lay gray and cold
under the twilight sky ; and the evening breeze was chill.
Changes in sky, and sea, and land, told of coming night ;
and Lady Thetford, shivering slightly in the rising wind,
hurried away to be driven home.

CHAPTER III.

"little may.

N the eveniiip of the third day after this inter-
view, a fly from the railway drove up the long,
winding avenue leading to the great front en-

_ trance of the Thelford mansion. A bronzed

military gentleman, a nurse, and a little girl, occupied the
fly, and the gentleman's keen, dark eyes wandered search-
ingly around. Swelling meadows, velvety lawns, sloping
terraces, waving trees, bright flower-gardens quaint old
fish-ponds, sparling fountains, a wooded park, with
sprightly deer — that was what he saw, all bathed in the gold-
en halo of the summer sunset. Massive and grand, the
old house reared its gray head, half overgrown with ivy
and climbing roses. Gaudy peacocks strutted on
the terraces ; a graceful gazelle flitted out for an instant
amongst the trees to look at them, and then fled in af-
fright ; and the barking of half a dozen mastiffs greeted
their approach noisily.

" A fine place," thought Capt. Everard. " My pretty
Ada might have done worse. A grand old place for that
puny child to inherit. The staunch old warrior-blood of
the Thetfords is sadly adulterated in his pale veins, I
fancy. Well, my little M.ay, and how are you going to like
all this?"

" UTTLK AfA K"

263

The child, a bright-faced little creature, with great, rest-
less, sparkling eyes, and rose-bloom checks, was looking
in delij:!ht at a distant terrace.

"See, papa I See all the pretty peacocks I Look, Kllen,"
to the nurse, " three, four, five ! Oh, how pretty ! "

"Then little May will like to live here, where she can
see pretty peacocks every day ? "

•* And all the pretty flowers, and the water, and the little
boy — Where's the little boy, papa?"

" In the house — you'll see him presently j but you must
be very good, little May, and not pull his hair, and scratch
his face, and put your fingers in his eyes, as you used to do
with Willie Brandon. Little May must learn to be good."

Little May put one rosy finger in her mouth, and set her
head on one side like a defiant canary. She was one of
the prettiest little fairies imaginable, with her pale flaxen
curls, sparkling light-gray eyes, and apple-blossom com-
plexion J but she was evidently as much spoiled as small
Sir Rupert Thetford himself.

Lady Thetford sat in the long drawing-room, after her
solitary dinner, and little Sir Rupert played with his rock-
ing-horse, and a pile of picture-books in a remote corner.
The young widow lay back in the violet-velvet depths of a
carved and gilded lounging-chair very simply dressed in black
and crimson, but looking very fair and stately withal.
She was watching her boy with a half smile on her face,
when a footman entered with Captain Everard's card. Lady
Thetford looked up eagerly.

" Show Captain Everard up at once."

The footman bowed and disappeared. Five minutes
later, and the tall captain and his little daughter stood be-
fore her.

^ ''< «ay . t itl i , m„

264

S/H AOEVS HEIR.

"At last I " said Lady Thetford, rising and holding out
her hand to her old lover, with a smile that reminded him
of others days — " at last, when I was growing tired wait-
ing. Ai.d this is your little girl — my little girl from hence-
forth ? Come here, my pet, and kiss your new mamma."

She bent over the little one, kissing the pink cheek and
rosy lips.

"jShe is fair and tiny — a very fairy ; but she resembles
you, nevertheless. Captain Everard."

" In temper — yes," said the captain. " You will find
her spoiled, and wilful, cross, and capricious, and no end
of trouble. Won't she. May ? "

" She will be the better match for Rupert on that account,"
Lady Thetford said, smiling, and unfastening little Miss
Everard's wraps with her own fair fingers. " Come here,
Rupert, an<^ welcome your new sister."

The young baronet approached, and dutifully kissed
little May, who put up her rose-bud mouth right willingly.
Sir Rupert Thetford was not tall, rather undersized, and
delicate for his seven years ; but ht was head and shoul-
ders over the flaxen-haired fairy, wiih the bright gray
eyes.

" I want a ride on your rocking-horse," cried little May,
fraternizing with him at once ; " and oh ! what nice
picture-books, and what a lot 1 "

The children ran off together to their distant corner,
and Captain Everard sat down for the first time.

"You have not dined ?" said Lady Thetford. "Allow
me to — " her hand was on the bell, but the captain inter-
posed.

" Many thanks — nothing. We dined at the village ;
and I leave again by vhe seven-fifty train. It is past

fl\

-ijaccr... ^.^.^g,-

"L/TTLE AfAY."

265

seven now, so I have but little time to spare. I fear I am
putting you to a great deal of trouble ; but May's nurse
insists on being taken back to London to-night."

" It will be of no consequence," replied Lady Thetford,
" Rupert's nurse will take charge of her. I intend to adver-
tise for a nursery-governess in a few days. Rupert'->
health has always been so extremely delicate, that he h.is
not even made a pi i text of learning yet, and it is quite
time. He grows stronger, I fancy ; but Dr. Gale tells me
frankly his constitution is dangerously weak."

She sighed as she spoke, and looked over to where he
stood beside little May who had mounted the rocking-
horse boy-fashion. Sir Rupert was expostulating.

" You oughtn't to sit that way — ask mamma. You ought
to sit side-saddle. Only boys sit like that."

" I don't care ! " retorted Miss Everard, rocking more
violently than ever. " I'll sit whatever way I like ! Let
me alone ! "

Lady Thetford looked at the captain with a smile.

" Her father's daughter, surely ! bent on having her own
way. What a fairy it is ! and yet such a perfect picture
of health."

" Mabel never was ill an hour in her life, I believe,"
said her father ; " she is not at all too good for this world.
I only hope she may not grow up the torment of your life —
she is thoroughly spoiled."

" And I fear if she were not, I should do it. Ah ! I ex-
pect she will be a great comfort to me, and a world of
good to Rupert. He has never had a playmate of his own
years, and children need children as much as they need
sunshine."

They sat for ten minutes conversing gravely, chiefly on

266

S/Ji NOELS HEIR.

business matters connected with little May's annuity —
not at all as they had conversed three days before by the
sea-side. Then, as half-past seven drew near, the captain
arose.

" I must go. I will hardly be in time as it is. Come
here, little May, and bid pa^ia good-by."

" Let papa come to May," responded his daughter, still
rocking. " I can't get off."

Captain Everard laughed ; went over, bent down and
kissed her.

" Good-by, May ; don't forget papa, and learn to be a
good girl. Good-by, baronet ; try and grow strong and
tall. Farewell, Lady Thetford, with my best thanks."

She held his hand, looking up in his sunburned face
with tears in her dark eyes.

"We may never meet again. Captain Everard," she
said, hurriedly. " Tell me before we part that you forgive
me the past."

" Tnily Ada, and for the first time. The service you
have reidered me fully atones. You should have been
my child's mother — be a mother to her now. Good-by,
and God bless yor and your boy."

He stooped over, touched her cheek with his lips rever-
entially, and then was gone. Gone forever— never ':o
meet those he left behiiJ this side of eternity.

Little May bore the loss of her papa and nurse with
philosophical indifference ; her new playmate suPiced for
both. The children took to one another with the read-
iness of childhood— Rupert all the more readily that he
had never before had a playmate of his own years. He
was naturally a quiet child, caring more for his picture-
books, and his nurse's stories, than for tops, or balls, or

Wis*s»;-«*»*s-^*^*^'"' "

.":r ^-Lv.^.'ii^-jij:::<..-u

"L/TTLE AfAVy

267

marbles. But little May Everard seemed from the first
to inspire him with some of her own superabundant vital-
ity and life. The child was never, for a single instant,
quiet ; she was the most restless, the most impetuous, the
most vigorous little creature that can be conceived. Feet,
and tongue, and hands, never were still from morning
till night ; and the . !e of Sir Rupert's nurse, hitherto one
of idle ease, became all at once a misery to her. The
little girl was everywhere — everywhere ; especially where
she had no business to be ; and nurse never knew an easy
moment for trotting after her, and rescuing her from all
sorts of perils. She could climb like a cat, or a goat ;
and risked her neck about twenty times per diem ; she
^aitod her shoes in her soup, and washed her hands
in her milk and-water. She became the intimate friend
of the pretty peacocks, and the big, good-tempered dogs,
with whom, in utter fearlessness, she rolled about in
the grass half the day. She broke young Rupert's toys,
tore his picture-books, slapped his face, pulled his
hair, and made herself master of the situation before
she had been twenty-four hours in the house. She was
thoroughly and completely spoiled. What India nurses
had left undone, injudicious petting and flattery, on the
homeward passage, had completed, and ' her temper
was something appalling. Her shrieks of passion at
the slightest contradiction of her imperial will rang
through the house, and rent the tortured tympanums of
all who heard. The little Xantippe would Hing herself
flat on the carpet, and literally scream herself black in
the face, until, in dread of apoplexy and sudden death,
her frightened hearers hastened to yield. Of course, one
such victory insured all the rest. As for Sir Rupert, be-

268

S//! A'OEVS HEIli.

fore she had been a week at Thetford Towers, he dared
not call his soul his own. She had partially scalped him
on several occasions, and left the mark of her cat-like
nails in his tender visage ; but her venomous power of
screeching for hours at will, had more to do with the little
baronet's dread of her than anything else. He fled inglori-
ously in every battle — running in tears to mamma, and
leaving the field and the trophies of victory triumphantly
to Miss Everard. With all this, when not thwarted — when
allowed to smash toys, and dirty her clothes, and smear
her infantile face, and tear pictures, and torment inoffen-
sive lapdogs ; when allowed, in short, to follow " her own
sweet will," little May was as charming a fairy as ever the
sun shone on. Her gleeful laugh made music in the dreary
old rooms, such as had never been heard there for many a
day, and her mischievous antics were the delight of all
who did not suffer thereby. The servants petted and in-
dulged her, and fed her on unwholesome cakes and sweet-
meats, and made her worse and worse every day of her
life.

Lady Thetford saw all this with inward apprehension.
If her ward was completely beyond her power of control
at four, what would she be a dozen years hence.

" Her father was right," thought the lady. " I am afraid
she 7f'77/give me a great deal of trouble. I never saw so
headstrong, so utterly unmanageable a child."

But Lady Thetford was very fond of the fairy despot
withal. When her son came running to her for succor,
drowned in tears, and bearing the marks of little May's
claws, his mother took him in her arms and kissed him and
soothed him — but she never punished the offender. As
for Sir Rupert, he might fly ignominiously, but he never

*«^

:Vii5§^i«a*«fe*^BiU-a«r#»»«*«

''LITTLE MAVr

269

fought back. Little May had the hair-pulling and face-
scratchi.ig all to herself.

" I must get a governess," mused Lady Thetford. " I
may find one who can control this little vixen ; and it is
really time that Rupert began his studies. I will speak to
Mr. Knight about it."

Lady Thetford sent that very day to the rector her lady-
ship's compliments, the servant said, and would Mr. Knight
call at his earliest convenience. Mr. Knight sent in an-
swer to t^xpect him that same evening ; and on his way he
fell in with Dr. Gale, going to the manor-house on a pro-
fessional visit.

" Little Sir Rupert keeps weakly," he said ; " no consti-
tution to speiik of. Not at all like the Thetfords —
splendid old stock, the Thetfords, but run out — run out.
Sir Rupert is a Vandeleur, inherits his mother's constitution
— delicate child, very."

"Have you seen Lady Thetford's ward? inquired the
clergyman, smiling: "no hereditary weakness there, I
fancy. I'll answer for the strength of her lungs at any rate.
The other day she wanted Lady Thetford's watch for a
plaything ; she couldn't have it, and down she fell flat on
the floor in what her nurse calls 'one of her tantrums.'
You should have heard her, her shrieks were appalling."

" I have," said the doctor with emphasis ; " she has the
temper of the old demon. If I had anything to do with
that child, I should whip her within an inch of her life —
that's all she wants, lots of whipping. The Lord only knows
the future, but I pity her prospective husband."

" 'I'he taming of the shrew," laughed Mr. Knight.
"Katharine and Petruchio over again. For my part, I
think Lady Thetford was unwise to undertake such a

270

S//! NOEUS HEIR.

charge. With her delicate health it is altogether too much
for her."

The two gentlemen were shown into the library, while
the servant went to inform his lady of their arrival. The
library had a French window opening upon a sloping lawn
and here, chasing butterflies in high glee, were the two
children — the pale, dark-eyed baronet, and the flaxen-
tressed little East Indian.

" Look," said Dr. Gale. " Is Sir Rupert going to be
your Petruchio? Who knows what the future may bring
forth — who knows that we do not behold the future Lady
Thetford ? "

" She is very pretty," said the rector, thoughtfully, " and
she may change with years. Your prophecy may be
fulfilled."

The present Lady Thetford entered as he spoke. She
had heard the remarks of both, and there was an unusual
pallor and gravity in her face as she advanced to receive
them.

Little Sir Rupert was called in, May followed, with
a butterfly crushed to death in each fat little hand.

" She kills them as fast as she catches them," said Sir
Rupert, ruefully. " It's cruel, isn't it, mamma ? "

Little May, quite abashed, displayed her dead prizes,
and cut short the doctor's conference by impatiently pull-
ing her play-fellow away.

** Come, Rupert, come," she cried. " I want to catch
the black one with the yellow wings. Stick your tongue
out and come."

Sir Rupert displayed his tongue, and submitted his
pulse to the doctor, and let himself be pulled away by
May.

1 . 1 .nwiinii Bjnnummpw J

^-rrrrrrrrnri^^w

CAP/: EVERARD.

271

" The gray mare in that team is decidedly the better
horse," laughed the doctor. "What a little despot in
pinafores it is."

When her visitors had left, Lady Thetford walked to the
window and stood watching the two children racing in the
sunshine. It was a pretty sight, but the lady's face was
contracted with a look of pain.

"No, no," she thought. "I hope not— I pray not.
Strange 1 but I never thought of the possibility before.
She will be poor, and Rupert must marry a rich wife, so
that if—"

She paused with a sort of shudder ; then added,

"What will he think, my darling boy, of his father and
mother, if that day ever comes ! "

CHAPTER IV.

MRS. WEYMORE,

ADY THETFORD had settled her business
satisfactorily with the re':tor of St. Gosport.

" Nothing could be more opportune," he said.
" I am going to London next week on business,
which will detain me upwards of a fortnight. I will im
mediately advertise for such a person as you want."

" You must imdcrstand," said her ladyship, " I do not
require a young girl. I wish a middie-.aged person — a
widow, for instance, who has had children of her own.
Both Rupert and May are spoiled — May particularly is
perfectly unman.ageable. A young girl as governess for
her would never do."

Mr. Knight departed with these instructions, and the
following week started for the great metropolis. An ad-
vertisement was at once inserted in the Times newspaper,
stating all Lady Thetford's requirements, and desiring im-
mediate application. Another week later, and Lady Thet-
ford received the followiug communication :

"Dear Lady Thetford — I have been fairly besieged
with applications for the past week — all widows, and all
professing to be thoroughly competent. Clergymen's wid-
ows, doctor's widows, officer's widows — all sorts of wid-
ows. I never before thought so many could apply for

:'sai

wmmmmr*-'

MRS. WEVMOliE.

273

one situation. I have chosen one in sheer desperation
— the widow of a country gentleman in distressed cir-
cumstances, whom I thinlt will suit. She is eminently re-
spectable in appearance, quiet and lady-like in manner,
with five years' experience in the nursery-governess line,
and the highest recommendation from her late employers.
She has lost a child, she tells me ; and from her looks
and manner altogether, I should judge she was a person
conversant with misfortune. She will return with me early
next week — her name is Mrs. Weymore."

Lady Thetford read this letter with a little sigh of relief-
some one else would have the temper and outbreaks of little
May to contend with now. She wrote to Captain Ever-
ard that same day, to announce his daughter's well being,
and inform him that she had found a suitable governess
to take charge of her.

The second day of the ensuing week the rector and the
new governess arrived. A fly from the railway brought
her and her luggage to Thetford Towers late in the after-
noon, and she was taken at once to the room that had
been prepared for her, whilst the servant went to inform
Lady Thetford of her arrival.

" Fetch her here at once," said her ladyship, who was
alone, as usual, in the long drawing-room, with the chil-
dren, " I wish to see her."

Ten minutes after, the drawing-room door was flung
open, and " Mrs. Weymore, my lady," announced the foot-
man.

Lady Thetford arose to receive her new dependent,
who bowed and stood before her with a somewhat flutter-
ed and embarrassed air. She was quite young, not older

12*

274

S/H NOEVS HEIR.

than my lady herself, and eminently good-looking. The
tall, slender figure, clad in widow's weeds, was as sym-
metrical as Lady Thetford's own, and the dull black dress
set off the pearly fairness of the blonde skin, and the rich
abundance of fair hair. Lady Thetford's brows contract-
ed a little ; this fair, subdued, gentle-looking, girlish young
woman, was hardly the strong-minded, middle-aged ma-
tron she had expected to take the nonsense out of obstrep-
erous May Everard.

" Mrs. Weymore, I believe," said Lady Thelford, resum-
ing \\cr faitteuil, " pray be seated. I wished to see you at
once, because I am going out this evening. You have had
five years' experience as a nursery-governess, Mr. Knight
tells me ? "

•' Yes, Lady Thetford."

There was a little tremor in Mrs. Weymore's low voice,
and her blue eyes shifted and fell under Lady Thetford's
steady, and somewhat haughty gaze.

" Yet you look young — much younger than I imagined,
or wished."

" I am twenty-seven years old, my lady."

That was my lady's own age precisely, but she looked
half a dozen years the elder of the two.

" Are you a native of London ? "

"No, my lady — of Berkshire."

" And you have been a widow, how long ? "

What ailed Mrs. Weymore? She was all white and
trembling — even her hands, folded and pressed together
in her lap, shook in spite of her.

" Eight years and more."

She said it with a sort of sob, hysterically choked. Lady
Thetford looked on surprised, and a trifie displeased. She

■ 1

(

MRS. lyiiVAfO/iE.

27S

was .1 very proud woman, and certainly wished for no
scene with her hiied dependents.

" Ei};ht years is a tolerable time," she said, coolly. "You
have lost children ?"

" One, my lady."

Again that choked, hysterical sob. My lady went on
pitilessly.

" Is it long ago ? "

" When — when I lost its father."

"Ahl both together? That was rather hard. Well, 1
hope you understand the management of children — spoil-
ed ones particularly. Here are the two you are to take
charge of. Rupert — May, come here."

The children came over from their corner. Mrs. Wey-
more drew May towards her, but Sir Rupert held aloof.

" That is my ward — this is my son. I presume Mr.
Knight has told you. If you can subdue the temper of
that child, you will prove yourself, indeed, a treasure. The
east rarlor has been fitted up for your use ; the children will
take their meals there with you ; the room adjoining is to
be the school-room. I have appointed one of the maids
to wait on you. I trust you find your chamber comfort-
able."

" Exceedingly so, my lady."

'•' And the terms proposed by Mr. Knight suit you ? "

Mrs Weymore bowed. Lady Thetford rose to close the
interview.

" You must need refreshment and rest after your jour-
ney. I will not detain you longer. To-morrow your du-
ties commence."

She rang the bell— directed the servant who came to
show the governess to the east parlor and to see to her

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wants, and then to send nurse for the children. Fifteen
minutes after she drove away in the pony-phston ; whilst
the new frovernes's stood by the window of the ear^t parlor,
and watched her vanish in the amber haze of the August
sunset.

Lady Thetford's business in St. Gosport detained her a
couple of hours. The big, white, August moon was rising
as she drove slowly homeward, and the nightingales sang
their vesper lay in the scented hedge-rows. As she passed
the rectory, she saw Mr. Knight leaning over his own gate,
enjoying the placid beauty of the summer evening ; and
Lady Thetford reined in her ponies to speak to him.

" So happy to see your ladj'ship. Won't you alight
and come in ? Mrs. Knight will be delighted."

"Not this evening, I think. Had you much trouble
about my business ? "

" I had applications enough, certainly," laughed the rec-
tor. " I had reason to remember Mr. Weller's immortal
advice, ' Beware of widders.' How do you like your gov-
erness ? "

" I have hardly had time to form an opinion. She is
younger than I should desire."

" She looks much younger than the age s e gives, I
know ; but that is a common case. I trust my choice will
prove satisfactory — her references are excellent. Your
ladyship has had an interview with her ? '

" A very brief one. Her manner struck me unpleasant-
ly — so odd, and shy, and nervous. I hardly know how
to characterize it ; but she may be a paragon of governesses,
for all that. Good-evening; best regards to Mrs. Knight.
Call soon and see how yawx protegi gets on."

Lady Thetford drove away. As she alighted from the

AfRS. IVEVAfORE.

277

pony-carriage and ascended the great front steps of the
house, she saw the pale governess still seated at the win-
dow of the east parlor, gazing dejectedly out at the silvery
moonlight.

" A most woeful countenance," thought my lady. " There
is some deeper grief than the loss of a husband and child
eight years ago, the matter with that woman. I don't like
her."

No, Lady Thetford did not like the meek and submis-
sive-looking governess, but the children and the rest of the
household did. Sir Rupert and little May took to her at
once — her gentle voice, her tender smile seemed to win
its way to their capricious favor ; and before the end of
the first week, she had more influence over them than
mother and nurse together. The subdued and gentle gov-
erness soon had the love of all at Thetford Towers, except
its mistress, from Mrs. Hilliard, the stately housekeeper,
down. She was so courteous and considerate, so anxious
to avoid giving trouble. Above all, that fixed expression
of settled sadness on her pale face, made its way to
every heart. She had full charge of the children now ;
they took their meals with her, and she had them in her
keeping the best part of the day — an office that was no
sinecure. When they were with their nurse, or my lady,
the governess sat alone in the east parlor, looking out
dreamily at the summer landscape, with her own brooding
thoughts.

One evening, when she had been at Thetford Towers
over a fortnight, Mrs. Hilliard, coming in, found her sitting
dreamily by herself, neither reading nor working. The
children were in the drawing-room, and her duties were
over for the day.

278

S/7i NOELS HEIR.

" I am afraid you don't make yourself at home here,"
said the good-natured housekeeper ; " you stay too much
alone, and it isn't good for young people like you."

" I am used to solitude," replied the governess, with a
smile that ended in a sigh, " and I have grown to like it.
Will you take a seat ? "

" No," said Mrs. Milliard. " I heard you say the other
day you would like to go over the house ; so, as I have a
couple of hours' leisure, I will show it to you now."

The governess rose eagerly.

"I have been wanting to see it so much," she said,
" but I feared to give trouble by asking. It is very good
of you to think of me, dear Mrs. Hilliard."

" She isn't much used to people thinking of her," re-
flected the housekeeper, " or she wouldn't be so grateful
for trifles. Let me see," aloud, "you have seen the draw-
ing-room, and the library, and that is all, except your own
apartments. Well come this way, I'll show you the old
south-wing."

Through long corridors, up wide, black, slippery stair-
cases, into vast, unused rooms, where ghostly echoes and
darkness had it all to themselves, Mrs. Hilliard led the
governess.

" These apartments have been unused since before the
late Sir Noel's time," said Mrs. Hilliard ; " his father kept
them full in the hunting season, and at Christmas time.
Since Sir Noel's death, my lady has shut herself up and
received no company, and gone nowhere. She is begin-
ning to go out more of late than she has done ever since
his death."

Mrs. Hilliard was not looking at the governess, or she
might have been surprised at the nervous restlessness and

MRS. IVEYMORE.

279

agitation of her manner, as she listened to these very com-
monplace remarks.

" Lady Thetford was very much attached to her husband,
then ? " Mrs. Weymore said, her voice tremulous.

" Ah ! that she was 1 She must have been, for his death
nearly killed her. It was sudden enough, and shocking
enough, goodness knows I I shall never forget that dread-
ful night. This is the old banqueting-hall, Mrs. Weymore,
the largest and dreariest room in the house."

Mrs. Weymore, trembling very much, either with cold
or that unaccountable nervousness of hers, hardly looked
round at the vast wilderness of a room.

" You were with the late Sir Noel then, when he died ? "

" Yes, until my lady came. Ah ! it was a dreadful
thing ? He had taken her to a ball, and riding home his
horse thtew him. We sent for the doctor and my lady at
once ; and when she came, all white and scared-like, he
sent us out of the room. He was as calm and sensible as
you or me, but he seemed to have something on his mind.
My lady was shut up with him for about three hours, and
then we went in — Dr. Gale and me. I shall never forget
that sad sight. Poor Sir Noel was dead, and she was
kneeling beside him in her ball-dress, like somebody turned
to stone. I spoke to her, and she looked up at me, and
then fell back in my arms in a fainting fit. Are you cold,
Mrs. Weymore, that you shake so ? "

«< No — yes — it is this desolate room, I think," the gover-
ness answered, hardly able to speak.

" It is desolate. Come, I'll show you the billiard-room ;
and then we'll go up stairs to the room Sir Noel died in.
Everything remains just as it was — no one has ever slept
there since. If you only knew, Mrs. Weymore, what a sad

28o

S//i AVE/JS HEIR.

time it was ; but you do know, poor dear, you have lost
a husband yourself."

The governess flung up her hands before her face with
a suppressed sob, so full of anguish that the housekeeper
stared at her aghast. Almost as quickly she recovered
herself again.

"Don't mind me," she said, in a choking voice, "I can't
help it. You don't know ■■hat I suffered — what I still
suffer. Oh, pray, don't mind me."

" Certainly not, my dear," said Mrs. Hilliard, thinking
inwardly the governess was a very odd person indeed.

They looked at the billiard-room, where the tables stood,
dusty and disused, and the balls lay idly by.

" I don't know when it will be used again," said Mrs.
Hilliard, " perhaps not until Sir Rupert grows up. There
was a time," lowering her voice, "when I thought he would
never live to be as old and strong as he is now. He was
the punyi.,t baby, Mrs. Weymore, you ever looked at — no-
body thought he would live. And that would have been
a pity, you know, for the Thetford estate would have
gone to a distant branch of the family. As it would, too, if
Sir Rupert had been a girl."

She went up stairs to the inhabited part of the building,
followed by Mrs. Weymore, who seemed to grow more and
more agitated with every word the old housekeeper said.

" This is Sir Noel's room," said Mrs. Hilliard, in an
awe-struck whisper, as if the dead man still lay there ; " no
one ever enters here but me."

She unlocked it, as she spoke, and went in. Mrs. Wey-
more followed with a face of frightened pallor that struck
even the housekeeper.

" Good gracious me ! Mrs. Weymore, what is the mat-

MRS. IVKVMORE.

281

ter ? You are as pale as a ghost. Are you afraid to enter
a room where a person has died ? "

Mrs. Weymore's reply was almost inaudible ; she stood
on the threshold, pallid, trembling, unaccountably moved.
The housekeeper glanced at her suspiciously.

" Very odd," she thought, " very ! The new governess
is either the most nervous person I ever met, or else — no,
she can't have known Sir Noel in his lifetime. Of course
not."

They left the chamber after a cursory glance around —
Mrs. Weymore never advancing beyond the threshold.
She had not spoken, and that white pallor made her face
ghastly still.

" I'll show you the picture-gallery," said Mrs. Hilliard ;
" and then, I believe, you will have seen all that is worth
seeing at Thetford Towers."

She led the way to a half-lighted room, wainscoted and
antique, like all the rest, where long rows of dead and
gone Thetfords looked down from the carved walls.
There were knights in armor ; countesses in ruffles, and
powder, and lace ; bishops mitre on head and crnzier in
hand ; and judges in gown and wig. There were ladies
in pointed stomachers and jewelled fans, with the waists of
their dresses under their arms, but all fair and handsome,
and unmistakably alike. Last of all the long array, there
was Sir Noel, a fair-haired, handsome youth of twenty,
with a smile on his face, and a happy radiance in his blue
eyes. And by his side, dark, and haughty, and beautiful,
was my lady in her bridal-robes.

" There is not a handsomer face amongst them all than
my lady's," said Mrs. Hilliard, with pride. "You ought
to have seen her when Sir Noel first brought her home,

282

S/H NOELS HEIR.

she was the most beautiful creature I ever looked at. Ah I
it was such a pity he was killed. I suppose they'll be
having Sir Rupert's taken next and hung beside her. He
don't look much like the Thetfords ; he's his mother over
again — a Vandeleur, dark and still."

If Mrs. Weymore made any reply, the housekeeper did
not catch it; she was standing with her face averted, hai-dly
looking at the portraits, and was the first to leave the pic-
ture-gallery.

There were a few more rooms to be seen — a drawing-
room suite, now closed and disused ; an ancient library,
with a wonderful stained window, and a vast echoing re-
ception-room. But it was all over at last, and Mrs. Hilliard,
with her keys, trotted cheerfully off ; and Mrs. Weymore
was left to solitude and her own thoughts once more.

A strange person, certainly. She locked the door and
fell down on her knees by the bedside, sobbing until her
whole form was convulsed.

" Oh ! why did I come here ? Why did I come here ? "
came passionately with the wild storm of sobs. " I might
have known how it would be ! Nearly nine years — ^nine
long, long years, and not to have forgotten yet ! "

CHAPTER V.

A JOURNEY TO LONDON.

ERY slowly, very monotonously went life at
Thetford Towers. The only noticeable change
was that my lady went rather more into society,
and a greater number of visitors came to the
manor. There had been a children's party on the occasion
of Sir Rupert's eighth birthday, and Mrs. Weymore had
played for the little people to dance ; and my lady had
cast off her chronic gloom, and been handsome and happy
as of old. There had been a dinner-party later — an un-
precedented event now at Thetford Towers ; and the
weeds, worn so long, had been discarded, and in diamonds
and black velvet Lady Thetford had been beautiful, and
stately, and gracious, as a young queen. No one knew the
reason of the sudden change, but they accepted the fact
just as they found it, and set it down, perhaps, to woman's
caprice.

So, slowly the summer passed ; autumn came and went,
and it was December, and the ninth anniversay of Sir
Noel's sudden death.

A gloomy, day — wet, and bleakly cold. The wind,
sweeping over the angry sea, surged and roared through
the skeleton trees; the rain lashed the windows in rattling
gusts ; and the leaden sky hung low and frowning over
the drenched and dreary earth. A dismal day — very like
that other, nine years ago, that had been Sir Noel's last.

284

S//i NOELS HEIR.

In Lady Thetford's boudoir a bright-red coal-fire blazed.
I'ale-blue curtains of satin damask shut out the winter
prospect, and the softest and richest of bright carpets
hushed every footfall. Hefore the fire, on a little table,
my 1 uly's breakfast temptingly stood ; tlie silver, old and
qua' it; the rare antique porcelain sparkling in the ruddy
firelight. An easy-chair, carved and gilded, and cushion-
ed in azure velvet, stood by the table ; and near my lady's
plate lay the letters and papers the morning's mail had
brought.

A toy of a clock on the low marble mantel chimed musi-
cally ten as my lady entered. In her dainty morning
negli};ce, with her dark hair rippling and falling low on her
neck, she looked very young, and fair, and graceful. Be-
hind her came her maid, a blooming English girl, who took
off the covers, and poured out my lady's chocolate.

Lady Thetford sank languidly into the azure velvet
depths of her chair and took up her letters. There were
three — one, a note from her man of business ; one, an
invitation to a dinner-party ; and the third, a big official-
looking document, with a huge seal, and no end of post-
marks. The languid eyes suddenly lighted ; the pale cheeks
flushed as she took it eagerly up. It was a letter from
India from Captain Everard.

Lady Thetford sipped her chocolate, and read her letter
leisurely, with her slippered feet on the shining fender.
It was a long letter, and she read it over, slowly, twice, three
times before she laid it down. She finished her breakfast,
motioned her maid to remove the service, and lying back
in her chair, with her deep, dark eyes fixed dreamily on the
fire, she fell into a reverie of other days far gone. The
lover of her girlhood came back to her from over the sea.

A yOUJiA'EV TO LOA'DOX.

285

He was lying at her feet once more in the long summer
days, under the waving trees of her girlhood's home. Ah !
how happy, how happy siie hiul been in those bygone diys,
before Sir Noel Thelford had come, with his wealth and his
title, to tempt her from her love and trutli.

Eleven struck, twelve, from tlie musical clock on the
mantel, and still my lady sat, living in the past. Outside
the wintry storm raged on ; the rain clamored against the
curtained glass, and the wind sighed among the trees. With
a long sigh my lady awoke from her dream, and mechanically
took up the Times newspaper — the first of the little heap.

" Vain, vain," she thought, dreamily ; " worse than vain
those dreams now. With my own hand I threw back the
heart that loved me ; of my own free will I resigned the man
I loved. And now the old love, that I thought would die in
the splendor of my new life, is stronger than ever — and it
is nine years too late."

She tried to wrench her thoughts away and fix them on her
newspaper. In vain ! her eyes wandered aimlessly over
the closely-printed columns — her mind was in India with
Captain Everard. All at once she started, uttered a sudden,
sharp cry, and grasped the paper with dilated eyes and
whitening cheeks. At the top of a column of " personal "
advertisements was one which her strained eyes literally
devoured.

" If Mr. Vyking, who ten years ago left a male infant
in charge of Mrs. Martha Brand, wishes to keep that child
out of the work-house, he will call, within the next five days,
at No. 17 Waddington Street, Lambeth."

Again and again, and again Lady Thetford read this
apparently uninteresting advertisement. Slowly the paper
dropped into her lap, and she sat staring blankly into the fire.

■

286

S//f AOICVS IIKIR.

" At last ! " she thought, " at last it has come. I fancied
all clanger was over— that death, perhaps, had forestalled
me ; and now, after all these years, I am summoned to
keep my broken promise ! "

I'he hue of death had settled on her face ; she sat cold
and rigid, staring with that blank, fixed ga/e into the fire.
Ceaselessly beat the rain ; wilder grew the December day ;
steadily the moments wore on, and still she sat in that fixed
trance. Tiie ormolu clock struck two — the sound aroused
her at last.

" I must ! " she said, setting her teeth. " I will 1 My
boy shall not lose his birthright, come what may."

She rose and rang the bell — very pale, but quite calm.
Her maid answered the summons.

" Eliza," my lady asked, " at what hour does the after-
noon train leave St. Gosport for London ? "

Eliza stared — did not know ; but would ascertain. In
live minutes she was back.

" At half-past three, my lady; and another at seven."
Lady Thetford glanced at the clock — it was a quarter
past two.

" Tell William to have the carriage at the door at a
quarter-past three ; and do you pack my dressing-case, and
the few things I shall need for two or three days' absence.
I am going to London."

Eliza stood for a moment quite petrified. In all the
nine years of her service under my lady, no such order as
this had ever been received. To go to London at a
moment's notice — my lady, who rarely went beyond her
own park gates ! Turning away, not quite certain that her
ears had not deceived her, my lady's voice arrested
her.

A JOURNEY TO LONDON.

•87

" Send Mrs. Weymore to me ; and do you lose no time
in packing up."

Kli/a departed. Mrs. Weymore appeared. My lady
had some instructions to give concerning the childrtMi
during her absence. Then the governess was dismissed,
and she was again alone.

Through the wind and rain of the wintry storm, L: dy
Thetford was driven to the station in time to catch the
three-fifty train to the metropolis. She went unattended ;
with no message to any one, only saying she would be
back in three days at the farthest.

Ir that dull household, where so few events ever disturbed
the stagnant quiet, this sudden journey produced an in-
describable sensation. What could have t.iken my lady
to London at a moment's notice ? Some urgent reason it
must have been to force her out of the gloomy seclusion
in which she had buried herself since her husband's
death. But, discuss it as they might, they could come no
nearer the heart of the mystery.

GUY.

HE rainy December day closed iii a rainier
night. Another day dawned on the world, sun-
less, and chilly, and overcast still.
It dawned on London in murky, yellow fog,
on sloppj', muddy streets — in gloom and dreariness, and a
raw, easterly wind. In the densely populated streets of
the district of Lambeth, where poverty huddled in tall,
gaunt buildings, the dismal light stole murkily and slowly
over the crowded, filthy streets, and swarming purlieus.

In a small upper room of a large dilapidated house,
this bad December morning, a painter stood at his easel.
The room was bare, and cold, and comfortless in the ex-
treme ; the painter was middle-aged, small, brown, and
shrivelled, and very much out at elbows. The dull, gray
light fell full on his work — no inspiration of genius by any
means — only the portrait, coarsely colored, of a fat, well-
to-do butcher's daughter round the corner. The man
was Joseph Legard, scene-painter to one of the minor
city theatres, who eked out his slender income by painting
portraits when he could get them to paint. He was as
fond of his art as any of the great old masters ; but he
had only one attribute in common with those immortals —
extreme poverty; for his family was large, and Mr. Le-
gard found it a tight fit, indeed, to " make both ends meet."

i«

GL/y.

289

He stood over his work this dull morning, however, in his
fireless room, with a cheerful, brown face, whistling a tune.
In the adjoining room, he could hear his wife's voice raised
shrilly, and the cries of half n dozen Legards. He was
used to it, and it did not disturb him ; and he painted and
whistled cheerily, touching up the butcher's daughter's
snub nose and fat cheeks, and double chin, until light foot-
steps came running up stairs, and the door was flung wide
by an impetuous hand. A boy of ten, or thereabouts,
came in — a bright-eyed, fair-haired lad, with a handsome,
resolute face, and eyes of cloudless, Saxon blue.

" Ah, Guy ! " said the scene-painter, turning round and
nodding good-humoredly. " I've been expecting you.
What do you think of Miss Jenkins ? "

The boy looked at the picture with the glance of an
embryo connoisseur.

" It's as like her as two peas, Joe ; or would be, if her
hair was a little redder, and her nose a little thicker, and
the freckles were plainer. But it looks like her as it is."

" Well, you see Guy," said the painter, going on with
Miss Jenkins' left eyebrow, " it don't do to make 'em too
true — people don't like it ; they pay their money, and they
expect to take it out in good looks. And now, any news
this morning, Guy ? "

The boy leaned against the window and looked out into
the dingy street, his bright young face growing gloomy
and overcast.

" Nc," he said, moodily ; " there is no news, except
that Phil Darking was drunk last night, and savage as a
mad dog this morning — and that's no news, I'm sure."

"And nobody's come about the advertisement in the
Times t"

290

S/U NOEL'S HEIR.

" No, and never will. It's all humbug what granny
iays about my belonging to anybody rich ; if I did, they'd
have seen after me long ago. Phil says my mother was a
housemaid, and my father a valet — and they were only too
glad to get me off their hands. Vyking was a valet,
granny says she knows ; and it's not likely he'll turn up
after all these years. I don't care, I'd rather go to the
work-house ; I'd rather starve in the streets, than live an-
other week with Phil Darking."

The blue eyes filled with tears, and he dashed them
passionately away. The painter looked up with a dis
tressed face.

" Has he been beating you again, Guy ") "

" It's no matter — he's a brute. Granny and Ellen are
sorr}', and do what they can ; but that's nothing. I wish I
had never been born."

"It is hard," said the painter, compassionately, "but
keep up heart, Guy ; if the worst comes, why you can stop
here and take pot-luck with the rest — not that that's much
better than starvation. You can take to my business
shortly now ; and you'll make a better scene-painter than
ever I could. You've got it in you."

"Do you really think so, Joe?" cried the boy, with
sparkling eyes. " Do you ? I'd rather be an artist than at
king— Halloo 1 "

He stopped short in surprise, staring out of the window.
Legard looked. Up the dirty street came a Hansom cab,
and stopped at their own door. The driver alighted, made
some inquiry, then opened the cab-door, and a lady stepped
lighdy out on the curb-stone — a lady tall and stately,
dressed in black, and closely veiled.

"Now who can this visitor be for?" said Legard.

GUV.

291

" People in this neighborhood ain't in the habit of having
morning-calls made on them in cabs. She's coming up
stairs."

He held the door open, listening. The lady ascended
the first flight of stairs, stopped on the landing, and in-
quired of some one for " Mrs. Martha Brand."

" For granny ! " exclaimed the boy. " Joe, I shouldn't
wonder if it was some one about that advertisement, after
all."

" Neither should I," said Legard. " There 1 she's gone
in. You'll be sent for directly, Guy."

Yes, the lady har gone in. She had encountered on the
landing a sickly young woman, with a baby in her arms,
who had stared at the name she inquired for.

"Mrs. Martha Brand? Why, that's mother. Walk in
this way, if you please, ma'am."

She opened a door, and ushered the veiled lady into a
small, close room, poorly furnished. Over a smouldering
fire, mending stockings, sat an old woman, who, notwith-
standing the extreme shabbiness and poverty of her dress,
lifted a pleasant, intelligent old face.

" A lady to see you, mother," said the young woman
hushing her fretful Lrby, and looking curiously at the
veiled face.

But the lady made no attempt to raise the envious screen,
not even when Mrs. Martha Brand got up, dropping a re-
spectful iittle servant's courtesy, and placing a chair. It
was a very thick veil — an impenetrable shield, and noth-
ing could be discovered of the face behind it but that it was
fixedly pale. She sank into the seat, her face turned to the
old woman behind that sable screen.

" You are Mrs. Brand ? "

•'^

292

S//i NOEL'S HEIR.

The voice was refined and patrician. It would have told
she was a lady, even if the rich garments she wore did not.

" Yes, ma'am — ^your ladyship ; Martha Brand."

" And you inserted that advertisement in the Times re-
garding a child left in your care, ten years ago ? "

Mother and daughter started, and stared at the speaker.

" It was addressed to Mr. Vyking, who left the child in
your charge j by which, I infer, you are not aware that he
has left England."

"Left England, has he?" said Mrs. Brand. ♦'More
shame for him, then, never to let me know, or leave a
farthing to support the boy."

" I am inclined to believe it was not his fault," said the
clear, patrician voice. " He left England suddenly, and
against his will ; and I have reason to think will never
return. But there are others interested — ^more interested
than he could possibly be in the child, who remain, and
who are willing to take him off your hands. But first, way
is it you are so anxious, after keeping him all these years,
to get rid of him ? "

" Well, you see, your ladyship," replied Martha Brand
" it is not me, nor likewise Ellen there, who is my daughter.
We'd keep the lad and welcome, and share the last crust,
we had with him, as we often have — ^for we're very poor
people ; but you see, Ellen, she's married now, and her
husband never could bear Guy — that's what we call him,
your ladyship — Guy, which it was Mr. Vyking's own
orders. Phil Darking, her husband, never did like him
somehow, and when he gets drunk, saving your ladyship's
presence, he beats him most unmerciful. And now we're go-
ing to America — to New York, where Phil's got a brother,
and work is better ; and he won't fetch Guy. So your lady-

)uld have told
wore did not.
ind."

the Times re-
fo?"

t the speaker.

the child in

ware that he

md. " More
V, or leave a

lit," said the
jddenly, and
c will never
re interested
remain, and
Jut first, way
these years,

irtha Brand
ly daughter.
5 last crust,
re very poor
>w, and her
re call him,
king's own
id like him
r ladyship's
>w we're go-
t a brother,
) your lady-

G[/y.

293

ship, I thought I'd try once more before we deserted him,
and put that advertisement in the Times, which I'm very
glad I did, if it will fetch the poor lad any friends."

There was a moment's pause]; then the lady asked
thoughtfully.

" And when do you leave for New York ? "

" The day after to-morrow, ma'am — and a long journey
it is for a poor old body like me."

" Did you live here when Mr. Vyking left the child with
you — in this neighborhood ? **

" Not in this neighborhood, nor in London at all, your
ladyship. It was Lowdean, in Berkshire, and my husband
was alive at the time. I had just lost my baby, and the
landlady of the inn recommended me. So he brought it,
and paid me thirty sovereigns, and promised me thirty more
every twelvemonth, and told me to call it Guy Vyking —
and that was the last as I ever saw of him."

"And the infant's mother?" said the lady, her voice
changing perceptibly — do you know anything of her ? "

" But very little," said Martha Brand, shaking her head.

" I never set eyes on her, although she was sick at the
inn for upwaids of three weeks. But Mrs. Vine, the land-
lady, she saw her twice ; and she told me what a pretty
young creeter she was — and a lady, if there ever was a lady
yet."

" Then the child was born in Berkshire — ^how was it ? "

" WeU, your ladyship, it was an accident, seeing as how
the carriage broke down with Mr. Vyking and the lady, a
driving furious to catch the last London train. The lady
was so much hurted that she had to be carried to the inn,
and went quite out of her head, raving and dangerous like.
Mr. Vyking had the landlady to wait upon her until he

«^

294

SIR AOEVS HEIR.

could telegraph to London for a nurse, which one came
down next day and took charge of her. The baby wasn't
two days old when he brought it to me ; and the poor
young mother was dreadful low, and out of her head all the
time. Mr. Vyking and the nurse were all that saw her,
and the doctor, of course ; but she didn't die, as the doctor
thought she would, but got well ; and before she came right
to her senses, Mr. Vyking paid the doctor, and told him
he needn't come back. And then, a little more than a
fortnight after, they took her away, all sly and secret-like
— and what they told her about her poor baby I don't
know. I always thought there was something dreadful
wrong about the whole thing."

" And this Mr. Vyking — was he the child's father — the
woman's husband ? "

Martha Brand looked sharply at the speaker, as if she
suspected she could answer that question best.

" Nobody knew, but everybody thought so. I've always
been of opinion, myself, that Guy's father and mother
were gentlefolks, and I always shall be."

" Does the boy know his own story ? "

" Yes, your ladyship-^all I've told you."

" Where is he ? I should like to see him."

Mrs. Brand's daughter, all this time hushing her baby,
started up.

" T'li fetch him. He's up stairs in Legard's, I know."

She left the room and ran up stairs. The painter,
Legard, still was touching up Miss Jenkins, and the bright-
haired boy stood watching the progress of that work of art.

" Guy ! Guy ! " she cried, breathlessly, " come down
stairs at once. You're wanted."

"Who wants me, Ellen?"

ch one came
baby wasn't
ind the poor
;r head all the
that saw her,
as the doctor
he came right
md told him
more than a
id secret-like
aaby I don't
ling dreadful

s father — the

ker, as if she

I've always
and mother

ng her baby,

d's, I know."
The painter,
nd the bright-
it work of art.
"come down

G(/y.

29s

" A lady, dressed in the most elegant and expensive
manner — a real lady, Guy ; and she has come about that
advertisement, and she wants to see you."

"What is she like, Mrs. Darking?" inquired the painter
— " young or old ? "

"Young, I should think ; but she hidesher face behind
a thick veil, as if she didn't want to be known. Come,
Guy."

She hurried the lad down stairs, and into their little
room. The veiled lady still sat talking to the old woman,
her back to the dim daylight, and that disguising veil still
down. She turned slightly at their entrance, and looked
at the boy through it. Guy stood in the middle of the floor,
his fearless blue eyes fixed on the hidden face. Could he
have seen it, he might have started at the grayish pallor
which overspread it at sight of him.

" So like ! So like ! " the lady was murmuring between
her set teeth. " It is terrible— it is marvellous."

" This is Guy, your ladyship," said Martha Brand. " I've
done what I could for him the last ten years, and, I'm
almost as sorry to part with him as if he were my own.
Is your ladyship going to take him away with you now ? "

" No," said her ladyship sharply, " I have no such in-
tention. Have you no neighbor or friend who would be
willing to take and bring him up, if well paid for the trouble ?
This time the money will be paid without fail."

"T'.iere's Legard," cried the boy, eagerly. "I'll go to
Legard's, granny. I'd rather be. with Joe than anywhere
else."

" It's a neighbor that lives up stairs," murmured Martha,
in explanation. "He always took to Guy, and Guy to
him, in a way that's quite wonderful. He's a very decent

«ip

2g6

Sm AV/iL'S HEIR.

man, your ladyship— a painter for a theatre ; and Guy
takes kindly to the business, and would like to be one
himself. If you don't want to take away the boy, you
couldn't leave him in better hands."

" I am glad to hear it. Can I see the man ? "

" I'll fetch him," cried Guy, and ran out of the room.
Two minutes later came Mr. Legard, in paper cap and
shirt-sleeves, bowing very low to the grand, black-robed
lady, and only too delighted to strike a bargain. The lady
offered liberally— Mr. Legard closed with the offer at once.

" You will clothe him better, and you will educate him,
and give him your name. I wish him to drop that of
Vyking. The same amount I give you now will be sent
you this time every year. If you change your residence in
the meantime, or wish to communicate with me in any oc-
currence of consequence, you can address Madam Ada,
post-office, Plymouth."

She rose as she spoke, stately and tall, and motioned
Mr. Legard to withdraw. The painter gathered up the
money she laid on the U'oie, and bowed himself, with a ra-
diant face, out of the room.

" As for you," turning to old Martha, and taking out of
her purse a roll of crisp, Bank of England notes, " I think
this will pay you for the trouble you have had with the boy
during the last ten years. No thanks — ^you have earned
the money."

She moved to the door, made a slight, proud gesture
with her gloved hand, in farewell ; took a last look at the
golden-haired, blue-eyed, handsome boy, and was gone. A
moment later, and her cab rattled out of the murky street,
and the trio were alone staring at one another, and at the
bulky roll of notes.

iiMii^

e ; and Guy
ce to be one
the boy, you

of the room,
per cap and

black-robed
ti. The lady
offer at once,
educate him,
irop that of

will be sent

residence in
le in any oc-
Madam Ada,

id motioned
lered up the
elf, with a Ta-
lking out of
:es, " I think
with the boy
have earned

oud gesture
: look at the
was gone. A
lurky street,
r, and at the

!ies

Gi/y.

297

" I should think it was a dream only for this," murmur-
ed old Martha, looking at the roll with glistening eyes.

•*A ^. -eat lady — a great lady, surely. Guy, I shouldn't
wonder if that was your mother."

CHAPTER VII.

COLONEL JOCYIN.

|IVE miles away from Thetford Towers, where
the multitudinous waves leaped and glistened
all day in the sunlight, as if a glitter with dia-
monds, stood Jocyln Hall. An imposing struc-
ture of red brick, not yet one hundred years old, with slop-
ing meadows spreading away into the blue horizon, and
densely wooded plantations down to the wide sea.

Colonel Jocyln, the lord of these swelling meadows
and miles of woodland, where the red deer disported in the
green arcades, was absent in India, and had been for the
past nine years. They were an old family, the Jocylns,
as old as any in Devon, with a pride that bore no pro-
portion to their purse, until the present Jocyln had, all at
once, become a millionaire. A penniless young lieuten-
ant in a cavalry regiment, quartered somewhere in Ireland,
with a handsome face and dashing manners, he had capti-
vated, at first sight, a wild, young Irish heiress of fabulous
wealth and beauty. It was a love match on her side — no-
body knew exactly what it was on his ; but they made a
moonlight flitting of it, for the lady's friends were grievously
wroth. Lieutenant Jocyln liked his profession for its own
sake, and took his Irish bride to India, and there an heir-
ess and only child was born to him. The climate disagreed

— V.

Powers, where

and glistened
litter with dia-
mposing struc-

old, with slop-
e horizon, and
le sea.

lling meadows
isported in the
i been for the
^ the Jocylns,

bore no pro-
i\n had, all at
^^oung lieuten-
lere in Ireland,

he had capti-
:ss of fabulous

her side — no-

they made a
rere grievously
on for its own
there an heir-
nate disagreed

COLONEL JOCVLN.

299

with the young wife — she sickened and died ; but Ihe
young officer and his baby-girl remained in India. In the
ifulness of time he became Colonel Jocyln; and one day elec-
trified his housekeeper by a letter announcing his intention
of returning to England with his little daughter Aileen
•' for good."

That same month of December, which took Lady Thet-
ford on that mysterious London journey, brought this let-
ter from Calcutta. Five months after, when the May
primroses and hyacinths were all abloom in the green
seaside woodlands, Colonel Joclyn and his little daughter
came home.

Early on the day succeeding his arrival, Colonel Jocyln
rode though the bright spring sunshine, along the pleasant
high road between Jocyln Hall and Thetford Towers. He
had met tl.^ late Sir Noel and his bride once or twice pre-
vious to his departure for India ; but there had been no
acquaintance sufficiently close to warrant this speedy call.

Lady Thetford, sitting alone in her boudoir, yawning
tlie weary hours away over a book, looked in surprise at
the card the servant brought her.

" Colonel Jocyln," she said, " I did not even know he had
arrived. And to call so soon — ah I perhaps he fetches me
letters from India."

She rose at the thought, her pale cheeks flushing a lit-
tle with expectation. Mail after mail had arrived from
that distant land, bringing her no letter from Captain
Everard.

Lady Thetford descended at once. She had few caW
ers ; but was always exquisitely dressed, and ready to re-
ceive at a moment's notice. Colonel Jocyln, tall and
sallow, and soldierly, rose at her entrance.

300

SIR A'OEi:S HEIR.

" Lady Thctford ? Ah, yes I Most happy to see your
ladyship once more. I'ermit me to apologize for this very
early call — you will overlook my haste when you heai my
reason."

Lady Thetford held out her white hand.

" Allow me to welcome you back to England, Colonel
Jocyhi. You have come to remain this time, I hope. And
little Aileen is well, I trust ? "

" Very well, and very glad to be released from shipboard.
I need not ask for young Sir Rupert — I saw him with his
nurse in the park as I rode up. A fine boy, and like you
my lady."

" Yes, Rupert is like me. And now — how are our mu-
tual friends in India ? "

The momentous question she had been longing to ask
from the first, but her well-trained voice spoke it as stead-
ily as though it had been ^ question of the weather.

Colonel Jocyln's face darkened.

" I bring bad news from India, my lady, Captain Everard
was a friend of yours > "

" Yes ; he left his little daughter in my charge."

" I know. You have not heard from him lately ? "

" No ; and I have been rather anxious. Nothing has
befallen the captain, I hope ? "

The well-trained voice shook a little despite its admir-
able training, and the slender fingers looped and unlooped
nervously her watch-chain,

" Yes, Lady Thetford, the very worst that could befall
him. George Everard is dead."

There was a blank pause. Colonel Jocyln looked grave,
and downcast, and sad.

" He was my friend," he said, in a low voice, " my intimate

to see your
• for this very
you heai' my

and, Colonel
I hope. And

fn shipboard,
him with his
and like you

are our mu-

nging to ask
e it as stead-
:ather.

tain Everard

rge."
ately ? "
>fothing has

te its admir-
nd unlooped

could befall

ooked grave,

'my intimate

COLONEL JOCYLN.

301

friend for many years — a fine fellow, and brave as a licin.
Many, many nights we have lain with the stars of India
shining oa our bivouac whilst he talked to me of you, of
England, of his daughter."

Lady Thctford never spoke, never stirred. She was
sitting, gazing steadfastly out of the window at the spark-
ling sunshine, and Colonel Jocyln could not see her face.

" He was as glorious a soldier as ever I knew," the
colonel went on ; " and he died a soldier's death — shot
through the heart. They buried him out there with
military honors, and some of his men cried on his grave
like children."

There was another blank pause. Still Lady Thetford
sat with that fixed gaze on the brilliant May sunshine,
moveless as stone.

" It is a sad thing for his poor little girl," the Indian
officer said ; " she is fortunate in having such a guardian
as you, Lady Thetford."

Lady Thetford awoke with a start. She had been
in a trance ; the years had slipped backward, and she
had been in her far-off girlhood's home with George
Everard, her handsome, impetuous lover, by her side. She
had loved him, then, even when she said no, and married
another ; she loved him still, and now he was dead— dead I
But she turned to her visitor with a face that told nothing.

" I am so sorry — so very, very sorry. My poor little
May I Did Captain Everard speak of her, of me, before
he died?"

" He died instantaneously, Lady Thetford. There was
no time."

" Ah, no ! poor fellow 1 It is the fortune of war — ^but it
is very sad."

mmi

302

S/J! WEL'S HEIR.

That was all; we may feel inexpressibly, but we can
only utter commonplaces. Lady Thetford was very, very
pale, but her pallor told nothing of the dreary pain at her
heart,

" Would you not like to see little May ? I will send for
her."

Little May was sent for, and came. A brilliant little
fairy as ever, brightly dressed, with shimmering golden
curls, and starry eyes. By her side stood Sir Rupert— the
nine-year-old baronet, growing tall very fast, pale and slen-
der still, and looking at the colonel with his mother's dark,
deep eyes.

Col. Jocyln held out his hand to the flaxen-haired fairy.

" Come here, little May, and kiss papa's friend. You
remember papa, don't you ? "

" Yes," said May, sitting on his knee contentedly. " Oh,
yes. When is papa coming home ? He said in mamma's
letter he would fetch me lots and lots of dolls, and picture-
books. Is he coming home soon ? "

" Not very soon," the colonel said, inexpressibly touched j
" but little May will go to papa some day. You are
mamma, I suppose ? " smiling at Lady Thetford.

"Yes," nodded May, "that's mamma, and Rupert's
mamma. Ohl I'm so sorry papa isn't coming home
soon. Do you know," looking up in his face with big,
shining, solemn eyes, " I've got a pony, and I can ride
lovely ; and its name is Snow-drop, because it's all white -,
and Rupert's is black, and his name is Sultan ? And I've
got a watch ; mamma gave it to me last Christmas ; and
my doll's name— the big one, you know, that opens its
eyes and says, ' mamma ' and * papa,' is Sonora. Have
you got any little girls at home ? "

, but we can
vas very, very
ry pain at her

: will send for

brilliant little
lering golden
Rupert — the
Dale and slen-
nother's dark,

i-haired fairy,
friend. You

itedly. "Oh,
1 in mamma's
, and picture-

ibly touched ;
ly. You are
9rd.

ind Rupert's
loming home
face with big,
d I can ride
it's all white ;
I? And I've
ristmas ; and
lat opens its
nora. Have

COLONEL JOCYLN.

303

" One, Miss Chatterbox."

" What's her name ? "

" Aileen — Aileen Jocyln."

" Is she nice ? "

"Very nice, I think."

"Will she come to see me?"

" If you wish it, and mamm'i wishes it."

" Oh, yes ! you do, don't you, mamma ? How big is
your little girl — as big as me ? "

" Bigger, I fancy. She is nine years old."

"Then she's as big as Rupert— he's nine years old.
May she fetch her doll to see Sonora ? "

" Certainly — a regiment of dolls, if she wishes."

" Can't she come to-morrow ? " asked Rupert, " To-mor-
row's May's birthday ; May's seven years old to-morrow.
Mayn't she come ? "

"That must be as mamma says."

"Oh, fetch her," cried Lady Thetford, "it will be so
nice for May and Rupert. Only I hope little May won't
quarrel with her ; she does quarrel with her playmates a
good deal, I am sorry to say."

"I won't, if she's nice," said May; "it's all their fault.
Oh, Rupert ! there's Mrs. Weymore on the lawn, and I
want her to come and see the rabbits. There's five little
rabbits this morning, mamma — mayn't I go and show
them to Mrs. Weymore ? "

Lady Thetford nodded smiling acquiescence ; and away
ran little May and Rupert to show the rabbits to the gov-
erness.

Colonel Jocyln lingered for half an hour or upwards, con-
versing with his hosteca, and rose to take his leave at last,
with the promise of returning on the morrow with his little

304

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

daughter, and dining at the house. As he mounted his
horse and rode homeward, " a haunting shape, an image
gay," followed him through the genial May sunshine-
Lady Thetford, fair, and stately, and graceful.

" Nine years a widow," he mused. " They say she took
her husband's death very hard— and no wonder, consider-
ing how he died j but nine years is a tolerable time in
which to forget. She received the news of Everard's death
very quietly. I don't suppose there ever was anything
really in that old story. How handsome she is, and how
graceful. I wonder — "

He broke off in his musing fit to light a cigar, .and see
through the curling smoke dark-eyed Ada, mamma to little
Aileen as well as the other two. He had never thought of
wanting a wife before, in all the years of his widowhood ;
but the want struck him forcibly now.

"And Aileen wants a mother, and the little baronet a
father," he thought, complacently; "my lady can't do

better." ^ ,. , .

So next day, the earliest possible hour brought back the
galant colonel, and with him a brown-haired, brown-eyed,
quiet-looking little girl, as tall, every inch, as Sir Rupert.
A little embryo patrician, with pride in her infantile lin-
eaments already, an uplifted poise of the graceful head, a
light, elastic step, and a softly-modulated voice. A little
lady from top to toe, who opened her brown eyes in wide
wonder at the antics, and gambols, and obstreperou ness,
generally, of little May.

There were two or three children from the rectory, and
half a dozen from other families in the neighborhood—
and the little birthday feast was under the charge of Mrs.
Weymore, the governess, pale and pretty, and subdued, as

CZ3

TTW

COLONEL JOCYLN.

305

mounted his

e, an image

sunshine —

}ay she took
er, consider-
ible time in
:rard's death
as anything
: is, and how

gar, .and see
nma to little
er thought of
widowhood ;

tie baronet a
idy can't do

ight back the
, brown-eyed,
5 Sir Rupert.

infantile lin-
iceful head, a
>ice. A little

eyes in wide
xeperou'^ness,

e rectory, and
ighborhood —
[large of Mrs.
d subdued, as

of old. They raced through the leafy arcades of the park
and gambolled in the garden, and had tea in a fairy sum-
mer-house, to the music of plashing fountains — and little
May was captain of the band. Even shy, still Aileen
Jocyln forgot her youthful dignity, and raced and laughed
with the best.

"It was so nice, papa I " she cried, rapturously, riding
home in the misty moonlight. " I never enjoyed myself
so well. I like Rupert so much — ^better than May, you
know ; May's so rude, and laughs so loud. I've asked
them to come and see me, papa ; and May said she would
make her mamma let them come next week. And then I'm
going back — I shall always like to go there."

Colonel Jocyln smiled as he listened to his little daught-
er's prattle. Perhaps he agreed with her ; perhaps he too,
liked to go there. The dinner-party, at which he and the
rector of St. Gosport and the rector's wife were the only
guests, had been quite as pleasant as the birthday fete.
Very graceful, very fair and stately, had looked the
lady of the manor, presiding at her own dinner-table.
How well she would look at the head of his ?

The Indian officer, after that became a very frequent
guest at Thetford Towers — the children were such a good
excuse. Aileen was lonely at home, and Rupert and May
were always glad to have her. So papa drove her over
nearly every day, or else came to fetch the other two to
Jocyln H;.!I. Lady Thetford was ever most gracious,
and the colonel's hopes ran high.

Summer waned. It was October, and Lady Thetford
began talking of leaving St. Gosport for a season \ her
health was not good, and change of air was recommended.

" I can leave my children in charge of Mrs. Weymore,"

306

SIR NOEL'S HEIR

she said. I have every confidence in her ; and she has
been with me so long. I think I shall depart next week ;
Dr. Gale says I have delayed too long."

Colonel Jocyln looked up uneasily. They were silting
alone together, looking at the red October sunset blazing
itself out behind the Devon hills.

"We will miss you very much," he said, softly. "I
will miss you."

Something in his tone struck Lady Thetford. She turn-
ed her dark eyes upon him in surprise and sudden alarm.
The look had to be answered ; rather embarrassed, and
not at all so confident as he thought he would have been.
Colonel Jocyln asked Lady Thetford to be his wife.

There was a blank pause. Then,

" I am very sorry. Colonel Jocyln. I never thought of
this."

He looked at her, pale — alarmed.

" Does that mean no. Lady Thetford ? "

" It means no, Colonel Jocyln. I have never thought of
you save as a friend j as a friend I still wish to retain you.
I will never marry. What I am to-day, I will go to my
grave. My boy has my whole heart— there is no room in
it for anyone else. Let us be friends, Colonel Jocyln,"
holding out her white, jeweled hand, "more, no mortal
man can ever be to me."

; and she has
,rt next week ;

!y were sitting
sunset blazing

d, softly. "I

rd. She turn-
sudden alarm,
•arrassed, and
Id have been,
is wife.

\rer thought of

ver thought of
to retain you.
vill go to my
is no room in
onel Jocyln,"
re, no mortal

CHAPTER VIII.

LADY THETFORD'S BALL.

EARS came, and years went, and thirteen pass-
ed away. In all these years, with their count-
less changes, Thetford Towers had been a
deserted house. Comparatively speaking, of
course; Mrs. Weymore, the governess, Mrs. Hilliard,
the housekeeper, Mr. Jarvis, the butler, and their
minor satellites, served there still, but its mistress and
her youthful son had been absent Only little May had
remained under Mrs. Weymore's charge until within the
last two years, and then she, too, had gone to Paris to a
finishing school.

Lady Thetford came herself to the Towers to fetch her
— the only time in these thirteen years. She had spent
them pleasantly enough, rambling about the Continent,
and in her villa on the Arno, for her health was frail, and
growing daily frailer, and demanded a sunny. Southern
climate. The little baronet had gone to Eton, thence to
Oxford, passing his vacation abroad with his mamma^
and St. Gosport had seen nothing of them. Lady Thetford
had thought it best, for many reasons, to leave little May
quietly in England during her wanderings. She missed
the child, but she had every confidence in Mrs. Weymore.
The old aversion hau never entirely worn away, but time

(fcwij^'

■wp

■t

308

S/H NOEVS HEIR.

had taught her she could trust her implicitly j and though
May might miss "mamma" and Rupert, it was not in that
flighty-fairy's nature to take their absence very deeply to
heart.

Jocyln Hall was vacated, too. After that refusal of
Lady Thetford, Colonel Jocyln had left England, placed his
daughter in a school abroad, and made a tour of the East.
Lady Thetford he had not met until within the last year ;
then Lady Thetford and her son, spending the winter in
Rome, had encountered Colonel and Miss Jocyln, and they
had scarcely parted company since. The Thetfords were
to return early in spring to take up their abode once more
in the old home, and Colonel Jocyln announced his inten-
tion of following their example.

Lady Thetford wrote to Mrs. Weymore, her viceroy, and
to her steward, issuing her orders for the expected return.
Thetford Towers was to be completely rejuvenated — new
furnished, painted, and decorated. Landscape gardeners
were set at work in the grounds ; all things were to be
ready the following June.

Summer came and brought the absentees — ^Lady Thet-
ford and her son. Colonel Jocyln and his daughter ; and
there were bonfires and illuminations, and feasting of ten-
antry, and ringing of bells, and general jubilation, that the
heir of Thetford Towers had come to reign at last

The week following the arrival. Lady Thetford issued
invitations over half the county for a grand ball. Thet-
ford Towers, after over twenty years of gloom and solitude,
was coming out again in the old gayety and brilliance
that had been its normal state before the present heir was

born.
The night of the ball came, and with it nearly every one

LAW THETFORiyS BALL.

309

ind though
not in that
y deeply to

refusal of
, placed his
if the East.
; last year ;
i winter in
n, and they
tfords were

once more
1 his inten-

iceroy, and
;ted return,
lated — new
gardeners
were to be

Lady Thet-
ghter; and
:ing of ten-
}n, that the
last

Ford issued
»all. Thet-
id solitude,
1 brilliance
nt heir was

y every one

who had been honored with an invitation, all curious to
see the future lord of one of the noblest domains in broad
Devonshire.

Sir Rupert Thetford stood by his mother's side, and met
his old friends for the first time since his boyhood — a slen-
der young man, pale, and dark, and handsome of face,
with dreamy, artist's eyes and quiet manners, not at all
like his father's fair-haired, bright-eyed, stalwart Saxon
race j the Thetford blood had run out, he was his own
mother's son.

Lady Thetford, grown pallid and wan, and wasted in all
those years, and bearing within her the seeds of an incurable
disease, looked yet fair and gracious, and stately in her
trailing robes and jewels, to-night, receiving her guests
like a queen. It was the triumph of her life, the desire of
her heart, this seeing her son, her idol, reigning in the
home of his fathers, ruler of the broad domain that had
owned the Thetford's lord for more years back than she
could count.

" If I could but see her his wife," Lady Thetford thought,
*• I think I should have nothing left on earth to desire."

She glanced across the wide room, along a vista of
lights, and flitting forms, and rich dresses, and sparkling
jewels, to where a young lady stood, the centre of an ani-
mated group — a tall and eminently handsome girl, with a
proud patrician face, and the courtly grace of a young
empress — Aileen Jocyln, heiress of fabulous wealth, pos-
sessor of fabulous beauty, and descendant of a race as
noble and as ancient as his own.

" With her for his wife, come what might in the future,
my Rupert would be safe," the mother thought ; " and
who knows what a day may bring forth. Ah 1 if I dared

Jsi^

310

S/Ji NOEL'S HEIR.

:i|; •!,

[ ;4

only speak, but I dare not ; it would ruin all. I know my
son."

Yes, Lady Thetford knew her son, understood his char-
acter thoroughly, and was a great deal too wary a conspir-
ator to let him see her cards. Fate, not she, had thrown
the heiress and the baronet constantly together of late,
and Aileen's own beauty and grace were surely sufficient
for the rest. It was the one desire of Lady Thetford's
heart ; but she never said so to her son, who loved her
dearly, and would have done a great deal to add to her
happiness. She left it to fate, and leaving it, was doing
the wisest thing she could possibly do.

It seemed as if her hopes were likely to be realized. Sir
Rupert had an artist's and a Sybarite's love for all things
beautiful, and could appreciate the grand statuesque style
of Miss Jocyln's beauty, even as his mother could not
appreciate it She was like the Pallas Athene, she was
his ideal woman, fair and proud, uplifted and serene, smil-
ing on all, from the heights of high-and-mightydom, but
shining upon them, a brilliant far-off star, keeping her
warmth and her sweetness all for him. He was an indo-
lent, dreamy Sybarite, this pale young baronet, who liked
his rose-leaves unruffled under him, full of artistic tastes
and inspirations, and a great deal too lazy ever to carry
them into effect. He was an artist, and he had his studid
where he began fifty gigantic deeds at once in the way of
pictures, and seldom finished one. Nature had intended
him for an artist, not a country squire ; he cared little for
riding, or hurting, or fishing, or farming, any of the things
wherein country squires delight ; he liked better to lie on
the warm grass, with the summer wind stirring in the trees
over his head, and smoke his Turkish pipe, and dream the

idSi

y£^

LADY THETFORD'S BALL.

I know my

d his char-
' a conspir-
lad thrown
er of late,
y sufficient
Thetford's
loved her
add to her
was doing

ialized. Sir
r all things
esque style
could not
le, she was
:rene, smil-
itydom, but
;eping her
is an indo-
who liked
istic tastes
er to carry
I his studid
the way of
d intended
ed little for
E the things
er to lie on
in the trees
I dream the

lazy hours away. If he had been born a poor man, he might
have been a clever painter ; as it was, he was only an idle,
listless, elegant, languid dreamer, and so likely to remain
until the end of the chapter.

Lady Thetford's ball was a .ery brilliant affair, and a
famous success. Until far into the gray and dismal dawn,
" flute, violin, bassoon," woke sweet echoes in the once
gloomy rooms, where so long silence had reigned. Half
the county had been invited, and half the county were
there; hosts of pretty, rosy girls, in laces and roses,
and sparkling jewelry, baited their dainty traps, and
tried "becks and nods, and wreathed smiles," for the
special delectation of the handsome, courtly heir of Thet-
ford Towers.

But the heir of Thetford Towers, with gracious greetings
for all, yet walked through the rose-strewn pitfalls quite se-
cure, while the starry face of Aileen Jocyln shone on him
in its pale, high-bred beauty. He had not danced much j
he had an antipathy to dancing as he had to exertion of
any kind, and presently he stood leaning against a slender
white column, watching her in a state of lazy admiration.
He could see quite as clearly as his mother how eminently
proper a marriage with the heiress of Col. Jocyln would
be ; he knew by instinct, too, how much she desired it ;
and it was easy enough, looking at her in her girlish pride
and beauty, to fancy himself very much in love ; and,
though anything but a coxcomb. Sir Rupert Thetford was
perfectly aware of his own handsome face and dreamy
artist's eyes, and his fifteen thousand a year, and lengthy
pedigree, and had a hazy idea that the handsome Aileen
would not say no when he spoke.

" And I'll speak to-night, by Jove ! " thought the young

imm

312

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

! .1

: i

baronet, as near being enthusiastic as was in his nature,
while he watched her, the brilliant centre of a brilliant group.
" How exquisite she is in her statuesque grace, my peer-
less Aileen, the ideal of my dreams. I'll ask her to be my
wife to-night, or that inconceivable idiot, Lord Gilbert
Penryhn will do it to-morrow."

He sauntered over to the group, not at all insensible to
the quick, bright smile and flitting flush with which Miss
Jocyin welcomed him.

" I believe this waltz is mine. Miss Jocyin. Very sorry
to break upon your Ute^-tite, Penryhn, but necessity knows
no law."

A moment and they were floating down the whirling
tide of the dance, with the wild, sweet waltz music
swelling and sounding, and Miss Jocyln's perfumed hair
breathing fragrance around him, the starry face and
dark, dewy eyes, downcast a little, in a happy tremor. The
cold, still look of fixed pride seemed to melt out of her
face, and an exquisite rosy light came- and went in its
place, making her more lovely than ever ; and Sir Rupert
saw and understood it all, with a little complacent thrill
of satisfaction.

They waltzed out of the ball-room into a conservatory of
exquisite blossom, where tropic plants of gorgeous hues,
and plashing fountains, under the white light of alabaster
lamps, made a sort of garden of Eden. There were orange
and myrtle trees oppressing the warm air with their sweet-
ness, and through the open, French windows came the
soft, misty moonlight, and the saline wind. There they
stopped, looking out at the pale glory of the night, and
there Sir Rupert, about to ask the supreme question of
his life, and with his heart beginning to plunge against his

\lA

1 his nature,
illiant group,
ce, my peer-
her to be my
jord Gilbert

insensible to
I which Miss

Very sorry
essity knows

the whirling
waltz music
rfumed hair
y face and
tremor. The
t out of her
went in its
i Sir Rupert
lacent thrill

iservatory of
■geous hues,
of alabaster
were orange

their sweet-
's came the

There they
e night, and

question of
i against his

LADV THETFORiyS BALL.

313

side, opened conversation with the usual brilliancy in such
cases.

" You look fatigued. Miss Jocyln. These great balls
are great bores after all."

Miss Jocyln laughed frankly. She was of a nature far
more impassioned than his, and she loved him ; and she
felt thrilling through every nerv j in her body the prescience
of what he was going to say ; but for all that, being a
woman, she hud the best of it now.

" I am not at all fatigued," she said ; " and I like it. I
don't think balls are bores— like this, I mean ; but then,
certainly, my experience is very limited. How lovely the
night is I Look at the moonlight, yonder, on the water, a
sheet of silvery glory. Does it not recall Sorrento, and
the exquisite Sorrentine landscape— that moonlight on the
sea ? Are you not inspired, sir artist ? "

She lifted a flitting, radiant glance, a luminous smile,
and then the star-like face drooped again— and the white
hands took to reckless breaking off sweet sprays of myrtle.

" My inspiration is nearer," looking down at the droop-
ing face. " Aileen— " and there he stopped, and the sen-
tence was never destined to be finished, for a shadow
darkened the moonlight, a figure flitted in like a
spirit, and stood before them— a fairy figure, in a cloud of
rosy drapery, with shimmering, golden curls, and dancing
eyes of turquoise blue.

Aileen Jocyln started back, and away from her compan-
ion, with a faint, surprise cry. Sir Rupert, wondering and
annoyed, stood staring ; and still the fairy figure in the
rosy gauze stood like a nymph in a stage tableau, smiling
up in their faces, and never speaking. There was a blank
pause of a moment, then Miss Jocyln made one step

«i^'

314

S/X NOEL'S HEIR.

'' r

fonvard, doubt, recognition, delight, all in her face at
once.

" It is— it is I " she cried, " May Everard I "

" May Everard 1 " Sir Rupert echoed—" little May ! "

" At your service, monsieur. To think you should have
forgotten me so completely in a decade of years. For
shame. Sir Rupert Thetford 1 "

And then she was in Aileen Jocyln's arms, and there
was an hiatus filled up with kisses.

" Oh 1 what a surprise. " Miss Jocyln cried, breathlessly.
" Have you dropped from the skies ? I thought you were
in France."

May Everard laughed, the mischcvious laugh of thirteen
years ago, as she held up her dimpled cheeks, first one
and then the other, to Sir Rupert.

" Did you ? So I was, but I ran away."

" Ran away I From school ? "

" Something very like it. Oh 1 how stupid it was, and I
couldn't endure it any longer ; and I am so filled with
knowledge now, that if I held any more, I should explode ;
and so when vacation began, and I was permitted to
spend a week with a friend I just took French leave and
came home instead. And so," folding the fairy hands, and
nodding her little ringleted head, " here I am."

" But, good heavens 1 " cried Sir Rupert, aghast, " you
never mean to say, May, you have come alone."

" All alone," said May, with another nod. " I'm used
to it, you know ; did it last vacation. Came across and
spent it with Mrs. Weymore. I don't mind it the least ;
don't know what sea-sickness is ; and oh I didn't some of
the poor wretches suffer ! Isn't it fortunate I'm here for
the ball ? And, Rupert, good gracious ! how you've grown ! "

ILi»l

-f.

LADV THETFORD'S BALL

315

" Thanks. I can't see that you have changed much,
Miss Everard. You are th:: same curly-haired, saucy fairy
I knew thirteen years ago. What does my lady say to
this escapade ? "

" Nothing. Eloquent silence best expresses her feelings ;
and then she hadn't time to make a scene. Are you going
to ask me to dance, Rupert ? because, if you are," said
Miss Everard, adjusting her bracelet, "you had better do
it at once, as I am going back to the ball-room, and after
I once appear there, you will stand no chance amongst
the crowd of competitors. But, then, perhaps you belong
to Miss Jocyln ? "

" Not at all," Miss Jocyln interposed hastily, and red-
dening a little, " I am engaged ; and it is time I was back,
or my unlucky cavalier will be at his wit's end to find me."
She swept away with a quicker movement than usual,
and Sir Rupert laughingly gave his piquant little partner
his arm. His notions of propriety were a good deal shock-
ed ; but then it was only May Everard, and May Everard
was one of those exceptional people who can do pretty
much as they please, and not surprise any one. They went
back to the ball-room, the fairy in pink on the arm of the
young baronet, chattering like a magpie. Miss Jocyln's
partner found her and led her off, but Miss Jocyln was very
silent and distrdit all the rest of the night, and watched
furtively, but incessantly, the fluttering pink fairy. She
had reigned belle hitherto, but sparkling little May, like
an embodied sunbeam, electrified the room, and took the
crown and the sceptre by royal right. Sir. Rupert had
that one dance, and no more — Miss Everard's own proph-
ecy was true — the demand for her was such that even the
son of the house stood not the shadow of chance.

<1V

■'^

I<!

3J6

SIX NOEL'S HEIR.

Miss Jocyln held herself aloof from the young baronet
for the remaining hours of the ball. She had known as
well as he the words that were on his lips when Ma/ Everard
interposed j and her eyes flashed, and her dark cheeks
flushed dusky red to see how easily he had been deterred
from his purpose. For him, he sought her once or twice
in a desultory sort of way, never observing that he was pur-
posely avoided, wandering contentedly back to devote him-
self to some one else, and in the pauses to watch May
Everard floating — a sunbeam in a sunny cloud — ^here and
there, and everywhere.

Ui*.

mmmmm

ig baronet
known as
i/ Everard
irk cheeks
n deterred
J or twice
16 was pur-
levote him-
iratch May
—here and

CHAPTER IX.

GUY LEGARD.

E meant to have spoken that night ; he would
have spoken but for May Everard. And yet
that is two weeks ago, and we have been togeth-

,„aa=— er since, and" Aileen Jocyln broke off

abruptly, and looked out over the far spreading gray sea.

The morning was dull j the leaden sky threatening rain ;
the wind sighing fitfully, and the slow, gray sea creeping
up the gray sands. Aileen Jocyln sat as she had sat since
breakfast, aimless and dreary, by her dressing-room win-
dow, gazing blankly over the pale landscape, her hair fall-
ing loose and damp over her shoulders, a novel lying
listlessly in her lap. The book had no interest-her
thoughts would stray in spite of her to Thetford Tow-

crs

"She is very pretty," Miss Jocyln thought, "with that
pink and white wax-doll sort of prettiness that some peo-
ple admire. I never thought he could, with his artistic na-
ture ; but I suppose I was mistaken. They call her fasci-
nating • I believe that rather hoydenish manner of hers,
all those dashing airs, and that 'loud' style of dress
and doings, take some men by storm. I presume I was
mistaken in Sir Rupert ; I dare say pretty, penmless May
will be Lady Thetford before long."

mmm

318

S/H NOEL'S HEIR.

Miss Jocyln's short upper-lip curled rather scornfully:
and she rose up with a little air of petulance, and walked
across the room to the opposite window. It commano -d
a view of the lawn and a long wooded drive, and canter-
ing airily cp under the waving trees, she saw the young
lady of whom she had been thinking. The pretty fleet-
footed pony and his bright little mistress were by no means
rare visitors at Jocyln Hall ; and Miss Jocyln was always
elaborately civil to Miss Everard. Very pretty little May
looked, all her tinselled curls floating in the breeze, like a
golden banner, the blue eyes more starily radiant than
ever ; the dark riding-habit and jaunty hat and plume the
most becoming things in the worid. She saw Miss Jocyln
at the window, kissed her hand, and resigned Arab to the
groom. A minute more, and she was saluting Aileen with
effusion.

" You solemn Aileen I to sit and mope here in the house
instead of improving your health and temper by a breezy
canter over the downs. Don't contradict, I know you were
moping. I should be afraid to tell you how many miles
Arab and I have got over this morning. And you never
came to see me yesterday, either. Why was it ? "
fuH ^ didn't feel inclined," Miss Jocyln answered truth-

" No, you never do feel inclined unless I come and drag
you out by force; you sit in the house and grow yellow
and jaundiced over high-church novels. I declare I never
met so many lazy people in all my life as I have donesince
I came home. One don't mind mamma, poor thing 1 shut-
ting herself up, and the sunshine and fresh air of heaven
out-butforyou and Rupert, and speaking of Rupert,"ran
on Miss Everard, in a breathless sort of way, " he wanted

ts!h

GUV LEGARD.

319

to commence his great picture of ' P'air Rosamond and
Eleanor' yesterday — and how could he when Eleanor
never came. Why didn't you — you promised ? "

" I c^hanged my mind, I suppose."

" And broki; your word — more shame for you, then !
Come now."

*' No J thanks. It's going to rain."

" Nothing of the sort ; and Rupert is so anxious. He
would have come himself, only my lady is ill to-day with
one of her bad headaches, and asked him to read her to
sleep ; and like the good boy that he is in the main,
though shockingly lazy, he obeyed. Do come, Aileen,
there's a dear ! Don't be selfish."

Miss Jocyln rose rather abruptly.

" I have no desire to be selfish. Miss Everard. If you
will wait ten minutes while I dress, I will accompany you
to Thetford Towers."

She rang the bell, and swept from the room stately and
uplifted. May looked after her, fidgeting a little.

"Dear mel I suppose she is offended now at that
word ' selfish.' I never did get on very well with Aileen
Jocyln, and I'm afraid I never shall. I shouldn't wonder
if she were jealous."

Miss Everard laughed a little silvery laugh all to herself,
and slapped her kid riding-boot with her pretty toy
whip.

"I hope I didn't interrupt a tender declaration that
night in the conservatory j but it looked like .it If I did
I am sure Rupert has had fifty chances since, and I know he
hasn't availed himself of them, or Aileen would never wear
that dissatisfied face. I know she's in love with him,
though, to be sure, she would see me impaled with the

m L..

320

S/X JVOEL'S HEIR.

greatest pleasure if she only thought I suspected it; but
I'm not so certain about him. He's a great deal too indo-
lent, in the first place, to get up a grand passion for any-
body; and I think he's inclined to look graciously on me
—poor little me— in the second. You may spare yourself
the trouble, my dear Sir Rupert, for a gentleman whose chief
aim in existence is to smoke Turkish pipes, and lie on the
grr^ss, and write and read poetry, is not at all the sort of
man I mean to bless for life.

" Tell me not of your soft sighing lovers,

Such things may be had by the score ;
I'd rather be bride to a rover, *

And polish the rifle he bore."

Sang May Everard, in a gay little voice as Miss Jocyln, in
a flowing riding habit, entered the room.

The two girls descended to the court-yard, mounted, and
rode off. Both rode well and both looked their best on
horseback, and made a wonderfully pretty picture as they
galloped through St. Gosport in dashing style, bringing
the admiring population in a rush to doors and windows.
Perhaps Sir Rupert Thetford thought so, too, as he stood
at the great front entrance to receive them with a kindling
light in his artist's eyes.

" May said she would fetch you, and May always keeps
her word," he said, as he walked slowly up the sweeping
staircase ; "besides, Aileen, I am to have the first sitting
for the 'Rosamond and Eleanor' to-day, am I not? May
calls me an idle dreamer, a useless drone in the busy hu-
man hive ; so, to vindicate my character, and cleave a
niche in the temple of fame, I am going to immortalize
myself over this painting."

'^mL

:ted it ; but
al too indo-
on for any-
jusly on me
are yourself
whose chief
d lie on the
the sort of

s Jocyln, in

ountedj and
eir best on
ire as they
e, bringing
d windows.
is he stood
a kindling

vays keeps
5 sweeping
first sitting
not ? May
e busy hu-
i cleave a
mmortalize

GUY LEGARD.

321

" You'll never finish it," said May ; " it will be like all
the rest. You'll begin on a gigantic scale and with super-
humc'n efforts, and you'll cool down and get sick of it be-
fore ii is half finished ; and it will go to swell the pile of
daubdd canvas in your studio now. Don't tell me I I
know you."

" And have the poorest possible opinion of me, Miss
Everard?"

" Yes, I have I I have no patience when I think of
what you might do, what you might become, and see what
you are. If you were not Sir Rupert Thetford, with a
princely income, you might be a clever man. As it is — "
a shrug, and a lift of the eyebrows.

" As it is 1 " cried the young baronet, trying to laugh and
reddening violently, " I will still be a clever man — a mod-
ern Murillo. Are you not a little severe. Miss Everard ;
Aileen, I believe this is your first visit to my studio t "

" Yes," said Miss Jocyln, coldly and briefly. She did
not like the conversation, and May Everard's familiar
home-truths stung her. To her he was everything mortal
man should be. She was proud, but she was not ambitious ;
what right had this penniless little free-speaker to come
between them and talk like this ?

May was flitting about like the fairy she was, her head a
little on one side, like a critical canary, her flowing skirt
held up, inspecting the pictures.

"•Jeannie D'Arc before her Judges,' half finished, as
usual, and never to be completed ; and weak — very, if it
ever is completed. ' Battle of Bosworth Field,' in flam-
ing colors, all confusion and smoke, and red ochre and
rubbish, you did well not to trouble yourself any more with
that. ' Swiss Peasant,' ah ! that is pretty. ' Storm at Sea,'

14*

-.*''

322

S/H NOEVS HEIR.

just tolerable. 'Trial of Marie Antoinette.' My dear
Rupert, why will you persist in these figure paintings when
you know your forte is landscape ? ' An Evening in the
Eternal City.' Now that is what I call an exquisite little
thing ? Look at the moon, Aileen, rising over these hill
tops ; and see those trees— you can almost feel the wind
blow I And that prostrate figure— why, that looks like
yourself, Rupert I "

" It is myself."

" And the other stooping— who is he ? "

" The painter of that picture. Miss Everard ; yes, the
only thing in my poor studio you see fit to eulogize, is not
mine. It was done by an artist friend— an unknown Eng-
lishman, who saved my life in Rome three years ago.
Come in, mother mine, and defend your son from the two-
edged sword of May Everard's tongue."

For Lady Thetford, pale and languid, appeared on the
threshold, wrapped in a shawl.

" It's all for his good, mamma. Come here and look at
this • Evening in the Eternal City.' Rupert has nothing like
it in all his collection, though there are the beginning of
many better things. He saved your life ? How was it ? "

" Oh ! a little affair with brigands ; nothing very thrill-
ing, but I should have been killed or captured all the same
if this Legard had not come to the rescue. May is right
about the picture; he painted well, had come to Rome to
perfect himself in his art. Very fine fellow, Legard— a
thorough Bohemian."

" Legard 1 "

It was Lady Thetford who had spoken sharply and sud-
denly. She had put up her glass to look at the Italian
picture, but dropped it, and faced abruptly round.

Ofrg^ m

I.' My dear
intings when
:ning in the
cquisite little
er these hill
el the wind
t looks like

rd ; yes, the
ogize, is not
known Eng-
years ago.
rom the two-

ared on the

and look at
nothing like
eginning of
3W was it ? "
; very thrill-
all the same
lay is right
o Rome to

Legard — a

tly and sud-
the Italian
nd.

GUY LEGARD.

323

" Yes, Legard. Guy Legard, a young Englishman, about
my own age. By-the-by, if you saw him, you would be sur-
prised by his singular resemblance to some of those dead
and gone Thetfords hanging over there in the picture-gal-
lery — fair hair, blue eyes, and the same peculiar cast of
features to a shade. I was taken rather aback, I confess,
when I saw it first. My dear mother — "

It was not a cry Lady Thetford had uttered — it^ was a
kind of wordless sob. He soon caught her in his arms, and
held her there, her face the color of death.

" Get a glass of water. May — she is subject to these at-
tacks. Quick I "

Lady Thetford drank the water, and sunk back in the
chair Aileen wheeled up, her face looking awfully corpse-
like in contrast with her dark garments and dead black hair.

" You should not have left your room," said Sir Rupert.
" after your attack this morning. Perhaps you had bet-
ter return and lie down. You look perfectly ghastly."

" No," his mother sat up as she spoke and pushed away
the glass, "there is no necessity for lying down. Don't
wear that scared face, May — it was nothing, I assure you.
Go on with what you were saying, Rupert."

" What I was saying ? what was it ? "

"About this young artist's resemblance to the Thet-
fords."

" Oh I well, there> no more to say, that is all. He
saved my life, he painted that picture, and we were
Damon and Pythias over again during my stay in Rome. I
always do fraternize with these sort of fellows, y8u know.
I leit him in Rome, and he promised, if he ever returned
to England, which he wasn't so sure of, he would run
down to Devonshire to see me and my painted ancestors,

324

S//1 NOEVS HEIR.

whom he resembles so strongly. That is all j and now
young ladies if you will take your places, we will commence
the Rosamond and Eleanor. Mother, sit here by this
window, if you want to play propriety, and don't talk."

But Lady Thetford chose to go to her own room ; and
her son gave her his arm thither, and left her lying back
amongst her cushions in front of the fire. It was always
chilly in those great and somewhat gloomy rooms, and her
ladyship was always cold of late. She lay there looking
with gloomy eyes into the ruddy blaze, and holding her
hands over her painfully beating heart.

" It is destiny, I suppose," she thought, bitterly ; " let
me banish him to the farthest end of the earth ; let me
keep him in poverty and obscurity all his life, and when the
day comes that it is written, Guy Legard will be here. Soon-
er or later, the vow I have broken to Sir Noel Thetford
must be kept; sooner or later, Sir Noel's heir will have his
own."

II } and now
ill commence
here by this
n't talk."

room ; and
r lying back

was always
>ms, and her
lere looking
holding her

tterly; "let
rth ; let me
nd when the
here. Sbon-
•el Thetford
vill have his

CHAPTER X.

ASKING IN MARRIAGE.

HE fire burned in Lady Thetford's room, and
, among piles of silken pillows my lady, languid
and pale, lay, looking u-Jo the leaping flame. It
wasa warm summer moiring, the sun blazed like
a wheel of fire in a sky without a clouc , but Lady Thet-
ford was always chilly of late. She d'ew the crimson
shawl she wore closer around her, andg'anced impatiently
now and then at the pretty toy clock on the decorated
chimney-piece. The house was veiy still; its one dis-
turbing element. Miss Everard, was absent with Sir
Rupert for a morning canter over the sunny Devon hills.

The toy clock struck up a gay little waltz preparatory to
striking eleven, and my lady turned with a restless, impa-
tient sigh among her pillows.

" How long they stay, and these solitary rides are so
dangerous I Oh ! what will become of me if it is too late,
after all ! What shall I do if he says no ? "

There was a quick man's step without — a moment, and
the door opened, and Sir Rupert, " booted and spurred "
from his ride, was bending over his mother. '

" Louise says you sent for me after I left. What is it,
mother — ^j'ou are not worse ? "

He knelt beside her. Lady Thetford put back the fair.

326

S/Jt NOEVS HEIR.

brown hair with tender touch, and gazed in the handsome
face, so like her own, with eyes full of unspeakable love.

" My boy 1 my boy I " she murmured, " my darling Ru-
pert ! Oh I it is hard, it is bitter to have to leave you. "

" Mother I " with a quick look of alarm, " what is it ?
Are you worse ? "

" No worse, Rupert j but no better. My boy, I shall
never be better again in this world."
"Mother—"

" Hush, my Rupert — wait ; you know it is true ; and
but for leaving you I should be glad to go. My life has
not been so happy since your father died. Heaven knows,
that I should greatly cling to it."

" But, mother, this won't do ; these morbid fancies are
worst of all. Keeping up one's spirits is half the battle."
" I am not morbid ; I merely state a fact — a fact which
must preface what is to come. Rupert, I know I am
dying, and before we part I want to see my successor at
Thetford Towers. "

" My dear mother 1 " amazedly.

" Rupert, I want to see Aileen Jocyln your wife. No,
no ; don't interrupt me, and believe me, I dislike match-
making quite as cordially as you do ; but my days on
earth are numbered, and I must speak before it is too late.
When we were abroad I thought there never would be oc-
casion ; when we returned home I thought so, too, Rupert
I have ceased to think so since May Everard's return."

The young man's face flushed suddenly and hotly, but
he made no reply.

" How any man in his senses could possibly prefer May
to Aileen is a mystery I cannot solve j but then these
things puzzle the wisest of us at times. Mind, my boy, I

ASKING IN MARRIAGE.

327

! handsome
ible love,
darling Ru-
ave you. "
vhat is it?

>oy, I shall

true ; and
ly life has
Lven knows,

fancies are
the battle."
fact which
now I am
iccessor at

wife. No,
ike match-
ly days on
is too late.
3uld be oc-
jo, Rupert
sturn."
hotly, but

prefer May
:hen these
my boy, I

don't really say you do prefer May — I should be very un-
happy if 1 thought so. I know — I am certain you love
Aileen best ; and I am equally certain she is a thousand
times better suited to you. Then, as a man of honor, you
owe it to her. You have paid Miss Jocyln such attention
as no honorable gentleman should pay any lady, except the
one he means to make his wife."

Lady Thetford's son rose abruptly, and stood leaning
against the mantel, looking steadfastly into the fire.

" Rupert, tell me truly, if May Everard had not come
here would you not before this have asked Aileen to be
your wife ? "

" Yes — no — I don't know. Mother I " the young man
cried, impatiently, " what has May Everard done that you
should treat her like this? "

" Nothing ; I love her dearly, and you know it. But
she is not suited to you — she is not the woman you should
marry."

Sir Rupert laughed — a hard strident laugh.

" I think Miss Everard is much of your opinion, my lady.
You might have spared yourself all these fears and perplex-
ities, for the simple reason that I should have been refused
had I asked."

" Rupert 1 "

" Nay, mother mine, no need to wear that frightened
face. I haven't asked Miss Everard in so many words to
marry me, and she hasn't declined with ^hanks ; but she
would if I did. I saw enough to-day for that."

" Then you don't care for Aileen ? " with a look of blank
consternation.

" I care for her very much, mother ; and I haven't owned
to being absolutely in love with our pretty little May. Per-

328

S/R NOEVS HETR.

haps I care for one as much as the other ; perhaps I know
in my inmost lieart she is the one I should marry. That
is, if she will marry me."

" You owe it to her to ask her."

"Do I? Very likely; and it would make you happy
my mother ? " ^^^'

He came and bent over her again, smiling down in her
wan, an.\ious face.

'' More happy than anything else in this world, Rupert ? "
" Then consider it an accomplished fact. Before the
sun sets to-day Aileen Jocyln shall say yes or no to your
son." '

He ben^ and kissed her ; then, without waiting for her
to speak eled round and strode out of the apartment.

" The. ithing like striking while the iron is hot,"

said the young man to himself with a grim sort of smile
as he ran down stairs ; « for good or for evil, there is no
time like the present, my stately Aileen."

Loitering on the lawn, he encountered May Everard,
still in her riding-habit, surrounded by three or four poo-
dle dogs.

"On the wing again, Rupert? Is it for mamma ? She
is not worse ? "

" No ; I am going to Jocyln Hall. Perhaps I shall
fetch Aileen back."

May's turquoise blue eyes were lifted with a sudden
lummous, intelligent flash to his face.

" God speed you I You will certainly fetch Aileen back 1 "

She held out her hand with a smile that told him she
knew all as plainly as he knew it himself.

" You have my best wishes, Rupert, and don't linger : I
want to congratulate Aileen. "

srhaps I know
marry. That

I you happy,

down in her

•Id, Rupert?"

Before the

or no to your

iting for her
! apartment,
iron is hot,"
ort of smile
, there is no

fay Everard,
or four poo-

mma ? She

taps I shall

>i a sudden

leen back I "
>ld him she

I't linger ; I

ASKING IN MARRIAGE,

329

Sir Rupert's response to these good wishes was very
brief and curt. Miss Everard watched liim mount and
ride off, with a mischievous little smile rippling round her
rosy lips.

" My lady has been giving her idol of her existence a
caudle lecture — subject, matrimony," mused Miss Everard,
sauntering lazily along in the midst of her little dogs ;
"and really it is high time, if she means to have Aileen
for a daughter-in law ; for the heir of T hetford Towers is
rather doubtful that he is not falling in love with me ;
and Aileen is dreadfully jealous and disagreeable ; and
my lady is anxious, and fidgeted to death about it ; and
Sir Rupert doesn't want to himself if he can help it. I
must be a fascinating little thing, to be sure, and I feel
for hin , beyond everything ; at the same time Beauty,"
said the young lady, addressing the ugliest of the poodles
with a confidential little nod, " they might all spare them-
selves the trouble of being tormented on the subject ;
because, you see, my dear little doggy, I wouldn't marry
Sir Rupert Thetford if he were heir to the throne of Eng-
land, much less Thetford Towers. He's a very nice young
man, and a very amiable young man, and a very good-look-
ing young man, I have no doubt ; but I'm not in love with
him, and never shall be ; and I'm going to marry for love, or
die an old maid. It seems to me a Levantine pirate, or an
Italian brigand, or a knight of the road, would suit my
ideas ; but I suppose there is no use hoping forsuch fortune
as that ; but as for Sir Rupert — oh-h-h ! good gracious 1 "

Miss Everard stopped with a shrill, feminine shriek.
She had loitered down to the gates, where a young man
stood talking to the lodge-keeper, with a big Newfound-
land dog gambolling ponderously about him. The big

330

SIX NOEVS HEIR.

i> i

Newfoundland made an instant dash into Miss Everard's
guard of honor, with one deep, bass bark, like distant
thunder, and which effectually drowned the yelps of the
poodles. May flew to the rescue, seizing the Newfound-
land's collar, and pulling him back with all the might of
two little white hands.

" You great, horrid brute 1 " cried May, with flashing eyes,
" how dare youl Call-off your dog, sir, this instant I Don't
you see how he is frightening mine ! "

She turned imperiously to the Newfoundland's master,
the bright eyes flashing, the pink cheeks aflame— very prel
ty, indeed, in her wrath.

" Down, Hector ! " called the young man, authoritatively ;
and Hector, like the well-trained animal he was, subsided in-
stantly. " I beg your pardon, young lady ! Hector, you.
stir at your peril, sir! I am very sorry he has alarmed
you."

He doffed his cap with careless grace, and made the
angry little lady a courtly bow.

" He didn't alarm me," replied May, testily ; " he only
alarmed my dogs. Why, dear me ! how very odd I "

Miss Everard, looking full at the young man, had start-
ed back with this exclamation, and stared broadly. A
tall, powerful looking young fellow, rather dusty and travel-
stained, but eminently gentlemanly, with frank, blue eyes,
and profuse fair hair, and a handsome, candid face.

" Yes, Miss May," struck in the lodge-keeper, " it is odd I
I see it, too 1 He looks enough like Sir Noel, dead and
gone, to be his own son ! "

"I beg your pardon," said May, becoming conscious of
her wide stare, "but is your name Legard; and are you
a friend of Sir Rupert Thetford?"

diss Everard's
:, like distant
; yelps of the
lie Newfound-
11 the might of

1 flashing eyes,
nstanti Don't

land's master,
ne — ^very prel

uthoritatively ;

IS, subsided in-

Hector, you.

! has alarmed

and made the

tily ; " he only
ryoddl"
nan, had start-
i broadly. A
isty and travel-
ink, blue eyes,
lid face,
jer, "it is odd I
roel, dead and

I conscious of
; and are you

ASKING IN MARRIAGE.

331

" Yes, to both questions," with a smile that May liked.
" You see the resemblance too, then. Sir Rupert used to
speak of it. Is he at home ? "

" Not just now ; but he will be very soon, and I know
will be glad to see Mr. Legard. You had better come
and wait."

" And Hector,' said Mr. Legard. " I think I had better
leave him behind, as I see him eyeing your guard of honor
with anything but a friendly eye. I believe I have the
pleasure of addressing Miss Fverard? Ohl" laughing
frankly at her surprised face, " Sir Rupert showed me a
photograph of yours as a child. I have a good memory
for faces, and knew you at once."

Miss Everard and Mr, Legard fell easily into conversa-
tion at once, as if they had been old friends. L^dy Thet-
ford's ward was one of those people who form their likes
and dislikes at first sight ; and Mr. Legard's face would
have been a pretty sure letter of recommendation to him
the wide world over. May liked his looks ; and then he
was Sir Rupert's friend, and she was never particular
about social forms and customs \ and so they dawdled
about the grounds, and through the leafy arcades, in the
genial morning sunshine, talking about Sir Rupert and
Rome, and art and artists, and the thousand and one
things that turn up in conversation ; and the moments
slipped by, half hour followed half hour, until May jerked
out her watch at last in a sudden fit of recollection, and
found, to her consternation, it was past two.

" What will mamma say I " cried the young lady, aghast.
" And Rupert ; I dare say he's home to luncheon before
this. Let us go back to the house, Mr. Legard. I had
no idea it was half so late."

■VMM

•

I :;

Sm NOEVS HEIR.

Mr. Legard laughed frankly.

"The honesty of that speech is the highest flattery my
conversational powers ever received, Miss Everard. I
am very much obliged to you. Ah I by Jove I Sir Rupert
himself."

For riding slowly up under the sunlit trees, came the
young baronet. As Mr. Legard spoke, his glance fell upon
them, the young lady and gentleman advancing so con-
fidentially, with half a dozen curly poodles frisking around
them. To say Sir Rupert stared, would be a mild way
of putting it— his eyes opened in wide wonder.

" Guy Legard I "

" Thetford I My dear Sir Rupert 1 "

The baronet leaped off his horse, his eyes lighting, and
shook hands with the artist, in a burst of heartiness very
rare with him. '

" Where in the world did you drop from, and how under
the sun do you come to be on such uncommonly friendly
footing with Miss Everard ? "

••Heave the explanation to Mr. Legard," said May
blushing alitde under Sir Rupert's glance, "while I go
and see mamma, only premising that luncheon-hour is past,
and you had better not linger."

She tripped away, and the two young men followed more
slowly into the house. Sir Rupert led his friend to his
studio, and left him to inspect the pictures.

"Whilst I speak a word to my motiier," he said; « it
will detain me hardly an instant."

•' All ri{ jht ! " said Mr. Legard, boyishly. « Dbn't hurry
yourself on my account, you know."

Lady Thetford lay where her son had left her ; lay as
if she had hardly stirred since. She looked up, and half

best flattery my
ss Everard. I
ve I Sir Rupert

trees, came the
fiance fell upon
ancing so con-
frisking around
be a mild way
ler.

!S lighting, and
heartiness very

»nd how under
monly friendly

d,"said May,
I, " while I go
m-hour is pas^

followed more
friend to his

he said ; " it

"Dbn't hurry

her; lay as
i up, and half

ASKING IN MARRIAGE.

333

rose as he came in, her eyes painfully, intensely anxious.
But his face, grave and quiet, told nothing.

" Well," she panted, her eyes glittering.

" It is well, mother. Aileen Jocyln has promised to be-
come my wife." '

" Thank God 1 "

Lady Thetford sunk back, her hands clasped tightly
over her heart, its loud beating plainly "udible. Her son
looked down at her, his face keeping its steady gravity —
none of the rapture of an accepted lover there.

" You are content, mother ? "

" More than content, Rupert. And you ? "

He smiled, and stooping, kissed the worn, pallid face.
" I would do a great deal to make you happy, mother ;
but I would not ask a woman I did not love to be my wife.
Be at rest ; all is well with me. And now I must leave
you, if you will not go down to luncheon."

" I think not ; I am not strong to-day. Is May waiting? "

" More than May. A friend of mine has arrived, and
will stay with us for a feiy weeks."

Lady Thetford's face had been flushed and eager, but
at the last words it suddenly blanched.

" A friend, Rupert 1 Who ? "

" You have heard me speak of him before," he said, care-
lessly ; " his name is Guy Legard."

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

!HE family at Thetford Towers were a good

deal surprised, a few hours later that day, by

the unexpected appearance of Lady Thetford at

dinner. Wan as some spirit of the moonlight,

she came softly in, just as they entered the dining-room :

and her son presented his friend, Mr. Legard, at once

" His resemblance to the family will be the surest pass-
port to your favor, mother mine," Sir Rupert said, gayly.
Mrs. Weymore met him just now, and recoiled with a
shriek, as though she had seen a ghost. Extraordinary,
isn t It— this chance resemblance ? "

"Extraordinary," Lady Thetford said, "but not at all
unusual. Of course, Mr. Legard is not even remotely
connected with the Thetford family ? "

She asked the question without looking at him. She kept
her eyes fixed on her plate, for that fair face before
her was terrible to her almost as a ghost. It was the
day« of her youth over again, and Sir Noel, her husband
once more by her side.

"Not that I am aware of," Mr. Legard said, running
his fingers through his abundant blonde hair. " But I may
be, for all that. I am like the hero of a novel-a mysteri
ous orphan-only, unfortunately, with no identifying straw

s were a good
T that day, by
dy Thetford at
the moonh'ght,
: dining-room ;
d, at once,
le surest pass-
rt said, gayly.
jcoiled with a
Extraordinary,

but not at all
!ven remotely

liim. She kept

r face before

It was the

her husband,

said, running
" But I may
il — a mysteri
tifying straw

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

335

berry-mark on my arm. Who my parents were, or" what
my real name is, I know no more than I do of the biog
raphy of the man in the moon."

There was a murmur of astonishment — May and Ru-
pert vividly interested, Lady Thetford white as a dead
woman, her eyes averted, her hand trembling as if
palsied.

" No," said Mr. Legard, gravely, and a little sadly, " I
stand as totally alone in this world as a human being can
stand— father, mother, brother, sister, I never have known ;
a nameless penniless waif, I was cast upon the world four-
and-twenty years ago. Until the age of twelve I was call-
ed Guy Vyking ; then the friends with whom I had lived left
England for America, and a man, a painter, named Legard,
took me, and gave me his name. And there the romance
comes in ; a lady, a tall, elegant lady, too closely veiled
for us to see her face, came to the poor home that was
mine, paid those who kept me from my infancy, and paid
Legard for his future care of me. I have never seen her
since ; and I sometimes think," his voice failing, " that
she may have been my mother."

There was a sudden clash, and a momentary confusion.
My lady, lifting her glass with that shaking hand, had let
it fall, and it was shivered to atoms on the floor.
" And you never saw the lady after ? " May asked.
" Never. Legard received regular remittances, mailed,
oddly enough, from your town here— Plymouth. The lady
told him, if he ever had occasion to address her, which he
never did have, that I know of, to address Madam Ada,
Plymouth ! He brought me up, educated me, taught me
his art, and died. I was old enough then to comprehend my
position ; and the first use I made of that knowledge, was

> ft i I n'ii « t I,

336

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

'\\ 4

:. i

to return ' Madam Ada ' her remittances, with a few sharp
lines, that effectually put an end to them."

" Have you ever tried to ferret out the mystery of your
birth, and this Madam Ada ? " inquired Sir Rupert.

Mr. Legard shook his head.

" No, why should I ? I dare say I should have no rea-
son to be proud of my parents if I did find them ; and
they evidently were not very proud of me. ' Where ignor-
ance is bliss,' etc. If destiny has decreed it, I shall know,
sooner or later ; if destiny has not, then my puny efforts
will be of no avail. But if presentiments mean anything, I
shall one day know ; and I have no doubt, if I searched
Devonshire, I should find Madam Ada."

May Everard started up with a cry, for Lady Thetford
had fallen back in one of those sudden spasms to which
she had lately become subject. In the universal conster-
nation, Guy Legard and his story were forgotten.

" I hope what / said had nothing to do with this," he
cried aghast ; and the one following so suddenly upon the
other made the remark natural enough. But Sir Rupert
turned upon him in haughty surprise.

" What you said 1 My mother, unfortunately, has
been subject to these attacks for the past two years, Mr.
Legard. That will do, May ; let me assist my mother to
her room."

May drew back. Lady Thetford was able to rise,
pallid and trembling, and, supported by her son's arm,
to walk from the room.

" Lady Thetford's health is very delicate, I fear," Mr.
Legard murmured, sjmpathetically. " I really thought for
a moment my story-telling had occasioned her sudden
illness."

nan

!th a few sharp

nystery of your
Rupert.

1 have no rea-
ind them ; and

' Where ignor-
t, I shall know,
ly puny efforts
lean anything, I

if I searched

Lady Thetford

pasms to which

Iversal conster-

otten.

with this," he

denly upon the

But Sir Rupert

jrtunately, has
: two years, Mr.
: my mother to

able to rise,
her son's arm,

te, I fear," Mr.
sally thought for
:d her sudden

OJV THE WEDDING EVE.

337

Miss Everard fixed a pair of big, shining eyes in solemn
scrutiny on his face— that face so like the pictured one of
Sir Noel Thetford.

"A very natural supposition," thought the young lady ;
" so did /."

" You never knew Sir Noel ? " Guy Legard said, mus-
ingly ; but, of course, you did not. Sir Rupert has told me
he died before he was born."

" I never saw him," said May ; "but those who have seen
him in this house, our housekeeper, for instance, stands
perfectly petrified at your extraordinary likeness to him.
Mrs. Milliard says you have given her a ' turn ' she never
expects to get over."

Mr. Legard smiled, but was very grave again directly.

" It is odd — odd — very odd ! "

" Yes," said May Everard, with a sagacious nod j " a great
deal, too, to be a chance resemblance. Hush 1 here comes
Rupert. Well, how have you left mamma? "

" Better ; Louise is with her. And now to finish dinner j
I have an engagement for the evening."

Sir Rupert was strangely silent and distrait z!i\ through
dinner, a darkly thoughtful shadow glooming his ever pale
face. A supposition had flashed across his mind that
turned him hot and cold by turns — a supposition that was
almost a certainty. This striking resemblance of the paint-
er, Legard, to his dead father was no freak of nature, but
a retributive Providence revealing the truth of his birth.
It came back to his memory with painfully acute clearness,
that his mother had sunk down once before in a violent
tremor and faintness at the mere sound of his name. Le-
gard had spoken of a veiled lady— Madam Ada, Plymouth,
her address. Could his mother— his— be that mysterious

SIR NOEVS HEIR.

arbiter of Legard's fate ? The name — the place. Sir Rupert
Thetford wrenched his thoughts by a violent effort away,
shocked and horrified at himself.

" It cannot be — it cannot ? " he said to himself passion-
ately ; " I am mad to harbor such thoughts. It is a des-
ecration of the memory of the dead, a treason to the living.
But I wish Guy Legard had never come here."

There was one other person at Thetford Towers strange-
ly and strongly effected by Mr. Guy Legard ; and that
person, oddly enough, was Mrs. Weymore, the governess.
Mrs. Weymore had never even seen the late Sir Noel that
any one knew of, and yet she had recoiled with a shrill,
feminine cry of utter consternation at sight of the young
man.

" I don't see why you should get the fidgets about it,
Mrs. Weymore," Miss Everard remarked, with her great,
bright eyes suspiciously keen, " you never knew Sir Noel."

Mrs. Weymore sunk down on a lounge quite white and
startled.

" My dear, I beg your pardon. I — it seems strange.
O May 1 " with a sudden sharp cry, losing self-control,
" who is that young man ? "

"Why, Mr. Guy Legard, artist," answered May, com-
posedly, the bright eyes still on the alert ; " formerly in
'boyhood's sunny hours,' you know. Master Guy — let me
see ! Yes, Vyking."

" Vyking I " repeated Mrs. Weymore with a spasmodic
cry ; and then dropped her white face in her hands, trem-
bling from head to foot

"We)', upon my word," Miss Everard said, addressing
empty space, " this does cap the globe ! The Mysteries of
Udolpho were plain reading compared to Mr. Guy Vyking,

:e. Sir Rupert
it effort away,

mself passion-

}. It is a des-

)n to the living.

e."

'owers strange-

ard ; and that

the governess.

Sir Noel that
d with a shrill,

of the young

Igets about it,
irith her great,
new Sir Noel."
lite white and

seems strange,
g self-control,

ed May, com-
; " formerly in
r Guy — let me

li a spasmodic
T hands, trem-

id, addressing
,e Mysteries of
: Guy Vyking,

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

339

and the effect he produces on people. He's a very hand-
some young man, and a very agreeable young man ; but
I should never have suspected he possessed the power of
throwing all the elderly ladies he meets into gasping fits.
There's Lady Thetford, he was too much for her, and she
had to be helped out of the dining-room ; and here's Mrs.
Weymore going into hysterics because he used to be called
Guy Vyking. I thought my lady might be the veiled lady
of his story; but now I think it must have been Mrs.
Weymore."

Mrs. Weymore looked up, her very lips white as ashes.

" The veiled lady ? What lady ? May, tell me all you
know of Mr. Vyking."

" Not Vyking now — Legard," answered May ; and
thereupon the young lady detailed the scanty risumk the
artist had given them of his history.

" And I'm very sure it isn't chance at all," concluded
May Everard, transfixing the governess with an unwinking
stare ; " and Mr. Legard is as much a Thetford as Sir
Rupert himself. I don't pretend to divination, of course,
and I don't clearly see how it is ; but it is, Mrs. Weymore ;
and you could enlighten the young man, and so could my
lady, if either of you chose."

Mrs. Weymore turned suddenly and caught May's two
hands in hers.

" May, if you care for me, if you have any pity, don't
speak of this, I do know — but I must have time. My head
is in a whirl. Wait, wait, and don't tell Mr. Legard."

"I won't," said May; "but it's all very strange and
very mysterious, delightfully like a three-volume novel, or
a sensation play. I'm getting very much interested in the
hero of the performance ; and I'm afraid I shall be deplor-

M^rw

I r

'J r

S/Ji NOEVS HEIR.

ably in love with him shortly, if tlii- sort of thing keeps

Mr. Legard, himself, took the matter much more coolly
than any one else ; smoked cigars philosophically ; criti-
cised Sir Rupert's pictures — did a little that way himself ;
played billiards with his host ; and chess with Miss Everard,
rode with that young lady, walked with her, sang duetts
with her, in a deep melodious bass ; made himself fascina-
ting, and took the world easy.

" It is no use getting into a gale about these things," he
said to Miss Everard, when she wondered aloud at his
constitutional phlegm ; " the crooked things will straighten
of themselves if we give them time. What is written is
written. J know that I shall find out all about myself one
day — like little Paul Dombey, ' I feel it in my bones.* "

Mr. Legard was thrown a good deal upon Miss Everard's
resources for amusement ; for, of course. Sir Rupert's time
was chiefly spent ?it Jocyln Hall, and Mr Legard bore this
with even greater serenity than the other. Miss Everard
was a very charming little girl, with a laugh that was
sweeter than the music of the spheres, and hundreds of be-
witching little ways ; and Mr. Legard undertook to paint
her portrait, and found it the most absorbing work of art
he had ever undertaken. As for the young baronet,
spending his time at Jocyln Hall, they never missed him,
His wooing sped on smoothest wings — Colonel Jocyln al
most as much pleased as my lady herself ; and the course of
true love in this case ran as smooth as heart could wish.

Miss Jocyln, as a matter or course, was a great deal at
Thetford Towers, and saw with evident gratification the
growing intimacy of Mr. Legard and May. It would be an
eminently suitable match, Miss Jocyln thought, only it was

'tmitmmmtmmmmmmiiim

spi

}f thing keeps

:h more coolly
phically; criti-
: way himself;
Miss Everard,
iT, sang duetts
imself fascina-

ese things," he
1 aloud at his
will straighten
It is written is
3ut myself one
ly bones.* "
Miss Everard's
• Rupert's time
sgard bore this
Miss Everard
Lugh that was
undreds of be-
rtook to paint
g work of art
)ung baronet.
r missed him,
jnel Jocyln al
d the course of
could wish.
I great deal at
atiiication the
[t would be an
ht, only it was

"•mR"

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

341

a pity so much mystery shrouded the gentleman's birth.
Still he was a gentleman, and with his talents, no doubt,
would become an eminent artist ; and it would be highly
satisfactory to see May fix her erratic affections on some-
body and thus be doubly out of her (Miss Jocyln's) way.

The wedding preparations were going briskly forward.
There was no need of delay, all were anxious for the mar-
riage—Lady Thetford more than anxious, on account of
her declining health. The hurry to have the ceremony
irrevocably over had grown to be something very like
monomania with her.

" I feel that my days are numbered," she said, with fever-
ish impatience, to her son, " and I cannot rest in my grave,
Rupert, until I see Aileen your wife."

So Sir Rupert, more than anxious to please his mother,
hastened on the wedding. An eminent physician, summon-
ed down from London, confirmed my lady's own fears.

" Her life hangs by a thread," this gentleman said, con-
fidentially, to Sir Rupert j " the slightest excitement may
snap it at any moment. Don't contradict her— let every-
thing be as she wishes. Nothing can save her, but
perfect quiet and repose may prolong her existence."

The last week of September the wedding was to take
place ; and all was bustle and haste at Jocyln Hall. Mr.
Legard was to stay for the wedding, at the express desire
of Lady Thetford herself. She had seen him but very
rarely since that first day ; illness had compelled her to
keep her room ; but her interest in him was unabated,
and she had sent for him to her apartment, and invited him
to remain. And Mr. Legard, a good deal surprised, and
a little flattered, consented at once. ^^

" Very kind of Lady Thetford, you know. Miss Everard,

i'-^^

t I

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

Mr. Legard said, sauntering into the room where she sat
with her ex-governess— Mr. Legard and Miss Everard
were growing highly confidential of late — " to take such an
interest iu an utter stranger as she does in me."

May stole a glance from under her eyelashes at Mrs,
Weymore j that lady sat nervous and scared-looking, and
altogether uncomfortable, as she had a habit of doing in
the young artist's presence.

" Very," Miss Everard said, dryly. " You ought to feel
highly complimented, Mr. Legard, for it's a sort of kind-
ness her ladyship is extremely chary of to utter strangers.
Rather odd, isn't it, Mrs. Weymore? "

Mrs. Weymore's reply was a distressed, beseeching look.
Mr. Legard saw it, and opened very wide his handsome,
Saxon eyes.

" Eh ? " he said, " it doesn't mean anything does it ? Mrs.
Weymore looks mysterious, and I'm so stupid about these
things. Lady Thetford doesn't know anything about me,
does she ? "

" Not that / know of," May said, with significant em-
phasis on the personal pronoun.

" Then Mrs. Weymore does I By Jove I I always
thought Mrs. Weymore had an odd way of looking at me I
And now, what is it ? "

He turned his fair, resolute face to that lady with a
smile hard to resist.

" I don't make much of a howling about my affairs, you
know, Mrs Weymore," he said ; " but, for all that, I am
none the less interested in myself and history. If you can
open the mysteries a little you will be conferring a favor
on me I can never repay. And I am positive from your
looks you can."

"^•M

ON THE WEDDING EVE.

343

rhere she sat
uliss Everard
> take such an

shes at Mrs.
[-looking, and
it of doing in

ought to feel
sort of kind-
er strangers.

eeching look,
s handsome,

loes it ? Mrs.
1 about these
ig about me,

piificant em-

! I always
>king at me I

lady with a

' affairs, you
1 that, I am
If you can
ring a favor
; from your

Mrs. Weymore turned away, and covered her face, with
a sort of sob. The young lady and gentleman exchanged
startled glances.

" You can then ? " Mr. Lcgard said, gravely, but growing
very pale. " You know who I am ? "

To his boundless consternation Mrs. Weymore rose up,
seizing his hands and covering them with kisses.

" I do I I do I I know who you arc, and so shall you
before this wedding takes place. But before I tell you I
must speak to Lady Thetford."

Mr.Legard withdrew his hands, his face as colorless as

her own.

" To Lady Thetford 1 What has Lady Thetford to do

with me?"

" Everything 1 She knows who you are as well as I do.

I must speak to her first."

" Answer me one thing— is my name Vyking ? "

" No. Pray, pray don't ask me any more questions.
As soon as her ladyship is a little stronger, I will go to
her and obtain her permission to speak. Keep what I
have said a secret from Sir Rupert, and wait until then."

She turned to go, so haggard and wild-looking, that
neither strove to detain her. The young man stared
blankly after her as she left the room.

" At last 1 " he said, drawing a deep breath, " at last I

shall know 1 "

There was a pause ; then May spoke in a fluttering lit-
tle voice.

" How very strange that Mrs. Weymore sho Id know,

of all persons in the world 1 "

" Who is Mrs. Weymore ? How long has she been here ?
Tell me all you know of her. Miss Everard."

344

S/H NOELS HEIR.

" And that 'all ' will be almost nothing. She came down
from London as nursery-governess to Rupert and me, a
week or two after my arrival here, selected by the rector
of St. Gosport. She was then what you see her now, a
pale, subdued creature ia widow weeds, with the look of
one who had seen trouble. I have known her so long,
and always as such a white, still shadow, I suppose that is
why it seems so odd."

Mrs. Weymore kept altogether out of Mr. Legard's way
for the next week or two. She avoided May also, as much
as possible, and shrunk so palpably from any allusion to
the past scene, that May good-naturedly bided her time in
silence, though almost as impatient as Mr. Legard him-
self.

And whilst they waited the bridal-eve came round, and
Lady Thetford was much better, not able to quit her
room, but strong enough to lie on a sofa and talk to her
bon and Colonel Jocyln, with a flush on her cheek, and a
sparkle in her eye — all unusual there.

The marriage was to take place in the village church,
and there was to follow a grand ceremonial wedding-
breakfast ; and then the happy pair were to start at once
on their blissful bridal-tour.

" And I hope to see my boy return," Lady Thetford said,
kissing him fondly. " I can hardly ask for more than
that."

Late in the afternoon of that eventful wedding-eve, the
ex-governess sought out Guy Legard, for the first time of
her own accord. She found him in the young baronet's
studio, with May, putting the finishing touches to that
young lady's portrait. He started up at sight of his vis-
itor, vividlv interested Mrs. Weymore was paler even

■'ifi^sfein^is^i

^:;:»'"S^-Jj;i!i¥S'-<^'.

OiV r/^i? WEDDING EVE.

345

than usual, but with a look of deep, quiet determination
on her face no one had ever seen there before.

" You have come to keep your promise," the young man
cried — " to tell me who I am ? "

"I have come to keep my promise," Mrs. Weymore
answered ; " but I must speak to my lady first. I want-
ed to tell you that, before you sleep to-night, you shall
know."

She left the studio, and the two sat there, breathless,
expectant. Sir Rupert was dinng at Jocyln Hall, Lady
Thetford wai alone, in high spirits, and. Mrs. Weymore
was admitted at once.

" I wonder how long you must wait ? " said May Ever-
ard.

" Heaven knows I Not long, I hope, or I shall go mad
with impatience."

An hour passed — ^two — ^three, and still Mrs. Weymore
was closeted with my lady, and still the pair in the studio
waited.

CHAPTER XII.

MRS. WEYMORE'S story.

ADY THETFORD sat up among her pillows
and looked at her hired dependent with wide
open eyes of astonishment. The pale, timid
face of Mrs. Weymore wore a look altogether

new.

" Listen to your story 1 My dear Mrs. Weymore, what
possible interest can your story have for me ? "

" More than you think, my lady. You are so much
stronger to-day than usual, and Sir Rupert's marriage is
so very near, that I must speak now or never."

" Sir Rupert," my lady said. " What has your story
to do with Sir Rupert ? "

"You will hear," Mrs. Weymore said, very sadly.
" Heaven knows I should have told you long ago ; but it
is a story few would care to tell. A cruel and shameful
story of wrong and misery ; for, my lady, I have been
cruelly wronged by one who was once very near to you."

Lady Thetford turned ashen white.

" Very near to me ! do you mean — "

" My lady listen, and you shall hear. All those years that
I have been with you, I have not been what I seemed. My
name is not Weymore. My name is Thetford— as yours is."

A quick terror had settled down on my lady's face. Her

i;«t»|Sj)ii

MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY.

347

■r

s
e
d

•X

it
ul

lat

. >»
>•

lips moved, but she did not speak. Her eyes were fixed on
the sad, set face before her, with a terrified, expectant stare.

" I was a widow when I came to you," Mrs. Weymore
went on to say, " but, long before, I had known that worst
widowhood, desertion. I ran away from my happy home,
from the kindest father and mother that ever lived ; I ran
away, and was married and deserted before I was eighteen
years old.

" He came to our village, a remote place, my lady, with
a local celebrity for its trout streams, and for nothing else.
He came, the man whom I married, on a visit to the great
house of the place. We had not the remotest connection
with the house, or I might have known his real name.
When I did know him, it was as Mr. Noel — he told me him-
self, and I never thought of doubting it. I was as simple
and confiding as it is possible for the simplest village
girl to be, and all the handsome stranger told me was
gospel truth ; and my life only began, I thought, from the
hour I saw him first.

" I met him at the trout-streams fishing, and alone. I
had come to while away the long, lazy hours under the trees.
He spoke to me — the handsome stranger, whom I had
seen riding through the village, beside the squire, like a
young prince'; and I was only too pleased and flattered by
his notice. It is many years ago, Lady Thetford, and Mr,
Noel took a fancy to my pink-and-white face and fair curls, as
fine gentlemen will. It was only fancy — never at its best,
love ; or he would not have deserted me pitilessly as he
did. I know it now ; but then I took the tinsel for the
pure gold, and would as soon have doubted the Sc-ipture
as his lightest word.

" My lady, it is a very old story, and very often told.

i
I

^'-M*^

348 ^^R NOEL'S HEIR.

We met by stealth and in secret ; and weeks passed, and
I never learned he was other than what I knew him.
I loved with my whole foolish trusting heart, strongly and
selfishly ; and I was ready to give up home, and friends
and parents — all the world for him. But not my good
name, and he knew that ; and my lady, we were married
really and truly, and honestly married in a little church
in Berkshire, and the marriage is recorded in the register
in the church, and I have the marriage certificate here in
my possession."

Mrs. Weymore touched her bosom as she spoke, and
looked with earnest, truthful eyes at Lady Thetford. But
Lady Thetford's face was averted, and not to be seen.

" His fancy for me was as fleeting as all his fancies ;
but it was strortg enough and reckless enough, whilst it
lasted, to make him forget all consequences. For it was
surely a reckless act for a gentleman, such as he was, to
marry the daughter of a village schoolmaster.

" There was but one witness to our marriage — my hus-
band's servant — George Vyking. I never liked the man ;
he was crafty, and cunning, and treacherous, and ready
for any deed of evil ; but he was in his master's confidence
and took a house for us at Windsor, and lived with us
and kept his master's secrets well.

Mrs. Weymore paused, her hands fluttering in painful
unrest. The averted face of Lady Thetford never turned,
but a smothered voice bade her "^ on.

" A year passed, my lady, and I still lived in the house
at Windsor, but quite alone now. My punishment had
begun very early ; two or three months sufficed to weary
my husband of his childish village girl, and make him
thoroughly repent his folly. I saw it from the first — ^he

MRS. WEVMORE'S STORY

never tried to hide it from me ; his absences grew longer
and longer, more and more frequent, until at last he ceased
coming altogether. Vyking, the valet, came and went ; and
Vyking told me the truth — the hard, cruel, bitter truth,
that I was never to see my husband more.

" ' It was the maddest act of a mad young man's life,'
Vyking said to me, coolly, 'and he's repented of it, as I
knew he would repent. You'll never see him again,
mistress, and you needn't search for him, either. When
you find last winter's snow, last autumn's partridges, then
you may hope to find him.'

"'But I am his wife,' I said; 'nothing can undo that
— his lawful, wedded wife.'

" ' Yes,' said Vyking, ' his wife fast enough ; but there's
the law of divorce, and there's no witness but me alive.
You can do your best ; and the best you can do is to
take it easy and submit. He'll provide for you handsomely ;
ard when he gets the divorce, if you lik", I'll marry you
myself.'

" I had grown to expect some such revelation, I had
been neglected so long. My lady, I don't speak of my
feelings, my anguish and shame, and remorse and despair.
— I only tell you here simple facts. But in the days and
weeks which followed, I suffered as I never can suffer
again in this world.

"I was held little better than a prisoner in the house at
Windsor after that ; and I think Vyking never gave up
the hope that I would one day consent to marry him.
More than once I tried to run away, to get on the track of
my betrayer, but always to be met and foiled. I have
gone down on my knees to that man Vyking, but I might
as well have knelt to a statue of stone.

r'l

SIX NOEVS HEIR.
350

...1.11 tell you what Wll do.' he said, 'WH go to
London. People are beginning to look and talk about
u ^i^^rP thev know how to mind their own business,
^^i ^eS rSy enough. My one hope now w

to find the man who had --"^^^ /"^' ^"^" t°"^°we

ot, Ster that I hardly remember anythmg for a long
'^" Weeks passed before I recovered. Then I was told

tL fo act, a,.d could only turn my face to the waU and

""Ctgrew strong, and Vyklng took me .0 Lo^aon
and left ^ in -p.c.ably-£umisl.ed Wg,"^^ ■ »^^^
ha.e escaped ^''"y '"""^l^^' *"i Xgh » »'»« ->«

„f ..sin He and his master had quarrelled. I .ever
trrut what, and Vyking had been jnommtous^
dtemissed. The valet tore up and dovm my Lttle parlor

^'.'?ZSt";.payforit,ormyname;snonryW<

„e cried. 'He thinks >-»- ,^f .^^fth^ laX
::n^^:^;:arniTa:p -h.amy.he
moment he's back from his weddmg-tour.

^^^■nv,^.:-^.

MRS. WEYMORE'S STORY.

351

'Sir

" I turned, and looked at him, but very quietly.
Noel ? ' I said. ' Do you mean my husband ? '

" ' I mean Miss Vandeleur's husband now,' said Vyking.
* YouUl never see him again, my girl. Yes, he's Sir Noel
Thetford, of Thetford Towers, Devonshire ; and you can
go and call on his pretty new wife as soon as she comes
home.'

"I turned away and looked out of the window without
a word. Vyking looked at me curiously.

" ' Oh ! we've got over it, have we ; and we're going to
take it easy, and not make a scene. Now that's what I
call sensible. And you'll come forward and swear Sir
Noel guilty of bigamy ? '

" ' No,' I said, ' I never will !'
" ' You won't — and why not? '

" ' Never mind why. I don't think you would under-
stand if I told you — only I won't.'
" ' Couldn't you be coaxed ? '
"'No.'

" ' Don't be too sure. Perhaps I could tell you some-
thing might move you, quiet as you are. What if I told
you your baby did not die that time, but was alive and
well?'

" I knew a scene was worse than useless with this man,
tears and entreaties thrown away. I heard his last words,
and started to my feet with outstretched hands.

"'Vyking, for the dear Lord's sake, have pity on a
desolate woman, and tell me the truth.'

'" I am telling you the truth. Your boy is alive and
well, and I've christened him Guy— Guy Vyking. Don't
you be scared — he's all safe ; and the day you appear in
court against Sir Noel, that day he shall be restored to

. i

352

S//t NOELS HEIR,

\ t

you. Now don't you go and get excited ; think it ove:,
and let me know your decision when I come back.'

" He left the room before I could answer, and I never
saw Vyking again. The next day, reading the morning
paper, I saw the arrest of a pair of housebreakers, and the
name of the chief was George Vyking, late valet to Sir
Noel Thetford. I tried to get to see him in prison, but
failed. His trial came on, his sentence was transportation
for ten years ; and Vyking left England, carrying my secret
with him.

" I had something left to live for now — the thought of
my child. But where was I to find him, where to look ?
I, who had not a penny in the wide world. If I had had
the means, I would have come to Devonshire to seek out
the man who had so basely wronged me ; but as I was, I
could as soon have gone to the antipodes. Oh 1 it was
bitter, bitter time, that long, hard struggle with starvation
— a time it chills my blood even now to look back upon.

" I was still in London, battling with grim poverty, when,
six months later, I read in the Times the awfully sudden
death of Sir Noel Thetford, Baronet.

" My lady, I am not speaking of the effect of that blow
— I dare not to you, as deeply wronged as myself. You
were with him in his dying moments, and surely he told
you the truth then; surely he acknowledged the great
wrong he had done you ? "

Mrs. Weymore paused, and Lady Thetford turned hei
face, her ghastly, white face, for the first time, to answer.

" He did — he told me all ; I know your story to be
true."

"Thank God I Oh, thank God 1 And he acknowledged
his first marriage?"

r^^>r""»y.'g:v-:-,;',i;'

MRS. WE YMORE'S STORY.

353

" Yes J the wrong he did you was venial to that which
he did me — I, who never was his wife, never for one poor
moment had a right to his name."

Mrs. Weymore sunk down on her knees by the couch,
and passionately kissed the lady's hand.

" My lady 1 my lady 1 And you will forgive me for
coming here ? I did not know, when I answered Mr.
Knight's advertisement, where I was coming ; and when
I did I could not resist the temptation of looking on his
son. Oh, my lady 1 you will forgive me, and bear witness
to the truth of my story."

" I will ; 1 always meant to before I died. And that
young man— that Guy Legard— you know he is your

son?"

" I knew it from the first. My lady, you will let me
tell him at once, will you not ? And Sir Rupert ? Oh, my
lady ! he ought to know."

Lady Thetford covered her face with a groan. "I
promised his father on his death-bed to tell him long ago,
to seek for his rightful heir— and see how I have kept my
word. But I could not — I could not I It was not in human
nature— not in such a nature as mine, wronged as I have

been."

" But now— oh, my dear lady I now you will ? "
" Yes, now, on the verge of the grave, I may surely speak.
I dare not die with my promise unkept. This very night,''
Lady Thetford cried, sitting up, flushed and excu'^d, " my
boy shall know all— he shall not marry in ignora ice of
whom he really is. Aileen has the fortune of a pri icess ;
and Aileen will not love him less for the title he must lose.
When he comes home, Mrs. Weymore, send him to me,
and send your son with him, and I will tell them all."

•»J

ffl

CHAPTER Xni.

"THERE IS MANY A SUP."

ROOM that was like a picture— a carpet of
rose-buds gleaming through rich-green moss,
lounges piled with downy-silk pillows, a bed
curtained in lace, foamy white, plump, and
tempting, fluted panels, and delicious little medallion
pictures of celebrated beauties smiling down from
the pink-tinted back-ground; a pretty room-Aileen
Jocyln's (hambre-a-coucher, and looking like a picture her-
self in a loose, flowing morning-robe, all ungirdled, the
rich dark hair falling heavy and unbound to her waist,
Aile'en Jocyln lay among piles of cushions, like some young

Eastern Sultana. . ^ . , . -i^

Lay and mused with, oh! such an infinitely happy smile
upon her exquisite face; mused, as happy youth, loving
and beloved, upon its bridal-eve does muse. Nay, on
her bridal-day, for the dainty little French clock on the
bracket, was pointing its golden hands to three.

The house was very still ; all had retired late, busy with
preparations for the morrow, and Miss Jocyln had just
dismissed her maid. Every one, probably, butherself, was
asleep ; and she, in her unutterable bliss, was too happy
for slumber. She arose, presently, walked to the window
and looked out. The late-setting moon still swung in

mw*_

^•^

^ 'ir J15;?JJ!!5S -ilil^

" THERE IS MANY A SLIP."

355

the sky ; the stars still spangled the cloudless blue, and
shone serene on the purple bosom of the far-spreading
sea ; but in the East the first pale glimmer of the new day
shone— her happy wedding-day. The girl slid down on
her knees, her hands clasped, her radiant face, glorified
with love and bliss, turned ecstatically, as some faithful
follower of the Prophet might, to that rising glory of the
East.

" Oh 1 " Aileen thought, gazing around over the dark,
deep sea, the star-gemmed sky, and the green radiance
and sweetness of the earth, "what a beautiful, blissful
world it is, and I the happiest creature in it ! "

She returned to her cushions, and -fell asleep ; slept,
and dreamed dreams as joyful as her waking thoughts,
and no sliadow of that gathering cloud that was to
blacken all her world so soon, fell upon her.

Hours passed, and still Aileen slept. Then came an
imperative knock at her door — again and again, louder
each time ; and then Aileen started up, fully awake. Her
room was flooded with sunshine, countless birds sang in
the swaying green gloom of the branches, and the ceaseless
sea was all aglitter with sparkling sunlight.

" Come in," Miss Jocyln said. It was her maid, she
thought — and she walked over to an arm-chair, and com-
posedly sat down.

The door opened, and Colonel Jocyln, not Fanchon,
appeared, an open note in his hand, his face full of
trouble.

" Papa ! " Aileen cried, starting up in alarm.

" Bad news, my daughter — very bad ! very sorrowful J
Read that.

The note was very brief, in a spidery, female hand.

_B,^sHjaa t,«l < o ..

356

^/;? NOEL'S HEIR.

« Dear Colonel Jocyln— We are in the greatest trouble.
Poor Lady Thetford died with awful suddenness this
morning, in one of those dreadful spasms. We are all
nearly distracted. Rupert bears it better than any of us.
Pray come over as soon as you can.

" May Everard."

" Aileen Jocyln sunk back in her seat, pale and trem-
bling.

"Deadl O papal papal"

" It is very sad, my dear, and very shocking ; and terri-
bly unfortunate that it should have occurred just at this
time A postponed wedding is ever ominous of evil.

"Oh! pray, papa, don't think of that. Don't think of
me! Poor Lady Thetford 1 Poor Rupert! You will go
over at once, papa, will you not?"

"Certainly, my dear. And I will tell the servants so
that when our guests arrive, you may not be disturbed.
Since it was to be," muttered the Indian officer under his
mustache, " I would give half my fortune that it had been
one day later. A postponed marriage is the most ominous

thing under the sun." ..,,■■ 1 j

He left the room, and Aileen sat with her hands clasped,
and an unutterable awe overpowering every other feeling.
She forgot her own disappointment in the awful mystery of
sudden death. Her share of the trial was light-a year of
waiting, more or less; what did it "f «;;'«';"/"?;'!
loved her unchangeably; but, poor Lady Thetford, called
away in one instant from earth, and all she held most dear,
on her son's wedding-day. And then Aileen, remember-
ing how much the dead woman had loved her, and how
fondly she had welcomed her as a daughter, covered her

" THERE IS At ANY A SUP."

357

face with her hands, and wept as she might have wept for
her own mother.

" I never knew a mother's love or care," Aileen thought ;
" and I was doubly happy in knowing I was to have one at
last. And now— and now—"

It was a drearily long morning to the poor bride elect,
sitting alone in her chamber, or pacing restlessly up and
down. She heard the roll of carriages up the drive, the
pause that ensued, and then their departure. She won-
dered how he bore it ; best of all, May had said ; but then
he was ever still, and strong, and self-restrained. She
knew how dear that poor, ailing mother had ever been to
him, and she knew how bitterly he would feel her loss.

" They talk of presentiments," mused Miss Jocyln, walk-
ing wearily to and fro ; " and see how happy and hopeful
I was this morning, while she lay dead and he mourned.
If I only dared go to him— my own Rupert."

It was late in the afternoon before Col. Jocyln returned.
He strode straight to his daughter's presence, wearing a
pale, fagged face.

"Well, papa?" she asked, faintly.

" My pale Aileen 1 " he said, kissing her fondly, " my

poor, patient girl. I am sorry you must undergo this

trial, and," knitting his brows, "such talk as it will make."

" Don't think of me, papa— my share is surely the

lightest. But Rupert,—" wistfully faltering.

" There's something odd about Rupert ; he was very
fond of his mother, and he takes this a great deal too
quietly. He looks like a man slowly turning to stone,
with a face white and stem, and inscrutable; and
he never asked for you. He sat there with folded
arms, and that petrified face, gazing on his dead, until it

"X^

358

SIR NOELS HEIR.

chilled my blood to look at him. There's something odd
and unnatural in this frozen calm. And, oh ! by-the-by ?
I forgot to tell you the strangest thing— May Everard it
was who told me ; that painter fellow — what's his name — "

" Legard, papa ? "

"Yes, Legard. He turns out to be the son of Mrs.
Weymore — they discovered it last night. He was there in
the room with the most dazed and mystified, and alto-
gether bewildered expression of countenance I ever saw a
man wear; and May and Mrs. Weymore sat crying inces-
santly. I couldn't see what occasion there was for the
governess and the painter there in that room of death —
and I said so to Miss Everard. There's something mys-
terious in the matter, for her face flushed, and she stam-
mered something about startling family sec. els that had
come to light, the over-excitement of which had has-
tened Lady Thetford's end. I don't like the look of
things, and I'm altogether in the dark. That' painter
resembles the Thetfords a great deal too closely for the
mere work of chance ; and yet, if Mrs. Weymore is his
mother, I don't s?*^ how there can be anything in that. It's
odd — confoupuedly odd 1 "

Col. Jocyln rambled on as he walked the floor, his brows
knitted into a swarthy frown. His daughter sat ai.d eyed
him wistfully.

" Did no one ask for me, papa ? Am I not to go over ? "

" Sir Rupert didn't ask for you. May Everard did, and
I promised to fetch you to-morrow. Aileen, things at
Thetford Towers have a suspicious look to-day ; I can't
see the light yet, but I suspect something wrong, "it may
be the very best thing that could possibly happen, this
postponed marriage. I shall make Sir Rupert clear mat-

WP"

« THERE IS MANY A SL/P."

359

ters up completely before my daughter becomes his
wife."

Col. Jocyln, according to promise, took his daughter to
Thetford Towers next morning. With bated breath, and
beating heart, and noiseless tread, Aileen Jocyln entered
the house of mourning, which yesterday she had thought
to enter a bride. Dark and still, and desolate it lay, the
brilliant morning light shut out, unbroken silence every-
where.

" And this is the end of earth, its glory and its bliss,"
Aileen thought, as she followed her father slowly up stairs,
"the solemn wonder of the winding-sheet and the grave."

There were two watchers in the dark room when they
entered. May Everard, pale and quiet, and the yoong
artist, Guy Legard. Even in that moment. Col. Jocyln
could not repress a supercilious stare of wonder to behold
the housekeeper's son in the death-chamber of Lady Thet-
ford. And yet it seemed strangely his place, for it might
have been one of those lusty old Thetfords, framed
up stairs, stepped out of the canvas, and dressed in the
fashion of the day.

"Very bad taste all the same," the proud old colonel
thought, with a frown ; " very bad taste on the part of Sir
Rupert. I shall speak to him on the subject presently."

He stood in silence beside his daughter, looking down
at the marble face. May, shivering drearily in a large
shawl, and looking like a wan little spirit, was speaking in
whispers to Aileen.

" We persuaded Rupert — Mr. Legard and I — to go and
lie down ; he has neither eaten nor slept since his mother
died. O Aileen ! I am so sorry for you ! "

" Hush 1 " raising one tremulous hand and turning away ;

:i^

*ii

36o

Srj. NOEVS HEIR.

s-f'>

" she was as dear to me as my own mother could huve
been. Don't think of me."

"Shall we not see Sir Rupert?" the colonel asked.
" I should like to, particularly."

"I think not— unless you remain for some hours. He
is completely worn out, poor fellow." ^^

" How comes that young man here. Miss Everard ?
nodding in the direction of Mr. Legard, who had with-
drawn to a remote corner. « He may be ? very especial
friend of Sir Rupert, but don't you think he presumes on
that friendship ? "

Miss Everard's eyes flashed angrily.

« No, sir 1 I think nothing of the sort. Mr. Legard
has a perfect right to be in this room, or any other room
at Thetford Towers. It is by Rupert's particular request

he remains." , , . , t

The colonel frowned again, and turned his back upon

the speaker. . . • •

" Aileen," he said, haughtily, "as Sir Rupert is not visi-
ble nor likely to be for some time, perhaps you had better
not linger. To-morrow, after the funeral, I shall speak to
him very seriously."

Miss Jocyln arose. She would rather have lingered,
but she saw her fatht 's annoyed face, and obeyed him im-
mediately. She bent and kissed the cold, white face,
awful with the dread majesty of death.

"For the last time, my friend, my mother," she mur-
mured, " until we meet in heaven."

She drew her veil over her face to hide her falling tears,
and silently followed the stern and displeased Indian
officer down stairs, and out of the house. She looked
back wistfully once at the gray, old ivy grown fa9ade;

wiw ;p f .

rii

rji^l

«« THERE IS MANY A SUP."

361

but who was to tell her of the weary, weary months and
years that would pass before she crossed that stately
threshold again.

It was a very grand and imposing ceremonial that bur-
ial of Lady Thetford j and side by side with the heir, clad
ill deepest mourning, walked the unknown painter, Guy
I,egard. Colonel Jocyln was not the only friend of the family
^shocked and scandalized on this occasion. What co\ild
Sir Rupert mean ? And what did Mr. Legard mean by
looking ten times more like the old Thetford race than
Sir Noel's own son and heir ?

It was a miserable day, this day of the funeral, with a
low complaining wind sighing through the yew-trees,
and a dark, slanting rain lashing the sodden earth. There
was a sky of lead hanging low like a pall ; and it was
almost dark, in the rainy gloaming, when Colonel
Jocyln and Sir Rupert Thetford stood alone before the
village church. Lady Thetford slept with the rest of the
name in the stony vaults ; the fair-haired artist stood in the
porch looking at the slanting lines of rain, and Sir Rupert,
with a face wan, and stern, in the dying daylight, stood
face to face with the colonel.

" A private interview," the colonel was repeating ; " most
certainly. Sir Rupert. Will you come with me to Jocyln
Hall? My daughter will wish to see you."

The young man nodded, went back a moment to speak
to Legard, and then followed the colonel into the carriage.
The drive was a very silent one — dark gloom lay on the
faces of the two men. A vague, chilling presentiment of
impending evil on the Indian officer, as he uneasily watch-
ed the young man who had so nearly been his son.

Aileen Jocyln, roaming like a restless ghost through the

mv^vi'i

mwmm

ili '

?62

SIR NOEL'S HEIR.

lonely, rooms, saw them alight, and came out to the
hall to meet her betrothed. She held out both hands shyly
and wistfully, looking up, half in fear, in that rigid death-
white face of her lover.

" Aileen ! "

He took the hands, and held them fast a moment ; then
dropped them, and turned to the colonel.

" Now, Colonel Jocyln."

The colonel led the way into the library. Sir Rupert
paused a moment on the threshold to answer Aileen's plead-
ing glance.

" Only for a few moments, Aileen," he said, his eyes
softening with Infinite love ; "in half ar hour my fate shall
be decided. Let that fate be what it may, I shall be true
to you while life lasts."

With these enigmatical words, he followed the colonel
into the library, and the polished oaken door closed be-
tween him and Aileen.

Pi!

> the
shyly
leath-

then

•upert
3lead-

eyes
! shall
e true

jlonel
;d be-

CHAPTER XIV.

PARTED.

ALF an hour had passed.

Up and down the long drawing-room Aileerj
wandered, aimlessly, restlessly, oppressed with

an overwhelming dread of, she knew not

what, a prescience of evil, vague as it was terrible. The
dark gloom of the rainy evening was not darker than that
brooding shadow in her deep, dusky eyes.

In the library Colonel Jocyln stood facing his son-m-law
elect, staring like a man bereft of his senses. The melan-
choly half light coming wanly through the oriel window
by which he stood, fell full upon the face of Rupert Thet-
ford, white and cold, and set as marble.

" My God ! " the Indian officer said, with wild eyes of
terror and affright, " what is this you are telling me ? "

"The truth. Col. Jocyln— the simple truth. V/ould to
Heaven I had known it years ago— this shameful story of
wrong-doing and misery ! "

" I don't comprehend— I can't comprehend this impos-
sible tale. Sir Rupert."

" That is a misnomer now, Colonel Jocyln. I am no
longer Sir Rupert."

" Do you mean to say you credit this wild story of a
former marriage of Sir Noel's? Do you really believe your
late governess to have been your father's wife ? "

3^4

S/H NOEL'S HEIR.

f 1

" I believe it, colonel. I have facts and statements, and
dying words to prove it. On my father's death-bed, he
made my mother swear to tell the truth, to repair the
wrong he had done ; to seek out his son, concealed by his
valet, Vyking, and restore him to his rights ! My mother
never kept that promise— the cruel wrong done to herself
was too bitter ; and at my birth she resolved never to keep
it. I should not atone for the sin of my father ; his elder
son should never deprive her child of his birthright. My
poor mother 1 You know the cause of that mysterious
trouble which fell upon her at my father's death, and which
darkened her life to the last. Shame, remorse, anger-
shame for herself— a wife only in name ; remorse for her
broken vow to the dead, and anger against that erring

dead man."

"But you told me she had hunted him up and provided
for him," said the mystified colonel.

" Yes ; slie saw an advertisement in a London paper,
calling upon Vyking to take charge of the boy he had left
twelve years before. Now Vyking, the valet, had been
transported for house-breaking long before that, and my
mother answered the advertisement. There could be no
doubt the child was the child Vyking had taken charge
of— Sir Noel Thetford's rightful heir. My mother left
him with the painter, Legard, with whom he grew up,
whose name he took ; and he is now atThetford Towers."

" I thought the likeness meant something," muttered the
colonel under his mustache, " his paternity is plainly
enough written in his face. And so," raising his voice,
" Mrs. Weymore recognized her son. Really, your story
runs like a melo-drama, where the hero turns out to be a
duke, and his mother knows the strawberry mark on his

IQPIP

PARTED. 365

arm Well, sir, if Mrs. Weymore is Sir Noel's rightful
widow, and Guy Legard his rightful son and heir— pray

what are you ? " , , , j *

The colorless face of the young man turned dark-red tor
an instant, then whiter than before.

" My mother was as truly and really Sir Noel's wife as
woman can be the wife of man in the sight of Heaven. The
crime was his ; the shame and suffering hers ; the atone-
ment mine. Sir Noel's elder son shall be Sir Noel's heir—
1 will play usurper no longer. To-morrow I leave St.
Ck)sport; the day after England, never perhaps, to re-
turn." . ,
"You are mad," Colonel Jocyln said, turning very pale;

" you do not mean it." ^

» I am not mad, and I do mean it. I may be unfortu-
nate ; but, I pray God, never a villain. Right is right ;
my brother Guy is the rightful heir— not I."

"And Aileen?" Colonel Jocyln'sface turned dark and
rigid as iron as he spoke his daughter's name.

Rupert Thetford turned away his changing face.

" It shall be as she says. Aileen is too noble and just
herself not to honor me for doing right."

" It shall be as I say," returned Colonel Jocyln, with a
voice that rang, and an eye that flashed. " My daughter
comes of a proud and stainless race, and never shall she
mate with one less stainless. Hear me out, young man. It
won't do to fire up — plain words are best suited to a plain
case. All that has passed between you and Miss Jocyln
must be as if it had never been. The heir of Thetford
Towers, honorably born, I consented she should .marry ;
but, dearly as I love her, I would see her dead at my feet
before she should marry one who was nameless and

■^f^PPS

■gaSpgipiMMMB'

A..uut»vWlia'»^ .-^i->iu»-Vitn4At..

366 S/U NOEUS HEIR.

impoverished. You said just now the atonement was
yours— you said right ; go, and never return."

He pointed to the door ; the young man, stonily still,

took his hat.

"Will you not permit your daughter. Colonel Jocyln, to
speak for herself ? " he said at the door."

" No, sir. I know my daughter— my proud, high-spirited
Aileen, and my ansv/er is hers. I wish you good-night."

He swung round abruptly, turning his back upon his vis-
itor. Rupert Thetford, without one word, turned and
walked out of the house.

The bewildering rapidity of the shocks he had received
had stunned him— he could not feel the pain now. There
was a dull sense of aching torture upon him from head to
foot— but the acute edge was dulled ; he walked along
through the black night like a man drugged and stupefied.

He was only conscious intensely of one thing — a wish
to get away, never to set foot in St. Gosport again.

Like one walking in his sleep, he reached Thetford Tow-
ers, his old home, every tree and stone of which was dear
to him. He entered at once, passed into the drawing-room,
and found Guy Legard, sitting before the fire, staring
blankly into the coals ; and May Everard, roaming rest-
lessly up and down, the firelight falling dully on her black
robes and pale, tear-stained face. Both started at his en-
trance — all wet, and pale and haggard ; but neither spoke.
There was that in his face which froze the words on their

lips.

" I am going away to-morrow," he said, abruptly, lean-
ing against the mantel, and looking at them with quiet,
steadfast eyes.

May uttered a faint cry ; Guy faced him almost fiercely.

• ■IJ,|II,J|W'

PARTED.

367

" Going away I What do you mean, Sir Rupert ? We
are going away together, if you like."

"No; I go alone. You remain here, it is your place

now." , ,

« Never I " cried the young artist, passionately— never i
I will go out and die like a dog, of starvation, before I
rob you of your birthright I " ,.., • t

" You reverse matters," said Rupert Thetford ; ' it is I
who have robbed you, unwittingly, for too many years. I
promised my mother on her death-bed, as she promised
my father on his, that you should have your right, and I
will keep that promise. Guy, dear old fellow 1 don't let
us quarrel, now that we are brothers, after being friends
so long. Take what is your own ; the world is all before
n e, and surely I am man enough to win my own way. Not
oi.<? other word ; you shall not come with me ; you might
as wdl talk to these stone walls and try to move them as
to move me. To-morrow I go, and go alone."

" Alone 1 " It was May who breathlessly repeated the

word. _

" Alone ; all the ties that bound me here are broken ; 1
go alone, and single-handed, to fight the battle of life
Guy, I have spoken to the rector about you— you will find
him your friend and aider ; and May is to make her home
at the rectory. And now," turning suddenly, and mov-
ing to the door, « as I start early to-morrow, I believe I'll
retire early. Good-night."

And then he was gone, and Guy and May were left star-
ing at each other with blank faces.

The storm of wind and rain sobbed itself out before
midnight ; and in the bluest of skies, heralded by banners
of rosy clouds, rose up the sun next morning. Before that

' ( 'I

368

Sm NOELS HEIR.

rising sun had gilded the tops of the tallest oaks in the
park, he, who had so lately called it all his own, had open-
ed the heavy oaken door and passed from Thetford Tow-
ers, as home, forever. The house was very still— no one
had risen ; he had left a note to Guy, with a few brief,
warm words of farewell.

" Better so," he thought—" better so 1 He and May will
be happy together, for I know he loves her, and she him.
The memory of my leave-taking shall never come to cloud
their united lives."

One last backward glance at the eastern windows turn-
ing to gold ; at the sea blushing in the first glance of the
day-king j at the waving trees and swelling meadows,
and gray, old ivy-grown front, and then he passed down
the avenue, out through the massive entrance-gates, and
was gone.

i.^.;a-i*<^i«*ias>i«i^'*--t-^ -■--■

in the
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CHAPTER XV.

AFTER FIVE YEARS.

JOONLIGHT falling like a silvery veil over
Venice— a crystal clear crescent in a pur-
ple sky shimmering on palace and prison,
mmmmam churches, squares and canals, on the glided
gondolas, and the flitting forms passing like noiseless shad-
ows to and fro.

A young lady leaned from a window of a vast Venetian
hotel, gazing thoughtfully at the silver-lighted landscape
so strange, so unreal, so dream-like, to her unaccustomed
eyes. A young lady, stately and tall, with a pale, proud
face deep, dark eyes, solemn, shining, fathomless, like
mountain tarns ; floating dark ringlets and a statuesque
sort of beauty that was perfect in its way. She was
dressed in trailing robes of crape and bombazine, and the
face, turned to the moonlight, was cold and still.

She turned her eyes from the moonlit canal, down which
dark gondolas floated to the music of the gay gondoliers
song ; once, as an English voice in the piazza below, sung
a stave of a jingling barcarole,

" Oh I gay we row where full tides flow
And bear our bounding pinnace ;
And leap along where song meets song,
Across the waves of Venibe."

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23 WIST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 145S0

(716) 872-4503

'^J^

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICIVIH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions hif.toriqua8

370

S/Ji AVErS HEIR.

The singer, a tall young man, with a florid face, and
yellow side whiskers, an unmistakable son of the " right
little, tight little " island, paused in his song, as another
man, stepping through an open window, struck him an
airy sledge-hammer slap on the back.

" I ought to know that voice," said the last comer.

" Mortimer, my lad, how goes it ? "

" Stafford 1 " cried the singer, seizing the outstretched
hand in a genuine English grip, " happy to meet you, old
boy, in the land of romance ! La Fabre told me you were
coming— but who would look for you so soon ? I thought
you were doing Sorrento ? "

" Got tired of Sorrento," said Stafford, taking his arm
for a walk up and down the piazza ; " there's a fever there,
too — quite an epidemic — malignant typhus. Discretion
is the better part of valor, where Sorrento levers are
concerned. I left."

" When did you reach Venice ? " asked Mortimer, light-
ing a cigar.

" An hour ago ; and now who's here ? Any one I

know?"

" Lots. The Cholmonadeys, the Lythons, the Howards,
of Leighwood ; and, by-the-by, they have with them the
Marble Bride."

" The which ? " asked Mr. Stafford.

" The Marble Bride, the Princess Frostina, otherwise
Miss Aileen Jocyln, of Jocyln Hall, Devonshire. You
knew the old colonel, I think — he died over a year ago,
you remember."

" Ah, yes ! I remember. Is she here with the Howards,
and as handsome as ever, no doubt ? "

" Handsome to my mind, with an uplifted and unapproach-

face, and
I the " right
^s another
ck him an

onier.

iitstretched

et you, old

e j'ou were

I thought

ng his arm
fever there,
Discretion
tevers are

imer, light-
Any one I

; Howards,
them the

, otherwise
[lire. You
I year ago,

Howards,

lapproach-

AFTER FIVE YEARS.

371

able sort of beauty. A fellow might as soon love some
bright particular star, etc., as the fabulously wealthy heiress
of all thejocylns. She has no end of suitors — all the best
men here bow at the shrine of the ice-cold Aileen, and all
in vain."

" You among the rest, my friend ? " with a light laugh.

" No, by Jove I " cried Mr. Mortimer ; " that sort of thing,
the marble style, you know, never was to my taste. I
admire Miss Jocyln immensely ; just as I do that moon up
there, with no particular desire ever to get nearer."

" What was that story I heard once, five years ago, about a
broken engagement ? Wasn't Thetford of that ilk hero of
the tale? The romantic Thetford, who resigned his title
and estate to a mysteriously-found elder brother, you know.
The story rang through the papers and the clubs at the
time like wildfire, and set the whole country talking, I
remember. She was engaged to him, wasn't she, and
broke oflF?"

" So goes the story — but who knows ? I recollect that
odd affair perfectly well ; it was like the melo-dramas on the
Surrey side of the Thames. I know the 'mysteriously
found elder brother,' too — very fine fellow, Sir Guy Thet-
ford, and married to the prettiest little wife the sun shines
on. I must say Rupert Thetford behaved wonderfully well
in that unpleasant business ; very few men would do as he
did — they would, at least, have made a fight for the title
and estates. By-the-way, I wonder what ever became of
him?"

" I left him at Sorrento," said Stafford, coolly.

" The deuce you did ! What was he doing there ? "

" Raving in the fever ; so the people told me with whom
he stopped. I just discovered he was in the place as I was

372

S/H NOEL'S HEIR.

about to leave it. He had fallen very low, I fancy ; his
pictures didn't sell, I suppose ; he has been in the painting
line since he ceased to be Sir Rupert, and the world has
gone against him. Rather hard on him to lose fortune,
title, home, bride, and all at one fell swoop."*

" And so you left him ill of the fever ? Poor fellow 1 "

" Dangerously ill."

" And the people with whom he is will take very little
care of him. He's as good as dead. Let us go in — I
want to have a look at the latest English papers."

The two men passed in, out of the moonlight, off the
piazza, all unconscious that they had had a listener. The
pale watcher in the trailing black robes scarcely heeding
them at first, had grown more and more absorbed in the
careless conversation. She caught her breath quick
and hard, the dark eyes dilated, the slender hands pressed
tight over the throbbing heart. As they went in off the
balcony, she slid from her seat and held up her clasped
hands to the luminous night sky.

" Here me, O God ! " the white lips cried. " I, who
have aided in wrecking a noble heart, hear me, and help me
to keep my vow ! I offer my whole life in atonement for
the cnael and wicked past. If he dies, I shall go to my
grave his unwedded widow. If h« lives — "

Her voice faltered and died out, her face dropped for-
ward on the window-sill, and the moonlight fell like a ben-
ediction on the bowed young head.

fancy ; his

le painting

world has

>e fortune,

•r fellow I"

very little
s go in — I

;ht, oif the
jner. The
ily heeding
bed in the
iath quick
ds pressed
in off the
ler clasped

"I, who

nd help me

nement for

go to my

ropped for-
like a ben-

CHAPTER XVI.

AT SORRENTO.

HE low light in the western sky was fading out ;
the bay of Naples lay rosy in the haze of the
dying day ; the soft, sweet wind floated over the

.^^^^ waters ; the fishing boats were coming in ; and

on this scene an invalid, looking from a window high up
on the sea-washed cliff of Sorrento, gazed languidly.

For he was surely an invalid who sat in that window
chair and gazed at the wondrous Italian sea, and that lovely
Italian sky. Surely an invalid, with that pallid face, those
spectral, hollow eyes, those sunken cheeks, those bloodless
lips; surely an invalid, and one but very lately risen from
the very gates of death, a pale shadow, worn and weak as

a child.

As he sits there, where he has sat for hours, lonely and
alone, the door opens, and an English face looks in— the
face of an Englishman of the lower classes.

« A visitor for you, sir— just come, and a-foot ; a lady,
sir. She will not give her name, but wishes to see you
most particular, if you please."

" A lady ! To see me ? "

The invalid opens his dark eyes in wonder as he speaks.

" Yes, sir ; an English lady, sir, dressed in black, and a-

■■i

374

S//i NOELS HEIR.

wearing of a thick veil. She asked for Mr. Rupert Thetford
as soon as she see me, as plain, as plain, sir — "

'I'hc young man. in the chair started, half rose, and then
sunk back ; an eager light lit in the hollow eyes.
** Let her come in, I will see her."
The man disappeared ; there was an instant's pause, then
d tall, slender figure, draped and veiled in black, entered
alone.

The visitor stood still. Once more the invalid attempt-
ed to rise, once more his strength failed him. The lady
threw back her veil with a sudden emotion.
" My God, Aileen ! "
" Rupert ! "

She was on her knees before him, lifting her suppliant
hands.

" Forgive me ! forgive me ! I have seemed the most
heartless and cruel of women. But I too, hivye suffered.
I am base and unworthy ; but, oh ! forgive me,*if yoii can."
The old Kive, stronger then death, shone in her eyes,
plead in her passionate, sobbing voice, and went to his
very heart.

" I have been so wretched, so wretched all these mis-
erable years. While my father lived, I would not dis.
obey his stern command, that I was never to attempt to
see or hear from you, and at his death I could not. You
seemed lost to me and to the world. Only by the merest
accident T heard in Venice you were here, and ill — dying.
I lost no time ; I came hither at once, hoping against hope
to find you alive. Thank God I did come. O Rupert I
for the sake of the past forgive me."

" Forgive you ! and he tried to raise her. " Alieen — dar-
ling ! "

ert Thetford

_>»

se, and tlien
es.

pause, then
ack, entered

alid attempt-
The lady

ler suppliant

k1 the most

:v,ve suffered.

, if you can."

in her eyes,

I went to his

II these mis-
)uld not dis.
:o attempt to
d not. You
•y the merest
d ill — dying,
against hope

O Rupert I

Alieen — dar-

A T SOKRENTO.

375

His weak arms encircled her, and the pale lips pressed
passionate kisses on the tear-wet, face.

So while the glory of the sunset lay on the sea, and
until the stars spangled the sky, the reunited lovers
sat in the soft haze, as Adam and Eve may have sat in the
loveliness of Eden.

" How long since you left England ?" Rupert asked, at
length.

" Two years ago ; poor papa died in the South of France
— you mustn't blame him too much, Rupt^rt."

" My dearest, we will talk of blaming no one. And Guy
and May are married ? I knew they would be."

" Did you ? I was so surprised when I read it in the
Times; for you know May and I never corresponded — she
was frantically angry with me. Do they know you are
here ? "

" No, I rarely write, and I am constantly moving about ;
but I know that Guy is very much beloved in St Gosport.
We will go back to England, one of these days, my dar-
ing, and give them the greatest surprise they have received
since Guy Thetford learned who he really was."

He smiled as he said it — the old bright snule she re-
membered so well. Tears of joy filled the beautiful up-
turned eyes.

" And you will go back ? O Rupert ! it needed but
th's to complete my happiness."

He drew her closer, and then there was a long delicious
silence, while they watched together the late-rising moon
climbing the misty hills above Castellamare.

^^.^. m^

CHAPTER XVII.

AT HOME.

NOTHER sunset, red and gorgeous, over swell-
ing English meadows, waving trees, and grassy
terrace, lighting up with its crimson radiance
the gray forest of Thetford Towers.

In the pretty, airy summer drawing-room, this red sun-
set streams through open western windows, kindling every-
thing into living light. It falls on the bright-haired girlish
figure, dressed in floating white, seated in an arm-chair in
the centre of the room, too childish-lookihg, you might
fancy, at first sight, to be mamma to that fat baby she
holds in her lap ; but she is not a bit too childish. And
that is papa, tall and handsome, and happy, who leans
over the chair and looks as men do look on what is the
apple of their eye, and the pride of their heart.

" It's high time baby was christened, Guy," Lady Thet-
ford — for, of course, Lady Thetford it is — was saying ;
" and, do you know, I am really at a loss for a name. You
won't let me call him Guy, and I sha'n't call him Noel —
and so what is it to be ? "

" Rupert, of course," Sir Guy suggests ; and little Lady
Thetford pouts.

" He does not deserve the compliment. Shabby fellow I
To keep wandering about the world as he does, and never
to answer one's letters ; and I sent him half a ream last

20US, over swell-
rees, and grassy

iinson radiance
ivers.

m, this red sun-
, kindling every-
;ht-haired girlish

an arm-chair in
tihg, you might
lat fat baby she
I childish. And
lappy, who leans
k on what is the
leart.

ruy," Lady Thet-
is — was saying ;
;or a name. You
call him Noel—

; and little Lady

Shabby fellow !

; does, and never

half a ream last

[

A T HOME.

377

time, if I sent him a sheet, telling all about baby, and
asking him to come and be godfather, and coaxing him
with the eloquence of a female Demos — , the man in the
tub you know. And to think it should be all of no use I To
think of not receiving a line in return. It is using me
shamefully ; and I don't believe I will call baby Rupert."

" Oh, yes you will, my dear I Well, Smithcrs, what is
it?"

For Mr. Smithers, the butler, stood in the door-way,
with a very pale and startled face.

" It's a gentleman — leastways a lady — leastways a Lidy
and gentleman. Oh ! here they come theirselves ! "

Mr. Smithers retired precipitately, still pale and startled
of visage, as a gentleman, with a lady on his arm, stood
before Sir Guy and Lady Thetford.

There was a half shout from the young baronet, a wild
shriek from the young lady. She sprung to her feet, and
nearly dropped the precious baby.

"Rupert I Ailetn!"

She never got any further — this impetuous little Lady
Thetford, for she was kissing first one, then the other,
crying and laughing, and talking all in a breath.

" Oh I what a surprise this is ! Rupert my dear, my dear,
I'm so glad to see you again I O Aileen ! I never, never
hoped for this 1 Guy, O Guy, to think it should all come
rip'ht at last I "

But Guy was wringing his brother's hand, with bright
tears standing in his eyes, and quite unable to reply.

" And this is the baby. May ? The wonderful baby you
wrote me so much about," Mr. Rupert Thetford said.
" A noble little fellow, upon my word ; and a Thetford
from top to toe. Am I in season to be godfather ? "

/--.

378

S/Ji NOEL'S HEIR.

" Just in season. The name was to have been Rupert
in any case, but a moment ago I was scolding frightfully,
becaus'j you h«id not answered my letter, little dreaming
you were coming to answer in person. And Ailecn too !
Oh ! my dear, may dear, sit down at once and tell me all
about it."

Mrs. Thetford smiles at the old impetuosity, and in very
few words tells the story of the meeting and the marriage.

"Of course you remain in England?" Sir Guy eagerly
asked, when he had heard the brief rtsiime of those past
five years. " Of course Jocyln Hall is to be head-quarters
and home ? "*

" Yes," Rupert says, his eyes for a moment lingering
lovingly on his wife, "Jocyln Hall is home. We have not
yet been there ; we came at once here to see the most
wonderful baby of modern times — my handsome little
namesake."

" It is just like a fairy tale," is all Lady Thetford can
say then ; but late that night, when the reunited friends
were in their chambers, she lifted her golden head off the
pillow, and looked at her husband entering the room.
" It's so very odd, Guy," slowly and drowsily, " to think
that, after all, a Rupert Thetford should be Sir Noel's
Heir."

ve been Rupert
ding frightfully,

little dreaming
md Aileen too !

and tell me all

isity, and in veiy
id the marriage.
Sir Guy eagerly
ni of those past
be head-quarters

lomcnt lingering
We have not
most
little

to see the
handsome

iy Thetford can
reunited friends
Iden head off the
ering the room.
•wsily, "to think
d be Sir Noel's

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

|N love with her — / want to marry her ! " cried
Tom Maxwell in a fine fury. " I tell you I
hate her, and I hope she may die a miserable,
disappointed, cantankerous old maid ! "
Striding up and down the floor, his face flaming, his
eyes flashing, his very coat-tail quivering with rage — a
Bengal tiger, robbed of her young, could not have looked
a much more ferocious object. And yet ferocity was not
natural to Tom Maxwell — handsome Tom, whose years
were only two-and-twenty, and who was hot-headed and
fiery, and impetuous as it is in the nature of two-and-twenty
to be, but by no means innately savage. But he had just
been jilted, jilted in cold blood ; so up and down he strode,
grMuling his teeth vindictively, and fulminating anathema
maranathas against his fair deceiver.

" The miserable, heartless jilt ! The deceitful, shame-
less coquette 1 " burst out Tom, ferociously. " She gave
me every encouragement that a woman could give, until
she drew me on by her abominable wiles to make a fool
of myself ; and then she turns round and smiles and puts

38o

A DARK COASr/A'ACi:

her handkerchief to her eyes and is 'very sorry,' "miniirkiiif^
the feminine intonation," ' and never dreamed of such a
thing, and wilF be very happy to be my friend ; but for
anything further — oh! dear, Mr. Maxwell, pray don't think
of it I ' Confound her and the whole treacherous sex to
which she belongs 1 But I'm not done with her yet I I'll
have revenge as sure as my name is Tom Maxwell I "

" As how?" asked a lazy voice from the sofa. " She's
a woman, you know. Ueing a woman, you can't very well
call her out and shoot hor, or horsewhip her, or even knock
her down. A fellow may feel like that — I often have my-
self, after being jilted ; but still it can't be did. It's an
absurd law, I allow, this polite exemption of womankind
from condign and just punishment ; but it is too late in
the day for chaps like you and me to go tilt against
popular prejudices."

It was a long speech for Paul Warden, who was far too
indolent generally to get beyond monosyllables. He lay
stretched at full length on the sofa, languidly smoking the
brownest of meerschaums, and dreamily watching the
smoke curl and wreath around his head. A genial, good-
looking fellow, five years Tom's senior, and remarkably
clever in his profession, the law, when not too lazy to ex-
ercise it.

Tom Maxwell paused in his excited striding to look in
astonishment at the speaker.

" You jilted 1 " he said, " You 1 Yon, Paul Warden,
the irresistible ! "

" Even so, mon ami. Like measles, and mumps, and
tooth-cutting, it's something a man has to go through, willy
nilly. I've been jilted and heart-broken some half-dozen
times, more or less, and here I am to-night not a ha'penny

■ry,' "niiiniikiii}*

lined of siicli »

riciid ; but for

iray don't think

acherous sex to

th her yet I I'll

Maxwell I "

e sofa. " She's

1 can't very well

T, or even knock

I often have my-

bc did. It's an

1 of womankind

it is too late in

go tilt against

who was far too

^llables. He lay

idly smoking the

ly watching the

A genial, good-

and remarkably
ot too lazy to ex-
riding to look in
I, Paul Warden,

ind mumps, and
go through, willy
some half-dozen
It not a ha'penny

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

381

the worse for it. So go it, Tom my boy 1 The more you
rant and rave now, the sooner the pain will be over. It's
notiiing when you're used to it. By-thc-way," turning his
indolent eyes slowly, " is she pretty, Tom ? "

" Of course ! " said Tom, indignantly. " What do you
take me for ? Pretty 1 She's beautiful, she's fascinating.
Oh, Warden I it drives me mad to think of it 1 "

"She's all my fancy painted her— she's lovely, she's
divine," quoted Mr. Warden ; " but her heart, it is an-
other's, and it ivevcr — What's her name, Tom ? "

" Fanny Summers. If you had been in this place four-
and-twenty hours, you wojld have no need to ask. Half
the men in town are spooney about her."

" Fanny. Ah ! a very bad omen. Never knew a Fanny
yet who wasn't a natural born flirt. What's the style^
dark or fair, belle blonde, ox jolie brunette? "

" Hrunette ; dark, bright, sparkling, saucy, piquant irre-
sistible ! Oh ! " cried Tom, with a dismal groan, sinking
into a chair, " it is too bad, too bad to be treated so ! "

" So it is, my poor Tom. She deserved the bastinado,
the wicked witch. The bastinado not being practicable,
let us think of something else. She deserves punishment,
and she shall have it ; paid back in her own coin, and
with interest, too. Eh ? Well ? "

For Tom had started up in his chair, violently excited
aiid red in the face.

"The very thing!" cried Tom. "I have it I She
shall be paid in her own coin, and I'll have most glorious
.evenge, if you'll only help me, Paul."

" To my last breath, Tom ; only don't malce so much
noise. Hand me the match-box, my pipe's gone out.
Now, what is it ? "

382

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

' *

" Paul, they call you irresistible — the women do."

" Do they ? Very polite of them. Well .' "

" Well, being irresistible, why can't you make love to
Fanny Summers, talk her into a desperate attachment to
you, and then treat her as she has treated me — ^jilt her ? "

Paul Warden opened his large, dreamy eyes to their
widest, and fixed them on his excited young friend.

" Do you mean it, Tom ? "

" Never meant anything more in my life, Paul."

" But supposing I could do it ; supposing I am the
irresistible conqueror you gallantly mnke me out ; suppos-
ing I could talk the charming Fanny into that deplorable
attachment — it seems a shame, doesn't it.' "

"A shame !" exclaimed poor Tom, smarting under a sense
of his own recent wrong ; " and what do you call her con-
duct to me i It's a poor rule that won't work both ways.
Let her have it herself, hot and strong,-'and see how she
likes it — she's earned it richly. You can do it, I know,
Paul ; you have a way with you among women. I don't
understand it myself, but I see it takes. You can do it,
and you're no friend of mine. Warden, if you don't."

" Do it ! My dear fellow, what wouldn't I do to oblige
you ; break fifty hearts, if you asked me. Here's my
hand — it's a go."

" And you'll flirt with her, and jilt her ? "

" With the help of the gods. Let the campaign begin
at once, let me see my fair, future victim to-night."

" But you'll be careful, Paul," said Tom, cooling down
as his friend warmed up. " She's very pretty, uncom-
monly pretty ; you've no idea how pretty, and she may
turn the tables and subjugate you, instead of you subjuga-
ting her."

romen do."

11?"

DU make love to

Lte attachment to

1 me— jilt her ? "

my eyes to their

mg friend.

e, Paul."

posing I am the
: me out ; suppos-
:o that deplorable
t?"

rting under a sense
) you call her con-
t work both ways,
-'and see how she
:an do it, I know,
'f women. I don't
s. You can do it,
f you don't."
dn't I do to oblige
. me. Here's my

:r?"

he campaign begin

m to-night."

rom, cooling down

ery pretty, uncom-

etty, and she may

lad of you subjuga-

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

383

" The old story of the minister who went to Rome to
convert the Pope, and returned a red-hot Catholic. Not
any thanks. My heart is iron-clad ; has stood too many
sieges to yield to any little flirting brunette. Forewarned
is forearmed. Come on, old fellow," rising from his sofa.
" * if 'tis done, when it is done, 'twere well 'twere done
quickly.' "

" How goes the night ? " said Toir., looking out ; " it's
raining. Do you mind ? "

" Shouldn't mind if it rained pitchforks in so good a
cause. Get your overcoat and come. I think those old
chaps— what-do-you-call-'em. Crusaders? must have felt
as I do now, when they marched to take Jerusalem.
Where are we to find /a belle Fanny ? "

"At her sister's, Mrs. Walters, she's only here on a
visit ; but during her five weeks' stay she has turned five
dozen heads, and refused five dozen hands, my own the
last," said Tom, with a groan.

"Never mind, Tom; there is balm in Gilead yet.
Revenge is sweet, you know, and you shall taste its sweets
before the moon wanes. Now then, Miss Fanny, the con-
quering hero comes I "

The t\vo young men sallied forth into the rainy, lamp-
lit streets. A passing omnibus took them to the home of
the coquettish Fanny, and Tom rang the bell with vindic-
ti''e emphasis.

" Won't she rather wonder to see you, after refusing
you ? " inquired Mr. Warden, whilst they waited.

" What do I care I " responded Mr. Maxwell, moodily ;
" her opinion is of no consequence to me now!"

Mrs. Walters, a handsome, agreeable-looking young ma-
tron, welcomed Tom with a cordial shake of the hand,

f ;

384

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

1 1

and acknowledged Mr. Warden's bow by the brightest of
smiles, as they were ushered into the family parlor.

" We are quite alone, this rainy night, my sister and I,"
she said. " Mr. Walters is out of town for a day or two.
Fanny, my dear, Mr. Warden ; my sister, Miss Summers,
Mr. Warden."

It was a pretty, cozy room, " curtai; cd, and close, and
warm ;" and directly under the gas-light, reading a lady's
magazine, sat one of the prettiest girls it had ever been
Mr. Warden's good fortune to see, and who welcomed
him with a brilliant smile.

" Black eyes, jetty ringlets, rosy cheeks, alabaster brow,"
thought Mr. Warden, taking stock ; " the smile of an
angel, .. nd dressed to perfection. Poor Tom 1 he's to be
pitied. Really, I haven't come across anything so much
to my taste this month of Sundays."

Down sat Mr. Paul Warden beside thp adorable Fanny,
plunging into conversation at once with an ease and
fluency that completely took away Tom's breath. That
despondent wooer on the sofa, beside Mrs. Walters, pulled
dejectedly at the ears of her little black-and-tan terrier,
and answered at random all the pleasant things she said
to him. He was listening, poor fellow, to that brilliant
flow of small talk from the mustached lips of his dashing
friend, and wishing the gods had gifted him with a similar
"gift of the gab," and feeling miserably jealous already.
He had prepared the rack for himself with his eyes wide
open ; but that made the torture none the less when the
machinery got in motion. Pretty Fanny snubbed him
incontinently, and was just as bewitching as she knew
how to his friend. It was a clear case of diamond cut
diamond — two flirts pitted against each other ; and an

the brightest of
nily parlor,
my sister and I,"
for a day or two.
tr, Miss Summers,

jd, and close, and

It, reading a lady's

it had ever been

nd who welcomed

:s, alabaster brow,"
" the smile of an

)r Tom 1 he's to be
anything so much

hp adorable Fanny,
with an ease and
im's breath. That
^rs. Walters, pulled
lack-and-tan terrier,
;ant things she said
iw, to that brilliant
I lips of his dashing
i him with a similar
t)ly jealous already.
E with his eyes wide
; the less when the
•"anny snubbed him
ching as she knew
ase of diamond cut
lach other; and an

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

385

outsider would have been considerably puzzled on which
to bet, both being so evenly matched.

Tom listened, and sulked ; yes, sulked. What a lot of
things they fo.und to talk about, where he used to be tongue-
tied. The magazine, the faijhion-plates, the stories ;
then a wild launch into literature, novels, authors, poets ;
then the weather ; then Mr. Warden was travelling, and
relating his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field,"
while bright-eyed Fanny listened in breathless interest.
Then the open piano caught the irresistible Paul's eyes, and
in a twinkling there was Fanny seated at it, her white fin-
gers flying over the polished keys, and he bending above
her with an entranced face. Then he was singing a de-
lightful love-song in a melodious tenor voire, that might
have captivated any heart that ever beat inside ot lace and
nnislin ; and then Fanny was singing a sort of response, it
seemed to frantically jealous Tom ; and then it was eleven
o'clock, and time to go home.

Out in the open air, with the rainy night wind blowing
bleakly, Tom lifted his h.it to let the cold blast cool his
hot face. He was sulky still, and silent — very silent; but
Mr. Warden didn't seem to mind.

"So," he said, lighting a cigar, "the campaign has be-
gim, the first blow has been struck, the enemy's ramparts
undermined. Upon my word, Tom, the little cirl is un-
commonly pretty ! "

" I told you so," said Tom, with a sort of growl.

" And remarkably agreeable. I don't think I ever spent
a pleasanter tete-h-tctc evening."

"So I should judge. She had eyes, a,nd ears, and
tongue for no one but you."

" My dear fellow, it's not possible you're jealous I Isn't

Htr'

386

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

III

that what you wanted ? Besides, there is no reason, really ;
she is a professional flirt, and understands her business ;
you and I kno\v just how much value to put on all that
sweetness. Have a cigar, iny dear boy, and keep up your
heart ; we'll fix the flirting Fanny yet, please the pigs I "

This was all very true; but, somehow, it wasn't conso-^
ling. She was nothing to him, Tom, of course — and he
hated her as hotly as ever ; but, somehow, his thirst for
vengeance had considerably cooled down. The cure was
worse than the disease. It was maddening to a young man
in his frame of mind to see those brilliant smiles, those en-
trancing glances, all those pretty, coquettish, womanly,
wiles that had deluded him showered upon another, even
for that other's delusion. Tom wished he had never thought
of revenge, at least with Paul Warden for his handsome
agent.

" Are you going there again ? " he asked, moodily.

•* Of course," replied Mr. Warden, aiiily. " What a
question, old fellow, from you of all people. Didn't you
hear the little darling telling me to call again ? She over-
looked you completely, by-the-by. I'm going again, and
again, and yet again^ until my friend, my fides Achates, is
avenged."

" Ah ! " said Tom, sulkily, " but I don't know that I
care so much for vengeance as I did. Second thoughts
arc best ; and it struck me, whilst I watched you both to-
night, that it was mean and underhand to plot against a
woman like this. You thought so yourself at first, you
know."

" Did I ? I forget. Well, I think differently now, my
dear Tom ; and as you remark, second thoughts are best.
My honor is at stake j so put your conscientious scruples

reason, really ;

her business ;
put on all that
id keep up your
ise the pigs 1 "
t wasn't consO'J
course — and he
w, his thirst for
The cure was
to a young man
smiles, those en-
jttish, womanly,
)n another, even
ad never thought
>r his handsome

d, moodily.
iH-ily. "What a
pie. Didn't you
gain ? She over-
going again, and

fides Achates, is

)n't know that I
Second thoughts
;hed you both to-
to plot against a
self at first, you

ferently now, my
thoughts are best,
cientious scruples

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

387

in your pocket, for I shall conquer the fascinating Fanny,
or perish in the attempt. Here we are at my boarding-
house — won't you come in ? No. Well, then, good-night.
By-the-way, I shall be at the enemy's quarters to-morrow
evening ; if you wish to see how ably I fight your battles,
show yourself before nine, By-by ! "

Mr. Maxwell's answer was a deeply bass growl as he
plodded on his way ; and Paul Warden, running up to his
room, laughed lightly to himself.

" Poor Tom ! Poor, dear boy ! Jealousy is a green-eyed
lobster, and he's a prey to it — the worst kind. Really,
Paul, my son, little black eyes is the most bewitching piece
of calico you have met in your travels lately ; and if you
wanted a wife, which you don't, you couldn't do better
than go in and win. As it is — Ah ! it's a pity for the
little dear's sake you can't marry."

With which Mr. Warden disrobed and went to bed.

Next evening, at half-past eight, Tom Maxwell made
Us appearance at Mrs. Walters, only to find \i\% fides Acha-
ies there enthroned before him, and basking in the sun
shine of the lovely Fanny's smiles. How long he had
been there Tom couldn't guess ; but he and Fanny and
Mrs. Walters were just settling it to go to the theatre the
following night. There was a bunch of roses, pink-and-
white, his gift, Tom felt in his bones, in Fanny's hand,
and into which she plunged her pretty little nose every
five seconds. It was adding insult to injury, the manifest
delight that aggravating girl felt in his friend's society ;
and Tom ground his teeth inwardly, and could have seen
Paul Warden guillotined, there and then, with all the
pleasure in life.

That evening, and many other evenings which succeeded,

I! '1

■ "}

388

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

<:ii

were but a repetition of the first. An easy flow of delight-
ful small talk, music, singing, and reading aloud. Yes, Paul
Warden read aloud, as if to goad that unhappy Tom to
open madness, in the most musical of masculine voices,
out of little blue-and-gold books, Tennyson, and Longfel-
low, and Owen Meredith ; and Fanny would sit in
breathless earnestness, her color coming and going, her
breath fluttering, her eyes full of tears as often as not,
fixed on Paul's classic profile. Tom didn't burst out
openly — he made no scene ; he only sat and glowered in
malignant silence — and that is saying everything for his
power of self-control.

Two months passed ; hot weather was coming, and
Fanny begun to talk of the heat and the dust of the town ;
of being home-sick, for the sight of green fields, new milk,
strawberry-patches, new-laid eggs, and pa and ma. It had
been a very delightful two months, no doubt ; and she
had enjoyed Mr. Warden's society very much, and gone
driving and walking with him, and let him take her to the
theatre, and the opera, and played for him, and sung for
him, and danced with him, and accepted his bouquets, and
new music, and blue-and-gold books ; but, for all that, it was
evident she could leave him and go home, and still exist.

" It's all very nice," Miss Summers had said, tossing
back her black ringlets ; " and I have enjoyed this spring
ever so much, but still I'm glad to get home again. One
grows tired of balls, and parties, and the theatre, you know,
after awhile, Mr. Warden ; ar '. 1 am only a little country-
girl, and I shaH be just as glad as ever for a romp over the
meadows, and a breezy gallop across the hills once more.
If you or Mr. Maxwell," glancing at that gloomy youth
sideways out of her curls, "care much for fishing, and

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

389

flow of del'ght-
oud. Yes, Paul
ihappy Tom to

sculine voices,
, and Longfcl-

would sit in
and going, her
s often as not,
idn't burst out
id glowered in
;rything for his

xs coming, and
List of the town ;
fields, new milk,
md ma. It had
loubt ; and she
much, and gone
1 take her to the
m, and sung for
lis bouquets, and
or all that, it was
, and still exist,
id said, tossing
oyed this spring
me again. One
leatre, you know,
1 a little country-
r a romp over the
hills once more,
at gloomy youth
for fishing, and

come up our way any time this summer, I'll try and treat
you as well as you have treated me."

" Hut you haven't treated us well, Miss Fanny," Mr,
Warden said, looking unspeakoble things. " You take oui
hearts by storm, and then break them ruthlessly by leaving
us. What sort of treatment do you call that? "

Miss Summers only laughed, and looked saucy \ and
danced away, leaving her two admirers standing tog>.lher
out in the cold.

"Well, Tom," Mr. Warden said, "and so the game's up,
the play played out, the curtain ready to fall Tiie star
actress departs to-morrow— and now, what do you think of
the performance ? "

" Not much," responded Tom, moodily. " I can't see
that you have kept your promise. You've made love to
her, I allow, con amore, confoundedly as if you meant it,
in fact ; but I don't see where the jilting comes in ; I can't
see Where's my revenge."

" Don't you ? " said Paul, thoughtfully lighting his cigar.
"Well, come to think of it, I don't either. To tell you the
truth, I haven't had a chance to jilt her. I may be irresist-
ible, and I have no doubt I am, since you say so ; but,
somehow, the charm don't seem to work with our little
favorite. Here I have been for the last two months just
as captivating as I know how ; and yet there's that girl
re.-idy to be off to-morrow to the country, without so much
as a crack in the heart that should be broken in smither-
eens. But still," with a sudden change of voice, and
slapping him lightly on the shoulder, "dear old boy, I
don't despair of givmg you your revenge, yet ! "

Tom lifted his gloomy eyes in sullen inquiry.

"Never mind now," said Paul Warden, airily; "give

390

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

me a few weeks longer. Lazy as I am, I have never
failed yet in anything I have seriously undertaken ; and,
upon my word, I'm more serious about this matter than
you may believe. Trust to your friend, and wait."
That was all Mr. Warden would deign to say.
Tom, not being able to do otherwise, took him at his
word, dragged out existence, and waited for his cherished
revenge.

Miss Summers left town next day, and Tom, poor, mis-
erable fellow, felt as if the sun had ceased to shine, and
the scheme of the universe become a wretched failure,
when he caught the last glimmer of the lustrous black
eyes, the last flutter of the pretty black curls. But his
Damon was by his side to slap him on the back and cheer
him up.

" Courage, old fellow ! " cried Mr. Warden ; " all's not
lost that's in danger. Turn and turn about ; your turn
next."

But, somehow, Tom didn't care for revenge any more.
He loved that wicked, jilting little Fanny as much as ever ;
and the heartache only grew worse day after day ; but he
ceased to desire vengeance. He settled down into a kind
of gentle melancholy, lost his appetite, and his relish for
Tom and Jerrys, and took to writing despondent poetry
for the weekly journals. In this state Mr. Warden left
him, and suddenly disappeared from town. Tom didn't
know where he had gone, and his landlady didn't know ;
and stranger still, his bootmaker and tailor, to whom he
was considerably in arrears, didn't know either. But they
were soon enlightened.

Five weeks after his mysterious disappearance came a
letter and a newspaper, in his familiar hand, to Tom, while

I have never
clertaken ; and»

is matter than

wait."

say.

ook him at his
ar his cherished

Tom, poor, mis-
id to shine, and
i^retched failure,
; Kistrous black
curls. But his
back and cheer

den ; " all's not
)qut; your turn

enge any more.
s much as ever ;
ter day ; but he
lown into a kind
id his relish for
ipondent poetry
^r. Warden left
n. Tom didn't
dy didn't know ;
lor, to whom he
ither. But they

earance came a
d, to Tom, while

A DARK COXSr/KACV.

391

he Bat at breakfast. He opened the letter first and
read ;

In the Country.

"Dear Old Boy — I hav* kept my word — you jre
avenged gloriously. Fanny will never jilt you, nor any
one else again I "

At this passage in the manuscript, Tom Maxwell laid it
down, the cold perspiration breaking out on his face.
Had Paul Warden murdered her, or worse, had he mar-
ried her ? With a desperate clutch Tom seized the paper,
tore it open, looked at the list of marriages, and saw his
worst fears realized. There it was, in printers' ink, the
atrocious revelation of his bosom friend's perfidy.

" Married, on the fifth inst., at the residence of the
bride's father, Paul Warden, Esq., of New York to Miss
Fanny Summers, second daughter of Mr. John Summen?,
of this town."

There it was. Tom didn't faint ; he swallowed a scald-
ing cup of coffee at a gulp, and re\ ived, seized the letter
and finished it.

" You see, old fellow, paradoxical as it sounds, aU'iough
I was the conqueror, I was, also, the conquered. Fanny
had fallen in love with me, as you foresaw, but I hi\d fill-
en in love with her also, which you didn't foresee. I
might jilt her, of course, but that would be cutting off my
own nose to spite my friend's face ; and so — I didn''. ! I
did the next best thing for you, though, — I married her ;

rli

392

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

and I may mention, in parenthesis, I .im the happiest of
mankind ; and as Artemus Ward remarlcs, ' My wife says
so too.'

" Adieu, my boy. We'll come to town next week, where
J'an and I will be delighted to have you call. With best
regards from my dear little wife, I am, old fellow,

" Your devoted friend,

" Paul Warden."

Mr. and Mrs. Warden did come to town next week ; but
Mr. Maxwell didn't call. In point of fact he hasn't called
since, and doesn't intend to, and has given his friend
I'aul the " cut direct." And that is how Paul Warden got
a wife, and Tom Maxwell his revenge.

the happiest of
' My wife says

lext week, where
all. With best
1 fellow,
(i friend,
[JL Warden."

1 next week ; but

he hasn't called

f^iven his friend

L^uul Warden got

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

NDall is gone?"

"Why, no, sir; no, Mr. Fletcher — not all.
There's that six hundred a year, and that little
place down at Dover, that you settled on your
wife ; you will save that out of the wreck. A trifle — a mere
nothing, I am aware, out of such a noble inheritance as
yours, Mr. Fletcher — but still something. Half a loaf
you know, sir, is — "

He stopped abruptly at a motion of Richard Fletcher's
hand. He was a lawyer, and used to this sort of thing ;
jind not much effected by the story, he had run down from
New York to tell Mr. Fletcher ; his rich client had specu-
lated rashly, and lost — a common case enough. A week
ago he was worth half a million ; to-night he is not worth
a sixpence — that was all. There were his wife's settle-
ments, of course ; but they were his wife's — and Mr. and
Mrs. Fletcher were two.

" I thought I had better let you know at once, Mr.
Fletcher," the lawyer said ; " it's sure to be in everybody's
mouth tomorrow. And now, if I'm to catch the nine-tifty

mmm

394

ro/i nr.TTER for worse.

up-train, I had better be starting. Good-night, sir. Worso
luck now, better next time."

" Good-night," Ricliard Fletcher said, mechanically. He
was leaning against the low, iron gateway, his folded arms
lying on its carved top, and the black shadows of the
beeches shutting him in like a pall. Up the avenue col-
ored lanijjs gleamed along the chestnut walks, blue, red,
and green, turning the dark Noveml)er night to fairy-land.
The wide froivt of the stately mansion was all aglow with
illumin ition, with music, and flowers, and fair women ;
and fairest, where all were fair, its proud young mistress,
Marian Fletcher.

Two men, st agglers from the ball-room, with their cigars
lighted, came down through the gloom, close to the motion-
less figure against the iron gate — only another shadow
among the shadows — so close that he heard every word.

"Rather superb style of thing, all thjs," one said.
" When Dick Fletcher does this sort of thing, he does do
It. Wonderful luck he's had, for a poor devil, whc five
years ago hadn't a rap ; and that wife of his — magnificent
Marian — most lovely thing the sun shines on."

" Too lovely, my friend, for — she's ice."

" Ah ! To her husband ? Married him for his fortune,
didn't she ? The old story, very poor, very proud ; and sold
to the highest bidder. Craymore stood to win there once,
didn't he?"

"It was a desperate flirtation — an engagement, the
knowing ones do say ; but Capt. Craymore knows better
than to indulge in such a luxury as a penniless wife. So
Fletcher came along, made rich by a sudden windfall, and
she's Mrs. Fletcher to-night ; and more beautiful and
queenly than ever. I watched her dancing with Craymore

Iht, sir. Worse

lianically. He
is folded arms
ladows of the
e avenue col-
alks, blue, red,
t to fairy-land,
all aglow with
fair women ;
oung mistress,

ith their cigars
to the motion-
lothor shadow
! every word,
lis," one said.
vf, he does do
devil, whc five
s — magnificent
m."

for his fortune,
roud; and sold
win there once,

gagement, the
knows better

less wife. So

n windfall, and
beautiful and

with Crayinore

rO/i BETTER FOR WORSE.

395

half an hour ago, and — Well, I didn't envy Fletcher, if
he is worth half a million. Let's go back to the house, it's
beginning to rain."

" Suppose I'letchcr were to lose his fortune — what
then ? "

*' My good fellow, ho would lose his wife in the same
hour. Some women there are who would go with their
husbands to beggary — and he's a fine fellow, too, is Fletch-
er ; but not the lovely Marian. There, the rain begins 1 "

The shadow among the beeches stood stiller than stone.
A long, low wind worried the trees, and the rain beat its
melancholy drip, drip. Half an hour, an hour, two, passed,
but the figure leaning against the iron-gate was as still as
the iron itself. Hut slowly he stirred at last, became con-
scious ho was dripping, and passed slowly out of the rainy
gloom, and up the lam pi it-avenue, and into the stately
home, that, after to-night, would be his no more.

Another half-hour, and- he was back in the glitter and
dazzle and music of the brilliant suit of drawing-rooms, his
wet garments changed, the fixed whiteness of his face tell-
ing but little of his sudden blow. He had not been missed ;
his radiant three months' bride shone there in diamonds, and
laces, and roses resplendent — and who was to think of the
rich Fletcher I " Only a clod," whom she had honored by
marrying. Capt. Craymore was by her side, more fascina-
ting than ever. How could she find time to think of any
one so plebeian as the underbred rich man she had mar-
ried, by his entrancing side ?

But it was all over at last. The " lights were fled, the
garlands dead," and Mrs. Fletcher up in her dressing-room,
in the raw morning light, was imder the hands of her maid.
She lay back among the violet-velvet cushions, languid and

^.flblBftiiitr. 'Jt* nX..-iA-JL.-i

iaiiifflx.:TWiri^

396

FOJi BETTER FOR WORSE.

1.1,1

[HIi:

lovely, being disrobed, and looked round with an irritated
flush at the abrupt entrance of the master of the house
He did not often intrude; since the first few weeks of
their marriage he had been a model husband, and kept his
place. Therefore, Mrs. Fletcher looked surprised, as well

as annoyed now. , „ .

"Do you wish to speak to me, Mr. Fletcher? she
asked coldly ; for after an evening with Capt. Craymore
she was always less tolerant of her bourgeois husband.

» Yes— but alone. I will wait in your sitting-room until
YOU dismiss your maid."

Something in his colorless face-something in the sound
of his voice startled her ; but he was gone while yet speak-
ing and the maid went on. " Hurry, Louise," her mis-
tress said, briefly ; and Louise coiled up the shining hair,
arranged the white dressing-gown, and left her.

Marian Fletcher arose and swept into the next room
It was the daintiest bijou of boudoirs, all rose-silk, and
silver, and filigree-work, and delicious Greuze paintings,
smiling down from the fluted panels. A bright wood-fire
'.urned on the hearth, and her husband stood agamst the
fow chimney-piece, whiter and colder than the marble itself.

" Well," she said, " what is it ? "

He looked up. She stood before him in her beauty and
her pride, jewels flashed on her fairy hands— a queen by
right divine of her azure eyes and tinselled hair— his, yet
not his ; « so near, and yet so far." He loved her, how
well his own wrung heart only knew.

" What is it ? " she repeated, impatiently. " I am tired
and sleepy. Tell me in a word."

" I can — ruin 1 "

" What ? "

ith an irritated
r of the house,
few weeks of
id, and kept his
irprised, as well

Fletcher?" she
:apt. Craymore
's husband,
tting-room until

ing in the sound
while yet speak-
ouise," her mis-
he shining hair,
t her.

the next room.
U rose-silk, and
ireuze paintings,
bright wood-fire
stood against the
the marble itself.

in her beauty and
ids — a queen by
ed hair — his, yet
e loved her, how

ly. " I am tired

FOR BETTER FOR IIVRSE.

397

" I am ruined. All is gone. I am a beggar. "
She started back, turning whiter than her dress, and
leaned heavily against a chair.

" Ruined ! " she repeated. " A beggar ! "
"Ugly words, are they not? but quite true. I did not
know it until last night ; Kearstall came from town to tell
me. My last grand speculation has failed, and m its
failure engulfed everything. I am as poor as the poorest
laborer on this estate ; poorer than I was five years ago,
before this fortune was left me."

There was a sort of savage pleasure in thus hideously
pulling things in their ugliest light. Rich or poor, she
despised him alike. What need was there for him to

mince matters ?

" There are your settlements, your six hundred a-year,
and the Dover farm, that crumb of the loaf is left, and
remains yours. I am sorry for you, Mrs. Fletcher-sorry
that your sacrifice of youth and loveliness, on the altar of
Mammon, has been in vain. I had hoped, when I married
you, of winning some return for the limitless love 1 gave
you. I know to-night how futile that hope has been.
Once again, for your sake, I am sorry ; for myself I do
not care. The world is a wide place, and I can win my
way. I give you your freedom, the only reparation for
marrying you in my power to make. I leave here to-night j
New York to morrow ; and so — farewell ! "

She stood like a stone ; he turned and left her. Once
she had made a movement, seeing the white anguish of
h;s face, as though to go to him— but she did not. He
was gone, and she dropped down in ihe rose-and-silver
glitter of her fairy-room, as miserable a woman as day
t\ er dawned on.

398

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

A month later, and she was far away, buried alive in the
Dover Cottage. All had gone ; the nine days wonder
was at an end ; the " rich Fletcher " and his handsome
wife had disappeared out of the magic whiri of society ;
and society got on very well without them. They had
been, and they were not— and the story was told. Of all
who had broken bread with the ruined man, there were not
two who cared a fillip whether he were living or dead.

The December wind wailed over the stormy sea, and
the wintry rain lashed the windows of the Dover Cottage.
Marian Fletcher sat before the blazing fire in a long, low,
gloomy parlor, and Capt. Craymore stood before her. He
had but just found her out, and he had run down to see
how she bore her altered fortunes. She bore them as an
uncrowned queen might, with legal pride and cold endur-
ance. The exquisile face had lost its rose-leaf bloom ;
the deep, still eyes looked larger and more fathomless ;
the mouth was set in patient pain— that was all. The
man felt his heart burn as he looked at her, she was so
lovely, so lovely. He leaned over, and the passionate
words came that he could not cheek. He loved her. She
loved him ; she was forsaken and alone— why need they

part ?

She listened, growing whiter than a dead woman. Then
she came and faced him, until the cowered soul within him
shrank and quailed.

"I have fallen very low," she said. "I am poor, and
alone, and a deserted wife. But Capt. Craymore, I have
not fallen low enough to be your mistress. Go ! "

Her unflickering finger pointed to the door. There was
that in her face no man dare disobey, and he slunk forth
like a whipped hound. Then as on that night when she had

RSE.

buried alive in the
line clays wonder
,nd his handsome
; whirl of society ;
them. They had
was told. Of all
\an, there were not
living or dead,
e stormy sea, and
ihe Dover Cottage,
fire in a long, low,
)d before her. He

1 run down to see

2 bore them as an
le and cold endur-
:s rose-leaf bloom ;

more fathomless ;
that was all. The
at her, she was so
ind the passionate
He loved her. She
ne — why need they

lead woman. Then
red soul within him

" I am poor, and
t. Craymore, I have
iss. Go ! "
e door. There was
and he slunk forth
night when she had

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

399

parted from her husband, she slipped down =nher misery to
the -round, and hid her face in her hands. Now she knew
the man she had lovcd, now she was learning to know the
man who had loved her. The one would drag her down
tc bottomless depths of blacknes^ and infamy; the other
had given up all for her-even herself-and gone orth a
homeless, penniless wanderer, tof.ght the battle of l.fe.

« Oh ! truest and noblest ! " her heart cried, in its pas-
sionate pain, "how I have wronged you! Bravest and best
heart that ever beat in man's breast-am I only to know
vour worth when it is too late ? "

It seemed so. Richard Fletcher had disappeared out
of the world-the world she knew-as utterly as though
he had never been in it. The slow months dragged
drearily by; but he never came. The piteous advertise-
ment in the ^.mW newspaper stood unanswered when the
spring-buds burst; and she was alone in her worse than
widowhood, in the Dover Cottage still.

With the glory of the brilliant new summer, new hope
dawned for her. A tiny messenger, with Richard Fletchers
great brown eyes, smiled up in her face, and a baby head
nestled against her lonely heart. Ah ! she knew now how
she loved baby's father, when the brown eyes, of which
these were the counterpart, were lost to her forever.

So with the great world shut out, and with only baby
Rich'ard and her two servants, life went on in the solitary
cottage The winds of winter had five times swept over
the ceaseless sea, and little Richard could toddle and lisp ;
and in Marian Fletcher's hear^ hope slowly died out.
She had lost him through her own fault-; he, to whom
she had been bound in the mysterious tie of marnag.;,
would never look upon her cruel face again.

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

She sat one stormy November night, thinking very sadly
of the true heart and strong love she had cast away
Her boy lay asleep before the ruddy fire ; the ra,n and
wind beat like human things against the glass. She sat
looking seaward, with weary, empty eyes, so desolate-so
desolate, her soul crying out with unutterable yearning for
the wanderer to come back.

As she stood there gazing sadly out at the w.ld n.gl t
fUling over the wild sea, her one servant came hurriedly
into the room with startled affright in her eyes

"Oh, ma'am," she cried, "such a dreadful ihmg! The
up train from New York has had an accident, has fell over
the embankment just below here and half the passengers
,.re killed and wounded. The screams as I ^a^e past was
awful to hear. Bu. surely, ma'a,n," the woman brok off
in dismay as her mistress seized her hat and shawl, you
won't go out and it raining and a blowing fit to take j'ou off
your feet. You can't do nothing, and you'll get your

"^'ButMrs. Fletcher was out already, heedless of wind or
rain and making her way to the scene of the accident.
»Toor souls," sh'e was thinking, "so sudden and fnghtfu
a fate Perhaps I can be of help to some one. Por her
Hfe trouble had done this for her; made her tender of
heart and pitiful of soul to all who suffered.

A great crowd were there from Dover village as she
drew near, beginning to bear away the wounded, the dymg
and the dead. Groans and cries of infinite --7 -^^e the
rainy twilight hideous. Mrs. Fletcher shuddered, but
hTstorped' resolutely over a man who lay almost at her
feet, a man whom she mi.ht have though dead but for the
low moan that now and then came from Ins hps.

-lis

OKSE.

.thinking very sadly
lie had cast away,
fire ; the rain and
the glass. She sat
yes, so desolate — so
tcrable yearning for

It at the wild night
k^ant came hurriedly
her eyes.

Ireadful thing! The
ccident, has fell over

half the passengers
IS as I came past was
the woman broke off
hat and shawl, " you
■ing fit to take you off

and you'll get your

heedless of wind or

:ene of the accident.

sudden and frightful

some one." For her

; made her tender of

uffered.

Dover village as she
lie wounded, the dying
nfinite misery made the
etcher shuddered, but
who lay almost at her
lought dead but for the
[rom his lips.

/••UR BETTER EOR WORSE.

401

She bent above him timidly, her heart fluttering at
something vaguely familiar in his look.

" Can I do anything for you? " she asked, " 1 fear you
are very very badly hurt." .

The eyes opened j in the dim light he half arose on his
elbow. "Marian," he said, and fell back and faulted

wholly away. ,

And so her prayers were answered after many days, and
death itself seeme.l to have given back her husband to
Marian Fletcher's r.rms. Over his pillow life and Death
fought their sharp battle, for many long weeks, while she
watched over him, and prayed beside him in what agony
of remorse, and terror and passionate tenderness only
Heaven and herself ever knew.

Those ceaseless, agonized prayers prevailed. In the
pale dawn of a Christmas morning, the heavy brown eyes
opened and fixed upon her face, no longer in delirium, but
with the kindling light of recognition, and great and

sudden joy.

" Marian," he said faintly, " my wife."

She was on her knees beside him, his weak head lying
in her caressing arms.

"My dearest, my dearest, thank God ; my own, my cher-
ished husband, forgive your erring wife."

His face lit with a rare smile, as he looked up into the
pale, tear wet, passionately earnest face.

"It is true then what I heard, what has brought me
home. You have sought me. But Marian, what if I must
tell you I am still poor, poor as when we parted." She
.shrunk away as though he had hurt her. ^^

" I have deserved that you should say this to me, she
said in a stifled voice, " I have been the basest of the base

FOR nETTKR FOR WORSE.

,„ „,,, pnm-Avliv should you think me other than heartless
and mercenary 'still. But oh, Richard don't you see-I
love you now, so dearly and truly, my husband, that can
never have any life apart from you more. Do not talk to
me of poverty-only tell me you will never leave me aga.n.
"Never again," he answered, " till death us do part. Hut
Marian, though I am no longer the millioniare you marnecl
I do not return to you quite a beggar. More or less I have
retrieved the past, and we can begin life anew almost as
luxuriously as we left it off." Her face clouded for a

moment. , _ „„,,

" Ah ' I am sorry. I wanted to atone : how can I now?
I have been your wife in the sunshine. I thought to show
you what I could be in the shadow, and now all that is at
an end. I can never show you how I have repented for-

that night." ., .

But Richard Fletcher only smiles a^mile of great con-
tent And in the silence that ensues, there comes over
the snowy fields the joyful bells of the blessed Chr.stmas
morning, and in their hearts both bless God for the new
life, that dawns with this holy day.

TUE KND.

'ORSE.

other than heartless
\, don't you see — I
husband, that I can
•re. Do not talk to
irer leave me again."
;ath us do part. Hut
lioniare you married,

More or less I have
life anew almost as

face clouded for a

me : how can I now ?

. I thought to show

nd now all that is at

have repented for —

i«mile of great con-
es, there comes over
he blessed Christmas
:ss God for the new

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T.l«a Irom the ODcrai.— A collection of Storien base J iii»n the plot*. ........... i

TalMrroin the Operi*.— A collection of Htorieii based iii»n the plot*. . j. ....... . i Ji

New NoMen.. RVni...-lly W. H IJecke... with .llustj.t.on. ov C. G. Bud... . o.

WooJ'iOuUetothoCUyorNewYork.-lleaiaifullyilluslrateJ i oo

The Art of Aniuelme.— A book of lionw amiiiem«it», with lUuitrationi. i »•

fc Bjok About Lawyer!.— A curiom ana interesting volume. By Jeamreiaik.... too

Th'J'Bi'rt^'^nd T?lumph of Uove.-rull of exmii.iie tinted illustratioiii. i oo

Piogreiilve Pettlcoat».-A iuiiricJl tile by Kobert 11. "«>«j;«'V; •■ J,- ' •;:„"•.. \ S
Bcce Kemlna ; or, The Woman Zoe.-Cuylcr I'.ne, aiiilmr Mary llrandegee. i so

Women and iheitrei.-A briKhl and readable book by Olive Logan. i 50

Souvenir, of Travel.-lly MaJan.e Octavia Walton I.e Vert. ••••••"■ » «

Woman, Love and Marriage.-A »picy liiile work by !■ red Saunden 1 50

Shlftlesa Folks.-A brilliant new jovcl by ►aiime Smith. » 71

A Woman in Armor.-A imwerfid new novel l.y Mary Hartwell 1 .«

Female Beauty and the Art of Pleaeing.— Irom the Hiench.... • 50

T«nsformatlon Scene. In the United btatea.-ll;,; Hiram ?""«■•-"•,; ' S»

The Fall of M«n.-A Darwinian wtire. lly author "New Goipel Peace So

The Chronicle, of Ootham.-A modem wlire. Do. Uo »S

The Story of a Summer.-Journal l*ave» by Cecelia Cleveland > 30

Pbamia Proit'a Experiencee.— Uy Mra. Ann S. Stephen.. • 7»

Miscellaneous Novels.

A Charming Wldow.-Macouoid.|i 7S I Four Oaka.-Kainba Thoqie •• T5

True to Him Ever.— Ity 1
The Forgiving Kia..— Uy M.
Loyal Unto Di

K. W. R..
Loth.

, ieath

Bee.ie Wilmcrton.— WeMcon

Cachet.-Mrs. M. J. R. Hamilton...
Mark Oildcr.leeve.— J. S, Sauiade.

Crown Jewel..— Mr«. Moffal 7J

Avery Olibun.—Orpheus C. Ken... a 00
The Cloven Foot.— Do

Romance of Railroad.— Smith

Fairfax.— John Ksten Cooke

Hilt to Hilt.— Dc>

Out of the Foam.—

Hammer and Raplei .—

Kenneth, My King.- S. A. Brock. .
Heart Hungry .-Ml J. WejtntoreUnd
Clifford Troupe.— Do.

50
75
75
« 75
• 75
75

I 50
1 50
• 50
I 50
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Maurice.— From the French 150

Purple and Fine Linen.— F.wcett 1 7S

Fau.tina.— From the Oennan 150

Adrift with a Vengeance 15a

Adrift in Dixie.— KJmund Kirke .. 1 50
Among the Guerilla..— Do. .. 1 so

Among the Pinea.- Do 50

My SoutheraTrienda.— Do. ... i 50
Down in Tennea.ee.— Do. ... 150
Ebon and Cold.— C. L. Mcllvain... 1 jo
Robert QreathouM.— J. •'• Swift. . 00
Warwick.— Uy M. T. Wal««rth.... i 79
Lulu.— D* .... I 75

Hot.pur.— D* ... I 7$

Stormcliff.— Da. .... > 75

Delaplainc.— Da. 75

Beverly <— Do. .••• i 75

Beldanle'a Bachelor Studiea • 1 00

Little Wanderera.— Illustrated i 50

Oenesi.Di.clo.ed.— T. A. Davie... ■ 50
Commodore Rollingpiii'. Log.... i 50
Braten Gate..— A juvenile 5° 1

Miscellaneous Works.

Northern Ba'.lad..- Andenon, . . . . #1 oo
O. C. Kerr Pap'r?.- 4»oU. in I... » 00

Victor Hugo.— Hi. life • 00

Beauty i. Power • 50

Sand wiche..— Artemu. Ward 95 clfc

AnliditetiOatM Ajar......... ...5"'.. '. Widow Spriggln..-WidowBedot«. 1 »s

The Snoblace Ball Do, . .

....sets. , vviuovir ouiim. ..•.— ...«"- .-•»».•. . ,j
...»5 cu. I Squibob Papera.- John Pboemx... . i 50

Miscellaneous Works.

Bill Arp'a Peace Paper..- FuU of comic illustrationi. ••■•••••• •■ J»

A Book of Epitaph..— Amusing, quaint, and cuno. «. (N**- ) • • "• • '..,,.

Ballad of Lo?d rfateman.-With fllusirations by C™A»hanMpap«r)^. «5 cu.

The Yachtman'a Primer.— For amateur sailors. T. R. Warren IFaper^ s»c»-

Rural Architecture.-ltj M. Field. With plans and Ulustrations » ou

What I Know of Farming.-By Horace Greeley.. ••••:.•:• i^;:."" \ J?

TwelveView. of Heaven.— By Twelve Diatinguished EngbshDnrtnefc 1 50

Houae. Not Made With Handa.— A juvenile, illustrated by Hopprn

tapending Criaia of the South.— By Hmton Rowan Helper.

I eo

e a*

/CATIONS.

A. Dav-iet. %i 9»

I the plolt I jc

ationi cv C. G. Buih. . ■ oo

liitstnileu I OB

lUuttralioni }•

le. By JeaffraMHk.... > oo
1)0. .... t 00

i illustratioiit. i oa

OKveU « SO

Kir " Mary llnndegeo." i so

liva Lugan. i so

»t » oo

ed Saunden • SO

• 7$

rtwell « .w

ench SO

am Fuller. • So

t Gotpel Peaoa." So

Do as

Ireland > So

la. > 7S

-Kamba Thorp* fi TS

1 so
" 75
t so
1 so
• 50
I so
I so
I so
I so

I JO

a oo
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« 7$
I 7$
> 75
« 75
• 75

rom the French. .
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lold.— C. L. Mcllvain...
ithouaa.— J. V. Swift.

T. Wal««rth....

Da.

D»

D*.

Uy M.

ks.

la' tad*.— Andenon #i oo

Pap'r?,— 4 vols, in I . . . a oo

o.— Ilia life a oo

>owcr • so

a.— Artemus Ward aS cla.

rigsin*.— Widow Hedott. 17s
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ks.

•• 5»

(New.) 1 50

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ustrations. aw

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ed l>y Hoppin > ao

ielper. I a*

CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS.

A New Edition.

Aman^ the many edition* of the works of this greatest of
EngliHh .Novelists, there has not been until now one thut entirely
latislies the puMic demand. —V/ithout exception, tley each have
tome stroll? distinctive objection,— either the form and liimensinns
of the volume* are unhantly— or, the type is small and Iniiistinct—
or. the illustrations are unsatisfactory — or, the binding is poor— or,
the price « too high.

An entirely new etiition is new, however, puhlishetl by G. W.
Carleton & Co. of New York, which, it is l)elieved, will, in every
respect, completely satisfy the popular demand.— It is known as

<' Carlotoii'« Now llluatrnted Edition."

CoMPLKTK IN 15 Volumes.

The size and form is most convenient for holding,— the tyue if
entirely new, and of a clear and open character that has received the
approval of the reading community in other popular works.

The illustrations are by the original artists chosen ly Charles
Dickens himself— and the paper, printing, and binding are of an
attractive and substantial character.

This lieautiful new eiliiion is complete in 15 volumes— at the
extremely reasonable price of fi.so per volume, as follows:—

I. PICKWICK PAPERS AND CATALOOUK.

a.— OLIVER TWIST.— UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVKLLBK.

3. — DAVID COPPEU FIELD.

4.— GREAT EXPECTATIONS ITALY AND AMBRICA.

5. — DOMBEY AND SON.

6.— BARNABY RUDOE AND EDWIN DROOD.

7. — NICHOLAS NICKLEBY.

8. — CURIOSITY SHOP AND MISCKLLANXOUS.

9. — BLEAK HOUSE.
la — LITTLE DORRIT.
II. — MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT.
13. — OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.

13. — CHRISTMAS BOOKS. — TALK OF TWO CITIBS.
14. — SKETCHES BY BOZ AND HARD TIMES.
IJ. — CHILD'S ENGLAND AND MISCELLANEOUS.

The first volume— Pickwick Papers— contains an «lph»i>)etic»J
catalogue of all of Charles Dickens' writings, with their positions
in the volumes.

This wlition is sold by Booksellers, everywhere— and stagic speci-
men copies will be forwarded by mail, fostage free, on receipt of
ijfice. Si. (Ou by

G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,

Madison Square, New York.

nuiiNRH.— AniiiTMKNT. flAcairii

— rtlLKNT l'KI)IM,» — DlKSKH (.'

tkhhatiov — TiMimTV— iTMCi'mi

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THREE VALUABLE BOOKS,

All iMntlhUy Prtnttd and BUt^ntly BoaaA.

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tMl hHbltii •ml inltl\»U' giwil oiiua. •«• l*rloe |1.W. Auumih lh» umunU
M lotiuil i'ha|>ten> U|ii>ii—

iTttWTIOM IH ri.UVKlMtATHlH— Hat-
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- Umaiiukkarui 9uw«it». —^BkI/- _

II.— Tlio ilnlill* of Oood ftoclcl}'.

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ORMTLBMEK'a VBErACI.

Laiiiiw' I'BrrAf^r— KAiHioiii.
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Ultl'KPIIONH.— KNOAIIKyEMTa.

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CooMTiiT Vuin.— OiTT Viun,

Ili.—ArU of Writiiiw, Koudliig, and Sponkii

An c«m.««llni{lT faiidnatlnK work for tearhlntr not only tlis befflnner, but
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^r" A beautUnl new minaUire edition of tli»*e iwy imimlar !««>»• baa
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^,* The* bcoha are aU eeut by mail, tuttaoefrm, on receipt of p lo^ b-,

S. W. CABLETON tt CO., Pttbllihw, Madison Sqnare, lT*y T(

OKATOBI op TIIR I'tlLPIT.- CoMI

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KMUWLKDua. —LAHaVAUUM.

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, i BKOIM.- 0ADTION8.-nRLIVKBt. -WlUT-

ma A Hprrcii.— FiHUT I.khhon».— ro»-
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their Itind evtrpHMUked; flfk, titutbU
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i^(tMiaidfAi^;^jSi^»^>i'^iMM^*^^ ^ i ^.*lii^ ***'*^**iSitixa^^ilSitl^m^

^^^ftMta