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mjjlf National Library Bibliotheque nationale
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/■ '■ /

FORBI

CHATEAU D'OR

NORAH AND KITTY GRAIG.

MRS. MAEY J. HOLMES,

AUTHOR OV

FORREST HOUSE," " EniTH I.VLE," " TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE," " 'f.ENA
KIVERS," " MILDRED," ETC.

ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY.

MnCCCLXXXl.

IS RLf'/

CONTENTS.

( *HAT*AU D'Oh '^M

I'hap. I. Anna Strong

71. Chateau d'Or

' ■ jy

III. Madame Verwest and Anna

I V. The News which Came to MiUtield r^

V. The News which Came to Chateau .I'Oi- r,-

VI. In the Autumn ..

VII. Eupenie and Anna

§/>

VIII. More News wliich (Jame to Millfield ^^

IX. Eugenie's Waiting Maid

lO.'i

A. Eugenie Goes Again to Chateau d'O,- j j„

XI. The Escape..

YTT rn. • 128

All, The Denouement

XIII. Ill .America

145

NoRAH

,., ,, 171

24!i

■

par

rea(

mor

rocli

whe

mor

i s

tlists
F(
seein
balct
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howe
have

CHATEAU D'OR

"VyE had left Paris behind us, and were going down
to the .southern part of France, as far as Mar-
«^eillcs and Nice. All day Hal and I had had the com-
partment to ourselves, and had talked, and smoked, and
read, and looked out upon the country through which
we were passing so rapidly. But this had become rather
monotonous, and I was beginning to tire of the gray
rocks, and bleak mountain sides, and gnarled olive trees
when suddenly, as we turned a curve and came out into a
more open and fertile tract, Hal seized my arm, and point-
ing to the left of us said :

"Quick, quick ! Do you see that old chateau in the
distance ? "

Following the direction of his hand, I saw what at first
seemerl to be a mass of dark stone walls, turrets, towers and
Lalconies. tumbbnl promisr-uously together, and formino- an '
immense pile of ruins. A closer and nearer inspection
however, showed me a huge stone building, which mn.t
have been very old, judging from its style of architec-

CHATEAU d'OR.

ture, and tlie thickness of its walls, and the ^ray moss,
which had crept up to the very eaves, and found there
before it the ivy, which i^rows so rankly and luxuriantly
in many parts of France.

" Yes, I see it," I said. " What oi it, and what place
is it?"

" That," said Hal, " is Chateau d'Or, which, translated
into plain English for a stupid like you, means 'Chateau of
gold,' though why that sombre, dreary old pile should
have that name, is more than I can tell, unless it is that
it cost so much to build it. It is nearly two hundred
years old. Its first owner mined himself on it, I believe,
and it has passed through many hands since. You see
that stream of water yonder, almost a river ? Well, that
passes entirely round the chateau, which really stands on
an island, and is only accessible from one point, and that
an iron bridge. That old building has been the scene of
the strangest story you ever heard — almost a tragedy, in
fact, and the heroine was an American woman, and native
of my own town. I'll tell you about it to-night, after we
have had our dinner."

I was interested now, and leaned far out of the window
to look at the chateau, which seemed gloomy and dreary
enough to warrant the wildest story one could tell of it.
And that night I heard the story which I now write down,
using sometimes Hal Morton s words, and sometimes my
own.

^^ijL..

THE STORY.

C'HAPTER I.

ANNA STRONG.

jy /pLLFIELD," said Hal, " is one of those little New
J- England towns which seem to have been fin-
ished up years and years ago, and gone quietly to sleep
without a susi)icion that anything more could be expected
of It. It stands on a spur of the mountains which lie
between Pittsfield and Albany, and can be distinctly seen
from the car windows,with its spotless houses of white, with
fresh green blipds,and the inevitable lilac bushesandsweet
syringas in front. I was born there, and when I wish to
Jest and get away from the noise and turmoil of New
York, I go thei-e and grow a younger and better man amid
the Sunday stillness which reigns perpetually in its streets.
And yet you would be surprised to find how much intel-
ligence and genuine aristocracy that little village has.
There are the Crosbys, who claim relationship with the
Adamses, and a real scion of the Washingtons, and a

CHATEAU DOR.

lineal descendant of Lord Comwallis, and Miss Talleyrand,
who prides herself upon having, in her veins, the best
blood in New England, though good old Deacon Larkin's
wife once shocked her horribly by saying, ' she didn't see,
. for her part, why Polly Talleyrand need to brag so about
good blood, when she was as full of erysipelas as she
could hold.' "

Here 1 laughed heartily over Miss Talleyrand's good
blood, while Hal lighted a fresh cigar, and continued :

" Next to' these aristocrats, upper crust, as the deacon's
wife called them — comes the well-to-do class, tradespeople
and mechnnics, the people whose sons and daughters work
in the shoe-shops, for you know the shoe business is no-
where carried on so extensively as in New England, and
it gives employiment to many girls as well as boys, the
former stitching the uppers, as they are called, and the
latter putting on the soles. There is a very large shop in
Millfield, which employs at least fifty girls, and at the
time I am telling you about, there was not in the whoh^
fifty — no, nor in the entire town — so pretty a girl a;S An-
na Strong, the heroine of my story. She was not very
intellectual, it is true, or very fond of books, but she was
beautiful to look at, with a lithe, graceful figur?, and win-
some ways, while her voice was sweet and clear as a
robin's. Birdie Strong, we called her, on account of her
voice, and when she sang in the gallery of the old
brick chuwh, 1 used to shut my eyes, and fancy I was
in Heaven, listening- to the music of the sweetest sincrer
there,

ANNA STRONG.

" Bob, I may as well be frank with you. I was in love
with Anna Strong, and I am certain she liked me a lit-
tle, though she never encouraged me in the least. She
was not a bit of a coquette, and made no secret of the
fact that money, and nothing else, would have any influ-
ence with her. Anna was ambitious, and when, from her
shoe-bench in the hot work-room, she saw Judge Crosby's
daughter go by in her dainty white dress and sash of
blue, she thought hard, bitter things of the humble life
she led, and vowed to accept the first man who could give
her silks, and lace, and diamonds, and a place in society.

" At last the man came — a brusque, haughty English-
man, with a slight limp in his left anklo, and a cold, hard
expression in his steel-gray eyes, but tolerably good-look-
ing, with a certain assurance and style, and lavish gene-
rosity, which won upon the people, and made him quite
a lion. Eva Crosby invited him to tea ; Miss Talleyrand's
niece drove with him once or twice ; and so he became the
fashion. He was not young — was thirty -five at least, and
looked older. He was of Scottish descent, he said, though
English born, and he owned an estate in the north of
Scotland, a large chateau in the south of France, and a
city house in London, and he called himself Ernest Wal-
singham Haverleigh. If he chose he could be very gra-
cious and agreeable, though his manner was always
haughty in the extreme, and had in it an undisguised
contempt for everything American.

'• I disliked him frem the first, and hated him after the

iwn party, to which Anna Strong

day

Crosby']
2

CHATEAU d'oR,

was invited, and where she shone the belle of the fSte,
notwithstanding that her dress was a simple blue muslin,
and the ruffle round her throat imitation lace. I learned
that fact from hearing Miss Talleyrand's niece, from
Springfield, say to Eva Crosby, in speaking of A.nna, 'she
is rather pretty, but decidedly flashy. Her love of finery
leads her to wear imitation lace. If there's any one thing
I detest, it is that. It al^vays stamps a person.'

" And so Anna was stamped, but did not seem to mind
it at all. How plainly I can see her now as she came
through the gate with her hat in her hand, and her beau-
tiful hair falling in curls about her neck and shoulders.

" Up to that moment Haverleigh had maintained an
indolent, bored attitude, with a look of supreme indiffer-
ence on his face, but when Anna joined us, his manner
changed at once, and he devoted himself to her with a
persistency which brought upon her the jealous rancour
of every lady present. But Anna did not seem to know
it, and received the Englishman's attentions with an air
of sweet unconsciousness, which only deepened his ardour,
and made him perfectly oblivious to every one around
him. The next day he made some inquiries with regard
to Anna's family, and before night had learned all there
was to know of them, both good and bad. They were
poor, but perfectly respectable people, and no taint had
ever rested upon the name of Strong. Years and years
before, Grandfather Strong had married a second wife,
with a daughter about the age of his own son, afterward^
Anna's father, and this daughter, Milly Gardner, who

■I

ANNA STRONG.

was in no^way connected with the Strongs, had run away
with a Boston man, who promised her marriage and then
deserted her. A few years later news was received in
Millfield of her death, and so the scandal died and was
buried in poor Milly's grave, and the family seldom spoke
her name. Indeed, Anna's mother, who was many years
younger than her husband, had never known Milly, while
Mr. Strong himself, who had loved her as a dear sister,
never blamed her. She was more sinned agamst than
sinning, and so he let her rest in peace, and his childitn
only knew of her as Aunt Milly, who was very pretty,
and who was dead. Mr. Strong was dead now himself,
and his widow lived in a little red house on the common
with her three children— Mary, who made dresses in the
winter, and taught school in the summer; Anna, who
worked in the shoe-shop ; and Fred., the youngest and
pet of the family, who was destined for college, and for
whom the mother and sisters hoarded their small earn-
ings and denied themselves everything.

" This is the history of the Strongs up to the time
when Haverleigh came to Millfield and made up his mind
to marry Anna, with the decided understanding, however,
that in taking her he was not taking her family. And
Anna listened to him, and throwing aside her love, and
pride, and womanhood, cast into one scale her humble
home, with its poverty and privations, her scanty dress,
her hateful life of toil in the dingy shop, stitching shoes
for the negroes to wear; while into the other she put a
life of ease and luxury, the country seat in Scotland, the

CHATEAU D'OR.

Chateau in Southern France, the city house in London,
and the gay season there, and what weighed more with
her — the satins, and laces, and diamonds which, as Mrs.
Haverleigh, she was sure to wear. Of course the latter
scale overbalanced the former, and without a particle of
love, but rather with a feeling of dread and fear for the
cold Englishman, Anna promised to be his wife, on one
condition. Fred, was to go to college, the mortgage of
five hundred dollars on the red house was to be paid, her
mother wi s to have a dress of handsome black silk, and
Mary one of dark blue. This request she made timidly,
not daring to look at the man who, with a sneer on his
face, answered laughingly :

" ' Oh, that is a mere trifle. Fred, shall go to college,
the mortgage shall be paid, the silk gowns shall be forth-
coming, and here is the wherewithal.'

" It was a check for five thousand dollars which he
gave her, and his unlooked-for generosity went far toward
reconciling Mrs. Strong and Mary to the match. And so
it was a settled thing, and Anna stitched her last shoe in
the dingy shop ; went down the staircase for the last time,
sang her last song in church, and was married quietly at
home one lovely morning in July, when Millfield was
looking its best from the effects of a recent rain. There
were drops of crystal on the freshly cut grass, and the air
was sweet with the perfume of roses, and pinks, and helio-
trope, while the sky overhead was blue and clear as the
eyes of the young bride, who, if she felt any regret for the
home she was leaving, did not show it in the least. Per-

^^»r

haj

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wei

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atl

wei

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whi

sior

ANNA STRONG.

a sneer on his

haps she was thinking of the costly diamond on her fin-
ger, and the silken robe she wore, or possibly of the
grandeur which awaited her over the sea. Poor Anna
—she was very young— only eighteen— and to change at
once from a poor girl, who was every morning awakened
by the shoe-shop whistle, to a life she hated, to step into
wealth and elegance must have benumbed and bewildered
her so that she did not realize what she was doing, when
at last she said good-by to the home of her childhood, and
went away alone with a man she had scarcely known two
months — a man whom she did not love, and who, even
while caressing her, made her feel the immense condescen-
sion it had been on his part to make her his wife.

" Their destination was New York, where Anna had
never been, and where they were to spend a week or two
before sailing for Europe. At the hotel where they stop-
ped, Anna met with an old school friend, who, like her-
self, was a bride taking her wedding trip. As was
natural, the two young girls talked together freely of
their future prospects and the husbands they had chosen,
and Anna could not help showing her elation at being the
wife of a man like Mr. Haverleigh.

" ' But tell me honestly, do you love him 1 ' Mrs. Flem-
ing said to her one day. ' He is not at all the person I
should have selected for you. Why, do you know I feel
a kind of terror stealing over me every time he speaks to
me, there is such a hard ring in his voice, and it seems to
me a cruel look in his eyes. Then I always thought you
would eventually marry Hal Morton.'

CHATEAU DOR.

" This was a great deal to say to a bride concerning her
husband, but Lucy Fleming was just the one to take
liberties, and Anna did not resent it in the least, but ans-
wered laughingly : ' Oh, Hal is quite too poor. He took
it hard, and looked like a goosey at the wedding. I fancy
he did not like Mr. Haverleigh, and I see you think him
a kind of Blue Beard, too, and so I confess do I, but then
I never intend to 'peek, and lose my life as did his silly
wives. Honestly, though, Lucy, I do not love him, and I
experience that same fear of him which you describe,
and actually shrink from him when he kisses me ; but he
is very kind to me, and I believe loves me truly, and I
shall make him think that I love him. I married him for
money, for fine dresses, and jewellery, and handsome furni-
ture, and servants, and horses and carriages, and that
Chateau d'Or, which did more toward influencing me than
anything else. Only think of living in a house almost as
large as a castle, with a French maid, and troops of ser-
vants, and a housekeeper to take every care from me ;
one could almost endure any man for the sake of all that.'

" Here the conversation ceased, and a moment after Mr.
Haverleigh himself entered the room. To an ordinary
observer there was nothing in his manner to indicate that
he had overheard a word, but there was a kind of ferocious
look in his eyes, and his lips were shut more tightly to-
gether than usual as he bowed to Mrs. Fleming, and then,
crossing to his wife, bent over her affectionately, and
kissed her forehead as he asked if she would take a drive.
It was a lovely afternoon. The Park was full of people,

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ANNA STRONG.

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an ordinary
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ig, and then,
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ake a drive.
11 of people,

and Anna's fresh young face attracted a great deal of
notice, as did the haughty looking man at her side, who
had never been as lover-like in his attentions as he was
from that day on until the ocean was crossed, and they
were at the Grosvenor House in London. His own house
was closed, he said, when Anna asked why they did not
go there, but he drove her past it, and she was sure
she saw a lady's face looking at them from one of
the upper windows. Haverleigh must have seen it,
too, for he muttered something which sounded like an
execration under his breath, and drove on faster than
before.

" ' Does any one live in your house ? I thought I saw
a lady at the window,' Anna said, timidly, for she was
beginning to understand his moods, as he called his fre-
quent fits of abstraction, and knew he was in one now.

" There was nobody occupying his house, and she had
not seen any one at the window, he answered rather
curtly ; but Anna knew she had, and dreamed that night
of the large black eyes that had peered at her so curiously
from the house on Belgrave Square. She could not be
ignorant of the fact, either, that her husband, while pay-
ing her marked attention, especially in the parks and at
table, was restless, and nervous, and very anxious to hurry
away from London, and very impatient on account of the
slight illness which kept them there a week longer than
he wished to stay.

" Once, just before their marriage, he had asked her
whether she would rather go to Scotland first or France,

CHATEAU D'OR.

and she had answercJ Scotland, preferring Southern
France later in the autumn, when she hoped to see Nice
and Mentone, before settling down for the winter at Cha-
teau d'Or. ' Then to Scotland we will go,' he had replied,
and she had greatly anticipated her visit to Scotland,
and her trip through the Trosachs, and across the beauti-
ful Lakes Lomond and Katrine, but all this was to be
given up ; her master had changed his mind, and without
a word of explanation told her that they were going at
once to Paris.

"'You can attend to your dressmaking better there
than elsewhere, and you know you are fond of satins, and
laces, and jewellery,' he said, and there was a gleam in
his eye from which Aruia would have shrunk had she
noticed it ; but she did not. She was thinking of Paris
and its gaieties, and she packed her trunks without a
word of dissent, and was soon established in a handsome
suite of rooms at the Grand Hotel, with permission to buy
whatever she wanted, irrespective of expense.

"'I'd like you to have morning dresses, and dinner
dresses, and evening dresses, and riding dresses, and walk-
ing dresses, and everything necessary to o. lady's ward-
robe,' he said; and p j:)r unsuspecting Anna thought,
' How much society he must expect me lo .soq, i u-d how
glad I shall be of it!'"

Anna was beginning to feel a good deal bored with no

company but that of her husband, for though he some-

.'ju 3s b :> ved to ladies on the Boulevards, no one came to

.ii', and as their meals were served in their parlour,

ANNA STRONG,

ng Southern
1 to see Nice
inter at Cha-
e had replied,
to Scotland,
8 the beauti-
!iis was to be
, and without
were going at

better there
of satins, and
as a gleam in
unk had she
king of Paris
ks without a
Q a handsome
aission to buy
e.

), and dinner
ses, and walk-
I. lady's ward-
\ .1 I h ought,
hrij, titid how

oored with no
ugh he some-
one came to
their parlour,

she had but little chance to cultivate the acquaintance of
the people staying at the hotel, so that, with the excop -
tion of her milliner and dressmaker, both of whom spoke
Kiigiish, itn 1 a few clerks at the different stores, she could
fiJk v'ith no one in all the great, gay city, and thero
gradually settled down upon her a feeling of loneliness
and home-sickness, for which all her costly dresses and
jewellery could not make Amends. But this would be
changed when they were at Nice or Mentone, or even at
the chateau, which her husband told her was frequently
full of guests during the autumn months. Oh, how many
pictures she drew of that chateau, with its turrets and
towers overlooking the surrounding country, its beautiful
grounds, its elegantly furnished rooms, its troops of ser-
vants, and herself mistress of it all, with a new dress for
every day in the month if she liked, for it almost amounted
to that before her shopping was done, and when at last
they left Paris, the porters counted fourteen trunks which
they had brought down from No. — , all the property of
the pretty little lady, whose travelling dress of gray silk
was a marvel of puffs, and ruffles, and plaitings, and
sashes, as she took her seat in the carriage, and was driven
away through the streets of Paris to the Lyons Station.

" They were going to the chateau first, her husband told
her, adding that he hoped the arrangement suited her.

" ' Oh, certainly,' she replied. *I shall be so gl9|| to se«
one of my new homes. I know I shall like it, afd per-
haps be so happy there that I shall not care to leave it for
a long time. I am getting a little tired.'

^^:

i ''

CHATEAU D'ob.

They were alone in the railway carriage, and as Anna
said this she leaned her head against his arm as if she
were really tired and wanted rest. It was the first volun-
tary demonstration of the kind she had ever made toward
him, and there came a sudden flush into his face and a
light into his eyes, but he did not pass his arm around
the drooping little figure-he merely suffered the bright
head to rest upon his shoulder, while he gazed gloomily
out upon the country they were passing, not thinking of
the dreary landscape, the barren hills, and grey mountain
tops, but rather of the diabolical purpose from which he
had never swerved an hour since the moment it was
formed.

, and as Anna
irm as if she
e first volun-
made toward
is face and a
1 arm around
d the bright
zed gloomily
i thinking of
By mountain
)m which he
nent it was

CHAPTER II.

CHATEAU D'oR.

" TT was late one September afternoon when they came
J- at last in sight of the chateau, and Ilaverleigh
pointed it out to Anna, who involuntarily exclaimed :

"'Why, it's more like a prison than a house: is that
Chateau d'Or ? '

Yes, that's Chateau d'Or,' was the short reply, and
fifteen minutes later they stopped at the little town
where they were to leave the train.

" Two men were waiting for them, one the coachman,
who touched his hat t ^ the utmost deference to his
master, while the other seemed on more familiar terms
with Mr. Haverleigh, and stared so curiously at Anna that
she drew her veil over her face, and conceived for him on
the instant an aversion which she never overcame. He
was a tall, dark man, with a sinister expression on his
face, and a look in his keen black eyes as if he was con-
stantly on the alert for something which it was his duty
to discover. Her husband introduced him as Monsieur
Brunell, explaining to her that he was his confidential
agent, his head man, who superintended Chateau d'Or in

CHATEAD D'OE.

hi. ateeMe, and whose house was close to the bridge
which crossed the river so th=,t „„ , , ^

n. _, ' " *"** '"> on« could ever leave

the grounds without his knowledge

"Aniia paid hut little heed to what he was savins
then though it afterwards came back to her witi 2
sigmflcanee. Now, however, she was too tired and tol
an.o„s to see the inside of the chateau to th k " an^

gW to find herself alone with her husband in the car-

-• Why does that man stare so impudently at me ' I

pretty no dtl:-^ ™" ""' "^''"*"'^-'^ '■^ *»''«'-

"They had crossed the bridge by this time, and Anna

noticed that they passed through a heavy iron gate wWch

■ rrcrxrrrrit"^: """ ^^^^^^^
prison. TheyUri:^;:^^::;:^!"

je. eautifuUy kept, and Anna forgot eve^g rntr
delight at what she saw about her. -^ ""g >» her

"■Oh, I shall be so happy here!' she cried as thev
rode along the broad carriage road, and she saw evS
where signs of luxury and wealth. ^

"And at that moment Anna was happy She had
sighed for money, for a home handsomer tC the humbl!
red house far away among the New England hills, and"
here was something more beautiful than anything o^'
which she had ever dreamed If there had been an^hing

CHATEAU D'OR.

ie to the bridge
could ever leave

he was saying
ler with fearful
tired and too

think of any-
e, and she was
md in the car-

atly at me ? 1

>Iied, jestingly :

he thinks you

ime, and Anna
'on gate, which
lud which sent
the gate of a
grounds which
rything in her

3ried, as they
e saw every-

'y. She had
n the humble

1 hills, and lo,
anything of
sen anything

lovable about Ernest Haverleigh, Anna might have loved
him then in her great delight with the home he was
bringing her to ; but there was nothing in his nature an-
swering to hers, and he did not seem to see how pleased
she was, but sat back in the carriage, with a dark look
on his face and a darker purpose in his heart. And still
he saw her every moment, and watched the light in her
eyes and the clasping of her hands as she leaned from the
window; but it awoke no answering chord of gladness,
unless it were a gladness that he had in his power to
avenge the insult he had received. They were close to
the chateau now, directly in the shadow of the grey old
walls, which looked so dark and gloomy, so out of keeping
with the beauty of the grounds, that Anna's spirits sank
again, and there was a tremor in her frame as she des-
cended from the carriage in the wide court, around which
balconies ran, tier upon tier, and into which so many long,
narrow windows looked.

" At the head of a flight of steps an elderly woman was
standing, her white hair arranged in pufl^s about her face,
which, though old and wrinkled, was so sweet and sad in
its expression that Anna felt drawn to her at once, and
the court was not half so damp and dreary, or the walls
so dark and high.

" The woman was dressed in black silk, with a tasteful

lace cap upon her head, while the bunch of keys attached

to her side with a silver chain showed her to be the

housekeeper, even before Mr. Haverleigh said :

" ' This is Madame Verwest, the head of the house, just

■'^

CHATEAU d'oR,

as MoHBieur Brunell is head of the grounds. You will do
we 1 o conciliate her, and not show your dislike, if you
leel it, as you did to monsieur.'

" ' Oh, I shall love her. I bve her now for that sweet
sorry face. Has she had some great trouble, Ernest V

"It was the first time Anna had ever called her hus-
band by the familiar name of Ernest. He had asked her
to do so m the days of their courtship, and she had an-
swered him, playfully : 'Oh, Mr. Haverleigh, you are so
much older than I am, and know so much more, and then
- Well, to tell the truth, I am a little bit afraid of you
yet, but by and by I mean to learn to say Ernest '

"But the by and by had never come until now. Anna
was the creature of impulse, and while driving through
the handsome grounds she had felt elated and proud, that
she, httle Anna Strong, who once sewed shoes in New
England, and planned how to get an extra pair of gloves
shou d be riding in her carriage, the mistress of so much
wealth and her heart had thrilled a little for the man
through whom this good fortune had come to her But
the gloomy chateau, and the still more gloomy court, had
driven this all away, and a wave of genuine homesicknes.s
was sweeping over her when the serene face of Madame
Vei-west looked so kindly down upon her and brought the
better feeling back. She was happy. She was glad she
was there, Mr. Haverleigh's wife, and she called him
Ernest purposely, and looked up in his face as she did so.
l>id he soften toward her at all ? Possibly, for a red flush
crept up to his hair ; but he raised his hand as if to brush

CHATEAU D'oR.

ids. You will do
ir dislike, if you

V for that sweet
ible, Ernest V
r called her hus-
e had asked her
ind she had an-
3igh, you are so
I more, and then
it afraid of you

Ernest.'

til now. Anna
Iriving through
and proud, that

shoes in New

pair of gloves,
ess of so much
;le for the man
e to her. But
•my court, had
J homesickness
3e of Madame
id brought the

was glad she
e called him
as she did So.
■or a red jQush
as if to brush

lit away, and then he was himself again— the man who
jnever forgave, and who could break a young girl's heart
jeven while seeming to caress her. If he heard Anna's
question with regard to Madame Verwest, he did not
jnotice it or make her any answer. He merely took her
l^rm in his, and leading her up the broad stone steps, pre-
fsented her to the lady as Madame Haverleigh, his wife.
I " Instantly there came a change over the placid fea-
|tures, which kindled with a strange light, and the dim
f eyes, which looked so accustomed to tears, fastened them-
I selves eagerly upon the fair face of the young girl, and
5 then were raised questioningly to the dark face of the
: man whose lips curled with a sneering smile, as he said,
in French :

V " ' She does not understand a word. Ask me what you
? please.'

Your wife truly! ' was the quick question of the wo-
man, and Haverleigh replied :
" ' Yes, truly. What do you take me for ? '
" To this there was no answer, but the woman's arms
were stretched towaxd Anna with a quick, sudden motion,
as if they fain would hold her a moment in their embrace;'
but a look from Mr. Haverleigh checked the impulse',
and only madame's hand was offered to Anna, who, never-
theless, felt the warm welcome in the way the'fingers
tightened round her own, and was sure she had found a
friend.

'"Madame is very welcome, and I hope she will be
happy here,' the woman said ; but she might as weU hav©

CHATEAU D'OR.

talked in Greek to Anna, who could only guess from her
manner what she meant to say, and who smiled brightly
back upon her, as she followed on up one narrow stair-
case after another, until they reached a lofty room, which
she first thought a hall such as the New Englanders call
a ball-room, but which she soon discovered to be the
apartment intended for herself.

" The floor was inlaid and waxed, and so slippery that
she came near falling as she first crossed the threshold. A
few Persian rugs were thrown down here and there, and
at the further end, near to a deep alcove, was a massive
rosewood bed, with lace and silken hangings, and heavy
tassels with knotted fringe. On the bed was a light blue
satin spread, covered with real Valenciennes lace of a
most exquisite pattern, and Anna stood a moment in
wonder to look at and marvel at its richness. Then her
eyes went on to the alcove, across which lace curtains
were stretched, and which was daintily fitted up with
the appliances of the toilet, with the bath-room just be-
yond. All this was at the far end of the room, the re-
mainder of which might have served as a boudoir for the
empress herself, it was so exquisitely furnished with every-
thing which the ingenuity of Paris could devise in the
way of fauteuil, ottoman, easy-chair, and lounge, with
mosaic tables from Florence, inlaid cabinets from Rome,
lovely porcelains from Munich and full-length mirrors
from Marseilles,

" ' This is your room ; how do you like it ?' Mr. Haver-
leigh asked : and Anna replied :

CHATEAU DOR.

26^

ily guess from her
10 smiled brightly
one narrow stair-
lofty room, which
w Euglanders call
overed to be the

d so slippery that
I the threshold. A
ire and there, and
i^e, was a massive
gings, and heavy
d was a light blue
ciennes lace of a
lod a moment in
hness. Then her
ich lace curtains
y fitted up with
ith-room just be-
the room, the re-
a boudoir for the
ished with every-
ild devise in the
md lounge, with
nets from Rome,
ll-length mirrors

>it?' Mr.Haver-

' I wish mother and Mary knew. I wish they could
be here too. Only the windows are kind of prison-like,
they are so long and narrow,, and so deep in the wall.'

' As she said this she entered one of the arched re-
bsses and tried to look from the window, but it was al-
Jnost too high for her, and by standing on tip-toe she
;|ould just look over the ledge and get a view of the tree-
lops in the grounds, of rocky hills beyond, and in the far
^istance a bit of the blue Mediterranean, which brought
Tback to her mind a day at the seaside, where she had
ifrone with a picnic party and bathed in the Atlantic,
•hat day seemed so very, very far back in the past, and
i|he ocean waves she had watched as they broke upon the
>each was so far, far away that again that throb of home-
lickness swept over her, and there were tears in her eyes
irhen she turned from the window and came back into
^he salon. It was empty, for both her husband and
ladame Verwest had left it, and she was free to look
^bout her as much as she liked, and to examine the many
dutiful things with which the salon was filled. But
^hey did not quite satisfy her now, for that pang of pain
vas still in her heart cutting like a knife, and her
thoughts went back to the day when she and Mary had
itted the cheap ingrain carpet and white curtains to the
ittle parlour at home, and thought it, when done, the
inest room in Millfield. The carpet and curtains were
there still, but oh, how many miles and miles of land and
^ea lay between her and the humble surroundings she
\a,i once so frettedagainst, longing for something better!

CHATEAU D'oR.

She had the something better, but it did not satisfy, and
it was 80 dreadful to be in a strange land where she could
not understand a word the people said, and it would be
still more dreadful without Mr. Haverleigh there as inter-
preter, she thought ; and there began to grow in her a
sense of nearness to her husband, a feeling of dependence
upon and protection in him such as she had not ex-
perienced before.

" • I believe I could love him after all ; anyway, I mean
* to try, and will begin to-night,' she thought, just as there
came a knock upon the door, and in answer to her 'Entrez,'
the one French word besides oui whjch she knew, a smart-
looking young woman entered, followed by a man, who
was bringing in her trra\ks.

" With a low courtesy, ;,ne girl managed to make Anna
understand that her name was Celine, and that she
was to be her waiting-maid, and had come to dress her
for dinner.

" ' Voyez les clefs; she said, holding up the keys which 1
her master had given her, one of which she proceeded to '
fit to a certain trunk, as if she knew its contents, and that
it contained what she wanted.

" Anna had not before had the luxury of a maid, but
she accepted it naturally as she did everything else,' and
gave herself at once into the deft hands of Celine,' who
brushed and arranged her beautiful hair with many ex-
pressions of delight, not one of which Anna understood,
But she knew she was being complimented, and when
her toUet was^completed, and she saw hersel

-ir

CHATEAU D'OR.

id not satisfy, and

id where she could
and it would be

sigh there as inter-
to grow in her a

ing of dependence
she had not ex-

; anyway, I mean
jght, just as there
^er to her 'Entrezl
she knew, a smart-
ed by a man, who

;ed to make Anna
e, and that she
!ome to dress her

,;;«

p the keys which

she proceeded to

contents, and that

y of a maid, but
rything else, and 1
is of Celine, who
ir with many ex-
inna understood,
anted, and when
herself in one of

the long mirrors arrayed in a soft, light gray silk, with

I trimmings of blue and lace, with flowers in her hair, and

Ipearls on her arms and neck, she felt that Celine's praises

|were just, and laughed back at the vision of her own

^ loveliness.

|: " ' Oh, if the folks at home could see me now they would

.-say it paid,' she thought, as she walked up and down the

apartment, trailing her silken robe after her and catching

frequent flashes of her beauty in the mirrors as she

jpassed.

" And still there was a little of the old home-sickness

lleft, a yearning for companionship, for somebody to see

her, somebody to talk to, and then she remembered her

I resolution to try to love her husband, and she said again :

' I'll do it, and I'll begin to-night.'

"But where was he that he left her thus alone, walk-
ing up and down, until, too tired to walk longer, she
seated herself upon a satin couch to await his coming,
little dreaming as she sat there of the scene which had
taken place between him and Madame Verwest, who had
invited him to her own room, and then turning fiercely up-
on him, demanded ": ' Tell me, is she your wife, or another
Agatha, brought here to beat her wings against her pris-
on bars until death gives her release ? She is too young
for that, too beautiful, too innocent, with those chUdish
eyes of blue. Tell me you mean well by her, or '

" She did not finish her threat, save by a stamp of her

I foot and an angry flash of the eyes, which had looked so

pityingly at Anna, for Haverleigh interrupted her with

CHATEAU D'OR.

a coarse laugh, and said : ' Spare yourself all uneasiness
and puny threats which can avail nothing. You are as
much in my power as she. Honestly, though this girl is
as lawfully my wife as a New England parson could
make her."

" ' New England; and the woman started as if stung.
* Is she an American ? Is she from New England ? Yia
wrote me she was English born.'

" ' Did I ? I had forgotten it. Well, then, she is an
American and a New Englander, and her name was Anna
Strong, and she worked in a shoe-shop in Millfield, where
I stopped for a few months on account of the scenery
first, and her pretty face afterwards. I man ied her for
love, and because 1 fancied she loved me n little; but I
have found she does not, and so she shall pay the penalty,
but have her price all the same, diamonds and pearls,
with satins and laces and a dress for every day of the
month.'

"He spoke bitterly, and in his eyes there was a look
which boded no good to Anna, but Madame Verwest
scarcely heard him. At the mention of Anna's name and
Millfield she had laid her hand suddenly over her heart
which beat so loudly that she could hear it herself, while
her eyes had in them a concentrated, far-off look, and she
evidently was not thinking of the object around her, the
old chateau and the dreadful man who brought her back
to the present by saying :

" ' I shall leave her here with you for a time, and it is

«tL._.

CHATEAU D'OR.

ou are as

my wish that she has everything she wants except, of
course, her freedom ; you understand i '

" She did understand ; she had been through the same
thing once before, and she shuddered a-s she remembered
the dark-haired, white-faced girl, who had died in tliat
gloomy house, with wild snatches of song uj>on her lips,
songs of ' Ma Normandie,' and the home wh re she had
once been pure and innocent. ' Je vais revoir ma Nor-
mandie' poor Agatha had sung as the breath was leaving
her quivering lips, and the sad. sweet refrain had seemed
to Madame Verwest to haunt the old chateau ever since,
and now was she destined to hear another death-song or
moaning cry for New England instead of Normandy ?
' Never ! ' was her mental reply, and to herself she vowed
that the fate of Anna Strong should not be like that of
Agatha Wynde. But she could do nothing then except
to bow in acquiescence as she listened to Haverleigh's
instructions, and from them gathered what his intentions
were. Not to desert Anna absolutely ; he could not bring
himself to do that, for the love he had felt for her was
not yet extinct ; but she had offended him deeply, and had
hurt his pride, and for the present she was a prisoner in
Chateau d'Or, till such time as he chose to set her free,
or ' till she recovers her reason, you know,' he said to
Madame Verwest, who made no sign that she heard him,
but whose face was white as ashes as she went out from
his presence, and gave orders that dinner was to be serv-
ed at once in the grand aalle d-manger, which was all
ablaze with wax candles and tapers when Haverleigh led

•■■II

i.i

'' It J

■;1|

It !

f. !■:

CHATEAU D'OR.

^ fl

his bride thither, and gave lier a place at the head of his
table.

" He had found her asleep on the couch, where she had
thrown herself from sheer fatigue, and for a moment ha<l
stood looking down upon her childish, beautiful face,
while something like pity did for an instant stir his stony
heart. But only for an instant, for when he remembered
her words, ' I do not love him, and never expect to,' he
hardened against her at once, and the gleam in his eye
was the gleam of a madman as he touched her arm and
bade her rouse herself.

" It is not necessary to describe in detail that elaborate
dinner of ten courses, which was served from solid silver,
with two or three servants in attendance. Haverleigh was
very rich and very purse-proud, and it suited him to live
like a prince wherever he was ; besides, he wished to im-
press the simple New England girl with a sense of his
greatness and wealth, and he enjoyed her evident embar-
rassment, or rather bewilderment, at so much glitter and
display for just themselves and no one else. Anna had
not forgotten her resolution to try to love him, and after
their return to the salon, where a bright wood fire
had been kindled, as the autumn night was chilly, she
stole up behind him as he lounged in his easy-chair, and
laying her white arms about his neck, drew his head back
until her lips touched his forehead. Then she said softly
and timidly :

" ' Ernest, this is our first coming home, and I want to
thank you for all the beautiful things with which you have

"<iiL_

CHATEAU D'OR.

) the head of his

surrounded me, and to tell you that I mean to be the best

and most faithful of little wives to you.'
" It was quite a speech for Anna, who stood in great

fear of the man she could not understand, and who seemed
; to her to be possessed of two spirits, one good and one
I bad, and should she rouse the latter she knew it would

not be in her power to cope with it. But she had no fear
I of rousing it now, and she felt as if turning into stone

when, for reply to her caress, he sprang to his feet and
I placing a hand on either of her shoulders, stood looking at
j her with an expression in his eyes she could not meet and

before which she cowered at last, and with quivering lip
[ said to him :

" ' Please take your hands from my shoulders ; you hurt
I me, you press so hard. And why do you look so terribly
' at me ? You make me afraid of you, and I wanted to
I love you to-night. What have I done ? '

" Then he released her, and flinging her from him left
the salon without a word, and she saw him no more that
I night. At eleven o'clock Celine came in to undress her,
and when Anna managed to make her understand that
she wished to know where Monsieur Havorleigh was, she
only received for answer a meaning shrug and a peculiar
lifting of the eyelids, which she could construe as she
liked. It was not so pleasant a home-coming after all,
I and Anna's first night at the chateau was passed with
watching and waiting, and tears, and that intense listen-
ing which tells so upon the brain. Once she thought to
leave the room, but the door was bolted on the other side,

CHATEAU D'OB.

th^Ion t Z"'"'^ ^"'^ ™"''"? »P ■»<< down

^d 2Z T 'J''' *'"" hersoUu^n the rosewood
bed andfeU mto a disturbed and unrestful sleep

Meanwhile the master-Haverleigh-was Lhtin„ »
W battle ^th himself than he hL .Z ^uV
fore. He had said that his mind waa made up and he

could turn him from his purpose; his yea was yea aa.d
his nay nay. but those whit« arms around his niek "d
Retouch of those fresh lips upon his forehead h^ ^t
b^n wuhout their effect, though the effect was li^ I

f^^^n ""' ""' " "''*' "''"• ^^'"^^^ "e rushed
from Annas presence, with that wild look in his eye and

the ragang fi,. i„ his heart, he went straight to thfdrrl
drea^ ™,m where Agatha had died witl the sweet*'
train. Je vais revoir ma Normandie; upon her lins and
there amid the gloom and haunting memories JthTpCe

thinking, With head bent down, and now ffestic,>l,t;„ •

ZTi:2^:j2: '"^ -^ '^- which seemed to'

J • Was she in earnest ? Did she mean it » Is it r,os''
..ble that she might learn to love me through the"
baubles she pr.es so much V he questioned of hi be e^
nature, which replied : .

Pl^7'nb °f r .°°"'' '™™ ''■''^''^- » ">- *eary
place. Dont shut out all the gladness and sunshine

■ f

CHATEAU D'oR.

and down
rosewood

P-

ighting a
•ught be-
p, and he
> nothing
yea, and
leck, and
had not
like the
ade him
i rushed
eye and
le dark,
eeet re-
ips, and
le place
Inking,
ting in
imself,
ned to

•I
it pos-

these

better

reary
shine

from her young life. Give her a chance. Remember
Agatha.'

" Just then, through the casement he had thrown open,
there came a gust of the night-wind, which lifted the
muslin drapeiy of the tall bed in the comer and swept it
toward him, making him start, it was so like the white,
tossing, billowy figure he had seen there once, begging
him for the love of God to set her free, and let her go
back to 'la belle Normaiidiel where the father was
for watching her, and would welcome her home again.

" Was Agatha, the wild rose of Normandy, pleading for
Anna, the singing bird from New England ? Possibly ;
and if so, she pleaded well, and might have gained her
c^use if the wicked spirit had not interposed, and sneer-
ingly repeated : ' Do not love him— shrink from his cares-
ses—can't endure to have him touch me— married him
for money— can wind him round my little finger.' And
that last turned the scale. No man likes to be wound
round any finger, however small it may be, and Ernest
Haverleigh was not an exception.

'"She shall pay for that,' he said— 'shall siifier until
the demon within me is satisfied, and I rather think I am
possessed of the devil. Eugenie says I am, in her last
interesting document,' and he laughed bitterly, as he
took froni his pocket a dainty little epistle, bearing the
London postmark, and stepping to the window, through
which the early morning light was streaming, glanced
again at the letter which had been forwarded to him from
Paris, and a part of which had reference to Anna.

t.i-

CHATEAU D'OR.

" ' Who was the doll-faced little girl I saw with you in
the carnage, and why didn't you call upon me after that
day ? Were you afraid to meet me, and what new fancy
18 this so soon after that other affair ? Ernest Haverleigh
. I believe you are possessed with a demon, which makes
you at times a maniac'

"'Yes, I believe I am mad. I wonder if it is in the
family far back, working itself out in me ?' Haverleigh
said, as he stood with his eyes riveted upon the last two
lines. ' Curse this woman with that spell she holds over
me. If It were not for her Agatha might have been liv-
mg, and I.might forgive Anna, for I do believe I am
nearer loving her than any woman I ever saw, and that
IS why I feel so bitter, so unrelenting, so determined upon
revenge. ^

"There were signs of waking life in and around the
chateau now. The servants were astir, and so Haverleigh
left the room where he had passed the night, and which
since Agatha s death had borne the cognomen of 'the
haunted chamber.' On the stairs he met with Madame
Verwest, who stood with hands and eyes bent down her
usual attitude while receiving his orders.

"Anna was to have breakfast in her own room, he said
and be waited on by Celine, and then about ten o'clock
he would see her alone, for he must be off that.night for
x^aris. *=

" It was a very dainty breakfast of chocolate, and fruits
and French rolls, and limpid honey and eggs which Celine
^k to her mistress, whom she had dressed becomingly

CHATEAU D'OR.

in a white cashmere wrapper, with broad blue sash,
knotted at the side, and a blue silk, sleeveless jacket. In
spite of the weary night, Anna was very beautiful that
morning, though a little pale and worn, with a shadow
about the eyes, which were lifted so timidly and question-
ingly to Haverleigh when at last he entered the salon
and closed the door behind him.

" * Oh, Ernest, husband ! ' she began ; but she never
called him by either of those names again, and half an
hour later she lay on her face among the silken cushions of
the couch, a terrified, bewildered, half-crazed creature, to
whom death would have been a welcome relief just then.

" He had succeeded in making her comprehend her po-
sition fully, and in some degree to comprehend him. He
was a man who never forgot and who never forgave. He
had loved her, he believed ; at least, he had conferred upon
her the great honour of becoming his wife — had raised
her from nothing to a high and dazzling position, because
he liked her face and fancied she liked him. She had
certainly made him think so, and he, whom many a high-
born damsel of both. Scotland and England had tried to
captivate, had made a little Yankee shoe-stitcher Mrs.
Haverleigh, and then had heard from her own lips that
she married him for money, for fine dresses, and jewellery,
and furniture, and horses, and carriages, and servants—
and he added with an oath : ' You shall have all this. You
shall have everything you married me for, except your

frfifinnnri n.nd fViftt- vnii alioll novar Vinvp until T nVta-ncro m-u-

purpose ;' then, without giving her a chance to spe&k in

; 11

i<1

iir

iHl

CHATEAU D'OB.

her own defence, he went on to unfold his plan formed on
the instant when he stood by the door in New York and
heard her foolish speech to Mrs. Fleming. She was to re-
main at Chateau d'Or, where every possible luxuiy was
to be hf^.s, and where the servants were to yield her per-
fect obedience, except in one particular. She was never
to go unattended outside the grounds, or off the little is-
land on which the chateau stood. Monsieur Brunell, who
kept the gate, would see this law enforced, as he would
see to everything else. All letters which she wished to
send to him or her friends would be given to Brunell's
care. No other person would dare touch them, and it
would be useless for her to try to persuade or bribe them,
r?.8 they all feared him and would obey his orders. For
society she would have Madame Verwest, and plenty of
books in the library, and a splendid piano, which she
would find in the same room, with a small cabinet organ
for Sunday use, 'as you New Englanders are all so pious,'
he added, with a sneer. Then pausing a moment, as if to
rally his forces for a last blow, he said, slowly and dis-
tinctly :

'"Brunell and Madame Verwest know you are my
wife, but I have told them you are crazy, and that rather
than send you to a lunatic asylum, I shall keep you in
close confinement here for a while, unless you become
furious, in which case there are plenty of places for jou,
not so good as this, or as much to your taste. To the
other servants I make no explanations, except that you
are crazy, and that it is a fancy of yours that you re not.

CHATEAU D'OR.

This fancy they will humour to a certain extent, but you
cannot bribe them. They will give you every possible at-
tention. Celine will wait upon you as if you were a
queen, You can dine in state every day, with twenty
courses, if you like, and wear a new dress each time. You
can drive in the grounds when it suits you, and drive
alone there ; but when you go outside the gates, Madame
Verwest, or Celine, or some trusty person will accompany
you, as it is not sa/e for a luTiatic to go by herself into
strange quarters. At intervals, as it suits my conveni-
ence or pleasure, I shall visit you as my wife, and shall be
the most devoted of husbands in the presence of the ser-
vants, who will thus give me their sj^mpathy and vv-holly
discredit anything you may tell them. So beat your
pretty wings as you may, and break your heart as often
as you like, you cannot help yourself. I am supreme here.
I am your Master, and Madame Verwest says of me some-
times that I am a madman — ha, ha ! '

" It was the laugh of a demon, and the look of the man
was the look of a madman as he pushed from him the
quivering form which had th»own itself upon the floor at
his feet supplicating for pity, for pardon. He had neither,
and, with a coarse laugh which echoed through the salan
like the knell of death to all poor Anna's hi '>piness, he
left the room and she heard his heavy footsteps as he
went swiftly down the stone stairway and out into the
court.

" W&.S it a dream, a nightmare, or a horrible reality, she
asked herself as she tried to recall the dreadful things he

H U

CHATEAU D'OR.

ail;!

had said to her and to understand their import. * A pri-
soner, a maniac,' she whispered. ' Oh, mother, oh, Mary
that I should come to this. Oh, if I could die, if I could
die;' and in her anguish she looked about her for some
means of ending her wretched life. Her New England
training, however, was too strong fr- that. She dared
not deliberately and suddenly die by her own hand, but
if this thing were true, if she were a prisoner here with
no means of escape, she would starve herself to death.
They could not compel her to eat, and she would never
taste food again until she knew that she was free.

" There was a murmur of voices in the court below, and
a sound of wheels crushing over the gravel. Was he
really going, and without her ? She must know, and
springing from her crouching attitude she started for the
door, but found it locked from the other side it would
seem, and she was a prisoner indeed,and for a time a maniac
as well, if sobs and moans and piteous cries for some one
to come to her aid could be called proofs of insanity. But
no one came, and the hours dragged heavily on till she
heard the house clock strike four, and then Celine came in
to dress madame for dinner, but Anna waved her off,
loathing the very thought of food— loathing the glitter
and display of the day before— loathing the elegant
dresses which Celine spread out before her, hoping thus to
tempt her.

" ' Go away, go away, or let me out,' she cried, while
Celine, who could not understand a word, kept at a safe
distoace, eyin^ her young mistress and thinking it very

CHATEAU D'OE.

strange that her master should have two crazy girls in
succession— poor Agatha Wynde and this fair American, -
who Madame Verwest said was his wife.

" ' Perhaps,' Celine had thought with a shrug of her
shoulders , ' but, if the lady is his wife, why leave her so
quick ? '

" But wife or not it was Celine's business to attend
her, and she had no intention of shrinking from her
duty.

" ' Poor girl, and so young/ she thought, and she tried
to quiet and conciliate her, and brought out dress after
dress and held up to view, until, maddened at the sight
of the finery so d3te8table to her now, Anna shut her eyes,
and stopping her ears shrieked aloud in the utter aban-
donment of despair.

" ' Mon Dieu,' Celine exclaimed, as she fled from the
room in quest of Madame Verwest, whose face was white
as marble and whose eyes had in them a look which Celine
had never seen before. But she did not offer to go near
the lady whom Celine represented as being so bad, nor
did she see her during that day or the next. She, too
was acting very queerly, the servants said to each other
as they talked in whispers of the American who refused
to touch a morsel of food, and who had not tasted a
mouthful since the master went away.

" She was in bed now, Celine said, lying with her face
to the wall, and moaning so sadly and saying things she
could not understand, 'If Madame would only o-o to her

,'.!
n

, I

'''i 4

. '4

CHATEAU DOR.

and speak one word — Anglaiae,' she said to Madame Ver-
west on the morning of the third day, and with that same
white, pinched look upon her face, Madame started at last
for the salon.

Ill

CHAPTER TIT.

MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

IT was now the third day since Haverleigh's departure
and Anna had adhered to her resolution not to eat
or drink, hoping thus to hasten the death she so longed
for, and yet dared not acliieve l)y rasher means. Four
times a day Celine had carried her the most tempting
dishes which a French cook could manufacture, and tried
by signs, and gestures, and a voluble rattling- of her
mother tongue, to persuade her mistress to eat, or, at least,
sip the delicious chocolate, or cafe au lait, whose perfume
itself was almost meat and drink. But all in vain. Anna
neither turned her head nor spoke, but lay with her face
to the wall on the massive bedstead of rosewood and crilt
whose silken and lace hangings seemed to aggravate her
misery. So much grandeur, so much elegance, and she
so hopeless and wretched. Oli, with what wild yearnings
she thought of her New England home, and the labour
she had so despised.

" ' Oh, mother, mother, if you only knew, but I shall
never see you again. I shall die, and nobody M-ill know
4

; i:

h '•

-^^;l

"it-

•I

CHATEAU DOn.

I believe I am dying now,' she moaned, as the gnawings
of hunger and thirst began to make themselves felt, and
there stole over her that deathly sickness and cold, clammy
sweat which so often precedes a fainting fit, or a severe
attack of vomiting. ' Yes, I'm dying and I'm glad,' she
whispered, as everything around her began to grow dark,
and she seemed to be floating away on a billow of the
sea.

" ' No, you are not dying. You are orly faint with
himger and excitement. Take a sip of this wine,' was
spoken in her ear in a pure English accent, while a cool
hand was laid kindly upon her hot, throbbing head.

" It was the English voice, the sound of home, which
brought Anna back to consciousness, and turning herself
quickly toward the speaker, she saw Madame Verwest
bending over her, with a glass of spiced wine and some
biscuits, at which she clutched eagerly, forgetful of her
recent desire to die. The English voice had saved her,
and a flood of tears rained over her young face as she
glanced up at Madame Verwest, and met the same kind
expression which had greeted her the first day of her
arrival at Chateau d'Or.

" ' Oh, you can speak English. You will help me to get
away, to go home to mother ? You'll save me from him,
won't you ? Why didn't you come to me before ? ' she
cried ; and raising herself in bed, she laid her head upon
the bosom of the woman and sobbed convulsively. ' Are
you crying, too ? Crying for me ? ' she asked, as she felt
the hot tears falling upon her hair, and drawing herself a

MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

little from Madame Verwest, she gazed at her in astonish-
ment, for every feature was convulsed with emotion, and
the tears were running down her pallid cheeks.

" ' What is it ? Are you a prisoner ( Does he say you
are crazy like me ? Who are you, and why are you in
this dreadful place ? ' Anna asked, and then Madame was
herself again, and answered, calmly :

" ' I am Madame Verwest, Mr. Haverleigh's housekeeper,
and I am here from choice. I am neither a prisoner nor
crazy, but I am your friend and can help you in many
ways.'

" ' Can you set me free ; oh, can you set me free and
send me home to mother ? ' Anna cried ; but the lady
shook her head.

" ' I dare not do that, and could not if I would. Mon-
sieur Brunell keeps the gate, the only way of escape, and
would not let you pass. I can, however, make your life
more endurable while you are here ; but the servants must
rot suspect me, that is, they must not know that I talk
English so fluently. They are aware that I speak it a
very little, so never expect much talking from me in their
presence. But learn the French yourself at once ; it will
be better for you.'

" Anna was too wholly unsuspicious to think for a mo-
ment that Madame Verwest was not French, though she
did wonder at the perfect ease with which she spoke Eng-
lish, and said to her :

" ' You talk almost as well as I do. Where did you
learn ? '

Mt'^

CHATEAU D'oR.

" ' I have lived three years in London and two in Edin-
burgh,' was the ([uiet reply, as the woman held the wine
again to Annsi's lips, bidding her drink before talking any
more.

" Anna obeyed eagerly, and then continued :

" ' You lived in London three years, and in Edinburgh
two. Were you with Mr. Haverleigh all the time ? '

'" Part of the time I lived with him, and part of the
time alone, though always in his employ.'

"'You must have known him a long, long time,' Anna
rejoined. ' Tell me, then, who he is and what he is i What
kind of man, 1 mean ? '

" ' That is a strange question for a wife to ask concern-
ing her husband. Who did you think he was, and what ?
Surely your mother, if you, have one did not allow you
to marry without knowing something of his antece-
dents,' Madame Verwest said, and Anna coloured pain-
fully, for she remembered well how her mother and sister
both at first opposed her marrying an entire stranger
of whom they knew nothing except what he said of
himself.

" ' Did you know nothing of his history ? Did you not
inquire ? How long had you known him, and what was
he doing in your town ? ' Madame continued, and Anna
replied :

" ' He was travelling for pleasure, I think, and stopped
for a few days in Millfield because he liked the scenery ;
then he was sick, I believe, and so staid on as everybody
was kind to him and made so much of him. He came

MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

from New York with a Mr. Stevens whom ho knew and
who said he was all right, and he had so much money and
spent it so freely — '

" ' Yes, but what did he say of himself?' Madame per-
sisted in asking, and Anna answered :

" ' He said he was of Scottish descent on his father's
side, but born in England, at Grasmere, I think— that he
left there when he was three years old — that his father
died when he was twenty-two, and left him a large pro-
perty which, by judicious management, had doubled in
value, so that he was very rich, and that weighed so much
with me, for we were poor, mother, and Mary, and Fred,
who wants to go to college. I'll tell you just the truth
I "worked in the shoe-shop, and my hands were cut with
the waxed ends, and my clothes Rm( lied of leather, and I
was nothing but a shop-girl i I hated it and wanted
handsome dresses, and jew ollery, and money, and position,
and Mr. Haverleigh could give me these, I thought, and
he showed us lettei*s from London and Liverpool, and so
I married him, and he overheard what I said of him to
Lucy Fleming in New York, and it made him so angry
and jealous that he brought me here, and that is all. Oh
Madame, tell me, please, what you know of him, and what
people say of him who knew him best, and will he ever
set me free ? '

" Anna asked her questions rapidly, but Madame replied
in the same quiet, measured manner which marked all
her movernents,

" ' I think he told you truly with regard to his birth

I I !■

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CHATEAU D'OR.

and his money, and people who know him best say he is
honest, and upright, and generous to a fault. Did he tell you
anything of his mother ? He must have spoken of her.'

" Madame was the questioner now, and Anna replied :

" ' He never said much of her, nothing which I recall,

,, but I have an impression that her family was not as good

as his father's. Do you know ? Did you ever see her ?'

" ' Yes, I have seen his mother.'

" ' Oh, tell me of her, please. Was she a lady ? '

" ' Not as the English account ladies, perhaps,' Madame
said, and Anna went on :

" ' Was she nice ? Was she good ?'

" ' I believe she tried to be good,' was the low-spoken
answer, and Anna cried :

" ' Then there must be some good in him and sometime
he'll relent and set me free. It would be so terrible to
die here, and mother and Mary never know. He says I
am crazy ; he has told you so, but you don't believe it ;
tell me, you do not believe me mad ! '

" ' Not yet, but you will be if you suffer yourself to get
so fearfully excited. Be quiet and make the best of the
situation, which is not without its ameliorating circum-
stances. Everybody will be very kind to you here, and
believe me when I say it is better to live here without
him, than to travel the world over with him ; so make
the best of it, and at least seem to acquiesce. If you are
fond of reading, there are plenty of books in the library,
many of them English. There is a fine piano, too. Are
you fond of music ? '

MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

" ' Yes, but do not play. I always had to work, and
could not afford the lessons,' Anna replied, and Madame
Verwest said :

" ' I think I can get you a teacher. I know Mr. Haver-
leigh will not object to that ; and now you must rest —
must sleep. I'll draw the cuitains of the bed, and leave
you alone for a time.'

" There was something so soothing and reassuring in
Madame's manner that Anna felt the influence, and worn
out as she was and tired, she turned upon her pillow
and fell into a quiet sleep which lasted till the sun
went down, and the evening shadows were gathering
in the room. Madame was sitting by her when she
woke, and on a table at her side was a dainty supper
which Celine had just brought in, and which Anna did
not refuse.

" * Perhaps you would like to tell me of your home in
Millfield. I am always pleased to hear of foreign coun-
tries, and how the people live there,' Madame Verwest
said, as she saw the colour coming back to Anna's face
and knew that she was stronger.

" So Anna told her of New England and her Millfield
home, the hills around it and the little ponds sleeping in
the valley, and the river winding its graceful way to the
east, until it was lost in the noble Connecticut. And
Madame Verwest listened eagerly, with a deep flush on
her pallid cheek, and a bright gleam in her eye.

" ' And the pond lilies grow there by the old bridge,
and the boat house is near by,' she said, in a half -whisper,

i^^nK f^

, i

CHATEAU d'oR.

I' "

hil

( r'

I I

as Anna told her of the beautiful lilies which open their
petals in June, and fill the summer air with such delicious
perfume.

Why, Avere you ever there ? Did you ever see the
boat-house ? ' Anna asked, in some surprise, and Madame
replied :

" ' You describe it all so vividly that I feel as if I had
seen it. I love New England, and some day, perhaps—
who knows— we may go there together— you and 1/

" She wrung her hands nervously, like one under strong
excitement, and Anna looked at her wonderingly, while
«he continued :

" ' Yes, some day we'll go away from this prison-house,
but it may be long hence. He is vigilant and cunning,'
and mad, I believe ; so be quiet, and seem to be conten*t,
nor beat your wings till you die like poor—'

" She checked herself ere the name of Agatha escaped
her lips, but a new idea had crossed Anna's mind, making
her unmindful of what Madame Verwest was sayino-.
She would write at once to Millfield, telling her mother
where she was, and begging her to send some one to her
relief. Strange she had not thought of that before as a
way of escape, and she begged Madame Verwest for the
lamp and writing material, that she might at once begin
the letter which was to brinsr relief.

Wait till to-morrow,' Madame said, ' when you will
be stronger and fresher.'

" And to this Anna was finally persuaded, but early the
xt morning the letter was written, detailing every par-

MADAME VERWEST AND ANNA.

ticular of her unhappy position, and asking her mother
to send some one at once to liberate her.

"This letter she intrusted to Celine, while Madame
Verwest looked pityingly on, knowing in her heart that
in all human probability the letter would never reach
New England, but go instead to Paris, there to be read
by Haverleigh and committed to the flames.

Nil:

!• I

CHAPTER IV.

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

" TT was Thanksgiving day, and in the little red house
-L which Anna had once called her home, the table
was laid for dinner, laid for four— Mary, Fred., and the
Anna over the sea, who had never been absent before
from the festival which, in New Englf.nd, means so much
and is kept so sacredly. They knew she would not be
there, and they had grown somewhat accustomed to living
without her, but on this day it was Mary's fancy to lay
the table for her, to put her plate just where she used to
sit, and place by it the little napkin ring of Stuart plaid
which had been Iied/s present to her on her last birth-
day.

We'll play she is here, mother,' Mary said. ' She
will be in fancy. Surely she'll remember us to-day of
all days, and I know she'll wish heraelf here once more.
How long it is,now since we heard from her. Only one letter
since she reached Paris. You don't suppose she is forget-
ting us with all the grandeur and fine things she has ? '

" ' Oh, no, Anna will never do that. She is probably
too much occupied in Paris, and too happy with Mr.

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

Haverleigh to write many letters,' Mrs. Strong replied,
but her face belied her hopeful words.

" She had felt many misgivings with regard to Anna's
marriage, and her chance for happiness with a man as
cold, and proud, and reticent as Mr. Haverleigh. But it
could not now be helped, and so she made the best of it,
and prided herself on having a daughter abroad, and ra-
ther enjoyed the slight elevation in society which it really
had given her. In the little town of Millfield it was
something to be the mother of rich Mrs, Haverleigh, and
to talk of my ' daughter's country-house in Scotland, and
Chateau d'Or in France ; ' and on this Thanksgiving day
the good woman wore her new black silk — Mr. Haver-
leigh's gift — in honour of him, and committed the extra-
vagance of celery and cranberries, too, and wondered as
she basted the turkey browning in the oven, where Anna
was and what her dinner would be.

" ' Perhaps Fred, will bring us a letter. I told hira to
stop at the office. It is time he was here,' she said, as,
her arrangements for dinner completed, she stood for a
moment looking into the street, where the first snow-
rtakes were falling.

" Why was it that the day seemed so dreary to her.
and why was there such an undefined dread of somothiag
in her heart ? Was it a presentiment of the sad news
coming to her so fast, borne by Fred., who appeared round
a corner running rapidly, and waving his cap when he saw
his mother's face at the window.

" ' Here's a letter from Anna/ he cried, as he burst into

■ In

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6-2

CHATEAU d'OR.

the room, and held the precious document to sight. ' Isn't
it jolly to get it on Thanksgiving d&y ? 'Most as good as
having her here. Let's keep it for the dessert ! '

" But the mother could not wait, and taking the ktter
from her son, she glanced at the superscription, which was
in Mr. Haverleigh's handwriting. But that was not
strange. The other letter had been directed by him, and
so sho had no suspicion of the blow awaiting her &s she
hastily broke the seal.

Why, it is written by Mr. Haverleigh,' she exclaimed,
and then, with Mary and Fred both looking over her
shoulder, she read the following :

" ' Paris, November lOtk
"'Mrs. Strong :—i)ear Madame:— I am sorry to be
obliged to tell you the sad news about Anna, and I hope
you will bear up bravely, for there is hope, and insanity
is not as bad as death.'

Insanity,' the three whispered together, with white
lips, and then read on rapidly :

" ' My bright-haired darling, whom I loved so much,
and who every day was growing more and more into my
heart, has been very sick here in Paris, and when the
fever left her her reason seemed wholly gone. The ablest
physicians in France were consulted, but hgr case seemed
to baffle all>eir skill, and as she constantly grew worse,
they advised me, as a last resort, to place her in a private
asylum, where she would have absolute quiet, together
with the best and kindest of care.

THE NE\V« WHTCFr t;AME TO MILLFIELD.

it. 'Isn't
IS good as

the ktter
irhich was
was not
him, and
er as she

Kclaimed,
over her

r lOtk

rry to be
d I hope
insanity

th white

o much,
into my
hen the
le ablest
i seemed
V worse,
- private
together

(1 not tell

how 1 shrank from such an al-

need not tell you now
temative, feeling, for a time, that I would vather see my
darling dead than behind a grated window ; but it was my
only hope of restoring her, and as she was at times very
violent and uncontrollable, I yielded at last to the judg-
ment of others, and yesterday I took her to a private
asylum in '

" Here was a great blofc, which entirely obliterated the
name of the place, but in their sorrow and surprise the
three did not observe it then, but read on rapidly :

" ' It is a charming spot, with lovely views. She has
her own apartments, and maid, and private table, and car-
riage, and is surrounded by every comfort which love can
devise or money buy, but oh, my heart is wrung with an-
guish when I think of her there, my beautiful Anna, who
enjoyed everything so much. She was happ)"" for the brief
space that she was with me, and I am glad to remember
that in the dreariness and darkness which have so sud
denly overshadowed my life. But oh, dear madame, what
can I say to comfort you, her mother. Nothing, alas,
nothing, except bid you hope, as I do, that time will res-
tore her again, and thut reminds me of a question the
physicians asked me. Is there insanity on either side
of her family ? If not, her recovery is certain. Mean-
while, do not be troubled about her treatment ; it will
be the tenderest and best, as I know her doctor and
nurse personally, and money will secure everything but
happiness. It is not thought advisable for me to see
her' often, but I shall keep myself thoroughly informed

' ,1

I.I

7 'I'

' " I

m- :*

CHATEAU D'oR.

with regard to her condition, and report to you acoord-

'"The last time Anna was out with me before her sick-
ness, she saw and gieatly admired an oil painting from a
scene among the mountains of the Tyrol. It reminded her,
she said, of New England, and the view from the hills
across the river in Millfield. Recently I have seen the
picture again, and remembering that she said, "Oh, how I
wish mother and Mary could see it," I purchased it, and
yesterday it started for America, marked to your address.
In the same box is a porcelain picture of Murillo's Madonna
(the one in the Louvre gallery), and I send it because it
bears a strong resemblance to Anna, as I have seen her in
white dressing-gown, with her hair unbound, her hands
folded upon her breast, and her sweet foce upturned to
the evening sky, which she loved to contemplate, because
she said, "the same moon and stars were shining down on
you." I hope you will like them, and accept them as com-
ing—the painting from Anna, and the Madonna from me.
Should you ever be in need of money, I beg you will com-
mand me to any extent, fori desire to be to you a son for
the sake of the daughter I have taken from you.

'" As I may not be in Paris the entire winter, direct to
Munroe & Co., and your letters will be forwarded,

" ' Very truly, dear madam, yours,
" ' Ernest Haverleigh.'

"This was the letter received at the red house that
Thanksgiving day, and for a time the mother and sister

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

felt that Anna was as surely lost to them as if she had
been lying dead in some far-off grave across the sea.
There was no insanity in the family on either side that
Mi*s. Strong had ever heard of, and that gave them a little
hope, but their hearts were aching with a bitter pain as
they sat down to the dinner, which was scarcely touched,
so intent were they upon the sorrow, which had come so
suddenly. It was terrible to think of their beautiful
Anna as a maniac, confined behind bars and bolts, and so
far away from home.

" ' If we could only see her/ Mary said, while Fred,
suggested going to France himself to find her if she did
not recover soon.

" ' Where is she ? Where did Mr. Haverleigh say the
asylum was ? ' he asked, and then reference was had to
the letter, but the name of the place was wholly unintel-
ligible, and after trying in vain to make it out, they gave
it up, and gathered what comfort they could from the
apparent kindness and cordiality evinced in Mr. Haver-
leigh's letter, so diflfereQt from his cold, proud manner
when there, Mrs. Strong remarked, and she felt her love
go out toward him as to a son, and before she slept that
night she wrote him a long letter, which contained many
messages of love for poor Anna, and thanks to hit self for
his kindness and interest in her sorrowing family.

" That night there was a Thanksgiving party in the
ball-room of the village hotel. It had been the custom
to have one there for years, and heretofore Anna Strong
had been the very prettiest girl present, and the one most

! lU

CHATEAU 1>UR.

sought for in the games wo played and the nverry dance.
But that light she was not witli us, and the news tliat
she was insane, and the inmate of a mad-house, came up-
on us with a heavy shock, saddening our spirits and cast-
ing a gloom over the gay scene. I'uor Anna ! How little
we guessed the truth, or dreamed how many, many times
that day her ^thoughts had been with u^, or how, until
the last ray of sunset faded, she had stood by the window
of her room looking to the west, as if, with the departing
daylight, she would send some message to her far-off
home.

CHAPTER V.

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU d'OR.

" ~\ /T^^NSIEUR BRUNELL had received a telegram
J-V_L saying that M. Haverleigh would visit the
chateau t he following day, and both Anna and Madame
Verwest had received letters apprising them of his home-
coming, and bidding the one see that a grand dinner was
in readiness for him, and the other to array hemself in her
most becoming attire, as befitted a wife about to receive
her husband after a separation of many months. To Anna
this visit seemed more awful than anything she had yet
experienced at the chateau, for as a whole her life there
had not been without its pleasures. Acting upon Madame
Verwest's advice, she had tried to make the best of her
position, and in acquiring the language and a knowledge
of music, she had found a solace for many a weary hour
which otherwise would have hung heavily upon her
hands. She was fond of French and music, and had deve-
loped a remarkable talent for them both, while in the
well -selected library she had found a delight she had
never thought she could find in books. Madame Verwest
washerself a good scholar and a clear reasoner and thinker,

- m

■,i:,
i

CHATEAU DOR.

and iu lu'i constant lompanionship Anna was rapidly
devi iopinj? into a self-reliant woman, capablo of thinking
and acting for herself. Sho had long since given up all
hope of hearing from lionic^ unless she could find some
other method of communication than through the medium
of Monsieur Brunell, who took charge of every letter from
the chateau, and who, when questioned upon the suhjcict
as to why no answer ever came to her, always replied that
he did not know, unless her letters were lost on the voy-
age. He always deposited them in the post, and more
than that he could not do. It was in vain that Anna had
tried other methods of getting her letters to the post. It
could not be done, even through Madame Verwest, who
said always, ' I would so gladly, but I dare not.'

" And so, though lettei- after letter had been written
home, there had come to her no reply, and she guessed
pretty accurately that her letters were sent directly to her
husband, who, of course, destroyed them. A prisoner for
life she began to fear she was, and sometimes beat her
wings cruelly against her gilded cage. Haverleigh had
kept his word, and every luxury in the way of service,
elegant dress, and furniture was hers. All the servants
were respectful and attentive, while Celine was her de-
voted slave. Anna could talk with her now tolerably
well, and the first use she made of her knowledge was an
effort to convince her maid of her sanity, and that she was
kept a prisoner there to suit the whim of her husband,
whom she represented as a dreadful man. But to this
Celine gave no credence, though she at fiiBt smilingly as-

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU d'oR. 59

»K

sentod to her young mistress' assertion, as if it were a part
of her business to iiumour every fancy of the poor hinatic.
Once Anna was more earnest than usual, and begged her
maid to say if she believed her crazy.

Oui, owi' Celine answered, vehemently,'! must think
it, else why are you here, shut up f-'^m the world and
Paris, and monsieur is far too kin't, too iond to imprison
Madame for naught, and yet '

" Here Celine paused a moment, as n a. ner idea had just
occurred to her, and then she continu , i :

" • And yet it is a little strange that mademoiselle Aga-
tha should be crazy, too, like you, and like you shut up
here.'

" ' Who was Agatha ? ' Anna asked ; and then, little by
little, she heard the story of the poor young girl from Nor-
mandy, who had died in what Celine called the ' Ghost
Room,' with the words, ' Je vais revoir ma Normandie '
on her lips.

"'She haunts the room still,' Celine said; 'and often
on stormy nights, when the wind howls round the old
chateau, we hear her voice singing of Normandy. Y m
see, that was her home, and she thought she was going
back to see it again. Oh, but she was i)retty, much like
Madame ; only she was mademoiselle — no wedding ring,
for true— no priest— and she was not lady, like you Ame-
vicaine. She was people — very people.'

" This was Celine's version of the story, and that night
Anna heard from Madame Verwest more of poor Agatha,
who believed herself a wife, and who went really mad

ff !

Ill

CHATEAU DOR.

when she found that she was not. If any thing had been
wanting to complete Anna's loathing and horror of her
husband, this story would have accomplished it. That he
was Pj demon in human form, as v/ell as a madman, she
had no doubt, and there gradually crept into her heart a
fear lest she, too, like Agatha of Normandy, would die in
that dreary house. Still youth is hopeful, and Anna was
young and cheered by the courage oi Madame Verwest,
who was to her more like a mother than a servant, she
found herself constantly forming plans for escape from
the chateau. When she received her husband's letter,
telling her he was coming, her first and predominant feel-
ing was one of horror and dread : but anon there arose in
her mind a hope that he might be coming to release her,
or at least to take her with him to Paris, and once there
she would fall in with Americans or English, and through
them obtain her freedom.

" With this end in view she determined to make herself
as attractive and agreeable ac possible to the man she de-
tested, and on the day when he was expected she suffered
Celine to dress her ia one of the many gowns which she
had never worn, for it had hitherto seemed worse than
folly to array herself in laces, and ilks, and jewels for her
solitary meals. But to'day there was a reason for dress-
ing, and she bade Celine do her best, and when that b>3sb
was done and she saw herself in the glass, a picture of
rare loveliness in b^ne satin and lace, with pearls on her
neck and arms, something of her old vanity awoke within

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D'oR. 61

her, and she found herself again wishing that her friends
at home could see her,

" In the kitchen below all was bustle and expectation

for whatever Ernest Haverleigh might be to others, he

was exceedingly popular with his servants, and not a mn

or woman of them but would have walked through fire

and water to serve him. In the dining salon the table

was set for dinner as it never had been laid since the first

night of Anna's arrival at Chateau d'Or, more than iive

months ago. And Anna glanced in there once as she was

passing the door, and felt herself grow sick and faint as

she saw the costly array, and remembered what it was

for.

^ " At half-past five the train was due, and just as the
little silver clock chimed the half hour, the whistle was
heard, aad from the window where she had so often
watched the sun setting she saw the long train moving
off towards Marseilles, and a few moments after the
sound of carriage wheels in the court below told her that
her husband had come. She did not go to meet him, but
with clasped hands and rapidly beating heart stood wait-
ing for him just where he left her months before, terrified,
bewildered, crouching upon the couch, with her face hid-
den in her hands. Now she stood erect, with an un-
natural brightness in her blue eyes, and a flush on her
cheeks, which deepened to scarlet as her ear caught the
sound of heavy footsteps, and she knew he was coming.

" The next moment he opened the door, and started in-
voluntarily, as if he had not been prepared to see her

■H: i

f .

i mm

1-2

i i

i ■

1 ' '■

tt-'-ibbii

CHATEAU DOR.

thus. He had not expected to find her so beautiful and
so matured. He had left her a timid, shrinking girl ; he
found her a woman, with that expression upon her face
which only experience or suffering brings. His rdle had
been all marked out and aiTanged. He should find her
tearful, reproachful, desperate possibly, and that would
suit him well, and make her insanity more probable to
his servants, while he would be the patient, enduring,
martyr-husband, humouring her like a child, and petting
her as he would pet a kitten which scratched and spit at
his caresses. How then Was he disappointed, when, with
a steady step, she crossed the room to meet hiui, and
offered her hand as quietly and self-possessed, to all ap-
^ jarance, as if he had been a stranger seeking audience
of her.

" ' Ma frecieuse, ma helle reine, how charming I find
you, and how delighted I am to see you looking so well,'
he exclaimed, as he encircled her in his arms as lovingly
as if she had been the bride of yesterday.

" Oh, how she loathed his caresses, and felt her blood
curdling in her veins as he pressed kiss after kiss upon
her cheek and lips, and called her his darling and pet, and
asked if she were glad to see hiru again. She could not
tell him a lie, and she dared not tell the truth, but her
eyes told it for her, and he saw it at once, and said in a
deprecating tone :

" * What ! not glad to see me when I have lived in the
anticipation of this meeting ever since I parted with you
last autumn. Why then didn't I come before ? you may

THE NEWS W«rCJ[ CAME TO CHITEAU d'oR,

ask. Business before pleasure, you know, and then I
hoped that perfect quiet in this lovely retreat would go
far toward restoring you. Eh, taa petite. How is it, are
you any better here?' And he touched his forehead
signiiScantly.

" That exasperated Anna, who for a moment, lost lier
self-control, and releasing herself from him, stepped back-
ward, and with a proud gesture of her head, exclaimed :

" ' Have done with that. You know I am not cra/y,
and you shall not stay in my presence if you insult m«
thus ! '

" She was very beautiful then, and for a moment Hav^r-
leigh felt a wave of his old love or passion sweeping over
him as he stood looking at her ; then the demon within
whispered of that day in New York, and the words he
overheard, and he was himself again, her jailor and mastei-
rather than her lover and husband.

" ' Ha, my pretty pet,' said he, ' and so you are mistress
here, and can refuse or permit my presence as you please
So be it then, and if it suits you better to be sane, why
sane you are to me at .least. But, Mrs. Haverleigli, joking
aside, I am glad to see you, and I think you greatly im-
proved, and 1 come in peace and not in war, and if you
incline to the latter, I would advise a change in your
programme. Upon my soul, you are charming.'

" He drew her to him again, and she suffered his kisses
in silence, and did not even shrink from him when in the
presence of Celine he drew her down upon his knee, arid
called her his angel and dove. But the colour had all

fi \

' ;?iii

CHATEAU 1 OR.

faded from her cheeks, and left her very pale, while her
hands shook so that she could scarcely manage her soup,
when at last dinner was announced, and he led her to the
dining salon. He was all attention to her, and a stranger
watching him would have thought him the most devoted
of husbands, but to Anna there was something disgusting
and terrible in his manner which she knew was assumed
as a means of deceiving the servants, who pitied their
master fo; being so unfortunately married.

" When dinner was over, and they haa -i'med to the
salon, Anna could restrain herself no longer, but going up
to her husban'^ startled him with the question :

" ' There is something I must ask you, and for the love
of heaven answer me truthfully. I have written home
seven times since you left me here last October, but have
never received a word in reply. Tell me, do you think
my letters ever crossed the sea ? Did mv ler ever get
them?'

" Foi* an instant the hot blood flamed up in Mr. Haver-
leigh's face, and his eyes fell teneath the steady gaze
fixed so searchingly upon him. Anna knew that her
suspicions were correct, and that her letters had never
gone to America, and the lie he told her did not in the
least shake her belief.

" ' Do I think your mother ever got them ?' he repeated,
at last. ' She must have gotten some of them, and some
may have been lost. You gave them to Brunell ?'

" ' Yes, always to Brunell. No one else would touch
them, and I was never allowed to post one myself. Why

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D*OR.

not ? Why am I treated so like a prisoner ? Why do
you keep me here ? Surely I have been sufficiently pun-
ished for the foolish words you overheard. Forgive me
for them. Try me again. Let me go with you to Paris,
when you return. I shall die here or go mad. Don't
drive me to that. Oh, let me go away somewhere. Let
me go home— bad' to mother.'

" She was kneeling now at his feet, and he was looking
down upon her with a strange glitter in his eye. Then
the look softened, and there was unutterable tenderness
in the tone of his voice as he stooped to raise her, and
leading her to the couch, said to her pityingly :

Poor child, you don't know what you ask. You have
no home to go to. Your mother is dead— died suddenly
—and in kindness to you I have withheld your sister's
letter, wishing to spare you pain, but I have it with me.
Can you read it now ?'

"He held a worn-looking envelope toward her, but for
a moment she did not see it. The blow had fallen so
suddenly, and was so terrible in its magnitude, that for a
brief space both sight and sense failed her, and she sat
staring blankly into his face as if she neither saw nor
heard. After a moment, however, her eyes relaxed from
their stony expression ; there was a quivering of the lips,
a rapid heaving of the chest, and then in a voice her
husband would never have recognised as hers, she said :
Give me the letter, please. I can read it now.'
" He gave it to her, and holding it mechanically in her
hand she studied the address, in her sister's handwrit-

'^ :u%

' r"!

. '' J

(.'HArKAVT I) OH.

iiig : ' Ernest Havkrleigh, Esq., Paris, France. Cava
of Munroe <t- Co.' The date irpon the back was Dec. 8th,
and there was the dear old Millfield pout mark seeming
to bring her so near her home and rewkaig her heart
throb wildly in her throat, where was a str.xnge lenst of
suffoca.tion. At last, when every part of the s-jilc^i en-
vel..>pe had beoii ^-tudied, she slowly opened it atid drew
forth the sheet folded inside. Then the look of anguish
on her face gave way to one of [jerplexity as she said :

" ' Look, this is i:0; Mary's letter. It is from your agent
in Scotland.'* *

" ' My agent in Scotland ! Not Mary's letter ! What
do you mean ?' Mr, Haverleigh asked, and taking the
paper from her he saw that she was right, and that he
held a communication from his Scottish steward regard-
ing his estate in the High Ian * ' What can this mean ?
J don't understand V he said, and seemed to be intently
thinking ; then suddenly he added : ' Oh, I believe I know
how the mistake occurred. This from McKenzie I re-
ceived the same day with the one from your sister, and
instead of putting the latter in this envelope, as I meant
to do, I tore it up, as I do all my letters of no importance,
and put this in its place. I am sorry, but I can give you
the particulars. Can you bear it now ? There, lay your
head against my arm, you look so white and strange.'

" He sat down beside her, and drawing her to him made
her lean against him while he told her how her mot
after an unusually hard day's work, had sickened sudfi ud^
and died within three lays, peacefully, happii - vvi h a

THE NKWS WJiroil «'AMK To ClfATKAU D'oR.

f.7

iiKvsHage of love on her lips for her absent daughter. After
the funeral was over, yielding to the earnest solicitations of
a lady who was visiting in Millfield, Mary had decided to
rent the house and go West with the woman as governess
for her children. Fred., too, had accompanied them, as
there was in the place a good school, where he could finish
his education for college. The name of the lady Mr. Haver-
leigh could not recollect, except that it was something
like Creydock or Hcydock, while the town he had quite
forgotten, and could by no means recall. It was very
unfortunate, that mistake about the letters, and he was
so sorry, he kept reiterating : but Anna did not seem to
hear, or if she did, she did not care. She only was con-
scious of the fact that her mother was dead, her home
broken up, and all hoj)e of help from that quarter cut off.
The effect was terrible, and even her husband was alarmed
when he saw how white and motionless she sat, with her
hands dropped helplessly at her side. Bad as he was, he
did not wish her to die then and there, and he tried to
move her from her state of apathy ; but she only answered,
' Please go away. I want to be alone.'

" He made lier lie down on the couch, and to this she
did not object, but like a tired child, laid her head among
the soft silken cushions, and with a long, low gasping sob,
closed her eyes wearily, as if to shut out all sight of every-
thing. Madame Verwest and Celine were sent to her, and
were told of the sad news which had so affected her, and
one believed it, .and the other did not ; but both were un-
remitting in their attentions to the poor heart-broken girl,

I' I

,r, I. (I

■' il

CHATEAU D'oR.

who gave no sign that she knew what they were doing
or saying to her, except to moan, occasionally : ' Oh, my
mother is dead ! my mother is dead.'

" Mr. Haverleigh, too, was exceedingly kind, and very
lavish with his caresses, which Anna permitted in a dumb,
passionless kind of way, like one who could not help her-
self. Once, when he stroked her long bright hair, she
lifted her mournful eyes to him, and asked . ' Won't you
take me from here ? Won't you let me go back to where
you found me ? I can take care of myself; I can work
in the shop again, and after a while you will be free from
me. Will you let me go ? '

" Free from her ! Did he wish to be that ? For a mo-
ment, when he remembered the glittering black eyes, the
only eyes in the world which had the power to make him
quail, he half believed he did. On his return to Paris he
had met the woman with the glittering eyes, which seemed
to read his very soul, and ferret out his inmost thoughts.
There had been a stormy scene, for Eugenie Arschinard
was not one to brook a rival. She had compassed the
ruin of poor Agatha of Normandy, whom, but for her,
Haverleigh might have dealt fairly with, and made the
marriage tie more than a mere farce, a horrid mockery.
From his town-house in London, Eugenie had seen the
young, fair-haired girl driving by and looking so eagerly
at the place, and with her thorough knowledge of the
world, she knew her to be an American, and guessed her
to be some new flame whom he had lured from home, as
the plaything of an hour. She never for a moment be-

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D'OR.

lieved him married ; he was not a marrying man ; he
dared not marry, bound as he was to her by the tie of
honour, which, in her infidel heart, she held above the
maniage vow. So when she met him in Paris by ap-
pointment, she charged him with his new fancy, demand-
ing who and where she was, and he was a very coward
in her presence, and dared not tell her the truth of that
simple wedding among the New England hills, but suf-
fered her to believe that Anna, like Agatha, was only his
dupe, whom he could cast off at pleasure. Eugenie had
no wish, at present, to be bound herself. She was true to
' Ilaverleigh, and she enjoyed to the full the luxuries with
which he surrounded her, and in Paris, where such con-
nections were common, she had her circle of friends, and
reigned among them a queen because of Haverleigh's
name and the style in which she lived. By and by, when
she was older, and ceased to attract admiration, she meant
to marry him and so pass into a respectable old age, but
just now her freedom suited her best, and she gave no
sign of her real intentions for the future. But Haver-
leigh knew well that to confess he had a wife was to raise
a storm he had not courage to meet, and so he told her
the girl she had seen was a little wild rose from America,
whom he had lifted from poverty and taken to Chateau'
d'Or.

" ' You know I must have something to amuse me when
I am at that dreary place, and Anna does as weU as any
one. A little washed-out, spiritless body of whom you

ed not be jealous.'

CBVTEAU D'<'il.

"This he had said to Eugenie, ;\n(l then l)a(l bought
her the diamond sot at Tiffany's which she had achnircd
so much, had driven with her in the Bois de Boulo.^r-^,
and afterwarls dined with her in the IHfV 'viry palace
just off' the C'hamps Elysdea, her home, of which she had
the title-deed in her possession. And yet, in his heart,
Ernest Haverleigh respected Anna far more than he did
this wom. J'., who so fascinated and enthralled him, for
though Ann.i had come to him with a lie on her lips, and
a lie in Ler heart, and had wounded his self-love cruelly,
she was pure and womanly, while Eugenie was steeped to
the dregs in sin and in intrigue.

" But she ruled him completely, and if he had desired
he did not dare take Anna back with him to Paris and
present her as his wife, and he was not bad enou^rh to
cast upon her publicly the odium of being his mistress.
Neither would he send her back to America, for there
was no pretext whatever by whicli he could be free fiom
the bond which held him her husband. She }\ad plenty
of pretexts, he had none. Ho could lot let her fro, and
besides, he was consciou ■ of a real interest in her, a some-
thing which fascinated him, and made him wish to keep
her at Chateau d'Or, wh .c he, and ho alone, con id see
her at his will. Some time, perhaps, when Eugenie wa^'
less troublesome, he might take her av, \ , but not now,
and when she said to him so plead" dy, ' Will you let me
go home ? ' ho answered her very , ,.fclA Poor child, you
have no home to go to in Americ... Your home is here,
wi'li me. Not always Chateau d'Or, for some time I mean

I bought

admired

•oulo.^iT^,

y palace

she had

is lieart,

n he did

him, for

lips, and

> cruelly,

ecped to

desired
'aris and
lOugh to
mistress.
)r there
L'eo f lom
1 plenty

go, and

a some-

to keep
DO id see
jnie wa*-'
lot now,
u let me
did, you
! is he}'.
; I mean S

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU d'oU. 71

to take you with me. I cannot do so now for certain rea-
sons, but by and by— so be patient, and wait for the hap-
piness in store.*

" A shudder was Anna's only answer, as she turned her
face away from him and wished that she might die. For
five weeks Mr. Haverleigh remained at the chateau de-
voting himself entirely to Anna,, who, while shrinking
with intense disgust from his caresses, permitted them
because she must. To Madame Vers, .st he was very
distant and cold, treating her civilly, it is true, but always
in a manner which showed how wide was the distance
between them. He was master, she was servant, and he
made her feel it keenly. Once, however, when she came
suddenly upon him as he sat alone in his room, she laid
her hand » his arm, and asked :
How lonsj is thici to go on ? '

" ' What to go on ^ ' he replied, savagely, and she con-
tuiued :

'"This horrid . of sin and deception. You know
the girl's mother is not dead.' #

" ' It's a lie ! ' he cried, springing to his feet. ' A lie~
I swear it to you ! And you shall not interfere, or if you
do, by '

"There was a frightful oath as he threatened the
trembling woman, who did not speak again while he
went on :

'" J am beginning to love her once more ; to feel a real
interest in her. I find her greatly improved, thanks to
von,. I up},....so. A few mouths more of seclusioti, and I

ii-

t,iF

CHATEAU DOR.

shall introduce her to the world ; but I will not have her
family hanging on me — a set of low Yankees, working in
shoe-shops, teaching school, and making dresses for the
rabble.'

" ' Is not her family a good one, then ? ' Madame Ver-
west asked, and he replied :

" ' Good enough for its kind, for aught I know. No
stain, unless it be the half-sister or something of the
father, who went to the bad, they say — ran off with a
Boston man, who never meant to marry her., and the
natural consequence, of course.'

" ' Whore is this woman ? ' Madame asked, and he re-
plied :

" ' Dead, I believe, or ought to be. Why should such
women live ? '

" ' Yes, oh, why ? ' was answered sadly in Madame's
heart; but she made no response, and when her tyrant of
a master motioned her to the door in token that the inter-
view Ayas ended, she went out without a word.

" Three days later he left the chateau, saying he should
come again in September or October, and possibly bring
people with him. Madame Arschinard, a lady of high
position and great wealth, had long wished to visit South-
ern France, and he might perhaps invite her down with
other friends, and fill the chateau.

" ' And you, my little white rose,' he said to Anna, * I
want you to get your colour back, and be like your old
self, for I shall wish my wife not to be behind Parisian
beauties. I shall send you the very latest styles. Worth

THE NEWS WHICH CAME TO CHATEAU D'OR. 73

has your number, I believe. And now good-bye, my pet.
Take care of yourself, and if '

" He bent down to her, and whispered .something in her
ear which turned her face to scarlet, and made her invo-
luntarily exclaim :

'"Oh, anything but that— anything but that !'

; fi

■ I

fell

]

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE AUTUMN.

" npHE summer had gone by — a long, bright beautiful
.JL summer so far as sunny skies, and fair flowers, and
singing birds, and fresh, green grass could make it bright
and beautiful ; but to Anna, still watching drearily the
daylight fading in the western sky, and whispering mes-
sages for the sun to carry to the dear ones across the water,
it had dragged heavily, and not all Madame Verwest's
love and petting which were given without stint to th«
poor girl, had availed to win her back to the compara-
tively cheerful state of mind she had been in before receiv-
ing the sad news of her mother's death.

" She had ceased writing to America ; that was useless,
she knew. Her letters would never reach there, and she
had ceased to expect any news from home, for however
often Mary or Fred, might write, their letters would never
come to her. Of this she was convinced, and she gradually
settled into a state of hopeless apathy, taking little or no
interest in anything, except poor Agatha's grave.
" She had found it in a little inclosure on the island,

V'^U V.y^l/1 r^Uof /iQ«i fl'Or "^'^ItA'I ■"'lfT> +011 cfvaaa ariA xtraoAa

IN THE AUTUMN.

and smothered by the drooping branches of the pine and
willow which ove; shadowed it and hid from view the
plain white stone on which was simply inscribed, 'Ag&tha,
aged 20/ Nothing to teU when she died, or where, or
where her home had been, and what her life. But Anna
knew now all the sad story of the sweet peasant-girl lured
from her home by promises of a marriage, which did take
place at last, but with a flaw in it which made it illegal,
and poor Agatha no wife. Then, when reparation had
been refuse<l, she had held herself as pure and spotless as
was Eve when she came first from the hands of her Cre-
ator, but had gone mad with shame and remorse, and
died at Chateau d'Or, with a song of Normandy on her
lips.

" With the help of Celine, the weeds and grass were
cleared away from the neglected yard, which, as the sum-
mer advanced, grew bright with flowers and vines, and
was Anna's favourite resort. Here she would sit for hours
with her head bent down, thinking sadly of the past, and
wonderir - what the future, which many a young 'wife
would have looked forward to eagerly, might have in store
for her. When first there dawned upon her the possibility
that another life than her own might be intrusted to her
keeping, she had recoiled with horror, feeling that she could
not love the child of which Ernest Haverleigh was father;
then there crept over her a better, softer feeling, which
was succeeded by a presentiment which grew to a eer
tainty that both would die, mother and little one, and be
buried by Agatha; there was just room between her grave

,iU

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|fr=

CHATEAU D OR.

I. 'I

( 55

and the fence, room in length and breadth both, for she
had lain herself down in the grass and measured the space
with her own person. She would have a headstone, too,
like Agatha, with ' Anna, aged 19' on it, and in the other
world, far away from Chateau d'Or, she might perhaps
meet Agatha some day, and with her recount the sorrows
they had borne, and which had helped to fit them for the
eternal home, where Anna hoped now and believed she
would go. Sorrow had brought her to her Saviour's feet,
and she felt that whether she lived or died it would be
well with her.

" Occasionally her husband had written to her, short
but kind letters and once or twice, when he had asked her
some direct questions she had answered him, but nothing
he might now do could ever awaken in her a single throb
of affection for him, and when there came to her from
Paris several boxes of dresses. Worth's very latest styles,
she felt no gratitude to the giver, and when a day or two
after his letter arrived, telling her of his intention to fill
the chateau with company, and expressing a wish that
she should look her best, as some of the guests would \^e
ladies of cultivation and taste, she experienced only feel-
ings of aversion and dread in view of the coming festi-
vities. The servants, on the contrary were delighted.
There had been no company at the cha ; for years, and
now it was a pleasant excitement, opening the chambers
long shut up, airing linen, uncovering furniture, sorting
silver, hunting up receipts, making jellies, and cakes, and
sweetmeats, and speculating as to who was coming and

i i 1 i
1 1

IN THE AUTUMN.

I' r

■ii

1, for she
the space
tone, too,
the other
perhaps
3 sorrows
n for the
eved she
jur's feet,
ivould be

ler, short
asked her
b nothing
gle throb
her from
}st styles,
ly or two
ion to fill
vish that
would be
only feel-
ling festi-
ielighted.
'ears, and.
chambers
e, sorting
akes, and
rriing and

what they would wear. Madame Arschinard was certain
for Monsieur Haverleigh had written Madame Verwest to'
that effect, and the largest and best sleeping room was to
be hers, and the finest saddle-horse, and her maid was to
have the large closet adjoining her room, so as to be always
withm call, and madame was talked up and speculated
upon almost as much as if it had been the empress herself
expected at the chateau, instead of the woman who had
ongmated this visit and insisted upon it, partly because
she wanted change, and partly because she knew that at
Chateau d'Or was the fair-haired American of whom she
had caught a glimpse in London. She had often questioned
Mr. Haverleigh sharply with regard to Anna, and at last,
alter a hot and angry quarrel, she had wrung from him the
fact that in an inadvertent hour he had married the little
New England girl, who recently had become hopelessly
insane, and immured within the walls of Chateau d'Or
At first Eugenie's rage had been something fearful and
even Haverleigh had trembled at her violence. Affer u
htth, however, when the first shock was over, she grew
more calm, and began more rationally to consider the
situation, which was not so bad after all. True, she could
not marry him now herself, should such a fancy take her-
but she had not by any means lost her power over him or
any part of it. He spent his money for her as freely and
was quite ac devoted to her as he had been before he saw
this American, who had conveniently gone crazy, and was
kept so close at Chateau d'Or. In her heart Eugenie did
uot quite believe in the insanity, though it suited her to

I :y

If if

CHATEAU DOR.

1 u

have it so, and she was very anxious to see one who in a
way was a kind of rival to hei-, so she proposed and in-
sisted upon the visit to the chateau, and chose her own
companions, three of them ladies of her own rank in life,
and six of them young men who were all in a way her
satellites, and would do to play off against each other when
there was nothing better for amusement.

" To these people Mr. Haverleigh had explained that
there was a Mrs. Haverleigh, a sweet, unfortunate young
creature, who was hopelessly insane. She was perfectly
harmless, and quiet, n,nd ladylike, he said, and might
easily be taken for a rational woman, unless she got upon
the subject of her sanity. Then she would probably de-
clare that she was sane, and that she was kept at Chateau
d'Or against her will, and that her friends knew nothing
of her fate, as none of her letters ever reached them, and
none of their's reached her. Of course, all this was false,
he said, as she was free to write as often as she pleased,
while he always showed her whatever he thought she
ought to see from home. When the sad news of her mo-
ther's death reached him, he had withheld it for a time,
thinking it better so, but he had told her at last, and the
result was, as he had feared, an aggravation of her malady,
and a state of deep despondency from which she was sel-
dom roused. He did not know what effect so much gai-
ety and dissipation would have upon her, but he hoped
the best, and trusted to their good sense not to talk with
her of her trouble, or to credit anything she might say
with regard to him. He repeated ail this with a most

IN THE AUTUMN.

giieved expression upon his face, as if his burden was al-
most heavier than he could bear, and the younger ladies
were deeply sorry and pitiful for the man upon whose life
so great a blight had fallen.

" Eugenie Arschiuard, who knew him so well, kept her
own counsel, but of the four ladies none were half as anx-
ious to see Anna Haverleigh as herself. It was late one
lovely September afternoon when the guests arrived at
the chateau, where all was in readiness for them, and Ma-
dame Vcrwest, in her black silk and laces, stood waiting
for them, courtseying respectfully as they were presented
to her, and then conducting them to their several rooms.
Anna was not present to receive them. She preferred
not to see them until dinner, and stood waiting for her
husband in the salon. She had not been permitted to
wear mourning for her mother, as she wished to do, but
on this occasion the was dressed in a black silk grenadine,
with puffings of soft illusion lace at her neck and wrists,
while her only oruaments were a necklace and earrings
of jet. To relieve the sombreness of this attire, Celine
had fastened in her bright, wavy hair a beautiful blush
"rose, which was far more effective than any costly orna-
ment could have been, and had Anna studied her toilet
for a month she could not have chosen a more becomincr
one, or one which better pleased her fastidious lord. She
was beautiful a^ she stood before him with that pale, pen-
sive style of beauty so attractive to most men, and as he
held her in his arms he felt, for a few moments, how far
suponor she was to the brazen, painted women he had

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CHATEAU OR.

brought there as her associates, and for half an instant he
resolved to keep her from them, lest so much as their
breath should fall upon and contaminate her in some way.
But it was too late now. She must meet them day after
day, and he must see her with them, and go on acting his
false part, and make hims-jl.''^. still greater villain, if possi-
ble, than ever. But he would be very kind to her, and defe-
rential, too, especially before Eugenie, whom for the time
being he felt that he hated with a most bitter hatred, not
only for what she was, but for the power she had over
him. How gorgeous she was at dinner in her dress of
crimson satin, with lace overskirt, and diamonds flashing
on her neck and arms, and how like a queen, or rather
like the mistress of the house, she carried herself among
her companions as they stood in the grand salon waiting
for Mrs. Haverleigh, the younger portion speculating upon
the probabilities of her acting rationally in their presence,
while she, Eugenie, listened to their speculations with a
scornful curl on her lip, and an increased glitter in her
black eyes.

" There was the sound of soft, trailing garments on the
stairs, and Eugenie drew her tall figure to its full height,
and tossed her head proudly as Anna entered the room, a
graceful little creature, with a tint of the sun on her
wavy hair, a faint flush on her cheeks, and the purity of
her complexion heightened by the colour of her dress.
And still she was not a child, for the woman was
stamped in every lineament, and shone in the blue eyes
she bent so curiousiy on the guests, as, one by one, they

IN THE AUTUMN.

gathered around her to be presented. And Anna re-
ceived them graciously, and welcomed them to the cha-
teau, which, she said, would be pleasanter for having them
there.

You must be often very lonely living here alone so
much,' Eugenie said to her, and instantly the great blue
eyes, which had been scanning her so curiously, filled
with tears, and the sweet voice was inexpressibly saJ
which replied :

" * Oh, you don't know how lonely.'
" It was long since Eugenie Arschinard had felt a throb
of anything like kindly pity for anyone ; but there was
something in Anna's face and Anna's eyes which struck a
chord she had thought stilled forever, and brought back a
wave of memory which shook her, for an instant, like a
tempest, and made her grow faint and weak before this
woman she had meant to hate. Years ago, before Eugenie
Arschinard was the woman she was now, she had loved a
young half-sister with all the intensity of her strong,
passionate nature, and loved her the more for having had
the care of her from the time her first wailing cry echoed
through the chamber of the dying mother. For this
child Eugenie had toiled and denied herself, and gone
without sufficient food that the little one might be daintily
clothed and fed on delicacies. Then, in an unlucky hour,
Eugenie went to Paris to make her fortune as a milliner,
and get a home for the young girl growing each day more
and more beautiful. But before that home was made
Eugenie's brilliant beauty had been her ruin, and she

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CHATEAU D'OR.

would not bring her sister into the tainted atmosphere of
her world.

" The glamour of Haverleigh's love and money was in
its freshness, and in her intoxication she forgot every-
thing else until there oame a terrible awakening, and she
heard that ' La Petite,' as she called her sister, had left
her home with a stranger, and gone no one knew whither,
or whether for good or bad. Then for a time the fairy
palace off the Champs Elysees was closed, while Euge-
nie, maddened and remorseful, sought far and near for
traces of La Petite, but sought in vain, and after many
weeks she returned to her home and life in Paris, gayer,
more reckless than ever, but with a pain in her heart
which never left her for a moment.

" Time passed on till more than a year was gone, and
then she heard from the gray -haired father at home that
in a roundabout way, which he nevertheless felt to be re-
liable, tidings had come to him of La Petite's death,
though how she died or where he did not know.

"There were very uncomfortable days for Ernest Haver-
leigh, who, never having heard Eugenie mention her
sister, did not know she had one, and could . not guess of
the bitter grief which consumed her day and night, and
made her sometimes like a raging animal in her hatred of
all mankind.

•' It waa at that time that Mr. Haverleigh, finding no
comfort with Eugenie, had decided to visit America, and
leave the lady to herself until she was in a better frame

her better on his return, and

uf miud.

TT_

had found

B I

IN THE AUTbJlN.

furiously jealous of Anna, whom she wished so much to
see, and whom, when she saw, she felt herself drawn
stratigely toward, because of a resemblance to the dear
little sister dead, she knew not where.

"Mr. Haverleigh had dreaded this meeting between
the eagle and the dove, as he mentally styled the two
women who were bound to him, one by the tie of marriage,
the other by the so-called tie of honour. Would thJ
eagle tear the dove, he wondered, and he watched them
curiously as they met, marvelling much at Eugenie's man-
ner, and the pallor which showed itself even through her
paint. Anna had either made a favourable impression,
or else Eugenie thought her too insipid to be considered
as a rival for a moment. In either case he was pleased
to know that there was not to be war between the two
ladies, and with this load off his mind he became the most
urbane and agreeable of hosts.

" It was a very merry dinner party, for the guests were
all young and in the best of spirits, and the light jest and
gay repartee passed rapidly around the board. Only
Anna was quiet. She did not understand French well
enough to catch readily what they said, especially wl en
they talked so rapidly, and so many at a time. But sue
was a good listener, and tried to seem interested and
smile in the right place, and she looked so girlish and
pretty, and did her duties as hostess so gracefully, that
her husband felt proud of her, while every man at the
table pronounced her perfect, and every woman charming.
" Those October days at Chateau d'Or were very pleas-

r' ^ a I '

CHATEAU D'OR.

ant, for Mr. Haverleigh was a good host^ and his guests
knew well how to entertain themselves, so that from
early morning into the small hours of night there was no
cessation of pleasure and revelry. But Anna did not join
in the dissipation. She was not at all strong, and in the
freedom of intercourse bf tween these volatile, unprincipled
French people she saw .nuch to censure and shock her
and shrunk from any familiarity with them. This reti-
cence on her part was attributed to her supposed malady,
which made her melancholy, the ladies thought, and after
a few ineffectual efforts to draw her into their circle,
they gave it up, and suffered her to remain quietly in her
room.

" Eugenie, however, often sought her society, attracted
by the look in her h.-y,i i o the lost one, and by a desire to
see how far the i^tot y ot her insanity was true, and to
know something of bor early history. But it was not
until the party had been at the chateau for three weeks
and were beginning to talk of going back to Paris, or still
farther south to Nice or Mentone, that an opportunity for
the desired interview presented itself.

CHAPTER VII.

EUGENIE AND ANNA.

" TT had been Anna's daily custom to steal away after
-^ lunch to her favourite resort, the little yard where
Agatha was buried, and where one of the servants had
built her a rustic seat beneath the trees, and here Eugenie
found her one afternoon, and leaning over the iron fence,
asked her if she might come in, and next whose gi-ave it
was. From where she stood she could not see the name
upon the headstone, but when Anna answered, ' It is the
grave of the young girl who is said to haunt the chateau ;
you have heard the absurd story, of course,' she was in-
terested at once, for she had heard from her maid some-
thing of a ghost whose plaintive cry for home was heard
wailing through the 16ng, dark corridors, and in the lonely
rooms, especially on stormy nights when the wind was
high, and shook the massive walls of the chateau. Euge-
nie was not at all superstitious, and knowing that nearly
every old place like Chateau d'Or had its ghost and ghost-
room, she had paid no attention to the tale as told her by
Elise, but when it assumed a tangible form in the shape
of a real grave, her curiosity was roused, and without

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waiting for Anna's permission she passed through the
gate, and going round to the seat where Anna sat, said :

" ' Then there was a girl who died and was buried here ?
Who was she ? Do you know ? '

" ' It was before I came,' Anna answered, ' and I only
know that she was sick — crazy, they said, from some
great wrong done to her, and quite up to her death she
kept singing of her home in Normandy.'

" ' Normandy ! Did you say she came from Nor-
mandy ? What was her name ? ' Eugenie asked, but be-
fore Anna could answer, she bent down and read ' Agatha,
aged 20.'

" ' Agatha ! ' she repeated, as she grasped the headstone
and stood with her back to Anna, who thus did not see
the corpse-like pallor which spread all over her face as a
horrible suspicion passed through her mind. 'Agatha
what ? Had she no other name ? ' she asked at last, when
she had mastered her emotion sufficiently to speak in her
natural voice.

" ' Yes. Agatha Wynde,' Anna replied, and was instantly
startled by a low, sharp cry from her companion, who laid
her hand upon her side, exclaiming :

" ' It's my heart. I'm subject to it : but don't call any
one ; let me sit here until I'm better. Anything like a
fuss around me disturbs me so much.'

' ' She was very white, and shivering like one with an
ague chill, and though Anna did not call any one, she was
glad to see her own maid, Celine, coming toward them.
Eugenie did not object to her but suffered her to rub her

EUGENIE AND ANNA.

head and hands until she was better, and the violent
beating of her heart had ceased.

" ' Now let me sit here in quiet, and do you tell me
about this Agatha, whose ghost is said to haunt the cha-
teau. Was she pretty, and when did she die ? '

" This she said to Celine, who, always ready and glad
to talk, began the story, of Agatha so fax a^ she knew it
telhng of her arrival at the chateau one wild rainy nicrht'
of her deep melancholy and sweet, quiet ways, of her W
into insanity, her pleadings to go home to Normandy and
of her subsequent death with the words upon her 'lips,
'Je vais revoir ma Kormandie:

'"She was not like you madame,' Celine said. 'She
wa^ the people like me, and so she talked with me more
than ladies might. There was no real marriage, only a
sham, a fraud she said ; but she was innocent, and I be-
heve she told the truth; but Mon Diea, what must such
girls expect when gentlemen like monsieur entice them
away from home:' and Celine shrugged her shoulders
meaningly, as if to say that the poor dead girl beneath
the grass had received only her due in betrayal and
ruin.

" ' Yes, don't talk any more, please. The pain has come
back, and I believe I'm dying.' Eugenie gasped, while
both Anna and Celine knelt by her, rubbing her again
and loosening her dress until the colour came back to her
face and she declared herself able to return to the chateau
'Don', talk of my illness and bring everybody aroimd
me, she said to her attendauts. ' I cannot bear people

. *

:'r ■

¥■

■|;i

CHATEAU D'OR.

when I'm so. Send me Elise, and leave me alone. She
knows what to do.'

" They got her to her room, and called her maid, who
said she had seen her thus a hundred times, and so Anna
felt no particular alarm at the sudden illness, and did not
think to connect it in any way with that lonely grave in
the yard, or dream of the agony and remorse of the proud
woman who lay upon her face writhing in pain and moan-
ing bitterly :

" ' Ma Petite, oh, ma Petite. I have found thee at last,
sent to thy early grave by me — by me. Alas, if I too
could die and be buried there beside thee.'

" Eugenie did not appear at dinner that evening. She
was suffering from a severe nervous attack, Elise said, and
the attack kept her in her room for seme three days, dur-
ing which time she saw no one but her maid, who reported
her to the servants as in a dreadful way, walking her
room day and night, eating nothing, but wringing her
hands continually and moaning :

" * Oh, how can I bear it — how can I bear it, and live ? '

" Once Mr. Haverleigh attempted to see her, but she
repulsed him angrily.

" ' No, no, tell him to go away. I cannot, and will not
see him,' she said ; and her eyes glared savagely at the
door outside which he was standing.

" After a few days, however, she grew more quiet, and
asked for Anna, who went to her imm' <ately, feeling
shocked at the great change a few days had wrought in
the brilliant woman v/hom so many accounted handsome.

tne. She

laid, who
so Anna

d did not
grave in

ihe proud

nd moan-

se at last,
if I too

ng. She
said, and
lays, dur-
I reported
king her
iging her

nd live ? '
, but she

I will not
sly at the

[uiet, and
T, feeling
rought in
andsome.

EUGENIE AND ANNA. 39

True to her instincts as a Frenchwoman, she was becom-
ingly dressed m an elegant morning wrapper, with a taste-
ful cap upon her glossy hair, but aU her bright colour
was gone; her eyes were sunken and glassy, and she looked
pale, and withered, and old as she redined in her easy-

"'Oh, madame, I did not know you had been so sick
heXn7 ''"^'' '^''''^ "^"^^ ^"'"^ ""^ ^' ^''' *^^ "^^""ff

"But Eugenie would not take it, and motioning her
away, said : ^

" 'It is not for you to touch such as I ; but sit down I
want to talk much with you. There is something I must
tell somebody, and you are the only true, pure woman
here, unless it may be Madame Verwest, who hates me
Id a. soon talk to an icicle and expect sympathy, as to*
>er. I hked you when I saw you, though I came pre-
t>ared to hate, and do you harm.'

" ' Hate me, and wished to do me harm ? Why ? ' Anna
asked her great blue eyes full of wonder and surprise.

I should hate you?' Eugenie said: and Anna int^
whose mind a suspicion of what this woman reallV was
had never entered, answered :

"'I do not know why any one should hate me. when I

am so desolate and wretched, and homesick here, but not

cray.^ Oh madame, surely you do not believe me crazy ? '

Crazy ! No, not half as much so as the man who

i^eeps you here, and Eugenie spoke impetuously, while

I .

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W'A

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CHATEAU D'OR.

her black eyes flashed, and there came a deep red flush
to her face. ' What age are you, girl ? You look too
young to be madame,' she continued.

" ' Not quite nineteen,' was Anna's reply.

" ' Neither was 8he when I saw her last, and you are
like her in voice and manner, and so many things, and
that's why I cannot hate you. Oh, Moti Dleu, that she
should die and I live on,' said Eugenie. ' Let me tell you
about her, the sweetest child that ever drew breath ; not
high or noble, but lowly born, a country lass, as innocent
and happy as the birds 'which sang by that cottage door,
and I loved her, oh, how I loved her from the hour her
djdng mother, who was not my mother, but my father's
wife, put her in my arms. I am almost thirty-eight. She,
if living, would be twenty-three ; so you see my arms
were young and strong, and they kept her so tenderly and
lovingly. How I cared for her and watched over her as
she grew into the sweetest rose that ever bloomed in fair
Normandy. How I toiled and drudged for her, going
without myself that Petite might be fed, that hers might
be the dainty food, the pretty peasant's dress in which
she was so lovely. How I meant to educate and bring
her up a lady, so that no soil should come to her soft
■white hands, nor tire to her little feet. When she was
fifteen I went to Paris, hoping to get money and a home
for her. I was a milliner first, then I recited, I sang, I
acted and attracted much attention, and kept myself good
and pure for her, till there came a chance of earning money
faster, and woe is me. I took it. You are Anglaise or

EUGENIE AND AKNA. Jj

^".erfcain,, which amount, to the same thing. You do

fentlv "" "r """S^' ^"' I - French, eduoa Jdif.
T .u ""^ oountry-woraen have their »ra«<i,

P^^. the.r ii«i,„„. their, what do you call it in ^

u". ' ^''T' ^ ""^""^'^'i' Anna said, feeling an involun-
tary shnnkmg from the woman, who went on :

1 sent her money and such lovely dresses, and meant
to leave my own bad life and make a home wherTI
ahould come and keep herself unspotted; but <dL the
wolf entered the fold, and the news'came tarUintt- ^
day, that she had fled from Normandy with an 5,11
nmn, who pr„.„.,od her marriage, and she believed ht
and left these lines for me :

" ' Darling sister, I g„ for good, not for bad. He will
marry me m Paris, and he is so noble and kind ; b t fo
« me ,t must bo secret, his relatives are so g,;nd and
will be angry at first.' ^ ' "

" 'Then I believe I went mad, and for weeks I scoured

perate for I knew the world better than she did and
knew he would not marry her, a.d so the wretre^

th™ the 7f ?° *"" '''" »"' " y- -O a hal »1

d^d where or how, or when he did not know, ont sh^
w^ dead, w,th a blight on her name I was su^e, an^ I

T wt r",f' ^'•' "T «""' "''"^^ ahegrewtoL what
- w«». I .oldea away ,U the pretty dresses and trinket.

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CHATEAU DOR.

I had saved for her ; I put them in a chest and turned the
key, and called it Petite's grave, and made another grave
in my heart, and buried there every womanly instinct and
feeling, and stamped them down and said I did not care
to what lengths I went now that Petite was gone. Then,
I painted my face, and braided my hair, and put on all
my diamonds, and went to the opera that very night, and
was stared at and commented upon, and called the best
dressed woman there, and I had a petit souper after at my
home, and was admired and complimented by the men
who partook of my hospitality, and whom I hated so bit-
terly because they were men, and through such as they
ma Petite was in her grave.'

" ' And did you never hear how she died, or where ? '
Anna asked, without a shadow of suspicion as to the
truth.

" ' Yes,' Eugenie replied. ' After years — three years, I
believe, though they seemed a hundred to me — I heard
that my darling was pure and white as the early snow
which falls on the fields in the country. The wretch
could not possess her without the marriage tie, and so en-
tangled was he with another woman, who had great power
over him, that he dared not make her his wife ; and so
there was a form, which would not stand and was no mar-
riage at all, and when she found it out she went mad, and
died with a song of home on her lips. Yes, went mad —
mad, my darling. You know whom I mean.'

"She hissed out the two words, 'mad, mad,' and
rocked to and fro in her anguish, while Anna, with a

EUGENIE AND INNA.

face^a^ white as the dead girl's in her grave, whispered

" ' You mean Agatha.'

" ' ^''' ^ "^^^^ Agatha-Agatha^my pet, my pride, my
Idol Agatha, lured, deceived, betrayed, ruined, murdered
by the man on whom I, who would have given my heart's
blood to save her, was even then wasting my blandish-
ments, and domg all I could to keep him from a new love.
Oh, Agatha. ,f you could but know the grief I am endur-
mg for my sin. No Magdalen ever repented more bitterly
than do I. but for me there is no voice bidding me sin no
more, and I shall go on and on, deeper and deeper, till the
horror of thepit overtakes me, and Agatha and I will never
meet again — never, never.'

"Oh, how Anna pitied the poor, repentant woman
writhing with pain and remorse, and how she loathed the
man who stood revealed to her just a„s he never had before
-the monster who had wrought such misery. And she
shrank from Eugenie, too ; but pitied her as well, for there
was much of the true woman left in her still, and Anna
forced herself to lay her hands on the bowed head of the
sorrowing woman, to whom the touch of those hands
seemed to be life-giving and reassuring, for there wa^ a
storm of sobs, and tears, and fierce gesticulations, and then
the impetuous and excitable Frenchwoman grew calm
and something of her old self waa on her face as she'
shrugged her shoulders significantly, and said :

" ' Oh, Mon Dieu ! such a scene as I've made, and fright-
ened you, child. How monsieur would have enjoyed that •

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CHATEAU D'OB.

he would call it my high art in acting. Curse him ! I'll
act for him no more ; ' and the hard, bitter look of hatred
came back to her face for an instant, then left it again as
she said : ' I've told you my story, little one, who seems
like Agatha. Now tell me yours ; where you met him ;
why you married, and how you come here shut up, a
prisoner. Maybe I can help you. Who knows ? I owe
him something for his wrong to Agatha.'

" But for this hint that possibly Eugenie could help her,
Anna might have shrank from confiding her story to her,
but this new revelation of her husband's character had so
increased her horror and dislike of him, that she readily
seized upon anything which offered the shadow of a
chance to escape from a life she hated ; and conquering all
feelings of distrust and aversion for one who had openly
confessed herself a bad woman, she began the story, and
told first of her New England home, her poverty, and her
life in the dingy shoe shop, with the sickening smell of
leather and wax. At this point Eugenie started forward,
exclaiming joyfully, and this time in broken English :

" ' Then you are not no-bil-i-te, You be very people as
me. J'en suis bien aise. I hate no-hil-i-te, who will
trample such as we. I am pleased you are much the people.
I will help you more.'

" ' You mistake,' Anna cried, eagerly, ' I am nobility, as
you call it. We are all nobility in America, or can be.
We are all sovereigns by right. No matter what we do,
we can rise.'

" Anna grew very warm with this flash of national and

• .■ !

EUGENIE AND ANNA.

personal pride, while Eugenie looked at her curiously,
wondering, no doubt, how a born sovereign could work in
wax and leather, but she was too good-natured and polite
to dispute the point, and answered, laughingly :

"'Pardonnez moi, madame. Je me trompe. En
Amerique vous—vom—wUt you call it ? You all expect
to marry kings and emperors, and be mi-lady some time
—oui-oui~je I'aime beaucoup, but go on, I wait to hear

how monsieur came '

" Then Anna told her of Haverleigh's visit to Millfield-
of his admiration for herself; of her desire for money and
position ; of her marriage in the church, which was a real
marriage ; of the foolish words spoken and overheard in
New York; of Haverleigh's jealousy and rage; of the
punishment finally inflicted upon her, and of her hus-
band's different moods since, sometimes so loving as to
fill her with disgust, and a^ain revengeful and savage to
a degree which made her dread him as a madman.

" ' Ah, ma Petite; Eugenie cried, ' and he is a madman,
at times— much mad ; but, tell me, was there no of .^er
one whom Petite cared for at home, in that quiet, small
town ? No grande passion to make monsieur jealous ? '

" So much had happened since the days when Anna
walked home from church with Hal Morton, and sang to
him in the twilight, that she had almost forgotten him,
but thoughts of him came back to her now, and by the'
sudden heaving of her chest, and the flush which rose to
her forehead, Eugenie guessed that there was some
grande passion, as she named it, and very adroitly drew

h ■

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ijii

CHATEAU D'OB.

from Anna that 8omebo<]y was perhaps sadder for her
marriage, ' though I never should have married him,' she
said. ' We were both too poor, and Mr. Morton's family
were the first in Boston.'

"'Mon Dieu. Quelle difference' Eugenie exclaimed,
with a shrug. * Are you not all born — what you call it
in English — governors ! Non, pardonnez — sovereigns !
I do so have things mixed.'

" Anna laughed at the mistake, the first real, hearty
laugh in which she had indulged since she came to
Chateau d'Or, and said :

* ' Yes, but sometimes there's a difference in sovereigns,
you know.'

" ' Oh, del, but it's to me very strange. I think I should
like votre rSpuhlique, but go on. You never think to
marry Monsieur Morton, but you like him much, and
Monsieur Haverleigh find it out, and trust me, child, that
broil — bake — fry ; what you call it, rankle in his jealous
brain, for however many passions he have, he want you
to own but one. Me comprenez vous ? Bien ! Je com-
mence d comprendre V affaire; but I can help la petite
madame, and I will. And la mere, does she never know
where you stay all these time ?' .

" There was then a rain of tears as Anna told of her
mother's death, and her sister's removal to some place in
the far West, whose name she did not even know, and
how, latterly, the sister had ceased to write at all, Mr.
Haverleigh said.
" ' And they think I am in a mad-house, and that is the

EUGENIE AND ANNA.

worst Of all. Oh. I wish I were dead like mother, for
I ve given up all hope of leaving Chateau d'Or, and when
baby ,s bom I hope I'll die/ Anna said, amid her tears.

"'Die! Jamais! You shall go home-back to the
lee le house, and the wax, and the leather, and the smell-
bad, and the mother who is not dead. I not believe that.
It 18 one part of the great whole ; la mere not dead, and
you shall see her yet. Give me the-the-what you say
-poate reatante-Vaddresse of the little village and I
write tout-de-smte. Trust me. ma petite enfant' Trust
Lugenie, for the sake of Agatha.'

"It seemed to Anna that when Eugenie attempted
English she was softer and more womanly in her way of
expressing herself; was veiy pretty and sweet, and Anna
began to feel a degree of trust in and dependence upon
her which astonished hersek'. Eugenie remained at the
chateau a week longer, but never took any part in the
gaieties which, without her suggestive and ruling spirit
were inexpressibly flat and stele. To Haverleigh she was'
cold and distant to a degree, which angered him sorely
and made him cross, and irritable, and moody ; but he was
far from suspecting the cause of Eugenie's changed de-
meanour, and never dreamed of connecting it in any way
with Agatha, or suspected the intimacy springing ud
between his wife and Eugenie. ^ ^ i'

"It was no part of Eugenie's plan that he should do so
and though she saw Anna often in the privacy of her
apartment, where she spent much of her time, she scarcely
ever spoke to her in the presence of Haverleigh, except

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CHATEAU D'OR.

to pass the compliments of the day, and when at last she
left the chateau for good, there was a simple hand-shake
and au revoir between herself and Anna, who, never-
theless, grew more cheerful and happy, but kept, even
from Madame Verwest, the hope she had of a release, or
at least of hearing once more from home. How this
would be accomplished she did not know, but she trusted
to Eugenie's ready wit and ingenuity in deceiving Haver-
leigh, who lingered at the chateau until November, and
who grew so moody, and unreasonable, and tyrannical
that, popular as he usually was with his servants, every
one hailed his final departure with delight.

" When next Anna heard from him he told her of a
dangerous and unaccountable illness which had come up-
on Eugenie the very day she reached Paris.

" ' She did not go straight home,' he wrote but took a
roundabout way through Normandy, where in some ob-
scure place she spent a week with her father, who, it
seems, died while she was there. His death or something
upset her terribly, and she has suffered, and is still suffer-
ing, with a nervous fever which makes her perfectly
dreadful at times — out of her head in fact — and she will
not see one of her old friends. Even I, who have known
her so long, am forbidden the house, her nurse telling me
that she actually knows when I step on the stair and
instantly grows fearfully excited. So, lest I make her
worse, I only send now twice a day to inquire how she
is. They say she talks a great deal of La Petite and

I '

EUGENIE AND ANNA.

Anna when delirious. That Anna is you, of course, but

who IS Petite ? Do you know ? '
" .Vnna thought she did, but did not deem it advisable

to enlighten her husband, whose letter she only answered

because of her anxiety to hear again from Eugenie. All
her hopes for the future were centered upon that woman
for whose recovery she prayed many times a day. won-
denng if any letter had yet gone across the water, and
waiting so anxiously for the response it was sure to
bring.

I" • ' '.

':--'^m

-^^Mt^^

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I' •

!
I

CHAPTER VIII.

MORE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD.

" TT was generally known all over Millfield that poor
JL Anna Strong was a lunatic. ' Hopelessly insane,'
was the last message from the disconsolate husband, who
wrote regularly and affectionately to the sorrowing fam-
ily, which still occupied the small red house by the mill-
pond ; for Mrs. Strong was not dead, though her brown
hair had all turned gray, and her face wore continually a
look of sorrow and anxiety. Grief and concern for Anna
weighed heavily upon her, and she could not rid herself
of a presentiment that there was something behind —
something which had never been told her. Haverleigh's
letters were exceedingly kind, and often contained money-
orders for the family, who were far better off in worldly
goods than when he first came to Millfield. Fred, was
raady for the Sophomore class in college ; Mrs. Strong's
sign of ' Dressmaking ' was taken down, and Mary only
taught a select class of young ladies who came to her to
recite.

" In a pecuniary and social point of view the Strongs
had been gainers by Anna's marriage; but they missed

MORE NEWS WHICH CAMB TO MILLFIELD. 101

her terribly, and mourned for her as for one worse even
than dead. Very eagerly they watched for Mr. Haver-
leigh's letters, which at first were frequent and regular.
Latterly, however, they had grown less frequent, and it
was now some time since Mrs. Strong had heard from
him, and she was beginning to get impatient and anxious,
when one day, the last of February, there came to her
two letters bearing the foreign post-mark. Both were
from Paris, and one in Mr. Haverleigh's well-known hand-
writing. This was opened first, and said that Anna was
better, and had recognised and talked with ner husband
the last time he saw her, and was beginning to manifest
some little interest in what was passing around her.

Thank heaven for that,' was Mrs. Strong's fervent
ejaculation, as she folded the short letter and turned to
Fred, who was studying the superscription of the other
envelope, which he had not noticed particularly before.

" It was in his mother's box, and had been handed to
him with Haverleigh's, which, as the more important, had
received the first attention.

What does this mean, and who can it be from ? ' he
said, reading aloud the novel direction, which was written
in that small peculiar hand common to the French.

" ' To the friends of Madame Ernest Haverleigh, twc
Mademoiselle Anna Strong, Millfield, Wooster County,
Massachusetts, United Htates of Amerique, in New Eng-
land. P. S. If the friends may be gone, forward where
they may be.'

" So much writing covered nearly the entire side of the

i .

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^1,

102

CHATEAU D'oR.

envelope, which looked soiled and worn, as if it had been
long upon the road, which in fact was the case.

" After leaving Chateau d'Or, Eugenie had gone to her
father to whom she confessed the whole shameful story
of her life, and told what she knew of poor Agatha's fate
Such newa was too much for the old man, who the day
following was stricken with paralysis and died. Doubly
and trebly steeped in remorse, and accusing herself as the
murderer of both father and sister, Eugenie returned to
Paris, and before she could collect her senses sufficiently
to write to Anna's frieiids, she sank into that nervous,
half delirious state of mind in which she continued until
January was nearly gone, when shu began to rally. But
her improvemont was so slow, and she was so weak, that
it was some time before she had power to write, as she
had promised, to the friends in Millfield. This was quite
a task for her, as she could write English very indiffer-
ently, and mixed it up with a good deal of French. But
she accomplished it at last, and managed pretty accurately
and fully, to tell what she had heard from Anna, to pro-
pose a plan of action, in which she was to be one of the
principals.

" It would be impossible to describe the surprise and
consternation, amounting almost to incredulity, with which
Mrs. Strong listened to this letter which Mary contrived
to read with the help of the dictionary and Fred., who
knew a little French. At first it did not seem to her
possible that any man could be so deliberately cruel and
treacherous, but the facts were there and when she re*

MORE NEWS WHICH CAME TO MILLFIELD. 103

called many things which had appeared strange in Mr.
Haverleigh's letters, she could not doubt the truth of
what Eugenie had written. Fred, did not doubt it for a
moment. He had always distrusted Haverleigh ; always
thought it strange that notwithstanding the many times
they had asked where Anna was, they had never received
a reply. They knew now where she was ; but for a few
moments sat staring blankly at each other, too much
benumbed and bewildered to speak. Fred, was the first
to rally, and with quivering lip and clinched fist ex-
claimed :

" ' If he was here I'd kill him.'

"That broke the spell at once; the tongues were
loosened, and they talked long and earnestly together of
the best course to be pursued, and decided finally to fol-
low Eugenie's directions. But in oider to do this it was
necessary to write to her first, and this Fred, did that
very day, sending his letter by the next mail which left
Milltield, and then, during the interval of waiting, devoted
himself assiduously to acquiring a speaking knowledge of
the French language. Fortunately there was in Mill-
field a native teacher, and to him Fred, went for instruc-
tion, studying night and day,and working so industriously
that by the time Eugenie's second letter was received, and
he was ready to start on his journey, he felt certain of at
least making himself understood in whatever part of
France he might be.

" Both Mrs. Strong and her daughters thought it better
to say nothing of Eugenie's letters and the information

1 '

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104

OELiTEAU D'OB.

. they contained for the present, but rather to wait for the
result of Fred.'s adventure. Consequently, all the people
knew was that Fred, was going to see his sister, and it
was generally supposed that Mr. Hav^rleigh had for-
warded the money for the voyage, and his kindness and
generosity to his wife's family was the subject of much
comment and praise. Little did the people of Millfield
dream of the truth, or suspect that when at last the
Oceanic sailed down the harbour of New York with Fred.
Strong on board, he was there with the steerage passen-
gers and under the name of Charles Patterson. He was
not able to take a first-claas passage, and he was afraid
to bear his own name lest by some chance it should reach
the eye of Mr. Haverleigh, who would thus be put on the
alert. So he bore cheerfully all the annoyances and dis-
comforts of a steerage passage, kept himself very quiet,
and mostly aloof from all his companions but one, a Swiss
lad who spoke French, and who willingly taught and
talked with the young American so anxious to learn.

&j>(

CHAPTER IX.

EUGENIE'S WAITING MAID.

- nHARLES PATTERSON, London/ was the name
Vy of the occupant of No. 512. Hotel du Louvre
Pans and 512 was a small bedroom on the fifth floor, and
looked down upon the busy Rue St. Honord. Charles
was a very fair, girlisli-looking boy. who, from the ni^ht
he took possession of No. 512. kept his room entirely
and was served in his apartment daily with 'cafe an lait
and two eggs in the n,orning, and with 'hiftek aux
po^imes and haricots verts for dinner in the afternoon.
At first the waiter had pointed significantly to the printed
notice that having his meals thus served would cost an
extra franc, but Charles had answered promptly ' Je le
m. and that had ended It, and he was free to ell where
he hked. Nobody noticed or thought of him again until
the close of the second day, when, as he stood looking
down upon the street below, and reading the strand
names on the signs, there came a knock at the door, and
a servant handed in a card bearing the name of 'Eugenie
Arschinard.' The lady herself was in the hall near the
8

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lOG

CHATEAU D'OR.

door, and in a moment was in the room alone with the
young boy, whom she addressed as ' Monsieur Sharles,'
and whom she regarded intently as he brought her a
chair, and then proceeded to light the one candle which
the room possessed.

"' Mon Dieu !' she began, in her pretty, half-French,
half -English style ; ' vou8 ites un petit gargon ! Mais
n'importe. You make a very joli — what you call him ?
— waiting-maid pour moi. Ah ! but you very like votre
aoeur. Poor leetle madame ! *

" ' Oh, tell me of Anna, please ! Tell me all you know,
and what I am to do,' Fred, said, speaking in a whisper,
as she had done, lest the occupants of the adjoining rooms
should hear what it was necessary should be kept secret.

" ' Madame has a leetle babee,' Eugenie said, and as
Fred, uttered an exclamation of surprise, she continued :
* It is so, veritable, but I it not write, for fear to worry
la m^re. Both doing well, petite mother and babee, which
makes a boy, and monsieur is — what you call it ? — very
much up ; oui, very much ; but I hasten. Monsieur
comes to find me to-night a diner. I tell you all tout-
de-suite.'

" Then very rapidly she communicated her plan for fu-
ture action, interspreading her talk frequently with * Mon
Dieu ! you make so pretty girl Anglaise, with that fair
hair and those blue eyes. Nobody can suspect.'

" And Fred, followed her closely, and understood what
he was to do, and, after she was gone, wrote to his mother
a full account of his adventures thus far, and then waited

Eugenie's waiting maid.

107

with what patience he could command for what was to
follow.

" As will have been inferred, Eugenie was better The
nervous depression and weakness had passed away and
stimulated with this new excitement, she had never looked
handsomer than when she consented at last to receive
Haverleigh as a guest at her house. He had not seen
her for weeks, or rather months; for since the time she
left Chateau d'Or, until the day she visited Fred, at the
Louvre, he had not so much as heard the sound of her
voice, and this long separation from her, and seemino- in-
difference on her part, had revived his old passion for her
ten-fold, and when at last she wrote, ' Come and dine
with me this evening,' he felt as elated and delighted as

the bashful lover who goes for his first visit to his

fiangSe.

"He found her waiting for him, dressed with elegant
simplicity, and looking. so fresh and young that he went
forward eagerly to meet her, with his usual gush of ten-
derness, but she stepped backward from him, with some-
thmg in her manner which kept him in check so that he
only raised her hand to his lips, and then stood lookincr
at her and marvelling at her changed demeanour. And yet
in most points she was not changed ; she would not suffer
him to touch her, and she compelled him to treat her
with a respect he had not been accustomed to pay her in
private; but otherwise she was the same brilUant, fas-

ti 'i\

If-

108

CHATEAU D OR.

cinating woman, bewildering him with her beauty and
intoxicating him with her wit and sharp repartees.

" For la petite madame and le petit gargon she
made many enquiries, expressing a strong desire to see
them, and telling him as soon as the weather was more
favourable she meant to go down to Chateau d'Or for a
little visit. To this Haverleigh assented, for he was per-
fectly willing that Eugenie and Anna should be on terms
of intimacy, especially as the former pretended to believe
in the lunacy of the latter, and inquired now very anxi-
ously how she was in her mind since the birth of her
child.

" ' A little bettor,' Haverleigh hoped, and Eugenie con-
tinued :

" ' I mean some time this summer, say in June, to have
her here at my house for a little ; the change will do her
great good. You are willing, of course, when it will please
me so much.'

" The eyes which looked at him were very soft and
pleading, and Haverleigh could not resist them, and an-
swered that Madame Anna should certainly come up to
Paris ; that he should be glad to have her come, especi-
ally as Madame Arschinard was so kind as to ask her.
Then Eugenie grew more gracious and captivating, and
told him of her strange sickness, which made her so ner-
vous that she could not see her dearest friends, but she
was so much better now, and glad to have monsieur to
dine just as he used to do ; then she told him as a great
misfortune that Elise, her. waiting-maid had left her, and

snie con-

EUQENIE'S WAITING MAID.

100

that she had made up her mind to advertise for an En<r.
hsh girl to fill her place. She was so tired with the
trickery of her own countrywomen that she wanted to
try some other nation ; did monsieur think an English girl
would suit her ? Haverleigh did not know. but°advised
her to try, and then the conversation drifted into other
channels until the elegant little dinner was served.

" After dinner they drove to the opera, where Eu-enie's
face was welcomed back again by a^ score or more of lor-
gnettes levelled at her as she sat smilingly unconscious of
the attention she was .attracting, and with her mind far
more occupied with the boy sleeping quietly in No. 512
than with the gay scene around her.

•' The next morning there appeared in the French jour-
nals an advertisement for a young English maid, who
could speak a little French, and before night Eugenie had
been interviewed by at least a dozen girls, of all ages and
sizes wanting the place, but none of them quite suited.
Siie would wait a little longer, she said, hoping to get just
what she desired. The next day, at a very unfashionable
hour, she drove to the picture gallery at the Louvre, and
bidding her coachman leave her there, stationed herself in
one of the halls of statuary, which she knew to be less
frequented than others, especially at that hour of the
morning. And there she waited anxiously, now glancing
through the open door as a new comer entered, and acrain
pretending to be very busy with some broken-nosed or
armless block of marble.
" Meanwhile Charles Patterson had settled his bill at

■

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CHATEAU d'OR.

the Louvre, and with his :ravelling-bag, the only one piece
of luggage brought from home, he passctl from the court
into the Rue do Rivoli, and crossing the street walked
rapidly to the gallery of the Louvre; were madame was
waiting for him. There were a few words spoken between
them, and then both walked across the grounds to the
street which skirts the river, where Eugenie called a car-
riage, and bade the coachman drive to a second-rate
furnishing house in an obscure part of the city, with
which she had been more familiar than she was now. It
""is a f lerably large establishrjent and supplied her with
what she wanted, an entire outfit of a good substantial
kind f< i a j'oung English girl serving in the capacity of
waiting-maid. There were several bundles, but Fred.'s
bag held them all, except the round straw hat which Eu-
genie carried herself, closely wrapped in paper.

" ' Drive us to the station St. Lazare,' she said to the
coachman, and in the course of half an hour Fred, found
himself alone with his companion in a first-class carriage,
speeding along toward Versailles.

" Eugenie had spoken to the conductor, and thus se-
cured the carriage to herself and Fred, so that there was
no one to see them when they opened the bag, and brought
out one by one the different articles which were to trans-
form the boy Frederic Strong into the girl Fanny Shader,
who was to be Eugen:3's waiting-maid. For that was
the plan, and with a lit:, -hrng of her shoulders and a
significant laugh Eugeni; s .:).
•"Now I go to sleep-" Tcr much aslt-p- -while you

EUOENIE'S WATTTXa MAID.

Ill

make the grand toilet; ' and closing her eyes she leaned
back in her seat, and to iill human appearance slept
soundly, while Fred arrayed hlnself in his feminine habili-
ments, which fitted him admirably and became him re-
markably welL Fair-haired, pale-faced, blue-eyed and
small, he had frequently taken the part of a girl in the
little plays his school companions were always getting up
in Millfield, so he was neither strange nor awkward in his
new dress and character, but assumed both easily and
naturally as if they had belonged to him all his life, and
and when at last he said :

'" 1 am ready ; you can wake up now,' and Eugenie
opened her eyes ; she started in astonishment and wonder,
for instead of the delicate boy who had been her com-
panion, there sat a good-sized girl, in a neatly-fitted
brown stuff dress and sacque, with bands of white linen
at the throat and wrists, and a dark straw hat perched
jauntily upon her hair parted in the middle and curling
naturally. The disguise was perfect, and Eugenie ex-
claimed delightedly:

" ' Oh, Mon Dieu, c'est un grand succes. You make
such ',oUe girl. Nobody nuspect ever. Now you must be
hi,Ba attentive oo me. You carry my shawl ; you pick up
my mouchoir, so ; ' and she dropped her handkerchief to
see how adroitly the new maid would stoop and hand it
to her. It was well done, and Eugenie continued :

You act perfect— perfectly. Now you not forget,
but walk behind me always with the parcels, and not
talk much with the other domesiiques. Ah, del, but you

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CHATEAU D'OR.

cannot, you cannot speak much French to them, and that
be good ; but to me you speak French toujours : you learn
it, which must be better by and by when the great trial
comes.'

" They were now near to Versailles, and, when the long
train stopped, Eugenie and her maid stepped out unobserv-
ed by any one ; and as there was an interval of two hours
or more before they could return to Paris, Eugenie spent
it in showing her companion the beauties of the old
Palace and its charming grounds. And Fanny was very
attentive and very respectful to her mistress, and acted
the r6leoi waiting-maid to perfection, though occasionally
there was a gleam of mischief in the blue eyes, and a
comical smile lurking about the corners of the mouth, as
Fred, answered to the new name, or held up his skirts as
they walked over a wet piece of ground.

" ' Mon Dieu, but your feet are much large for the rest
of you,' Eugenie said, as she caught sight of his boots
* You must not show them so much.'

" So Fred, kept his dress down, and wondered how girls
managed to walk so well with a lot of petticoats dangling
around their ankles, but behaved himself on the whole
with perfect propriety, and by the time Eugenie's resi-
dence in Paris was reached, had completely won his mis-
tress's heart. It was past the luncheon hour, but Eugenie
had chocolate and rolls in her room, and Fanny served her
with the utmost deference, and moved so quietly and
gently among her fellow servants that she came into fa-
vour at once, and lajeune Anglaise was toasted at dinner

EUGENIE'S WAITING MAID. 113

by one of the footmen, who thought the new girl did not
understand a word he said.

"It was two days before Haverleigh came to stop any
length of time, and then became to dine, and by appoint-
ment,

" ' I shall ring for you to do something for me after din-
ner, and you will be much careful,' Eugenie said to Fred.,
who had never been so nervous and excited as he was in
view of the approaching ordeal.

" The stuff dress had been exchanged for a pretty calico,
and the white fluted apron wjiich he wore had been
bought at the Bon Marchd. The light, abundant hair
was covered with a bit of muslin called a cap, with smart
blue ribbons streaming behind, and this, more than any-
thing else, made Fred, into a girl— a tidy-looking maid,
who stood with beating heart in the upper hall, listening
to the tones of Haverleigh's voice, as they came from the
salon below. How well Fred, rememberer' hat voice, and
how his young blood boiled as he longed to rush upon the
man, and ^ith all his feeble strength avenge his sister's
wrongs. But he must bide his time, and he waited till
his mistress's bell should summon him to her presence, and
that of his detestable brother-in-law.

" Haverleigh was in excellent spirits that night. In-
deed he had been in excellent spirits ever since the morn-
ing when he received the dispatch from Chateau d'Or
announcing the birth of a son. Whether it would ever
please him to have his wife fully restored to reason and
free to come and go with him in his journeying was

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CHATEAU D'OR.

doubtful. It was a rather pleasant excitement, having
her at the chateau, where he could visit her when the
mood was on him; but to have her with him in Paris, and
Nice, and London, where he wished to be free and un-
trammelled, was another thinir.

" So Anna seemed likely to remain just where she was
for an indefinite length of time, unless he allowed her as a
great favour to visit Eugenie for a few weeks. But the
son— his boy— was to be a gi-eat source of pride and hap-
piness to him, and he had already formed many plans for
the future of that son, and everything wore a brighter
hue since that little life began at Chateau d'Or. Then too,
Eugenie was latterly more gi^acious in her demeanour to-
ward him, and he had hopes that in time he might be re-
instated in her good graces, and as he had a genuine
liking for her, this of itself was a sufl[icient reason why he
seemed so elated and even hilarious as he sat once more
at her table and basked in the sunshine of her smile. To
be sure she talked of Madame Haverleigh more than he
cared to have her, but then she had conceh^ed a great
friendship for his wife, and it was for his interest to en-
courage it. So he, too, talked of Madame and her health,
and answered Eugenie's questions regarding her family en
Amerique. Was there insanity in the blood ? Was it a
large family ? many sisters ? any brothers ? and were they
nobility ?

" At this question Haverleigh winced, for he was not
certain how much nobility Eugenie would think there was
io a shoe-shop ; but he tried to answer her readily, and

Eugenie's waiting maid.

115

said the family was highly respectable, not nobility ex-
actly, but good ; that la mere was dead— and here he did
not look straight at Eugenie lest the lie should show it-
self—that there was a sister Mary, a stronger girl every
way than Madame Anna, though not so pretty, and a boy
Fred., who was, or seemed to be, quite young, and of whom
he did not remember much ; he was more interested in
girls, he said, and seldom took much notice of boys.

" Eugenie shrugged her shoulders significantly, and as
they had finished their dessert led the way to the draw-
ing-room, telling him as she went that her advertising
had been very successful, and brought her such a treasure
of an English girl, Fanny Shader, who was so nice and
respectable. Haverleigh cared nothing for Fanny Shader
personally, but if she interested Eugenie he must be inter-
ested too, and he said he was very glad Madame was
suited, and asked from what part of England Fanny came.
London was a safe place to come from, and so Fanny's
home was there, and Eugenie said so, and fluttered about
the salon until she remembered that she needed a shawl,
und rang the bell for Fanny.

" Haverleigh was standing with his back to the fire,
looking straight at the door, when Fanny came in, a flush
on her cheek, but with a very modest expression in her
blue eyes, which never glanced at Haverleigh but once.
But in that glance they saw him perfectly from his head
to his feet, and knew him for the same haughty English-
man who had so ignored Anna's family in Millfield.
Hating Haverleigh as he did, it was_impossible for Fred.

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not to show something of it. and there was a sudden gleam,
a kindling, in the eyes, which attracted Haverleigh's no-
tice, and made him look more curiously after the supposed
girl than he would otherwise have done. But there was
not a shadow of suspicion in his mind *as to the person-
ality of the stranger, and when she was gone for the shawl
he said, carelessly :

And so that is the treasure ? Nice, tidy-looking girl
enough, but I should say she had a temper, judgingltrom
her eyes ; looks a little like somebody I have seen.*

" Fanny had returned with the shawl by this time, and
so the conversation regarding her ceased, and Haverleigh
thought and said no more of her, although she appeared
several times during the evening in answer to her mis-
tress, who wanted an unusual amount of waiting upon, it
seemed to Haverleigh.

" ' She is certainly growing very nervous and fidgety,
and I don't much envy that new girl her post as my lady's
maid,' he said to himself, and that was about all the
thought he gave to Fanny Shader, whom for several days
he saw every time he called upon Eugenie.

CHAPTER X.

EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D'oR,

IT was some time during the latter part of January
that the new life came to Chateau d'Or, and
Madame Verwest telegraphed to Haverieigh, ' You have
a son.' It was a big, healthy-looking boy, with great blue
eyes, and soft curly hair like Anna's, but otherwise it was
like its father, ' all Haverieigh,' Madame Verwest said, as
she hugged the little creature to hor, and amid a rain of
tears, whispered something over it which Anna could not
understand. Was it a blessing, or a prayer that this new-
born child might be kept from the path trodden by ano-
ther child which once had lain on her bosom, as soft and
helpless as this, with the Haverieigh look on its face. No-
body could tell what she thought or felt, but from the
moment the first infant wail echoed through the dreary
house, Madame Verwest took the littJe one into her love
and heart, and seemed to care for it far moi-e, even, than
the mother herself, for at first Anna shrank from the
child so like its father, and felt better when it was not in
her sight. But with returning health and strength there

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CHATEAU D'oR.

came a change ; the mother-love had asserted ihself, and
Anna was much happier than she had been before the lit-
tle life came to claim her care. But for her husband there
was no tenderness, no love— only a growing disgust and
antipathy to him, and an increased dread of his visits,
which were more frequent than formerly. He was very
proud of his boy— Arthur he called him— though there
had been no formal christening, because there was in the
neighbourhood no Protestant priest. But Haverleigh
meant to bring one^dowji with him from Paris and have
a grand christening party, and when Eugenie proposed
visiting the chateau, he decided to have it while she was
there, and to persuade her to stand as god-mother. So a
box of elegant dresses, both for Anna and the child, was
forwarded to the chateau, with the intelligence that
Madame Arschinard would follow in a few days, together
with a Protestant clergyman, who was travelling for his
health, and whose acquaintance Haverleigh had accident-
ally made at a hotel. The prospect of seeing Eugenie
again, and hearing from her whether she had ever writ
ten to America, and with what result, was a delightful
one to Anna, who had never been so lovely even in
her girlish days as she was that afternoon in early April,
when, with her baby in her arms, she stood waiting thJ
arrival of the train which was to bring the expected party
from Paris. She had never heard of Fanny Shader, and
naturally supposed that Elise would accompany Eugenie,
as she did before.

" The train was late, half an hour behind time, and when

even m

EUQENIK GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D'oR. 119

it came, and the carriage returned from the station, to
Anna's inexpressible relief her husband was not in it. A
sprained ankle, which was so very painful that he could
not put his foot to the floor, would detain him in Paris
for a few days, Eugenie explained, as she warmly greeted
Madame Haverleigh, and stooped to kiss the baby in her
arms. Then, turning to her maid, she said, in English :

Here, Fannee, take my shawl and hat up to my room.
Somebody shall show you the way, while I sit here a little
minute in this pretty court.'

" It was the first time Anna had noticed the new maid,
who had stood partly hidden by Eugenie, gazing at her
with flushed cheeks and bated breath, and trying so hard
to keep from rushing upon her and crying out 'Oh, Anna,
sister, I am Fred. Don't you know me ?'

" She did not know or dream that the tall, slight girl in
the gingham dress, with white apron and straw hat, was
other than a waiting-maid, English, probably, as Eugenie
addressed her in that language ; and she felt glad of the
change, for Celine, her own maid, had not agreed very
well with Elise on the occasion of her last visit at the
chateau. It was Celine who conducted the new girl to
Eugenie's rooms, and tried to be gracious by using the
little English she had learned from Anna.

How you call yourself ?' she asked, ' Fannee, voire
nom? c'est bienjoli. Are you Anglaise ou Americaine V

" There was a moment's hesitancy, and then Fred, an-
swered :

" ' Je suia Anglaise.'

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CHATEAU D'oR.

" Whereupon Celine, delighted that she could speak a
word of French, and taking it for granted she could speak
more, rattled on so vehemently that her companion stood
aghast, comprehending nothing except that Celine had
thought her Americaine, because she was tall and thin,
and not— not 'comment ajjpellez-vous cela,' she said : 'very
much grown, much stomach and chin, comme Anylais!

Anglais thin quelquefois,' Fanny said : and then
the mischievious Celine commented upon his hands
and feet, which her qujck eyes had noted as large and
unfeminine, albeit the hands were very white and
shapely.

" Colouring to the roots of his hair, Fred, stood the
ordeal as well as he could, feeling almost as if he were in
the presence of a detective, and should have his real
name, and sex, and business screamed to all the world.
But Celine was far from suspecting the truth, and rathe^
liked la femme Anglaise on the whole, and while the
ladies talked together in the court below, took her over
the house and showed her the view from the windows,
and presented her to any of the servants whom they
chanced to meet as Fannee, who was Anglaise, and came
from Londres.

"Meanwhile Eugenie and Anna sat talking on different
subjects, wliile all the time the latter was longing to ask
the all-important question as to whether there was any
news from America. At last she could endure the sus-
pense no longer, and grasping Eugenie's hand, said, in a
whisper :

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EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D'OR. 121

" ' Tell me, have you written ? Do they know ? I hav«
waited so long for some message.'

" ' Yes I have wrote ; and they do know, and la mire
n'est pas morte, as I tell you, but lives in Millfield the
same. More I tell you plus tard,' was Eugenie's reply.
"And the next moment Anna had fainted.
" The shock was too great for her, and with a little
gasping cry, which sounded like ' mother,' she fell across
Eugenie's lap, where she lay unconscious, while the ex-
citable Frenchwoman screamed lustily for help. Celine
and Fred, had just come out upon the open gallery which
ran entirely round the court and connected with the
the sleeping rooms on the third floor.

" Both heard the cry, and both started for the rescue;
but la femme Anglaise outstripped Celine, and taking
Anna in her arms as if she had been a child, exclaimed :
" ' Where is her room? Let me take her to it.'
" * Oui, oui, I show you,' Celine replied, as she led the
way to her mistress's room, ejaculating ' Mon Dieu I what
strength slim people must have to carry Madame so.'

" Oh, how tenderly Fred, held his unconscious sister,
never thinking of her weight, thinking only that he had
her in his arms, and could press his boyish lips against
hers, and hug her to his bosom. Very gently he laid her
upon the bed, and then stood back while restoratives
were applied, until she opened her eyes and showed signs
of returning consciousness.

" ' She hold I'enfant too long in her weak state, and
just fainted sudden/ Eugenie explained to Madame Ver-

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CHATEAU D'OR.

west, who cared for Anna until she seemed wholly herself
and declared that she was as well as ever, but would like
to be rather quiet, with no one to do with her but Madame
Arschinard.
" ' She never tires me,' she said.

" And so the two had tea together in Anna's room, and
were waited upon by Celine, so there was no chance for
further conversation until the next morning after the late
breakfast, when Eugenie invited Anna to her room, where
the soi-disant Fanny was busy arranging her mistress's
wardrobe in the closet and drawers.

" At her Anna did not even glance, but she knew she
was in the room, and felt anxious for her to leave, as the
presence of a third party would necessarily prevent her
from questioning Eugenie with regard to Millfield. But
Fanny was apparently in no hurry to leave, and it seemed
to Anna that she was purposely dawdling and taking %
long time to accomplish a little.

" Anna was occupying the seat which Eugenie offered
her, near the window, and directly facing Fanny, whose
movements could all be seen if one chose to watch her;
and despairing of her quitting the apartment, Anna began
at last to watch her as she moved from box to closet or
shelf, sometimes with her face turned full toward the
window where Anna sat, and sometimes with her back
that way. At last, as Anna made no sign of recognition,
Eugenie said :

" ' Fanny, have you found that box of bon-bo^is ? '
" Yes, Madame, I have found it/ was the reply, spoken

EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D'or. 128

in Fred.'s own natural voice, which sent a thrill through
Anna's veins, and made her heart beat rapidly as she
thought of home and Fred., whose voice Fanny's was so
like; and Fanny was like him, too— the same walk, the
same motion of the hands, the same turn of the head.
Sur^iJy, surely, she had seen it all before, and involun-
tarily grasping Eugenie's arm, she whispered in a tone of
aftright :

" ' Who is she— that girl you call Fanny ? '
"'That girl' heard the question, and turning square
round toward Anna, tore off the cap from her head, and,
running her fingers through her curly hair, gave to it the'
old, natural look, and then stood confronting the startled
woman, whose face was white as marble, and whose lips
tried in vain to articulate the one word : ' Fred.'

" He had her in his arms the next moment, kissing her
-passionately, and saying to her :

" 'It's I, Anna; truly Fred., and no gho.st. I've come •
to get you away, to take you home to mother, who is not
dead. Sweet sister, how much you must have suffered ;
but it is all over now. Madame and I will save you from'
that dreadful man.'

" Then Anna's tears began to flow, and she sobbed pas-
sionately, while Fred, tried to comfort and reassure her by
talking of Millfield and home as of things just within her
reach.

Before all the summer flowers are gone we will be
there,' he said ; ' but you must be very di.screet, and no one
here must ever know that I am not Fanny Shader. Don't

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(CHATEAU DOR.

I make a nice maid ? Only Celine thinks my feet and
hands too big,' he said, as he adjusted his jaunty cap again,
and walked across the floor with a swinging motion to
his skirts wliicli set Anna to laugliing hysterically, and so
saved her from another faintin^^ fit

" Eugenie put away her own dresses and finery after
that, and left the brother and sister free to talk together
of all that had transpired since Anna left home with the
man who seemed to her more and more a demon, as she
learned all he had written of her to her friends.

" ' He must have been mad himself,' she said, ' as I can
see no motive for his pursuing his petty revenge so long
and to such extremes.'

" Ajid then together they talked of her escape, which
Fred, had come to accomplish, or rather to assist in, for
Eugenie was the one who was to plan and devise, and
both agreed to trust her implicitly.

" After a long consultation it was decided that Madame
Verwest should be taken into confidence and be told at
once who Fanny Shader was, and after that matters were
to rest for awhile and Eugenie to remain at the Chateau
d'Or until the last of May or the first of June, during
which time Fred, was to devote himself to the baby and
become so necessary to its well-being that to leave him at
the chateau as nurse would be comparatively easy of ac-
complishment, after which the denouement was to follow
naturally.

EUOENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU d'OR. 125

" Mr. Haverleigh's sprain provetl more serious than lie
had at first anticipated, and it was nearly two weeks be-
fore he was able to eomo down to the chateau. Thon he
arrived unannounced one afternoon, and was accompanied
by a young English clergyman, a rollicking, easy-going
man, who was out on what he called a lark, and who en*
joyed nothing better than the tri[) to Chateau d'Or, with
Haverleigh, for whom he had conceived a great liking.
The christening was uppermost in Haverleigh 's mind. hIs
boy, his son and heir, must have a name, and the second
evening after his arrival the ceremony took place, and the
baby was bapti;^ed Arthur Strong, Eugenie standing as
god-mother, and Fanny Shader holding the child. Fanny
had proved invaluable, and entirely superseded the fine
lady from Avignon, who had come to the chateau when
the child was born, and when Haverleigh arrived there
was a plan on foot for keeping the girl entirely as baby's
nurse. This plan was made to appear wholly Eugenie's, who
felt it a duty to part with her treasure for the good of her lit-
tle god-child. In this matter Haverleigh was not particular,
and greatly to the satisfaction of all parties Fanny became
little Arthur's nurse, and was thus almost constantly in
Anna's society. Once or twice Haverleigh had looked
curiously and closely at the new girl as if there was
something familiar in the features,but Fred, always seemed
to know when he was an object of inspection, and man-
aged adroitly to get out of sight without appearing to do
so. He never .spoke to his master except to answer a

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CHATEAU D'oR.

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question, and then his manner was exceedingly deferential
and quite gratifying to the man, who liked nothing
better than a cringing manner in a servant, as if he were
lord and master of all.

" Those spring days at Chateau d'Or were very pleasant
ones, for Anna was buoyed up with the hope of escape
from the man who grew each day more and more detest-
able and terrible to her. His evident admiration for Eu-
genie, which he did not try to conceal, woul(J alone have
made her hate him had there been no other cause. But
Eugenie's infatuation for him was ended, and though she
had no fear or dread of him in her heart, like Anna, she
had no liking for him, and only feigned to tolerate him
until she had achieved her revenge, for with her it was
nothing more than that. She was not a woman of good
or firm principles of any kind, and with the right or
wrong she did not trouble herself, but she had loved her
young sister with an all-absorbing love, and if she could
do aught to harm the man who had wrought her sister's
ruin she was resolved to do it ; so she lingered at the
chateau and professed herself so much in love with Anna
and the child that she could not endure the thought of a
separation from them, and only decided at the last to re-
turn to Paris on condition that Anna should be allowed
to visit her sometime in June or July. And to this Haver-
leigh consented, and said he would himself come down
from Paris for her when she was ready for the journey.
But this was no part of Eugenie's plan. When Anna left

EUGENIE GOES AGAIN TO CHATEAU D'OR. 127

Chateau d'Or she must leave it without other escort than
her brother, and of her ability to manage this she con-
stantly reassured Anna, who grew so excited and anxious
that she sank into a kind of nervous fever, which confined
her to her room when Eugenie at last said good-bye, and
started for Paris with Haverleigh.

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CHAPTER XI.

THE ESCAPE.

LETTER had Been received at the chateau to tlie
effect that Anna was to be ready to go to Paris
the following week, with her baby and nurse, and that
her husband would come down to accompany her. It
would be impossible to describe Anna's state of mind at
the receipt of this letter, while Madame Verwest, who
had been taken fully into her confidence, seemed for a
time as bewildered and nervous as Anna herself Then
she rallied, and astonished Anna and Fred, by declaring
her intention to go with them.

"'What, go to America?' Anna asked; and then
Madame replied :

'"Yes, to America. I have long wished to see it, and
cannot be separated from the baby. I will go with you ; '
and from this decision she never wavered, but went
calmly on with her few preparations, while Anna waited
anxiously for the telegram which Eugenie had promised
to send her, and which came the day after the receipt of
Haverleigh's letter, and was as follows :

THE ESCAPE,

129

iiM

You are to come at once, instead of waiting till next
week, and monsieur will meet you at Avignon.

' Eugenie.'

"A3 this was directed to the care of Brunell, who knew
of the proposed visit, it was considered all right by that
functionary, and by him passed to Anna, who trembled
so violently that she could scarcely read the message,
which was exactly what Eugenie said it should be, and
early to-morrow she was going away from what had
really been a prison so long, notwithstanding that in some
respects it had been a pleasant home. But she had no
regrets in leaving it, for every spot was so closely con-
nected with the man whose name she bore, and from
whom she was fleeing, that she loathed it utterly, just as
she loathed the elegant dresses with which her closets
were filled, and not one of which she took with her. She
packed her jewels, however; her diamonds, and pearls,
and topazes, for she might need the money they would
bring. To Celine, who had expected to go as maid, she
had said that she did not need her, and had quieted her
with a set of coral and a handsome evening dress.

"And now the morning had actually dawned, and no-
thing happened to prevent our travellers from passing out
from Chateau d'Or to the carriage, which conveyed them
to the station in time for the early train from Marseilles ;
but Anna was so weak that she was lifted bodily into the
railway carriage, and continued in a Lalf-unconscious
state for nearly an hour, while she was whirled rapidly

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CHATEAU D'oR.

away from the scene of so much misery. Avignon was
reached at last, and Eugenie's face was the first to greet
them as they passed from the station, and then Anna
fainted quite away, for now it seemed sure that freedom
and America were just ^athin her grasp.

'i ' Is it sure, and where is he ?' Anna asked, when she
could speak at all. and Eugenie replied in her broken
English, interspersed with French :

" ' OH est-il ? d Paris, mais, mon Lieu, such time I
have had. I get him to write for you to come next week,
late some day in the week, and then I telegraph myself
for you to start to-day, and last night he dine with me,
and I tell him I must go to Normandy for one, two or
three days. T don't know sure, and so I cheat him and
come here to rueet you with Madame Verwest. del, why
is she here V

"I go with Madame Haverleigh to America,' was Ma-
dame Verwest's reply; whereupon Eugenie exclaimed :

Vous allez en Amerique ! c'est impossible ! Oil est
V argent ? Noun n'en avons pas assez pour vous:

" ' But I have more than enough to pay my passage,
and I am going,' Madame said, so firmly and decidedly
that Eugenie merely shrugged her shoulders, and replied :

" ' Eh Men, I fear bad.'

You need not, you need not, for she is the truest
friend ; she would ne\ .r betray us,' Anna cried.

" ' And if she did !' Eugenie replied, with a threatening
gleam in her flashing eyes which meant much, but did not

THE ESCAPE.

131

intimidate Madame Verwest, who knew her own business
and interests better than any one else.

" It was dark when they took the train again, and this
time their destination was Havre, and when at last that
port was reached, their party consisted of Anna, her baby,
Madame Verwest, Eugenie, and the boy Fred., who had
on the road been metamorphosed into himself and his
own clothes again, and stepped from the car a very assured
youth, equal to any emergency which might present
itself.

" Fortunately for the travellers, a ship was to sail for
New York the following morning, and there was one
vacant state-room, which was immediately secured for
Anna and Madame Verwest, while Fred went as second-
class. Eugenie saw them on board and bade them adieu
with tears raining down her cheeks, and when Anna
kissed her again and again, and said :

" ' I never can thank you enough, or understand why
you have been so kind to me,' she answered, sobbingly :

" • Not for you, petite madame. Not for you%eule
Do not think me good ^s that. I learn to like you'much •
c'est vrai, but not care particularly to run much risk. It
is for her, ma petite, ma soeur, for Agatha, for revenge.
He lose me my sister, I lose him his boy, and he will feel
it. Oh, he will suffer and I shall think of Agatha, and
be glad, much glad at first, and then who knows, I may
comfort him, for wliat matter now for me. I bad anyway.'

" 'Oh, Madame/ Anna cried, 'you will not go back to

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132

CHATEAU D'OR.

him again ? You will live a better life ? Promise me
that !'

" ' No, I not promise. I not know. We French not
think so bad as you. We do not live without intrigue
and little love affairs, but I hate monsieur now, and I so
long to see him suffer. Mon Dieu, but it will be good !
Write me, ma cMre, d'Amerique, and tell me of la mhe,
and now— it is good-by vraiment'

" She wrung Anna's hand, while great tears rolled down
her cheeks as she said her last good-bye, and turning reso-
lutely away walked from the ship to the landing, where
she stood until the vessel was loosened from its moorings
and moved slowly out to sea ; then, wondering why she
should care so much for les Americaines, she was driven
to the station, where she took the train for Paris, eager
for the denouement when Haverleigh would find how he
had been deceived.

•■^

romise me

CHAPTER XII.

THE DENOUEMENT.

A NNA'S party sailed from Havre on Friday, and it
-^-^ was not until the following Thursday that Mr.
Haverleigh arrived at the chateau for the purpose of
escorting her to Paris. During the last week he had
spent much of his time with Eugenie, who, on her return
from Havre, had been very gracious to him, and seemed
m high spirits, breaking out suddenly into bursts of merri-
ment on the most trifling provocation, and making him
sometimes wonder if she were not going mad. She talked
a great deal of ' la petite madame et le petit gargon; and
showed him the rooms they were to occupy, and made
him buy a handsome crib for his son, and predicted that
Anna would not return to the dreary old chateau when
once she had tasted the pleasures of Paris.

"'Why do you keep her shut up there ? ' she asked
him once, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. ' I'd run
away.'

"'You could hardly do that with Brunell on guard'
Haverleigh replied- adding, after a pause: ^Madame
Haverlejgh, you know, has not been quite right in her

!t' V

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134

CHATEAU D'OR.

mind, and quiet was better for her. Her own family re-
commended it. They know all about it.'

" ' Mou Dieu, how the man lies ! ' was Eugenie's men-
tal comment, but she merely said: 'Tell me more of
Madame's family— of the sister and the brother,' and she
persevered until she had heard from Haverleiffh affain all
there was to know of the mother, and sister, and the boy
Fred., of whom Eugenie seemed to like particularly to
talk.

" ' I shall wait so impatiently for you to come with
Madame,' she said to him when he left her to go to the
chateau, and in her eyes there was a look which puzzled
him, and which he could not fathom.

" If he had stayed a little longer she might have be-
trayed the secret which so tormented her ; but he was
gone at last, and on his way to Chateau d'Or, wondering,
as he went, if it were wise in him to take Anna to Paris,
even for a week. At the chateau she was £:afe and out of
the way, and gave him no trouble, while in Paris she
might seriously interfere with his actions. On the whole,
the chateau was the best place for her, he decided ; but
he would give her more freedom there, and she should be
at liberty to ride around the country as much as she
©hose, and go and come like any other sane person.

"Thus magnanimously arranging for Anna's future,
Haverleigh arrived at the chateau in the afternoon train,
and wondering a little that his carriage was not waiting
for him, started to walk. It was the lovely month of June,
when southern France is looking her loveliest, and the

THE DENOUEMENT. X35

grounds about the chateau seemed to him especially beau-
tiful as he entered them by a little gate, of which he
always kept the key.

" ' Anna ought to be happy here,' he said, and then
glancmg up in the direction of her windows, it struck him'
as odd that every one was closed.

" Indeed the whole house had a shut-up, deserted ap-
pearance, and impressed him unpleasantly as he quickened
his footsteps with a vague presentiment of evil. The lirst
person he saw, on entering the court, was Celine, who, at
sight of him, screamed out :

•"Oh. Monsieur, what brings you here now, and
where is Madame ? Has anything happened to the little
master ? '

Where is Madame ? What do you mean ? Where
should she be but here, when I have come to take her to
Pans ?' Haverleiga said, and Celine, violently excited
continued : '

Come to take her to Paris ? She's gone to Paris
long ago ; gone with Madame Verwest. Surely you know
that ? '

"Surely he did not, and he shook so violently that he
could not stand, but was obliged to sit down while Celine
told him rapidly, and with a great many gesticulations
what she knew of Madame's going away.

" ' A letter had come that Monsieur would be there to
accompany Madame to Paris, and then Mistress Anna had
packed her boxes, but taken no grand dre.sse.s=^nothing
but her plainest-and told Celine she was not to go as

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CHATEAU D'oR.

Fanny Shader could do all that was necessary, and Ma-
dame Verwest, too.'

" ' JVLadame Verwest ! ' Haverleigh gasped, ' is she gone,
too?'

" ' To be sure she has ; but it was after the telegram
that she decided to go,' Celine said, ' for the day after the
letter there came down a telegram from Madame Eugenie,
bidding Madame Anna start at once, and you would meet
her at Avignon : and she started last Wednesday is a
week for Paris, with Madame Verwest, the baby, and
Fanny Shader, and now you come after them. 1 know
not what it may mean.'

" Celine had talked very rapidly, and a little incoher-
ently, but Haverleigh had managed to follow her and
understand at least one fact, his wife and child were gone,
and had been gone for more than a week ; and as they
were not in Paris where could they be, and what did it
all mean, and what was this about a telegram from Eu-
genie ? He could not understand it, but bade Celine send
Brunell to him at once. She obeyed, and Brunell came,
but could throw no light upon the mystery. Anna had
gone, as Celine said, and gone, too, in accordance with in-
structions received from Eugenie Arschinard, whose tele-
gram he saw himself.

" ' And you knew nothing of it ? ' he asked. ' You
have never seen them in Paris ?'

"'Never,' and the veins upon Haverleigh 's forehead
began to swell and stand out like ridges as he grew more
and more amazed and excited. •

THE DENOUEMENT.

137

** Even then he did not suspect the truth ; but, weak,
vain man that he was, wondered if it could be some deep
laid plot of Eugenie's to spirit his wife away in order to
have him quite to herself He did not believe that she
had ever been reconciled to his marriage, even though she
had professed so ruuch friendship for Anna, and a French-
woman like her was capable of anything, he knew. Still it
seemed impossible that she should attempt a thing of that
kind when detection was so easy. The tickets for the
party were for Avignon, and thither he would go at once
taking Brunell with him as an ally whose services would
be invaluable in a search. Accordingly when the next
train northward-bound passed the little hamlet, he was a
passenger in it, chafing with impatience to anive at
Avignon, where he hoped to hear tidings of the fugitives.
What he heard by diligent inquiry at station and hotel,
utterly confounded him and made him for a time a perfect
madman. An elderly woman and a young one, with
nurse and baby, had come up on the Marseilles train, and
been met by a large, dark-eyed lady, who had gone on with
them next morning to Havre, which was their destination.
"'Havre! Havre!' Haverleigh gasped, the shadow
of suspicion beginning to dawn upon him. ' Went to
Havre, Brunell ? What could they go to Havre for V

Only one thing that I can think of, but you'd better
follow on and see,' was Brunell's reply; and they did
follow on, travelling day and night, as Anna had done be-
fore them, until Havre was reached and the records of
passengers' names examined.
10

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138

CHATEAU D'oR.

"There was a frightful imprecation, a horrid oath,
which made the bystanders stare in amazement as Haver-

leigh read that on the day of June, Mrs. Haverleigh,

nurse, and child, had sailed for America in the Europe,
and that Frederic Strong had accompanied them.

" ' Frederic Strong ! Who the is he, and where

did he come from?' he said, as white with rage and
trembling in every limb, he walked from the room with
' Brunell, who replied :

" ' Was not Madame a Strong when you married her ? '
" ' Yes, and she had a brother Fred. But how came he
here, and where is Madame Verwest, and what did
Eugenie have to do with it ? I tell you, Brunell, there is
a hellish plot somewhere, but I'll unearth it. I'll show
these women with whom they have to deal.'

" He clenched his fists and shook them at some imagin-
ary person or persons, while a string of oaths issued from
his lips, so horrid and dreadful that Brunell tried to stop
him, but tried in vain ; the storm of passion raged on,
until, with a sudden cry and distortion of the body, the
crazy man fell down in a fit. It did not last long, but it
left its traces upon his face, which was livid in hu€, while
his eyes looked blood-shot and haggard, and he could
scarcely walk without assistance.

" Still he insisted upon taking the first train for Paris,
for until he saw Eugenie he was uncertain how to act.
Anna might never have sailed for America at all, for
where did she get the money ? It might be a ruse to de-
ceive him^ f nd. bv the time he reached Paris he bad made

THE DENOUEMENT.

189

up his mind that it was. Calling the first carriage ho
saw, he was ilriven rapidly to Eugenie's house, and ringing
the bell violently, demanded to see Madame Arschirmrd.
She was ready for him, and counted upon his doing just
what he had done. She knew he would take the first
train to Avignon, and the next train to Havre, and then
she knew he would come to her.

Send him to my room,' was her reply to the servant's
message, and in a moment he stood confronting her with
a face more like that of an enraged animal than a human
being.

"But she met his gaze unflinchingly, and when he
said :

" ' Where are my wife and child V

" She answered him fearlessly :

" ' I last saw them on the deck of I'Europ, as it put
to sea : if living, they are in that vessel still, and almost
to America. It is several days since they sailed.'

" For a moment he could not speak, but stood glancing
at her as a wild beast might glance at some creature it
meant to annihilate. But she never flinched a hair, and
her eyes grew larger and brighter, and her lips more
firmly compressed, as she stood regarding him, with a
thought of Agatha in her heart. This was her hour of
revenge, and when he found voice to say :

Why has she gone, and who helped her to go, and
where is Madame Verwest ? T-^ll me what you know,
she burst forth impetuously, and answered him :

leg, I will tell you what I know, Ernest Haverleigh,

ii'

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^1 ! ■ I

i "'*T

' ' " i. i

1 '%

1^1

ill

■■.;...iJ,!;

■

.140

CHATEAU D'OR,

and I am glad, so glad, of this hour of settlement between
us. I told vou your wife had gone to America, and you
ask me why. Strange question to ask about a wife, a
mere girl, whom you have kept shut up so long a prisoner
in reality, with no f'"<^edom whatever. A wife whom you
have branded with insanity, when she is far more sane
than you ; a wife to whom you have told lie after lie,
withholding her letters, and making her believe her
mother dead and her old home desolate. Ay, Ernest
Haverleigh, you may well turn pale, and grasp the chair,
and breathe so heavily, and ask me how I know all this.
I do know that they across the sea, in the little red house,
thought her a lunatic, and mourned for her as such, while
she, this side the water, mourned her mother dead and
sister gone she knew not where, for you never told her ;
and you did all this to her, for why, I know not, except
the foolish words she spoke in New York when she did
not love you. What matter for love then, and she so
young ? In time it would have come. She meant you
fair, and you, you darkened her young life, and made her
almost crazy, and she could not love you. Only one did
that truly— loved you to her snare and death, but I come
not to speak of her yet, or I cannot say to you what I
must. Madame Anna would have loved you in time, but
you killed the love, and she was so desolate when I went
to the chateau, to hate her— yes, to hate her, and make
merry of her because she was your wife. I did not want
to be your wife, remember that ; not now, not yet. I like
freedom too well, but by and by, when I am older, and

THE DENOUEMENT.

141

the hair is gray, and the rouge and the powder will not
cover the wrinkles, I meant to be Madame Haverleigh,
and respectable, and go and live in England, and make'
the strict madames and mademoiselles think much of me ;
but this little pale American came between, and I meant
to hate her, but could not, for the sweetness and helpless-
ness in the blue eyes the— oh, mon Dieu, the look of the
dead darling in her face. So I liked her much, and pitied
her more, and then— oh, woe is me !— then I found at
last my darling's grave— found it there at that dreary
place. Agatha, my sister, whom you ruined and drove
mad, really mad, and killed, you villain ! Oh, you villain !
how I hate you, and how I would tear your heart out and
break it as you broke hers, only I want you to live and
hear me out, you villain ! '

" Here Eugenie stopped to breathe, for she had wrought
herself up to such a pitch of frenzy that she seemed in
danger of apoplexy, and clutched at the fastenings of her
dress about her throat as if to loosen theai. Haverleigh
saw the strange look in her face, and how she gasped for
breath, but was himself too much paralyzed to move. At
the mention of Agatha, the sweet rose from Normandy,
whom he had almost loved, and whose memory was still
green in his heart, he had thrown up both his hands and
then sank into the chair, unable to stand any longer.
That Agatha Wynde should have been the sister of Eugenie
stunned him completely, and made him for a time forcret
even Anna and his child. At last, as the colour faded
from Eugenie's face and she breathed more freely, he found
voice to say :

,!^>

142

CHATEAU D'oR.

" ' Agatha your sister, yours ! I never dreamed of
that.'

" ' No, of course not, but you knew she was somebody's
darling, the white-haired old man's who died with a curse
of you on his lips. You lured the simple peasant girl
away, and told her you meant fair, and because she was
pure, and innocent, and could not otherwise be won, you
made believe marry her; but it was no marriage, no
priest, and when she found it out she went raving mad
and died.'

" Haverleigh might have taunted the woman with the
fact that she had had something to do with the deception
practised upon Agatha, but she did not give him a chance,
for she went on to accuse herself:

" ' For this deed of blackness, I, too, was to blame, but
I never dreamed it was my darling, for whom I would
have died ; never guessed it was siie of whom I was so
madly jealous, those days and nights when you left me
so much, and I knew a younger, fairer face than mine
attracted you. I was not fair then, for I knew of Agatha's
flight, and was hunting for her everywhere, and all the
time you had her in Paris, and I was working against her.
Oh , Agatha, Agatha, sister, I'd give my life to have you
back, but you are gone, and on that little grave in south-
ern France I swore you should be avenged ; and so '

turning now to Haverleigh who sat with his face buried
in his hands — ' and so I learned the story of the little
American, and wrote to her friends, for I knew the mo-
ther was not dead, as you told her, Heaven only knows

THE DENOUEMENT.

143

■earned of

(mebody's
th a curse
asant girl
e she was
won, you
Tiage, no
ving mad

with the
deception
a chance,

lame, but
I would
I was so
n left me
lan mine
Agatha's
d all the
linst her.
have you
in south-

iso '

36 buried

;he little

the mo-

[y knows

why ! I wrote, I say, and the boy Fred, started himself
for France. Do you remember my telling you I had ad-
vertised for an English maid, and you remember the
Fanny Shader of whom I thought so much ? That was
Frederick Strong, in girl's attire.'

" Haverleigh lifted his head then and ejaculated, ' the
devil,' then dropped it again, and Eugenie went on. 'You
begin, no doubt, to see the plot. I took Fanny to Chateau
d'Or, and left her there, and planned the visit to Paris,
and all that happened next. I teleg iphed to Madame
just as I agreed. I met her at ' . on ; I accompanied
her to Havre ; I engaged her pa ,..-^o, and I paid the bills
for her and Fred., not for Madame Verwest. She paid her
own. She was an unexpected character in the little drama.
That she has gone to America, I know. Why she went I
do not know. Now I have told you all, and Agatha is
avenged.*

" He neither looked up, nor moved, nor spoke as she
swept from the room. Indeed, although he heard the trail
of her heavy silk as she went past him, he hardly knew
she had gone, so completely confounded and stupefied was
he with what she had said to him. That she, for whom
he had done so much, and on whose fidelity he had so
implicitly trusted, should turn against him, hurt him
cruelly; that she should be the sister of Agatha con-
founded and bewildered him; and that Anna had fled
with his boy to America, where his villainy, and treachery,
and deceit would be fully exposed, and that Madame Ver-
west had gone with her, and thus virtually turned against

iSi

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144<

CHATEAU D'OR.

him, maddened and enraged him, and took from him for
a time the power even to move, and he sat perfectly quiet
for at least fifteen minutes after Eugenie had left him.
Then, with an oath and a clenching of his fists at some-
thing invisible, he sprang up, exclaiming, 'I'll follow them
to America and claim my ow'\ The law will give me
my wife, or at least my child, and that will stab them
deeply.' .

" Exeited and buoyed up with this new idea, he felt
himself growing strong again to act, and without seeking
to see Eugenie, he left the house, and the next steamer
which left Havre for America, carried him as a passenger.

' ., f

CHAPTER XIII.

IN AMERICA.

THE ship V Europe came slowly up New York har-
bour, one pleasant summer morning, and among
the eager crowd gathered on its deck, none were more
eager and expectant, ay, and nervous too, than our friends
Madame Verwest and Anna. The latter had been sick all
the voyage, and kept her state-room, tormented with a
thousand groundless fears as to what her infuriated hus-
band might do. He was capable of anything, she knew,
and felt that he would follow her to America, and try to
get her again in his power. It was Fred, who thought-
lessly suggested that he might telegraph to New York for
officers to be ready to arrest his runaway wife as a lunatic,
and after that idea once lodged in her brain, Anna never
rested a moment, night or day ; and when at last New
York was in sight, and she was forced to dress herself and
go on deck, she looked more like a ghost than the bloom-
ing girl who had sailed down that very harbour not quite
two years before. Madame Verwest had been very silent
during the entire voyage, and hud never o-iven the slightest
reason why she had left the chateau. Nor did Anna care

146

CHATEAU D'oR.

to question her. She was satisfied to have her with her
and ding to her as a mother.

" ' Do you think he has telegraphed, and what shall we
do If he has ? You will never let them have me/ she said
as the ship was nearing the wharf, and she gazed in ter-
ror at the promiscuous crowd waiting there, and mistak-
ing the custom-house officers for the police come to arrest

" Madame Verwest herself had thought it possible that
Haverleigh might telegraph, but she did not admit it. 8he
only said :

" ' They will take both of us, if either. I shall not leave
you and your friends will soon know of it.'

Thus reassured, Anna grew more calm, and waited till
the ship was fast at the landing and the passengers free
to leave. There was no officer there, no telegram, and
our party took the first train which left next morning on
the Harlem Road for Millfield. A telegram, however, had
preceded them, and the whole town was in a state of wild
excitement when it was known that Anna was coming
back, and why. Up to this time but little had been said
of Fred.'s departure for Europe, and though there were
surmises of something wrong, nothing definite was known
until the telegram was received, when the story came out
and set the town on fire. Everybody told everybody
else, so that long before the train was due the history of
Anna's life in France had been told a thousand times
and had Ernest Haverleigh then appeared in the streets
he would assuredly have been torn in pieces by the crowd
which surged toward the dep6t long before the train was

IN AMERICA.

147

due. Everyhody was there ; those who had known Anra
in her girlhood and thone who had not, the new-comers
who only knew her story and waited for a glimpse of her.
Oh how white, and frightened, and wild she looked when
at last she came and stepped upon the platforai. Fred 's
arm was around her. and behind her came Madame Ver-
west. can-ying the child, which slept soundly all through
the exciting scone.

Annas feet touched the ground, and then her mother's
arms were around her. and the tired head dropped on
the maternal bosom with a low pitiful cry. and it was
whispered in the crowd that she had fainted

They took her home to the low red house, and laid her
m the little room she used to occupy, and which she had
once so despised. It seemed like heaven to her now, as
she sank down among the snowy pillows, and felt the
sweet breath of the summer air, laden with the perfume
of the new-mown hay. and the lilies of which she had
talked vo much to Madame Verwest.

" ' ^^' «:««^«r. Mary. I am so glad,' she said, a^ she saw

them bending over her. and felt that she was safe. ' No

one can get n.e here. You'll never let me go. for he will

omeafterine.^he is coming now,' and with a shudder

he drew the sheet over her face as if to hide herself from

the dreaded husband coming to take her away

"After that Anna knew no more of what was parsing
about her for days, and even weeks. Nature had borne
au ro could, -.nd she lay almost motionless, and utterly

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148

CHATEAU DOR.

unconscious of everything. But never sure was queen
tended with more care than she for whom everybody
cared, and whose room was filled with tokens of remem-
brance, flowers and fruit, and such masses of white lilies
for these had been her favourites, and eveiy school-boy in
town considered it an honour to wade into the pond knee-
deep, and even imperil his life to secure the frLgrant
blossoms.

" From the first Madame Verwest was a puzzle to all
and a very little in the way. It is true she was the nurse
who took the entire charge of the baby, and who, more
than any one else, seemed to understand and know what
to do for Anna. But still she was in the way-a stranger
who had not been expected, but whose only fault seemed
to be that she stared too much at Mrs. Strong and at the
people at Millfield, especially the older inhabitants and
asked too many questions about them. It was a little
strange, too. how fond she was of roaming about the
town, and exploring it in all its parts. Sometimes with
the baby in her arms, she would leave the house in the
morning, and not return again until dinner time, and Mrs
Strong had heard of her more than once in the graveyard
studying the old headstones ; and again down near the'
boat-house by the river, sitting apparently in deep thought
upon the grass, with Anna's baby sleeping on her lap At
first Mrs. Strong felt some natural anxiety for the safety
of the child, but when she saw how it clung to Madame
Verwest, and how devoted she seemed to be to its every
movement, she came to trust her fully, and to forget all

IN AMERICA.

149

else in her great concern for her own child, who grew
weaker and weaker every day, until to those who watched
her so closely there seemed little hope that she would
ever rally from the death-like stupor into which she had
fallen. Nothing roused her to the least degree of con-
sciousness or motion, except, indeed, the mention of her
husband's name. As an experiment Madame Verwest
bent over her and said :

"'Ma petite, do you remember Monsieur Haverleiffh of
Chateau d'Or ? ' ^

" Then there was a quivering of the lids, and a shiver
ran through Anna's form, and she whispered faintly:

"' Yes, yes, and he is coming; he is almost here, but
don't let him get me.'

" And four days later he came, on the six o'clock train
from which he stepped like a prince of the royal blood'
and, confronting the first n.an he met upon the plat-
form, haughtily demanded if he knew ' whether Mrs
Ernest Haverleigh, formerly Miss Anna Strong, were in
town.'

" All the town was watching for Haverleigh, and
threatening him with dire vengeance should he attempt
the removal of his wife by force. As it chanced, the
person addressed was a burly truckman, and who with
his whip in his hand, looked a rather formidable per-
sonage, as, in answer to Haverleigh's question, he re-
phed :

" ' Yes, sir, the lady you mean is in town sick to death
they say, and if you are that contemptible dog who shut

f. ?

Ill

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CHATEAU D'oR.

her up and called her crazy, and told tlicm infernal lies,
the quicker you leave these parts the healthier for you,'
if you don't want to be Jucked in tlio mill-pond.'

" Haverleigh was too much astonished to speak at first.
That he, the proud Englishman, should be thus adrlressod
by a low, ignorant, working Yankee was more than fiesh
and blood like his could bear, and his face was purple
with rage, and his eyes gleamed savagely as he replied :

" Who are you that dares speak to me in this manner
and do you know who I am ? '

" ' Yes, 8ir-ee, I know darned well who you are,' the man
replied, nothing intimidated by Haverlelgh's threatening
manner, but strengthened by the crowd gathering so fast
around him.

" It had circulated rapidly that Haverleigh had come,
arid was 'sassing' Ben. Rogers, and the idlers gathered
near at once, eager to hear and ready to defend, i/ neces-
sary, their comrade, who continued :

'"You are the confoundest, meanest, contemptiblist
ammal that the Lord ever suffered to live, and 1 am Ben-
jamin Franklin Rogers, at your service, and if you open
your dirty mouth again I'll give you a taste of this horse-
whip; so, if you want to save your British hide ske-
daddle quick for the Widder Strong's, as I s'pose you must
go there ; but, mark my words, me and these chaps, my
friends'— sweeping his arm toward the crowd—' will go
with you to see you do no harm, and if the widder says
duc'i> you, we'll do it, or tar you and ride you on a rail,
or any other honour such as we can give you gratis for
nothinV

IN AMERICA.

151

" Whether Haverleigh was intimidated, or too proud to
speak, I do not know. He made no reply except to ,^lare
hke a madman upon the speaker and the crowd, wliich
made way for him to pass, and then followed at a little
distance as he moved rapidly in the direction of Mr.s
Strong's. The news of his arrival had preceded him and
with a face white with terror Mrs. Strong was waiting for
him, and so was Madame Verwest. She was neither pale
nor frightened. She had carried the baby to Anna's room
and bidding Mary watch it, had left the apartment, and
locking the door after her, joined Mrs. Strong in the par-
lour below, where they sat together until the sound of the
coming rabble drew them both to the door.

" Very proudly and erect Haverleigh moved on. never
once glancing back at the crowd behind him. But he
knew that it was there, and heard the muttered menaces
as he opened the gate and walked to the door. It was
Madame Verwest who met him and asked : ' Ernest Haver-
leigh, why are you here ? '

Why ? • he repeated, and his voice was like a savage
growl. ' Why am I here ? I am here for my wife and my
SOD, and I intend to have them, too. I'd like to see the
law that can keep them from me, so lead the way quickly,
for I shall be off in the next train.'

'"Never with Anna and the baby. Never, while I
have the power to prevent it, as I have,' Madame Verwest
replied, and then all the pent-up fury of the terrible man
burst out, and there were flecks of white foam about his

lips as hfi nnrserl ^\\a ■arnTvxr.n T"-^- l-_i_ii _ 1 . , .

r c , manwiiu uuiuly kept him at bay,

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CHATEAU D'oB.

With the most horrible of curses, callinir her at last by the
vilest name a wo, ,an can be called, and asking for her
wedding ring and the certificate of her marriage.

"•Ernest Havtsleigh. hush; nor dare to speak to me
your mother, like that again.'

" The voice which said these words was very steadv
and low. but Haverieigh heard it distinctly, and, grasp-
ing the back of the chair near which he was standing
repeated: 'My mother; you, who were only my nurse!
You call yourself my mother ! '

"'Yes, and before Heaven I am your mother; listen
while I tell you what y6u should have known before, but
for a promise to the dead.'

"He was still staring at her. with the same corpse-like
pallor on his face, and the look of a wild beast in his eyes
but he did not speak, for something in the woman before'
him kept him silent while she went on :

" ' I am your mother, and I thought I was your father's
wife, until after you were born, when there came a day
of horrid awakening, and I found I was betrayed by the
man I loved, and for whom I had left my home, for I was
young and innocent once, and pretty, too, they said ; but
I was poor and hated poverty, and when this rich man
came with honeyed words and fair promises, I believed
and trusted him to my ruin, and went with him over the
sea— for I am American born, and not English, as you sup-
pose. We staid in lodgings in London till you were born,
and by that time a face fairer than mine had come be-
tween me and your father, a woman he meant to n,«rr..

IN AMERICA.

15S

'» TY» flrrtr

and so he told me the truth of his villainy, and when I
found I was not his wife, I think I went mad for a time,
and when I came to myself I wa.s in poorer lodgings in an
obscure part of London, where I passed for Mr. Haver-
eigh s house-keeper, who had served him so faithfully
that he would not cast me off in my trouble. That -^b
the he he told, and they believed him and were kir.i to
me for the sake of the money he paid them. You ^er.
at Grasmere then with your father, whom in spite ^
everything I loved, and to whom I went, begging him to
et me have the care of my child if nothing more. To
this he consented, the more readily because he was about
to marry my rival, and you might be in the way. He
loved you. I do believe, and he trusted me. but he made
me swear not to divulge my real lelation to you. I was
your nurse, your foster-mother, nothing more. There
might be no children of the marriage, he said, and if so. he
should make you his heir, and did not wish you to know
the stam upon your birth. There were no children, and
as If to punish him for his sin to me, his wife died within
the year, and he was left alone and made you his heir, so
hat when he died all he had was left to you. except a
.thousand pounds given to me. whom he designated as the
foster-mother of his child.

" ' You. as you grew up. believed the woman who died
at Grasmere was your mother, and that I was only your
nurse ; but that was false ; I was your mother, else I had

r;;" ^r ^-^-- ^ ^ ^-, and dung to you
«"OUg. uli as^only a mother can cling to the son whose

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wickedness she knows, and whom she cannot forsake.
Yon thought me in your power, because you fancied I had
been indiscreet in my youth, and that your threats to ex-
pose me kept me quiet to do your bidding. There you
were mistaken. It was the mother loving you through
everything which made me the same as a prisoner at
Chateau d'Or, where I was really happier than when fol-
lowing you about. Because it suited you, I consented to
be Madame Verwest, a Frenchwoman, and for you I have
lived a life of deceit, which, thank Heaven, is over now.
I meant to release Anna myself sometime, on the plea of
your insanity, if by no other, for there is madness in your
father's family, and you are mad at times. But others
planned the escape, and I gladly followed to America, my
native land, and to Millfield, my old home, for I am Milly
Gardner, step-siscer to Anna's father, and the one you
told me went to the bad, and was the only blot on the
familv.'

" Up to this time there had been a listener to Madame
Verwest's story— Mrs. Strong, who, terrified at the first
appearance of Haverleigh, had fled to the adjoining room,
where she sank into a chair faint and helpless, and thus
heard all that jvas said by Madame Verwest. At the
mention of Milly Gardner, however, she sprang to her feet
and ran to the woman's side, exclaiming ;

" 'Oh, Milly, Milly ! I have heard so much of you from
my husband, and from him learned to love you even
while believing the story I kno^ now to be false. It is
all 80 strange that you should be hero when we thought

IN AMERICA.

155

il\l

you dead years ago. And ycya are his mother/ she con-
tinued, pointing to Haverleigh. ' Send him away, if you
have any power over him ; he must not see my child '

"The sound of Mrs. Strong's voice speaking of Anna
roused Haverleigh from his stupor, or rather state of be-
wilderment, and with a savage oath he started forward
exclaiming : '

"'I shall see your child, and take her, too, for she is
mine otand a^ide, woman-hag-beldame- who dares
to call herself my mother,' he continued as Madame Ver-
west laid her hands upon his arm. ' It is a lie you have
told me. My mother was she who lived and died at

Urasmere, and you — you are '

" He did not finish the sentence, for his excitement and
passion had been increasing every moment, while his face
grew more and more swollen and purple, until the flecks
of foam gathered more thickly about his lips, which o-ave
forth a bubbling sound as he fell across the chair in a fit.
"Then the mother woke again in Madame Verwest
and kneeling by the side of her tossing, struggling son'
she hfted up his head, and cared for him as tenderly as
when he was a new-born baby and first lay upon her
bosom. The terrible convulsions ceased at last, and the
natural colour came back to his face; but the eyes, which
.a.stcned themselves upon her with such a look of hate
were the eyes of a madman, who had in his heart intense'
hatred and even murderous designs toward the woman
who still held his head upon her lap, and dropped her
tears upon his face.

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CHATEAU D*OR.

"'Woman— fiend — liar— I'll have your life!* he
screamed, as he sprang to his feet, and with clenched fists
darted toward his mother, who stepped aside to avoid the
blow, and thus made way for the men outside on the
walk, who, attracted by the loud, angry tones, had come
nearer and nearer to the door, which they reached just
as Haverleigh rose to his feet and sprang toward his
mother.

"'Hold, villain— stop that!' the foremost of them
cried; and Haverleigh was caught by both arms, and
held as in a vice by t\70 men, who yet had hard work to
keep him from breaking loose from their grasp.

" A moment sufficed to convince them that it was no
sane man thev held, and then arose a call for ropes with
which to bi. a him. I think the whole town knew by
this time what was going on, and the street in front of
Mrs. Strong's was densely packed with an excited throng,
but only a few entered the house, and these the more in-
timate acquaintances of the family. That Haverleigh was
raving mad was a fact no one doubted, and to secure his
person was a step which seemed imperative, but was hard
of accomplishment, for he was naturally strong, and his
excitement lent to him a double strength. But he was
mastered at last, and carried bod'ly to the village hall,
where he was to be kept securely until some decision was
reached as to what should be done with him. That de-
cision was reached before the close of the next day, for
he grew more and more furious and uncontrollable, until
the asylum stemed the only alternative, and thither they

IN AMERICA.

167

carried him at last, and placed him in the strong room, as
it was called, where, struggle as he might, he could not
get free or burst the bars and bolts which held him.

" Meanwhile, in Millfield, Madame Verwest, as we will
call her, had told her story more fully to Mrs. Strong,
while Anna, too, when she was better and could bear it,'
heard that the woman who from the first had been so'
kind to her in Chateau d'Or, was in reality her mother-
m-law, and the grandmother of the little boy Arthur
Like poor Agatha Wynde she had been lured from her
place in Boston, where she was employed in a st.aw shop.
The man v. ho gave his name to her as Stevens, was an
Englishman, and rich, and she went with him trustingly
and honourably, as she believed, until the dreadful day
when she found how she had been deceived. Even then
she loved him and clung to her child, whom she was al-
lowed to care for on condition that she passed as his
nurse or foster-mother, and to this promise she held for
many years, during which time Haverleigh died and left
by will all his fortune to his son, except a thousand
pounds bequeathed to the wretched woman who stood by
him when he died ; and, when, selfish to the last, he said :
'Don't let the boy know the story of his birth. Let him
tmnk that Mabel was his mother,' she answered him. ' I
will,' and bore her secret bravely, and cared for the boy
and was a very slave to his wishes, because of the love
she bore him.

" Whatever opinion he might have had of her, her in-
fluence over him was great, and he really seemed to have

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CHATEAU D'oR.

a genuine affection for her as the only mother he had ever
known, and would never suffer her to leave his service,
as he called it. He paid her well, told her most of his'
plans, counselled with her often, and at times evinced for
her a liking and respect very dear to the woman who
longed S3 much to fall upon his neck and claim him as
her son. She had been with him in Scotland, and London,
and Paris, and at last, six years before his marriage with
Anna, had gone with him to Chateau d'Or, whichl&e had
just bought, and where for weeks he held a high carxJ- .'
with his wild dissipated friends. The quiet and seclusion
of the place just suited his mother, who at his request had,
before leaving Paris, taken the name of Madame Verwest.'
" Up to that time she had been Mrs. Stevens, for she
clung to the name she once believed to be her own, but it
pleased her son to have her Madame Verwest, and a
Frenchwoman, so a Frenchwoman she was; and becai a-
she liked the chateau so much he permitted her tc sta^
there in charge of the servants,- who held her in great
esteem. The isolated position of the chateau was just
suited to some of Haverleigh's nefarious schemes, and
poor Agatha ^'^ ynde was not the first young girl who had
been immured within its walls. A fair-haired German
from Munich, and a dark-eyed Italian from Veiona had
been hidden there for months until the search for them
by their grief-stricken friends was over. When poor
Agatha came there she had been so fair, so sweet and so
confiding, that Madame Verwest had taken the erring, re-
pentant girl into her h^^rt, and loved her like a mother.

IN AMEEICA.

100

" ' We don't think quite the same,' Agatha had said to
her during a lucid interval a day or two before she died.
' We are not the same religion. You Protestant, I Catho^
liqm; but you love Jesus, you ask Him to forgive, and
so do I; Him and Mary, too ; and He will, and you will
come to Heaven after poor Agatha some day. I sure you
will, for there be now and then son^e Protestants there.'
" This was quite a concession for one so devout as
Agatha, and Madame Verwest had smiled faintly when it
was made, but she kissed the pallid lips and brow where
death had already set its seal, and when at last all was
over she placed a golden crucifix in the white hands folded
so meekly over the heart which would never know pain
again. She telegraphed to Haverleigh, who was dining
with Eugenie when he received the message, and who
read the telegram without a word of comment, and then,
lest the jealous eyes watching him so closely should see'
it, he lighted a match, and applying it to the paper, saw
it burn to ashes. But he could not seem quite natural,
and as soon as dinner was over he excused himself, and
started directly for the station, leaving Eugenie to specu-
late upon the nature of the telegram which had so plainly
affected his spirits, and taken him from her earlier
than his wont. Alas she little guessed the truth, or
dreamed of the beautiful girl lying so cold and still in her
coffln, and on whose white face even Haverleigh's tears
feU, when he looked upon her dead, and remembered what
she was when he first saw her, a lovely peasant-girl in
Normandy, singing by her father's door. They buried

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CHATEATT d'or.

her quietly, and then Haverleigh returned to Paris and
Eugenie, while over the lonely grave Madame Verwest
vowed that no other maiden should ever come there n.
Agatha had come ; and so, when she first hear.l of Anr.
she resolved upon something desperate, until told thai
Anna was a wife in very deed, and that no stain was on
her name Then, when she learned M>ho she was. and
whence she came, Jier heart went out to the desolate crea-
ture with a great throb of lov , which strengM ened every
day. and was such as a real mother feels for a suffering
lU-used child. Many times, when li.ta.nng to Anna's talk
of her New England home, she h,id been tempted to tell
her who she was. but had refrained from doing so. hoping
always that the day was not far distant when slie could
disclose everything, and be her real self again. That day
had come .fc last, and with no fear of the dreadful man
who had ruled her for so many years, she tov her story
and waited the verdict of her wondering listeners

"Anna was the first to speak. Motioning Madame
Verwest to her bedside, she wound her arms around her
neck, and said :

" ' I loved you as a mother at Chateau d'Or. and am so
glad to find you are my mother truly, and the grand-
mother of little Arthur.'

« Neither were Mrs. Strong and Mary backward in their
demonstrations of friendship and esteem for the woman
who had suffered so much since the day. years before
when she had left her home in Millfield and returned no'
more. Could the inmates of the red house have blotted

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161

horn their minds 'ho memory of the poor lunatic who,
uoi many miles a v/ay. was chafing and raging like a newly-
cagid animal, they would have been very happy these
last summer days ; and, to a certain degree, they were
happ>, though, in her low, nervous state Anna could
never quite put trom her mind the fear lest her dreaded
liusband should by some means escape from his confine-
ment and come to do her harm. But the bolts and bars
were very strong which held him, else he might perhaps
have escaped, for he seemed endowed with superhuman
strength, and clutched savagely at the iron gratings of
his cell, shaking them at times as if they were but dried
twigs in his hands.

" He was terrible in his insanity, and only his keeper
and physician ever ventured near him. At them he
sprang and snapped viciously, like a dog chained to a
post, while he filled the room with the most horrid oaths,
cursing Madame Verwest, who had dared to call him her
child.

'"He who was highly born, the son of a gentleman,
the child of a servant, a nurse, a Yankee, and illegitimate
at that; curse her! curse her! she lies! she lies! she
played me false, and I hate her!' he would scream, when
his mother was the subject of his thoughts.

"Again when it was Eugenie, he grew, if possible, more
desperate than before, and would utter such oaths that
even his keeper, hardened as he was by similar scenes,
'-r- ' from the hearing of the blasphemous words.

" Of Anna and Agatha he never spoke until toward

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CHATEAU D'oR.

the last, when, as if he had worn his fierce nature out
lie grew more quiet, and would sit for hours perfectly still'
with his head bowed upon his hands, intently brooding
over somahing in the past. Was he thinking of Agatha
and the cottage far away in Normandy, where he first
saw her singing in the sunshine, with the sweet, shy look
of innocence in her soft eyes, or did she come up before
him as he last looked upon her, cold, white, and dead in
her coffin, ruined by him, who had used every art in his
power to lure her into the snare ? It would seem that
she came to him in both phases, for at times he would
smile famtly and whisper^ very soft and low ;

" ' Ma petite, ma cherie. Venez avec moi d Paris Je
vous aime bien.'

"To her he always spoke in French, with the ntmest
tenderness, saying to her as he thought himself bending
over her coffin : *

;• I am sorry, Aggie, I am so sorry, and I wish I had

eftyouinyonr home as innocent as I found you, poor

ittle Agg,e, so white and cold; don't look at me with

those mournful eyes; don't touch me with those death-

fnlt \''"^l}J°''^y°'' k""- you are dead, deud. and dead

folks he st,ll ? Don't touch me, I say ; ' and cries of fear

would echo through the hall a. the terror-stricken man

fancied himself embraced and held fast by the arms which

France "' '"'' '*°"'*'' ""' "^ ^ ^o""-'™

" ■ It's the French girl after him now,' the keeper would

»y, as he heard the cries and pleadings for some one • to

IN AMERICA.

168

lie still and take their cold hands off' ' It's the French
girl after him now, death hug, you know. He'll be quieter
when it's t'other one ; ' the ' t'other one ' referring to Anna
who was often present to the disordered mind of the man
but who never excited him like Agatha.

"He was not afraid of Anna, but would hold long con-
versations with her, trying sometimes to convince her of
her insanity, and again telling her that he loved her and
always had, notwithstanding what he had heard her say
of him in New York. It was in the spring following the
summer when Anna arrived at Millfield that this softer,
quieter mood came upon him, and with it a debility, and
loss of strength and appetite, and gradual wasting away,
which told that his days were numbered. Years of dissi-
pation had undermined his naturally strong constitution,
and he had no surplus vitality on which to draw, so that
the decay, once commenced, was very rapid, and just a
year from the day Anna came back to Millfield he was dead.
" 3Tadame Verwest was with him when he died ; for,
though he never asked for her or for any one, the mother
love was too strong to keep her from him, and she went
to him unbidden when she heard how sick he was. Whe-
ther her presence was any gratification to him or not, she
never knew, for he expressed nothing, either by word or
look. Once, when she spoke to him of Anna and his boy,
there came a faint flush upon his face, and he repeated
the names :

" ' Anna— Arthur.'

" Again, wh- she said to him :

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■•; Ernest, you have much mon.; and land ,n your pos-
sess,™. If you die, where do you v,sh it to go r ^

replied: " '"'""'°' '" ""^'"'''^ ""' '"'^""y- '"«' *»
" 'Anna, Arthur — mother.'

a mfn '„Mlr"'f ^'■ir'"'"' '"'■"y' '""'"y' »<! brought
a m n of tears from the poor woman, who had clung to

God who deals just;- with all His creatures. They
lought h,m an elegant coffin.a^d dressed him in the iinesi

h m i°nt ••7' '""^'"'■" "P^" ^'"« -0 '--^'i
Blel «u\T' '™™^°^'' "''''"' ''"' '••-■oh. when he

him. She could not; but she suffered Madame Verwestto
take Arthur with herto the gravo, a.d so the mofterld

arthTnd^'^'T "'"^ ''" ""^^ -- '--^ '» *^e

•■To the httle boy the weeping woman said :

That s your father, Arthur; yo., fath. . they . .e

and b..ds, and flowers, than of the cerem...M which had
no mean.ng for him, and releasing himself from his ^^and
mother, started m pursuit of a butterfly, and his loud babv
laugh mmgled with the sound of the dirt ™ttw'wn

Z^J" ""^ "'"'' '=°°'*-»^<' ^'^' >««' ^-' ™

Here Hal Morton paused, and pointed tow.rJ . v.,.

IN AMERICA.

16S

closed shutter, th-ough which the early morning waa
breaking. We had sat up all night, he telling and I lis-
tening to this strange story, which I felt was not finished
yet, for I must know more of Anna, and if anything had
ever been heard from Eugenie, who, however bad as she
might seem, had shown herself in some respects a noble
woman, with many noble instincts and kindly feelings;
so I said to my companion :

" Never j^ind the daylight, Hal. We will order a tip-
top br^aki^st by and by, and meantime you finish the
story and tell me more of Anna and Eugenie. Did the^
ever hear from her, and did Anna and the child get
Haverleigh's money ' "

"Yea, they got ti iverleigh's money," Hal replied.
"Anna and Arthur bet>v i them. It was theirs lawfully,
you know, and there wa. a million in all. Think of
Anna Strong,' a millionair( But it did not hurt her one
whit, or -hange her in the least f n the sweet, modest,
half-frightened woman who came back to Millfield in
place of the gay Anna we had known. She did not
wear mourni ,g for her husband ; she could not with that
consciousness in her heart of relief because he was dead ;
but she always wore black or white, r. lieved perhaps
v-i'.h a Knot of ribbon or flower, and never was there a
fairev sight than was she in this sober attire as she went
about our village, seeking the sick or suftering, and giving
to the poor of the wealth that God had given her She
built her mother a handsome house on an elevation lust
out of the town, and a wing was added for Madame Ver^

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"And so the working i„ the shoe-shop was at an end

(chateau d Or were past, and there were people foolish

When the end had brought such peaee. To Eugenie
Anna had often written, and when aJl was over she w,l'
agam telling „f the death. Then the FreL ilon
sistenoy of character showed itself and fl,
whom H„„ T • . 1 , '■" "''^"' ond the woman to

Tent afdT, ", . "k "'"'"^^ '"''' '''■"' "" -J"l--nt.
m re 7 th ^ " "' '^°«'f"'^''. P^^y for her l„ss,°a„d
more, I th.nk, because no provision had been n.ade for

-MonDieu.r she wrote to Anna, 'to think no little
t ""T '"°'' ""^ ""^ «'-■> «-y«"ng f:r hi
poor, too Not so much to buy one pair of gloves and

and so good. Shall I send you a box of black-bah non
rm chene. You not wear that for he but «,. r /
wear rr^n^^ o«^ u V . ' "^ ''^^' ^ 'nwst

wear cr.p., and bombasin, one leetle month, for my heart

all French, all crepe, all ache, douleur, for the bad mon
sieur, who once love Eugenie TTp h. '

-d I draw check at w^ld ^"^0:^
^housaud franc left, which you make two hid d dl:

.^ Eugenie most fort;^::-s„^-;-i-:-

IN AMERICA.

107

wnnkles. which paste will not cover. No monsieur want
me for wife: I want no monsieur. So I must work •
must hang out the sign. ' Rohes et Costumes. Madame
Eugenie; and tie to it some bonnets and caps. Oh hut
It will go hard aft<>r all the ease, to liave so many girls
round, and I must scold them all the time ; perhaps I act
agam. but it I hate so much; it brings me lea messieurs
again, and I won't have it. For you, you so happy with
beaucoup d'argent, no more nasty shop, no more wax. no
more leather, no more smell-bad ; but for me leather, and
wax, and smell-bad, toujours, tovjours, Mon Dieu, 'tis
quite hard, and I give all to him, all ; and if ho not die,
what you call him, cra^y, he remember Eugenie in his-
his little last testament, you call it, or some book like
that. Oh, me, I starve, I die. I liave the many oirla
around me with the bad to sew, and you have the silk.
the satm, the opera, and the lunch at Trois Freres—bien
-'tis right, but hard, and it takes so few money to set
me up, quite. Me comprenez-vouzV

"Anna did understand the hint, and sent to the French-
woman, who had done her great service, ten thousand
dollars, which Eugenie acknowledged with rapture.

"'Enough, with prudency and save, to keep me lady
all my life. No need for the girls now to sew les robes;
no leather, no wax, no smell-bad. forevermore. but highly
respectable woman, who let rooms to les Americairu^ and
bring them cafe in the morning.'
" This was Eugenie's reply, and after that Anna heard

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CHATEAU D'OR.

no more from her, but supposed her happy aa a highly
respectable woman and keeper of lodgers " ^

The mention of Eugenie's cafe «-as too much for Hal
and myself in our exhausted condition, and ringin, th
bel we ordered ../e f„r two in our apartment, ^d

^:z:z ''''"" ''' "^'"^""^ '--'^- ' -^ ^

a LT' '""' "T *"" ' 'P'™*^" ^'"'■y- '''" 1 »•"* hear
a httle more. You were in love with Am>a Strong before

fer:::i.^^™"''^''-"'^'''-~bar.afte:

Hal made no answer for a moment, then he said •
time ";^ ""' 'f' y°" '^»«*e^ word to-day; nor have I
off ftr nT:." "' " '""^ "' *'''^""'-- -'' *°-gl>tbe

;; And not stop at Cannes ? " I aaked and he replied:
No, not stop at Cannes-a stupid place, full of English
Nice IS the spot in all the world for me "

Urand Hotel, and our rooms opened upon the spacious
garden, where, looking from my window in the S2^

attention at once. A beautiful boy of three yea,, old
wa., running up and down a gravelled walk, folbwed by
asmart-looking French maid, who always brought him
ba^k to two ladies sitting on a bench under the trees

One laay wa, old and draped in black, but the other
was young, and oh, so fair in her morning-dress of white

IN AMERICA.

as a highly

uch for Hal
ringing the
nents, and,
e, I said to

must hear
rang before
back after

said :

or have I

io-night be

eplied:
>f English.

red at the

spacious

morning,

•acted my

years old

owed by

ight him

irees.

;iie other

>f white,

169

with a blue ribbon in her wavy hair. There were dia-
monds and costly gems sparkling ,)i, her hands, and every-
thing about her betokened the lady of wealth and culture
" Who IS she, 1 wonder ? " I was saying to myself, when
I saw Hal enter the garden and walk strai-ht up to her
while a shout from the little boy showed that he was no
stranger,

_ Stranger! I should say not by the kiss he gave that
girl or woman, with me looking on, and saying aloud :
" There's Anna, sure ! "

Yes, it was Anna come abroad with Madame Verwest
and her child, and herfor.nor maid, Celine, whom she had
found at the Chateau d'Or, whore they had stopped for a
few days. And an hour after I was introduced to Mrs
Haverleigh, and sat opposite her at the breakfast we had
in her parlour, and studied her closely, and decided that
■tial had not overrated her charms.

She was beautiful, with that soft, refined, unconscious
beauty that one ra .ely sees in a really haudsom. face.
Ihere was nothing of tl.o doll about her. She was a
thorough woman, gracoful, pure and lovely, with a look
m her blue eyes which -told of Chateau d'Or and the
dreamy day and night watches there. But those were
over now Chateau d'Or was rented for a series of years
at a price merely nominal, and so that was off her hands'
and the greatest caro she had was the care of her immense'
fortune. Of course Hal had offered to relieve her of this
care, and she had accepted his ofter, and given him herself
as a retaining fee.

• I

'«

m : ♦! m

170

CHATEAU D'oR.

We kept with her after that, or Hal did, and I kept at
a distance and talked with Madame Verwest, and romped
with Arthur until we reached Venice, and there, one
moonhght night, Hal and Anna were married, and we
made the tour of the Grand Canal for a wedding trip, and
the canopy over t^e bride was of pure white satin, and in
the soft, silvery moonlight we sang the " Star-Spanded
Banner, our two boatmen joining in the chorus with
their sweet Italian voices.

That was long ago, and Hal Morton has a boy of his
own now, and a blue-eyed baby daughter too, and he lives
in one of the finest palaces on the Connecticut river and
goes to Europe every year, and Madame Verwest lives
with him; and Fred, has been through college, and is on
the Continent now ; and Mary is married to a Methodist
mimster and Mrs. Strong is dead ; and Eugenie-well
when the Commune swept over Paris, Eugenie herself
went into the street and cared for the wounded and dyinc.
and hurled a stone at a Frenchman who was attacking an
Amenean, and kept him at bay, and got the young man
mto her own house, and bandaged up his head, and called
him Sharles. and asked him if he remembered her

J^ied. did remember her then, and staid with her till the
fierce storm was over and he was free to leave beleaguered
and desecrated Paris and go on his way to Scotland
where he found Hal Morton and Anna in their beautifui'
home among the Highlands, not very far from Loch
Katrme, and so I finish this story of Chateau d'Or.

THE END.

NOEAH.

! '1

T HAD crossed in the bright Ootober sunshine from
Calais to Dover without once taking refuge in the
etose, pent-up saloon, which is like a little purgatory when
the waters of the Channel are stirred to their depths, and
the boat ,s tossed like a feather from one ang,y wave to
another It wa, very quiet that day, and the sea was
literally hke glass, with the sunshine falling so softly upon
It. Nobody had been sick except a fair young girl, with
'.■*<;<, unmistakably stamped upon her, from her dainty
tmvclhng-dress to the trustful glance of the blue eyes
hfted so often and lovingly to the face of the young man
beside her. Once, wlien the boat rocked more than usual •
she had turned white to her lips, and, dropping her golden
head upon the shoulder of her husband, had kep* iuhere
ma weary, languid kind of way, while I speculated about
her, wondenng who she was, and where she was going, and
hopmg that the party of American giri,, who LZd t.
'uouopoii^e and hll the entire deck, would take note 0/ her'

; f

i i

I :

lit

NORAH.

*nd sHr'^l'"" "'"' "' "^ countrywomen had taste,
and style and beauty combined.

"Sach frights as the English women are, with their

everlasting white th.ng tied high about their throats" I
had heard one of them say, and, while flushing with in
d.gnat.o„, had felt, *. a certain degree, that their criUcim

nTcC "V"^' '''^" " '' -'"'"'' *"<' ^"='-'' "x^'e s" d
not compare favourably with their American sisters so far
as grace and style were concerned

But this little bride, with the blue eyes »nd golden hair
m.ght have come from the show-rooms 'f the mlt f^h ot'
able modiste on Broadway, and not have shamed her
mantua-maker. She had evidently been gotten up i"

tim;:t 7t'' ""' "'"' " ^o"" '^-' of interest',
td the chff. of Dover were in sight, and we wez^c nearing
the shores ot England and home. Then, in seeing to J;
boxes which were the very last to be brought from thi
boat, I forgot everything, and came near being left by the
train waiting to take us to London. ^

"Hurry up, Mi.ss, you've only quarter of a second," a
porter cried, as, in my bewilderment, I was lookin. for a
carnage "Here, here! this way! Second class" "h
screamed again, interrogatively, and seizing the door of a
second-class carriage, he held it open for me guessin. bv
what intuition I know not t),«f T , goosing, by
second-class passe^J ' "'"' """^''^ "^ "

of dear Kitty Bute, with whom my vacation had been

HiKi

NORAH.

173

passed, I was first-class all the way from Paris to London
and,rejectingcontemptuou3ly the porter's offer of assistance'
I sprang mto the nearest first-class compartment, just as
the tram began to move, and found myself alone with the
little bride and groom. There was a look of annoyance
m the eyes of the bride, while the young man gave asi..-
nificant pull to his brown mustache, and I knew I was not
wanted. Buf T had a right as valid as their own, and tak-
ing my seat on the o})posite side, near the open window I
pretended to be occupied with the country throu<.h which
we were passing so swiftly, while my thoughts w° nt back
to the past, gathering up the broken threads of my life and
dwelling upon wliat I had been once and what I was now
And this is the picture I saw far back through a vista
of twelve long, weary years. A pleasant old house in
Middlesex-an English house, of stone, with ivy cre.vin..
over It even to the chimney-tops, and the boxes of flowei^
m the windows, the tall trees in front, the patches of aer-
amums and petunias in the grass, the honeysuckle o^'ver
the door of the wide, old-fashioned hall, throuc^h which
the summer air blew softly, laden with the perfumi of roses,
and the sweet-scented mignonette. And I was standincr
m the door, with a half-opened rose in my hair, and the
tall, angular boy who liad placed it there was lookinn- down
upon me with great tears swimming in his eyes as he
said : '

"Keep the rose, Norah, till I come back, and I « shall
know you have not forgotten me, even if vou are Mi^
Archibald Browning." *'

174

NOEAH.

There was an emphasis on the last name, and a tone in
h.s ™ee as he spoke it, which did not please n,e, a^, I

"Oh, Tom, why can't you like Archie better, and he so
noble and good, and so kind to get you that po ition with
his uncle in India ?" ™u nitn

" Yes, I know , Archie is lovely, and X . ; i a brute be-
cause I don't f..el like kissing his feet just because he in
jested h,„„elf to get me the place' But I h;' you
wJl be happy, and if those two lubbers of cousin! hap!
pen to d,e you will he my Lady Cleaver, and mistress of
Br.erton Lodge; but don't forget old Tom, who by tha
t.me w>ll be married to some black Ea.,t Indian prices,
and have lot, of little darkies .unning round. The el
must go now, it's thue. I say, Norah, come with ne
rough the field to the highway. I want to keep h h
of you to the ve>y last, and Archie won't care. I'„!you
brother, you know." 'mjoui

He was my brother to all intents and pu.T,oses, though
really my second cousin. But I had no brother, or s,Sr
or mother, only a father and aunt, and Tom had 1 ved w h
us smee I was a little girl of ten, and now he was gdn'
out to India to make his fortune. His ship would .saU »
the morrow, and I couldn't refuse to go with him as far
as the .ghway, where he was to take the stage for Lon-
don. It was a forlorn, dreary walk through the pleasant

f:Z ■ i"' ' '°''' '""^ ™"^ 0-''^' ™^ '■' - -
a g^eat wrench ■„ my heart at the thought of parting with

him, He was silent, a^nd npvar .p^u. « ^_ , *=., .

P'^^'^ 8- Wurd untii the

liM

NORAH.

175

stile was reached, where we were to pari. Then, sud-
denly lifting me high in his arms, as if I were a child,
for I was very short and he was very tall, he kissed my
forehead and lips, and cried like a baby, as he said :

" Good-by, little Norah, Mrs. Archibald Browning, good-
by, and God bless you ; and if that husband ever does
abuse you, tell him he will answer for it to me, Tom Gor-
don, the gawky cousin with more legs than brains."

" Oh, Tom, " I said, struggling to my feet. " you know
Archie did not mean that, and maybe he never said it. I
wish you did not hate him so."

" I don't hate him, Norah. I simply do not like him
or any of his race. They are a proud set, who think you
highly honoured to be admitted into the blooded family
of Browmng.s. And then, too, Norah," he continued, with
that peculiar smile which was his one beauty and made
him irresistible. " then, too, Norah, you see— you know—
I'm not your brother ; I'm only your second cousin, and
though I never thought you very handsome, you are the
nicest girl I ever knew, and-well I think I meant to
marry you myself ! "

He burst into a merry laugh and looked straight in my •
face as I drew back from him with a gasp, exclaiming :

" You, Tom ; you marry me ! Why, I'm old enough to
be your grandmother ! "

" You are twenty, I am nineteen ; that's all the differ-
ence, though I confess that you have badgered.and scolded,
and lectured me enough for forty grandmothers," he said ':
** but there's the stage, and now it's really good-by. "

n -•

Ml-

176

NORAH.

Two minutes more find I was walVJnr, 1.1 ,

"ly pait. Again he was a fierce kmVTif ..«^ t ,

est, ron,antieke.st, awfuUest soa-kigl W t ST
broad kingdom." Wp h^^ «. / ^^^ *"^

%hts, in ^weh I i:.y\z r™^ *"»' -^ -»

peculiar „„de of wa,4 a TL°/ ^ °[: 7'"»^*° "^
"pon him like a little cat anrt T '''™S'"S

ened revoncrp onri fou -f ^ ^^^'^ "^^ had threat-

till it bled, and e-ied S si^" thT ff "°"
" up, and buried dol„ Lr th oldlX - -^ '■' ""'''

NORAH.

177

and reared a slab to her memory, and planted some daisies
on her grave. And just here, near what seemed to be the
grave of my childhood, I sat down that summer after,
nooD and thought of all those years-of Tom on his way
to India, and of the future opening so brightly before me
fori was the betrothed wife of Archibald Browninr. who'
belonged to one of the best families in the county and in
less than a month we were to be married and spend our
honeymoon in Switzerland, among the glorious Alps, of
which I had dreamed so much. I kn^w that Archie's
mother was very proud, and thought her son might have
looked higher than Norah Burton, especially as there was
a possible peerage in prospect ; but she was civil to me
and had said that a season in London would improve me'
greatly, if such a little creature could be improved • and
Archie, I was sure, loved me dearly, notwithstanding
that he sometimes criticised my style and manner, and
wished I was more like his cousin, Lady Darinda Cleaver
who, I heard, powdered her face and pencilled her eye-
brows, and was the finest rider on Rotten Row. Tom
who had been often in London, had seen the Lady Dar-
mda. and reported her as a perfect giantess, who wore a
man's hat with a flappet behind on the waist of her riding
suit, and sat her horse as stiffly and straight as if held in
her place by a ramrod, and never rode faster than a black
ant could trot.

This was Tom's criticism, which I had repeated to
Archie, Avho laughed a little, and nulled his i;,.hf.K,..^„
mustache, a:

said : " Tom

was not a proper judge

'■]

■ ; i

m\ '

1 a

y . J

1 !

* ' ;

178

NORAH.

of stjiish women, and that Uarinda's m,^ „ers were fault-

b„[ iT^l f°'"'\ "'^ ""■•'■ "'°"Sl' 1 1""! never seen her,
but I houU ere long, as she had consented to be on. of
mybndes.maids,a„d had written me a note wh eh was
vej prettdy worded, and ve,y patronizing in its ton

Tethtl M.7"™ '" ''' '*'■■ '"-h-hhetold
me that he should be with me on the day after Tom's de-

mv tl ™ "'T^° ^''"^ '"' '''' ■=»■"»& I think, for

wor r ir, 77 '"^^ ^' P"-""« -*'■ T-. whose
words, I meant to marry you myself," kept ringin.. in

my ears as I sat alone in the grassy lane by'the rS f

he p'Vhouse he had built. Not that I attaehed the

s.ghest,mportance to then,, or b„ii.,ved for a mom n

h he was serious in what he ..i, for he was mrbro

and whom I m.ssed so much, that at ia«t I laid my head
upon dolly's miniature grave and cried bitterly for ^e
^y travelhng so fast to London, and the ship whilh would
teke bm away. There ^vas, however, comfort in the
thought that Archie was coming on the morrow, and he
next mommg found me with spirits restored, ea Jand
expectant for my love. But Archie did not come, "al dthe
h u^wore on and there was no news of him until the
following day, when there came a note from his mother
tellmg me he was sick. '

" ^"'"ng very serious," she wrote, « only a heavy cold
the result of a drenching he received whHe riding with

Ih'

NORAH.

179

Darinda several miles out in the country. He sends his
love, and says you are not to be alarmed, for he will soon
be with you."

That was the note, and I was not to be alarmed, nor
was I. I was only conscious that a strange kind of feel-
ing took possession of me, which I could not define, but
which sent me to my room, where the bridal finery lay,
and made me fold it up, piece by piece, and put it care-
fully away, with a feeling that it would never be worn.
There was much sickness in our neighbourhood that sum-
mer, and the morning after hearing of Archie's illness I
took my breakfast in bed, and after that day knew little
of what was passing around me until the roses which
wore blossoming so brightly when Tom went away were
fading on their stalks, and other and later flow^ers were
blossoming in their place.

I had been very sick. Aunt Esther said, with the dis-
temper, as they called the disease, which had desolated so
many homes in our vicinity.

" What day is this ? What day of the month I mean ? "
I asked, feeling dazed and bewildered, and uncertain
whether it was yesterday. that I sat in the lane and cried
for dear Tom, or whether it was long ago.

"It's the tenth," she said ; and her voice shook a little,
and she did not turn her face toward me but pretended to
be busy with the curtains of the bed.

" The tenth ? " I cried. " Tenth of July, my wedding
day 1 Do you mean that ?"

i If

; i' :

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IMAGE EVALUATION
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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80

(716)872-4503

<i«

180

NORAH.

Vtii

I! I'M

"Yes," she answered, softiv "it ,,,„. . i
your wedding-day." ^' " "' '» ''"e been

m'l^:T" ' ""'"'"''^ ^ *'■' '- ''""—- '.0 here."
reomy with the curtain, as she replied:
He ,s not here now, but he is bettor, i„„oh better "
This time her voice and manner aw„ko in me ".Li
eion of some impending evil, and exerting all my tlnX
I raised myself in bed, and said, vel,o,„™tly '''""'«'''■

Tell t?'th """■■ ^"^ '"'' ^'"f"'!^ »°"'««™g from me
Tell me the worst at once. Is Archie dead,^or Tom or

3^-n vo„crtrr<^:r:-rdr;" ^

' You have not told me all Vn,, „. i •
-e. Is Archie dead?' ^ou are trying to deceive

Archie 2vas dead and buried ten davs a<.o T) i
cold taken while ridin<. wifl. T ^ T " ' ^'^''^^y

con,e.tion of the 1';? n .h tl 1""^'^ '"' '^^^"^^
mvloss he 1,.^ ^- 1 ? T ^''^ unconscious of

m^ loss he had died, and Lady Darinda had written me

a note of condolence and symnathv Af... i^

+^^ 11, '^^"ipatny. j\i,..s. Jirownino- wnt

too much broken down to write she .«; 1 , "^'"^^^

NORAH.

181

had never quite forgiven me for having refused him, as
you probably knew I did two or three years ago, just'be-
fore he met you at the Trossaeh's Hotel. I was very fond
of Archie, poor fellow, even if I could not marry him, and
it neai-ly broke my heart to see him die. He spoke your
name once or twice, but I could not make out exactly
what he said, except 'Be kind to her,' and Mrs. Browning
wishes me to assure you of her friendship, and good feel^
ing, and desire to serve you if ever in her power to do so.
We did not tell Archie you were sick ; we thought it bet-
ter not, and, as he expressed no wish to have you come to
him, it was not necessary. I send a lock of his hair,
which I cut for you myself, and Mrs. Browning says she'
thinks the picture you have of him better than any she
ha^ ever seen, and she will be very glad if you will loan
it to her until she can have some copies of it taken.
Please send it at once, as we shall leave London soon for
Bath, my aunt's health rendering a change of air and
scene imperative.

" Yours, in sorrow and sympathy,

"Darinda Cleaver."

As I read this strange epistle, I felt as if turning into
stone, and had my life depended upon it I could not have
shed a tear for the lover dead and the ruin of all my
hopes. Indeed, in looking back upon the past, I do not
think I ever really cried for Archie, though for weeks
and months there was a heavy pain in my heart, a sense
of loss and loneliness, and disappointment, but often, as I

182

NORA».

hldttt"" 'T ?'■*' "■'■■^ "'"'' ">« ■•^^"^""on that 1
had not been h.3 first choice, if indeed I were ever hi,
oh„.ce at al, ; that it wa, probably i„ a fit of , ^ e he
had asked „,e to be hi, wife, and thi, forced Ih'e tear
down and made n,e harder, stonier than before. I sent
h.s p,ct„re bacic that very day, and with it my enla"

zrjouH^'""*^ ""'-'''■ -""=•' ' -«-ted'v,i:h^i ;

and td.d I d,d not write a word. I could not I
merely sent the ring and the picture, and felt w en
gave tbem to Aunt Esther that my old iife was ended
and a new one just liegun.

fort vtu' 'r°-,r," ''"': "■" ""' ^"'^ ^'-' '"^y »"-

to. t you. I will brmg it directly," Aunt Esther said •
and .n a moment I had it in my hand and was .dTin.
the superscription ; -^ ^

"Miss Nor ah Burton,

"TheOcaks,
" Not to be opened till the wedding-day." " *^'^^"*^«e^--

Then for a moment there was a feeling in my throaf
as If my I eart were rising into my mouthrbut I Ltd

- there wlJ^hi^L^h^-:-

the feaiful condition of his stomach which .e des ribed
as a kmd of raging whirlpool. ^esoiibed

NORAH.

ection that 1
ere ever his
of pique he
jed the tears
fore. I sent
my engage -
ed with bit-
nda's fingei'",
ulJ not. I
felt when I
was ended

' may eoin-
jther said:
'S studying

,ks,
Vliddlesex.

ny throat
■ forced it
'hich was
iree days,
hoped to
11 sj)ifce of
leseribed

183

" Dear Norah," he began, " I am sitting on deck on a
coil of rope, and am sicker than a horse. I've thrown up
everything I ate for a month before I left England, and
everything I expect to eat for a month to come ; but I
must write a few lines of congratulation to Mrs. Archibald
Browning, as you will be when you read this letter. No-
rah, I hope you will be happy; I do, upon my word, even
if I did talk against him and say I meant to marry you
myself. This was all bosh, for of course a venerable kind
of a girl like you never could think of such a spindle-
shanked, sandy-haired gawky as I am. Archie is far
better for you, and I am glad you are his wife, real glad,
Norah, and no sham, though last night when I sat on the'
deck and looked out over the dark sea toward old Eng-
land and you, there was a lump in my throat as big as°a
tub, and, six-footer as I am, I laid my head on the railing
and cried like a baby, and whispered to myself, ' Good-by,
lorah, good-by, once for all.' I was bending up double'
next minute, and that cramp finished the business, rnd
knocked all sentiment out of me, so that to-day you are
my sister, or mother, or grandmother, just which you
choose to call yourself, and I am very glad you are to
marry Archie. I mean to be a rich man, and by and by
pick up some English girl in India, and bring her home
to you. There it comes again ! that horrid creep from the
toes up. I wonder if the whale felt that way when he
past up Jonah. Oh, my gracious. I can't stand it. Good-
by. Yours in the last agony,

"Tom Gordon."

■ i

i
4 l

>: i*

184

NORAH.

aea Ik !„TA '" ' ^'^'" "" ""^ ^™'' «»»'. »<! been

d^d a„d the great pam at my heart. I„ faet, the lau^h
did me good, and with Tom's letter under my pillow I
felt better than before I read it ^ '^

and then he was so sorry for me, so kindly sympathetic
that I cned as I had not cried since Archie dTd To
was well and happy, and liked the count'; atdhis!:
ploymont and to use his words was having a " !^ oTd
time," with some "larks of cham"«,i,„ »V old

hadmad» R 1 , " °; "'"'P'*. whose acquaintance ho
had made. Regularly each month we heard from him for
a year or more, and then his letters became very insular

■Z7TTiu " r-' -<'«'p.-e;i<;idt

heard flm fh "' '" '""^™' "' ^"™»«. »<1 »-

heard from other sources that Tom Gordon, though still

keeping h,s place and performing his duties to his em

d^sspated man such as no sister would like her brothe";
^be. I was his sister; he was my brother, I said and
I wrote him a letter of remonstrance and reproof e'ilta.
um how d,.,app„inted I was in him, and beggin, m t!
reform for my sake, and the sake of the old ttae whrwe
were children together, and he had some respect for !"od
ne.s and purity. He did not answer that letter T tMnt

It made him anorv and «!n T n«„i^ i

""Wj> d-nu so 1 could only ween nvon *!,„

wayward boy, and pray earnestly that He^avi: l^d slvl

NOBIH.

18S

Mm yet, and restore him to us as he used to be before h.
atrayed so far from the paths of virtue.

And so the years went by till I was twentyfive, when
suddenly w.thout a note of warning, my father died, and
by some turn .„ the wheel of fortune, never elear t; my
woman s vision. Aunt Esther and I were left with a mere
pittance not suffieient to supply the necessities even of
one of us 1 hen Tom wrote and offered to come home if
I wished It, but I did not. I was a little afraid of him
and something in my reply must have .shown him my dis-
trust, for he wa. evidently hurt and piqued, and did not
wnte again until after Aunt Esther and myself wore set-
tled in lodgings m London, and taking care of ourselves
For we came to that at last ; came to the back room upi
per floor, of a lodging-house in pleasant old Kensington
with the httle hall bed-room. scarcely larger than a° re
cess, for our sleeping apartment, and only my piano left
me as a reminder of the dear old home in Middlese=t
where strangers now are living. And I was a teacher of
ircneh a«d music, and went out every day to give les-
sons to my pupils, who lived, some of them, near to Abing-
don Road, and some of them farther away.

Aunt Esther died within the first two years, and I was
ett alone, but stayed always with the Misses Keith the
hree dear old ladies who kept the house, and pettei me
hkeachid They were poor themselves, and depend"
ioT then- hving upon what the lodgers paid them, and I
was the lea.t ^rofluble to them of all, for my Httle back

■J,i
i!

.11

188

NORAH.

room on the upper floor was the cheapest room they had.
Sti 1 I thmk they would have parted with me more un-
wilhngly than with the rich widow and her son who oc-
cupied the drawing-room floor, and made them handsome
presents every Christmas. I kept their old hearts youn.
they said, with my music and my songs, and they pitied
me so much, knowing what I used to be, and what I am
now.

From Tom I heard quite often after Aunt Esther died
He was a better man. rescued from depths of dissipation
he knew not how, he wrote, unless it was the memory of the
oldentime in Middlesex.and theprayers he was always sure
I made for him. It was strange that through all his wild-
ness he had been retained and trusted by his employer
who depended greatly upon him, and made him at last
his confidential clerk. This was the turning point, and
from that time he went up and up until few young men
It WP^ said, stood higher or were more popular in Calcutta
than my cousin Tom. And I was so proud of him- and
when I read his letters telling me of his success and the
many people whom he knew, and the families where he
visited-families whose friends lived in London-I was
glad he did not know just how poor I was, and that if
even one scholar failed me I must deny myself something
in order to meet the necessities of my life. I had never
written him the truth with regard to my circumstances
I told him of the Misses Keith, who were kind to me and
of my cosy room which looked into a pleasant garden
and upon the rear of the church which the Duke of Ar-

NOIIAH.

m they had.
le more un-
3on who oc-
Q handsome
sarts young,
they pitied
what I am

Csther died,
dissipation
mory of the
ilways sure
ill his wild-
} employer,
aim at last
point, and
'oung men,
n Calcutta
' him: and
is and the
where he
on — I was
tnd that if
something
had never
imstances.
;o me, and
^t garden,
ke of Ar-

187

gyle occasionally honoured with his presence. I had also
mentioned incidentally, that, as I had plenty of leisure I
gave a few lessons in music to the daughters of gentlemen
who lived in the vicinity of Abingdon lload. For this
deception my conscience had smitten me cruelly and if
asked for a motive, I could not have given one. 1 merely
wished to keep my poverty a secret from Tom, and up to
the time when I was a passenger in a first-class carria.re
from Dover to London I had succeeded in doin<. so and
though Tom frequently sent mo some token of^•e,nem.
brance from India, and, among other things, a real Cash-
mere shawl, which I could not wear because of the con-
trast between that and my ordinary dress, he had never
«ent me money, and so my pride was spared at the ex-
pense of a deception on my part.

I had been on a little trip to Paris and Switzerland
with one of my pupils, who defrayed all my expenses
and to whom I was indebted for the freest, happiest week
I had known since my father's death, But these had
come to an end. I had said good-bye to the glorious
Alps, good-bye to delightful Paris, good-bye to my pupil
who was to remain abroad with her mother, and here I
was at the last stage of my journey, nearing London,
whose smoke and spires were visible in the distance As
we flew along like lightning toward the city, there came
over me a great dread of taking to the old, monotonous
lite again-a shrinking from the little back room, third
floor, which was dingy and dreary, with the dark paper
on the walls, the threadbare carpet, and the paint which

'■-;

i J

188

NOKAH.

had seen so many years. There was a loathing, too, of
my daily fare, always the cheapest I could find-the mut-
ton chop, with rolls and eggs, and the Englishwoman's
mvanable tea. No more French dishes, and soups, and
eajc cm lad for me. I was not the guest of a party now •
I was again the poor music-teacher, going back to my
bondage, and for a few mon.ents I rebelled against it with
all my strength, and hot. bitter tears forced themselves to
my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. Hastily dashini:
them away, I glanced at the couple opposite, the bride
and groom, to see if they were noticing me. but they were
not; they were wholly absorbed in themselves, and were
ta king of Paris and the fine people they had met there
while the bride was wondering if Miss Lucy Elliston, who
lived on Grosvenor Square, would really call upon them as
she had promised to do. The na.ne, Elliston, was not new
to me, for Tom had more than once mentioned a friend of
his, Charlie Elliston. whose father lived on Grosvenor
Square, but I did not know there was a Lucy, and I be-
came interested when I heard the bride say :

" George, do you remember how long it "is since Miss
•c-iliston returned from India ? "

George did not, and the bride, whom George called
Addle, continued :

"Hovv very stylish she is, and how much she talked
of Mr Gordon. Is it one of the Gordons do you sup-
pose ? *' r

George did not know,and the conversation soon changed
to another subject, while I began to wonder if it could b^

hing, too, of
1 — tlie mut-
lisliwoinan'a
1 aoups, ami
party now ;
ack to my
inst it with
emselves to
ily dashing
, the bride
they were
and were
met there,
iston, who
)n them as
Ls not new
t friend of
jlrosvenor
and I be-

ince Miss

ge called

16 talked
you sup-
changed
could b«

NORA IT.

189

Tom, of whom Miss Lucy Elliston talked so nuich. Tom
was m India, and Tom was descended directly from «/.«
Gordons, whose coat of arms could be seen any day in
Hyde Park during the season. Did Tom know Miss Lucy
Elhston. and was she so very stylish and proud, and had
he not ,n one of his letters mentioned the number of the
house on Grosvenor Square ? If so. I would walk round
someday and look at it. I said, just as we shot under'
cover at Victoria Station, and n.y journey was at an endj
It seemed as if my one insignificant little box was a'-
ways destined to be the last found, as it was a long time
before I took my seat in the cab and was driven in the
direction of No. - Abingdon Road. The October sun
which all the day had poured such a flood of golden licrht
upon the English landscape, had gone down in a bank^f
clouds, and I remember that there were signs of rain in
the chill evening air, and the fog began to creep up around
the lamp-posts and the comers of the streets as I rode
through the darkness with a feeling of home-sickness
at my heart, as I remembered the Alps and Paris the
long vacation free from care, with every want sup .i" d '
and then thought of the little back room, third floor, with
Its dingy furniture. Even the warm welcome I was sure
to receive from the Misses Keith, was forgotten in the
gloom which weighed upon my spiiits, when at last the
cab stopped before No.-, which was all ablaze with li<.ht
candles in the basement, candles in the dining-room. Ind
gas. It would seem, in the drawing-room floor, which the
wealthy widow had left before I went away, but which

'•i \ 6

!■ 1

Wwml •' '

i'Lr.:

!..■;],.

. ■ ; ■ i

190

NOIUH.

.vulent y h,ul anotl.o,- o,;cnp™t now. My ring was a„.
«wo,.o,H,y tl„,y„„„„„,,t Mi^„ K„itl,,wl,„, I fancied lookcl
a very 1, tlo ,l,.Hap,K,into,l at si^l.t of me an,l my box

You here : " she said ; " we didn't expect you till to-
uor,ow n,« ,t. Not l,nt you are very welcome, but you
»ee-come th,s way, please, down stairs. Don't J to
>-our room now. If.s cold there, and dark. We have let
the draw,n«-ro„,„ floor very advantageously to a newly-
n..n.r,ed couple, who have ju.st arrived. She i.s so pretty -
By th,s tnne we had reached the little room in the
base,uent, where the Mi.sses KeiM, took their n.eals, and
^t when the business of the day was over, and where
now a cheerful fire was blading, making n,e feel more
comfortable than I had since I left the Victoria Stat
n a cab. The elder Miss Keith and her sister were glad
to see me, but I thought they looked askance at each
other as .f I were not, after all, quite welc„„,e, and in a
fo lorn, wretehcl state of mind I sat down to warm „,y
cold feet by the fire, wondering if letting the drawin.'
room floor so advantageously, had quite put me in tite
Wkg,.ou„,l. Evidently it ha,I. for after a few questions
a,s to my journey. I was left alone, while the three ladies
flitted back and forth, up stairs and down, busy with the
grand dinner to bo served i„ the drawing-room for the
new arnvals, Mr. and Mrs, Trevyllan. who were reported
as making elaborate toilets for the occasion

"Married just six weeks and her dress is beautiful."
Miss Keith said to me, as she conducted me at last to my
room, which she reported as ready for me.

NORAH.

191

ing was an-
cied looked
my box.
you till to-
ne, but you
'on't go to
^''e have lot
a newly-
so pretty."
•om in the
meals, and
and where
feel moie
'ia Station
wore glad
e at each
>, and in a
warm my
drawing-
me in the
questions
ree ladies
with the
a for the
reported

jautiful,"
st to my

The drawing-room door was open, and as I paased it I
could not forbear glancing in at the table, set with the
best damask and silver and glass which No.— afforded,
and, right before the fire, under the chandelier, stood the'
bride in full evening dress of light silk, her golden curls
falling behind from a pearl con.b. and her blue eyes up-
turned to the husband who stood beside her, to George, as
I knew in a moment, recognising them at once as my fel-
low-travellers from Dover, and remembering again what
the bride had said o'' Miss Lucy Elliston and a Mr. Gor-
don. Strangely enough, too. my thoughts went far back
to Archie, and what I might have been had he lived, and
there was a swelling at my heart and the tears were in
my eyes as I followed Miss Keith to my room, the door of
which she throw wide open, and then stood back for me
to see and admire.

" Oh-h ! what have you done ? " I exclaimed, and then
in an instant I comprehended the whole, and knew just
how the good souls had planned, and undoubtedly denied
themselves to give me this surprise and delightful wd-
come home.

It was not the old dingy apartment at all, but the
coziest of rooms, with fresh paint and paper, a new, light
ingrain carpet of drab and blue, with chintz covering for
the furniture, of the same shade, and pretty muslin cur-
tains looped back from the windows in place of the coarse
Nottingham lace which had always been an offence to
me. Add to this a bright fire in the grate, and my little
round tea-table drawn up before it, with the rolls and

192

NORAH.

«» sl.0 said : ^ '"' ""^ '=°'™'- °f her apron

girls a„d„„ tl,o„g^ty„uir W„!^1™ ""' ''■^'^)"'''
when Mrs. Winter, [^ ',"'"' ""'""« """"Sl', and

pounds extra, an v t' h ZT "'""' '" '"" "' *<"•

-i., pav beginnin;;" d J;' ::;"f;:'- - -^--^ «"

do something- for Mi„ w„, i ? ' ""' '"' ^""''l
fi.-o raa,le and a n.Vel ^ ' """^ "' """'"' '» ^ave the

THerosMrs.Xrev,d.anUV:ndi::t?.."""^""-

whandso::;:L.^:j:;nrLrr/r""

shadows on the Ca jt "^ ""' ""* ™»'' P'^'^ant
for the time fbr^oUe ' in1 '[ ''""'^ ""' '"""''"^'^ >'«-

forts, hntthe,::;::::^^,^t:re!^^^^^^^^^^

por over and the tea-things remo. d uT. "' "^ '"P"
few letters which had .LlZ'^i ^Trf '''
weeks and had not been forwarded wll ' '^\''"'
To"> ^ I asked ,n,se,f, and I was ;onIro„s I^a^f:^"""
of d,sappomtme„t when I found there ZTnll ^

i-kettle boiling

room which I

low her nose

of her apron

spoke of each
and sixty) the
f enough, and

give us ten
so quiclc and
id we would
> to have the

1 you came,
'Cep you bo-
you like it.

•ride, who I
• dinner in

I enjoyed
fire, which
5h pleasant
liness were
ature com-
n, my sup-
read the
B last two

one from

a feeling

NORAH.

19S

that M 'V T"' ''' '"^ ^^"" ^"^ --^' -'^h - P-g.
hat Mrs. Lambert, on Warwick Crescent, had concluded

to mploy a governess in the house, and consequently

w ou d not need my services as French and music teacher

to her three daughters.
Thi, w,« a groat 1„.., to mo, and I romembo,- a fooling

of cold and almost hungor a, I mochanioally foldod tho
ttor and la,d ,t aside, and as mochanically oponod the

seoond, and road that Mrs. Lonnox, High Street, Kensin, ■
ton was g„,ng abroad for tho winter with her daughte s,
.nd would not „„,d mo until spring, when .she should be
glad to employ mo again if my time was not fully oecupied.
... '^""y "'"'P">< I -^W bitterly, '• Small danger of
that. I shall starve at this rate," and in a hopoles°. de-
»pan.,ng kmd of way I oponod tho third and last letter
and road that Lady Fairf«, No.-, Grosvonor Square,
would hko mo to oall at once if I Jarod for another ,eho-
lar a., she might wish to put her little daughter Maudo
under my instruction.

Tho note was dated more than two weeks baek, and tho
call a ome was underscored as if tho summons admitted
no delay.

"Lost that chance, too," I said, as I studied the small
delicate handwriting, and wondered where I had seen it
before, or a handwriting like it.

I could not toll, but somehow my thoughts wentbaok
to that summer twelve years ago, and tho breezy hall
with door oponod wide, the swoet-sconted air. and thj

ill

U\ \ f*-

194

NORAII.

Wd it away in a litLr '''''''■ ^ '""'■'1 i'^ere, I
Archie, b^t b „w " a^r: ""^^ ^■■"' " '°* of
t'owbyLadyDarinda', rr "° ''•°"' "■« dead

-i3 c. by bU;t; 'ritir "^ '"""'^ -»^^

■ one of ray birth-davs Th„, ' ""'* S'^™ me oa

past, and everythin/wa, tr, "'" f*"'™ ^^'"^ '" 'he
30 poor and lonely ^ Uel,T,f- "'"' ^ ^'^ ^ "-d,
Archie dead, tl JoTtb ^^ 1: 'J^ ""Tf "^ "^
gone, and then of Tom u-hob!^! ' """^ ""= "'™'=y

and who .seemed of late IL <• ''^ """""^ *° '"'^ o""^.
I had not heard fr Ih- ' 7 T' '™ ""^ »«-'y. ^^
-''-Sfor ray phot" i: aT;:-!:'^' "''^» ''^-«'^.
^end it, a. he wished toT^ ^ "^ '"" ^ '"'^ '"d

'ooked after a dot„ .trs . ""^ " "'^ ""'« •"<" "other

That was what he called me- "littl,, u ,
name he gave me long a.o wCn'l , . 'f '"'"'""■■" "^e

-ndlyand call ^'i-^ ^'^ :^;lTy^ '^^'Z.'T"
me in the letter if I dirl nr f x ^' ^^ ^^^ ''^^ked

I did he wished I wonfd ten Z^T T'"' -^'"S" '^
be forthcoming te any amo „t ™ T r/t^; ""■' !' ^"""'^
from him ; he was too much a stZ ™'" """^^

admit of that, but I had 1 *, ."'"""SO.- to rae now to
the Misses Keith had nrnn ."' * ''''"'"S'-aph, which

J'>««.ht younger, ?:itr:n7brn!S^^^^
1-cnewa.mine. Still, such as it wiTj;": 1^

ly hair and bid-

f a heavy book
found it there, I
vifch a lock of
from his dead
f Tom's sandy
d given me on
years in the
r Vr'as so tired,
lought first of
nJ the money
ch to me once,
e entirely, for
>en he wrote,
3 be sure and
'e old mother

mother," the
Jture him so
e had asked
y, saying, if
nd it should
^ant money
me now to
■aph, which
'Ut whiel I
9n the face
it to Tom

l^ORAH.

195

and thanked him for offering me money, and said I did
not need it, and told him of my projected trip to Switzer-
land with some friends, and asked him to write to me
again, as I was always glad to hear from him. But he
had not written me a line, and it was almost four months
now smcc I sent him the photograph.

^ " He was probably disappointed and disgusted with the
picture, and so has ceased to think of or care for me," I
said ; and notwithstanding my newiy-renovated room
which an hour before I had thought so bright and cheer-
tul, I do not remember that I had ever felt so lonely and
vyretched, and forsaken, as I did that nighf. when I sat
thinking of Tom and listening to the rain which had
commenced to fall heavily, and was beating against the
shutters of the room.

How long I sat there I do not know, but the house was
perfectly quiet, and the fire was burned out, when at last
I undressed myself and crept shivering to bed.

Next morning I awoke with a dull pain in my head
and bones, a soreness in my throat, and a disposition to
sneeze, all of which, Miss Keith informed me, were symp-
toms of influenza, which would nevertheless succumb to a
bowl of h„t boneset tea. a dose of pills, and a blister on
the back of my neck. I took the tea, but declined the
blister and pills, and was sick in bed for two whole weeks
during wliich time the Misses Keith were unremitting, in
their attentions, and the bride, little Mrs. Trevyllan, came
f. ... ,.. ge^er^i ^j^gg gj^^ ^^^ ^ kind-hearted., c'liatty
iposed to be very familiar and communicative,

body,

!1 J

lit!

•!^r

i
: ''i. '

NORAH.

>■> the Church of England an,l I , ^ «le--ffyman

-^1- Of I,.e,a„d.„„e Li eoian^r" ""'■'" '" ""^
«he was bo™. Her mother had be ?"*""'''' ^^''"'■■"
county fa,„i,ie, ;„ e,,^^ '^ ™ ^^'onged to one of the

and entitled to attenti n r'r Z W ^'f" '^ '^"■^■•

«eorge was junior partner in h, fi™. o^t/ ^ P™P'-
near Regent Oircu, and ^^ i, "^ "evyilan & Co.,

He wa. 0.0 best elW fnl T' *'^ ''^ ™^^ ™''
■n. at Portrush for IZTjCl '"' '"' "^^ ■^"'^-
^en and fallen in ]„ve with he '^T'™"' """"">'■■ »»"
vary face of an ol/ZlTrTT:''^''' '"" '"''" «'«
-fe. Then she sp C 1 eT ' ° ™"" ''^^ '"'■ '>«
wild Irish Sea, and^ h .^o h "'\ """^ ™' "" «>=
^'ender salary, somet Is eTe"r;' "'"■'" *° ™' *«^
»'o the family, and gZlZ^r'"''^'''""'^''^^'-'
«ennan. Miss Lucy EmlLhTd ^ '" '"''""^ -"d

on her second visit i n th" 1 ttl T/" °' ''"^ ^ ^■"'
with gossip concerning ;h7s , f "^^ ""'^rtained me

admired greatly-.. ,os°vH^h ""t' 7''°"' ^''^ ^"-^^'ly
■;he said, ..andio for, f ^ 'etn tl"^' T' ^"^"^ "
of a poor clergyman and T!, \ """ ""^ ''aughter

Who served solong itc^^ \tt " °'*'""'"'" ^"■^'™'
We always corresponded at' i„t! 'Tr" '^ "'-^ "ow.
land, and I was so dehlhted T f""' '''' '''' !>■-
She has been to in t" ti^ T '^ ««»'" in Paris.

o^y came home last spriZ r !-' ^""'' '' '''""'• ™^

■^spnng. I believe she has a lover

d me all about
^covge, as she
s a clergyman
parish in the
isewaj-, where
'0 one of the
birth a lady,
f the peojile.
^'yHan & Co.,
'e very rich.
1 been stay-
iuminer, and
eroffin the
I her for his
out on the
' out their
>ung ladies
'^■ench and
bese; and
fcained me
evidently
i pretty,'
daughter
Elliston,
ere now.
left Ire-
Jn Paris.
'ms, and
a lover

NOBAH.

197

out there ; at all events she talked a great deal of a cer-
tain Mr. Gordon, who is very rich and magnificent-look-
ing, she said. She did not tell me she had his photograph
but I heard her say to a friend that she would show it
to her sometime, though she did not think it did him
justice. I would not wonder if I have it in my possession
this very minute."

" You r I exclaimed-" you have Mr. Gordon's photo-
graph ! How can that be ? "

^ " I'll tell you," she replied. « I met Miss Elliston shop-
ping at Marshall & Snellgrove's, the other day, and she
^pologized for not having called upon me as she promised
to do when I saw her in Paris. 'She was so busy/ she
said, and then she was expecting her brother from India,
and she wished I would waive all ceremony and come and
see her some day. She gave me her address, and as her
card-case was one of those Florentine mosaic things which
open in the centre like a book, she dropped several cards
upon the floor. I helped her pick them up, and supposed
we had them all. but after she was gone. I found, directly
under my feet, the picture of a man, who could not have
been her brother, for he is sick, and as it was taken in
Calcutta It must have been Mr. Gordon. 1 shall take it
back to her and am glad of an excuse to call, for you see
George laughs at my admiration for Miss Elliston. and
says It IS all on one side, that she does not care two
straws for me, or she could find time to come and see me
and all that nonsense, which I don't believe; men are so'
suspicious."

' ^r^

■ i

198

NORAH.

' Id like to «ee the photograph," I said, thinking of Tom
and the utter impossibility that he could be Miss W

loTkin. ''^' '' ^^^^ "^" ''''^^ ^^""^ ^'"^ ^P^^^^l^^-
Tall, raw-boned,' thin-faced, with sandy hair, brownish-
gray eyes, and a few frecks on his nose-that was Tom
^ I remembered him ; while the picture Mrs. Trevyllan
brought me was of a broad-shouldered, broad-chested, dark-
han-ed man, with heavy, curling beard, and piercing, gray
eyes which yet had a most kindly, honest expresrion a^
they looked mto mine. M, Miss Elliston's Mr. Gordon
was ^0^ Tom, and I experienced a feeling of relief as I re-
turned the photograph to Mrs. Trevyllan

Looking back upon that time, I know that in my in-
most heart there was no thought or wish that Tom could
ever be more to me than a friend and brother, but I did
not want him in that capacity, I was so alone in tlie world •
and though I did not know Miss Eiliston personally I was'
sure she would separate me entirely from Tom, for there
could be no sympathy between a proud, fashionable wo-
man hke Miss Lucy Eiliston and a poor music-teacher like
myself.

The next day Mrs. Trevyllan made her call, and re-
turned quite disappointed, and, as I fancied, a little dis-
gusted. Miss Eiliston was very sorry, but too much oc-
cupied with a dressmaker to see any one, so Mrs. Tre-
vyllan had ^ft her card and the photograph, and retraced
her steps with a feeling that she had taken the trouble
for nothing, unless she took into consideration the fact

NORAH.

199

iking of Tom,
)e Miss Ellis-
m splendid-

11", brownish-
lat was Tom,
's. Trevyllan
liested,dark-
iercing, gray
xpression as
Mr. GordoM
•elief as I re-

it in my in-
'' Tom could
■r, but I did
ntlie world;
•nally, I was
m, for there
ionable wo-
teacher like

ill, and re-
a little dis-
much oc-
Mrs. Tre-
nd retraced
bhe trouble
•n the fact

that she had at least seen the parlours of Miss Elliston's
home. Beautiful beyond anything I had ever seen they
must have been, if her description of them was to be
trusted, and I sighed a little as I listened to her dowin<r
account of the carpets, and curtains, and pictures, and rare
works of art, and then glanced at my own humble surround-
ings and thought how poor I was. Only one pound ten was
left in my purse, and there was the doctor's bill and the
two weeks' rent, to say nothing of a new pair of boots
which I must have, for the old pair leaked, and was past
being made respectable by any amount of French dressing.
Yes, I was very poor ; too poor, in fact, to remain idle
much longer, and as soon as I was able I started out in
quest of pupils in the place of those I had lost.

Remembering the note of Lady Fairfax, I resolved to
seek her first, hoping that she had not engaged another
teacher for her little girl, notwithstanding the impera-
tive " Come at once, if you care for another scholar."

How well I remember that November day, when, with
a leaden sky overhead, muddy sidewalks under foot, and
a feeling of snow or raiij in the air, I started, in my suit
of last year's gray, which nothing could make new or
stylish, but which I did try to freshen a little with clean
linen collar and cufis, and a bright blue necktie in place
of the inevitable white one so common then in England.
I hunted up, also, an old blue feather, which I twisted
among the loops of ribbon on my hat, and felt a little
flutter of satisfaction when one of the Misses Keith told
me how pretty 1 looked, and how becoming blue was to

■-m

200

NOJIAH.

>»e. It used to be, when I lived in ih.

«> Middlesex, and Tom said Z ™°^ "'<■ ''»"«

-■3 egg. ; b„. that r;l7j;: ""' '"' ^'*'" -"^

so old and changed as I tu2,> . -^'^ "^°' "''' ^ f^It
down the stairs I the sLu „ '". ." ^'°'' *'''' ""-^ ^»"'
C- ea,.riage of teun.Xt-r ""' '""'""'-
travelled third-class in , , T ™''™^- ^ a'ways
otbe. for richer th ■;':■; ":;;V: "'"-dreds It
think myself inferior to fh! , ""' "'""' "•"'. o--

at last I found my ^1!^".? f 7""" '"^' "•" -^en
h«dsome house, and :i^^:''^^" »' ^ady Fairfax's

footman, who opened he do 7 ' "' ''" ^^'^^'^'^
wondered at my pr_f "'.'"' ""=' *"'' '""k^d as if he

»y misgivings ^r:: aTd:i':rf 7 "'"^■"^" ■*"

faded gray dress, the old f^ a ^rf ""^ "' *''*
which were wet even wi/t. , u ' ""* ''^''^ ^oots,

necessary for me to wa7k A ."' ''"''""^ " ''»<' ^een

»vo,uniiy dr^niri^rh^ 'rmTth: ^-"^ - '

She was at home thp fnii *^ a

withaiady,b„t wi;h::rto':xri';"'.7r

was a shade of deference in K ^ ™'"^ ">«"

after he had taken my" rd to ' T""' '"""" "'
her message for me HoTn, ""^ »'«'^^» and received
room, with the fl"we« tath T " "" '" """ P^''^
carpet, the comfor::,! ha ^' hTCht^ "^ r''' ^^
so grateful to me after th. I, ^ '''■''■ ''''''='' f^"

And for a time I entv,^ /T ""^"''^^ ''"^ ""W^-
. ^ '"•"'y^ " all. and listened to the mur-

NORAH,

'y old house
e great rob-

and I felt
't, and went
fc in a third-

I alwaj's
undreds of
nd that, or
> but when
7 Fairfax's
powdered
d as if he
I felt all
>us of the
ky boots,
had been
aoke as I
arm coal
t was to

engaged
ed there
i^ard me
•eceived
'' pretty
>ft, rich
ch felt

>utside.
emur-

201

mur of voices in the parlour across t1,e hall, where Lady
Fairfax was entertaining her visitor. Both were well-
breJ voices. I thought, and one seemed stronger than the
other, as It its owner were a stronger, more self-reliant
wonian than her companion, and I felt intuitively that I
would trust her before the other. Which was La.ly Fair-
ax, and who was her visitor, I wondered, just as a rust-
mg sdk traded down the stairs, and an elderly lady en-
tered the parlour opposite. I heard her adJress some
one as Miss EUiston, and the lower, softer voice re-
sponded. Then the stronger voice said : " Oh Lucy bv
the way. when have you heard from your bi'othe;,'and
will he soon be home ? "

Imtantly then I knew that L„ey Elhston was Lady
farfax., guest, and I was hoping I might have a glimpse
of her as she parsed the doer on her way out, when a smart
wa,t,ng-maKl entered the room liurriedly. and apparently
Bpoke a lew word» to Lady Fairfax, who cxelai.ned :
Why. Lucy dear, Christine tells me that your n,am-
^ ™a has sent word for you to come home immediately
lour brother has just arrived." '

"Good gracious!" I heard Miss ElHston say, and won-
dered a l.ttle at the slang ft.„m which [ supposed her
class was free. " Charlie come ! Was he alone, Christine '
Was no one with him ? "

There was a moving of chairs, . shuffling of feet, and

in the confusion I lost Christine's reply, but heard dis-

tmctly Mr. Gordon's name uttered by some one. Then

«^l-iu three ladies moved into the hall, and through the half-

" 'll; ' ^i-

ill

;;' i!

202

NORAH.

open door I saw a tall j.o.,„« My i„ a maroon velvet
t eet su,t w,th a long wl.ito ,„„,„„ ,„ ,,, ,,„, ^J^
«r«e black eyo.,, whid, .,h„„e like ,,i„„„„j« th ou.h tl
lace vo,i drawn tightly over her fee. That 2 M
Elh,to„; and the ver, tall and rather stout woman t
he^Y Mack dlk, with lavender trimmings wriad"
Fa.rfax. who pn.hed the door of the roeepf^n- „ t
o^.e^ an w.th a firm deeided .tep cro.,1, to the m,"^
m fiont of me, and eying me closely, said •
You are Miss Burton, I believe ? "
"Yes," I replied, and she continued: "Miss Norah
Burton, who once lived at the Oaks in Middlesex . ■

Ves, i said again, wondering a little at the question
and how she had ever heard of the Oaks

She was regarding me very intently. I knew, taking mo
m from the crumpled blue feather on my l^at to tl
^hock,ngly shabby boots still smoking on the ender
these I mvoluntarily withdrew. thinkFng to hide the '
under my grey dress. She saw the movtmen, g„ te
the intention, and said kindly : ouessed

■■ Dry your boots, child. I see they are very wet Did
you walk all the distance from KensLgton here"

but ,t7' ! '""""■'^' " °"'^ ^ ™'' ''■°" "- -'tetion,
but the street, are very nasty to-day ;" and then I looked
at her more closely than I had done before

Shewasveiy tall, rather stout, and might have been
anywhere from *hirty-five to forty ; certainfy notyoungeT
She had fine eyes, a good complexion, and vefy large
hands, which, nevertheless, were shapely, soft ,nd wVt-

NORAH.

naroon velvet
l»at, and very
through the
lat was Miss
ut woman in
^ was Lady
n-rooin wide
o tlie mantel

Miss Norah

5sex ? "

he question,

^ taking me
hat to the
the fender,
hide them
nt, guessed

wet. Did
e?"

he station,
a I looked

lave been
t younger,
ery large
rjd .white,

20S

and loaded with diamonds. One splendid solitaire at-
tracted my attention particuhnly from its peculiar bril-
liancy, and the nervous manner in which she kept touch-
ing it as she talked to me. She saw I was inspectin.. her
and allowed me time in which to do it ; then she began
abruptly, and in a tone slightly fault-finding :

" You received my note, of cour.se, or you would not
be here. It was written a month ago, an.l as I heard
nothing from you I naturally supposed you did not care
for, or need, another pupil, so I have obtained a governess
for Maude."

There was a choking sob in my throat which I forced
down as I replied :

" Oh, I am so sorry, for I do need scholars so much, oli,
so much."

" Why didn't you come, then ? " she asked ; and I told
her how her letter had been two weeks at my lodgings
before my return from the continent, and of the sickuess
which had followed my return.

"And you live there all alone. Have you no friends,
no relations anywhere ?" she asked.

" None since father and Aunt Esther died," I said, " I
have nobody but Cousin Tom, who is in India, and who
never writes to me now. I think he has forgotten me.
Yes, I am quite alone."

"I wonder you have never married in all these years,"
w.as the next remark, and looking up at her I saw some-
thing in her face which went over me like a flash of reve-
lation, and my voice shook a little as I repeated her last

< it

it;; : I '■

W'^ '-In

204

NOKAU.

.. A,vl„o and t|.e ,„„„„„,, ,,„y, „,,„„ , ;^
an.l ho ,1„1 „„t e.„„o, a„,l that late,- time wh,,„ l,a.ly
liuhl wroto i„o hu wa» ,l,.a,l. "uy "ai-

Wa., thi., i.uly l,ann.la / My eyes a,Ia.,I the ,,uc.stion

w.»h,n,, „,. a new toaehc- fo,- ,„y little Malule, „„e w
wa»«e„tlea„d,,atie„t to chiUhen. A f.ien,! „f ,„•
M... B,u.,.ett, wi,„.,e ,,au,hter you have taught, t„l,, Zi

n.e .ar,ett.s teaehe,- a,„l Mi,^ Norah U,„tuu of the Oaks
M .,l,e.ex, were one and the ™ne. I wanted to see ye,,'
and so I wrote the note." ^

She spoke rapidly, and kept working at the .solitaire
w thout once looking at „,e. till I said : •• You are Lady
Darinda Cleaver/" -^

reiT: '"' ''"°" """ '''"" '°°''"'' '"■'"'»*' "' "'"'"l^'-

"I was Lady Darinda Cleaver, eousin to Archibal.l
Brownurg, whom y„u were engaged to „,„rry, ]f y„„

of a a, ton Lodge, (or both n,y l„.other,s are dead an.l
Archie was next in succession."

'■ lady Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge ;" I whispered the
woMsw,£hagasp, a-d for a moment tried to reaul
wha^^was mvolved n V..,:.. Lady Cleaver, of Briarto:

Wi went back
aited for hi„i,
ion Liuly Dur-

tlio question,
iniMU'r seeni.s
•lain. J was
itlo, one wlio
'»<! of mine,
it, toM nie of
'w of a Miss
0(1 that Jen-
of tlie Oaks,
I to see you,

he solitaiu',
>u ai-o Lady

me and slio

Arcliibald
^ If you
leaver now
dead, and

spered the

to realize

Briarton

NORAir.

205

Not a third-floor hack room, sure, vvitli sluihl.y boots
and mondcd ^rloves, and faded dress of jrray, but luxury
and ele^mnc.,, an.] troops of seisants and friends, and
'•<piality with such peojdo as Lady Fairfax, who. I knew,
wastryin^r to imu;,dne how the crumpled, foijorn litthi
wonmn, with th.^ s},abby boots an<l feather, wouhl have
looked as Lady (.'leaver of Jiriarton Lodgo. Tom had
once taunted me with tlu^ possibility of my bei.i<r L-uly
(Cleaver, and with a thou-hf of lum tl.e^rreat bitter throb
of regret for what mi-ht have been passed away, and I
was glad in my heait that I was not the nust.-ess of Briar-
ton Lodge; so, when at last Lady Fairfax said tome,
"Are y.)u not sorry?" I looked at her st(^adily and'
answere.l, "Yes, very sorry that Archi,> is dead, but not
.sorry that [ am not his wife. Years have sliown me that
we were not suited to e.-ich other. We should not have

been happy together, an<l then " f hesitat.^d a moment,

while a feeling of pique, or malice, or jealousy, or what-
ever one chooses to call a desire to give another a little
sting, kept growing within me, until at last I added, " and
then-Archie's first choice was for yon ; he loved you
best ; offered himself to you first, you know. You wrote
^' '^ • if the letter"

^.n.eourned tlie solitaire on her finger entirely round,
and her cheek fiushed as she .smiled faintly, and replied •'
" Oflferod himself to me fii-st ? Yes, and was very fond
of me, I think, but whether he loved me best is doubtful.
Poor Archie, he did not want to die, and at the last, after
he had cea.9ed to answer our questions, he whispered to

ili

i ■■

206

NORAH.

I -flee Jd ; t rlr T ' ™ ""' ''•^'^^y- >>"'
per at home a„ , "f 'J™'''™™ «>« «pen,,e of sup-

Ldwiehe Idl. *°*,*''""'""y the bfacuite, and

and the ::;r'z: : "s ;rr' r? -"" •'"-

culation had I come. I who , .d ? "■""' "^ ^'''-
ur.A^ f T ®"^"ely. Would you like to see her ? "

NORAH.

207

ilil

ry. Be kind

and a faint-
itself in my

ow tired. J
' and touch-
eared brin^
hungry, but
3n,se of sup-
iscuits, and
solid silver
'aits of cal-
d of beintr
lyself even
looking on
Perhaps I
'0 be kind,

h me now
see her ? "
i hall into
3n words;
nda, and
and hold-

i' else the
ened the

cold, haughty expression I remembered so well, and made
it very pleasing and kind.

" Child," she said, " it is many years since we met. and
I am sorry to hear so sad a stoiy of you. You are all
alone in the world, Darinda tells me."

She had seated herself beside me, still holding my
hand, and at the sound of her voice I broke down entirely.
All the loneliness, an.^ ^h-eariness and poverty of my life
swept over me like a billow of the sea, and forgetting the
difference in our stations, I laid my head in her lap and
cried bitterly. I think she must have cried, too, a very
little, and that for a few moments she lost sight of the
poor music teacher in crumpled feather and shabby boots,
and saw in me only the girl who had loved her boy, and
whom the boy was to have married, if death had not in-
terfered. She was very kind to me, and made me tell all
the sad story of my life since father died, and questioned
me of Tom, and then, turning to her niece, who had re-
tired to the window, said :

" Darinda, you did not positively engage Mademoiselle
Couchet to read to me ? "

Her tone implied that she wished her niece to say no,
which she accordingly did, while Mrs. Browning con-'
tinued :

" Then, I think I shall ask Miss Burton if she can come
to me for two hours five days in the week, and read to
me either in English or French, as I may choose at the
time. I will give her a pound a week for the winter.
Will you come for that?" and she turned now to me.

1 1 f

208

NORAU.

an<i kept .ne fr„m ncccti,, ° /I ""Tos-tive pai„,

-o-ent,,. I ,„,, iS 1 r. f"T' ""'' '"' " f''-
P-tcd thorn, and when itu ''■'";"''■■' ""'■" ' ''^"'* -
«.s „-ghte,. than it ha',! ' l"; f, ;;- 'o .o,»y heart
&vo„rite pupil in Pa,.;.,, j " "° '""'" 8''«'-''y to one
-;«> lunch, and what vas bo t" 1 r,"- "?' "^ ""''■
■"".e at last. I „„., „„., of . nt '"^^"""'""'■°

-0"gi. to question thoi.. n,„tK ,■,;;.'" ""' ""' ''°°"'*
«-as pei-hap.s tho truth H„f •■"'■'I'oct-what

connected with tl „ a^^d "'"'""'•'' "" ' '™ '" ™ -'r
ft.' .ny appearance loTco 7 T"" "'" '" ''" -PO"-Wo
™« » helping hand 1, d 1 r ''■'' '" ''" '''""^ ""<! 1«"1
of Briarton lod"o 'a"^ lit™/ ' ""»"" ''"™ I'-" the lady

f^ad,Pairra/::;tl::;;i,;rr'--rr"''''

ter on my way to tho «f.„- ,""'■ ^ l'«ssed the lat-
whioh M .,s. ZZhntun """''"« '' ''-^ "'« ■"""ber

--„ which^!:i::::;;l----r.und..
-■^t:;a?:::ti::!;rtr'^-'f---

I'lnch with me

Jier, and I feJt

'C,and my heart
« positive pain,
<'«er for a few
ei-e I least ex-

'0 go, my heart
:ood-by to one
)ound a week,
s friends were
s not foolish
isj)eet— what
vas in no way

11 responsible
iiifl and lend
'cen the lady
louse as tiiat
^sed the lat-
tho number
I found was

I ("lose, and

of No. — ,

•irrang-ing
utters, and
, and won-
>e son just
ly^s as ele-

NORAH.

209

gant and grand. Then 1 remembered Mr. Gordon and
said: "He is to be there too," just as the figure 'of a
young lady passed before the window of the parlour It
was Miss Elliston, in blue silk evening dress, with white
roses m her hair and a soft fall of lace at her throat She
was dressed for dinner, and I stood watching for a mo-
ment as she walked up and down two or three times
restlessly as it seemed, and then came to the window and
looked out upo-i the street. Did she see me, I wonder ?
-the forlorn little woman who hurried away in the fast-
gathering da.kness. If she did she thought it some maid
or shop-gn-1, no doubt, and continued her watch while I
sped on my way to the station and was soon mountin<T
the stairs which led up and out to High street, Ken"
sington.

It was not far to No - Abingdon road, but a heavy
mist was falling, and I was wet, and bedraggled, and cold
when at last I reached the house, and finding the door
unfastened, walked in without ringing, and hurried di-
rectly to my room. From the basement below one of the
Misses Keith called to me softly, and thinking it was
some inquiry about my supper which she wished to make
I answered back : '

"I have had something to eat, and do not wish anythin<T
more." "^ °

Then I ran on up the next flight of stairs, at the head
of which was the door of my room. It was partly open
and a flood of light and warmth streamed out into ih^
haii, causing me to stand perfectly still for a moment

.;»•

•fi

210

NORAH,

there .i„ee I Td bin ! ^ ' ''"^ ""^^ ''^^" -»

gala dinner, with celery andtllv T ''""' " ''<'■■ "
-'"•eh I never had used ^17^'™" thec„ffee-„ru
the Misses Keith taken .!> > ■ """" ' ^'''3' had

- into sueh el:^ „t J; ;„1 ^"'f ■™' ^""^ "'""S^^
of .ny t,-„anoes ? I thinri fcUa il "T-"' '°" ^""»
good, kind old souls « T „ ^ J .1 -ndignant at the

advanced into heZj^"'!'"''""' "'^^ »P- and
"only, at sight of aT;: l^''^'"^ and stopping sud-

to me, his feet restin. 2 T i. "^ ""' '^'^ ^^

I'ohind his headts ifh •"'• """^ ''" '''"'* «'^'P-'

- he that dlr;;;,! nt^e ,'1^ '" u '"''"^- ^'•°
had a sharp ring in it, as I sa^d ° '' ""' "^- ^'^^

tak^;:!:t:;Cjr« '- ^ ^ou ha™ ,„adc a ™is.

tho"^,:.':':".:?::;; ^L'^r^v" - ^-k,y as to „pset

■'ot stop to pick up a T '''*'* ""'^ "'""'' >>» did

agiant'ofa'fl:rwtrZ r°"-^^'^»^- «''-*
that brown curhng heaT nd wtTT T,'' '^"" ^"
eaught me in his strong „.„,, a„T J '' "' ''"

cheeks, said ; ' '"'^'ng "'o on both

" ' """^ niade no mistake, Norah an,1 r , i,
you. Don't „„„ , '"O' and 1 am here to see

y uon t you remember Spindleshanks ? ■■

them. Such
'r been seen
'ment, while
ead as for a
le coffee-urn
Why had
■nd plunged
he low state
nant at the
e open and
pping sud-
Idered, tall
h his back
ds clasped
ng. Who
I my voice

NORAH.

211

idea

niis-

I to upset
h he did
e. What
with all
5a t as he
on both

'e to see

Then I knew who it was. and with a glad cry, ex-
claimed : o J,

" Oh Tom ! Tom ! I am so glad. Why didn't you
come before, when I wanted you so much ? "

I had struggled to my feet, but did not try to release
mysell from the arm which held me so fast. In my ex-
citement and surprise I forgot the years since we had met
foi'got that he was a full-grown man, and no longer the
• Spmdleshanks," as I used sometimes to call him~forgot
everything but the fact that he had come back to me
agam, and that I was no longer alone and friendless in
the world. Tom was there with me. a tower of strength,
and I did not hesitate to lean upon my tower at once, and
when he said, as only Tom could say, in a half-pitiful.
half-laughn.g tone, " Have it out, Norah. Put your head
down here, and cry." I laid my head on his big overcoat
and "cried it out."

I think he must have cried, too, for, as soon as his
hands were at liberty, he made vigorous use of his pocket-
handkerchief, and I noticed a redness about his eves
when at last I ventured to look him fully in the flice'
How changed he was from the long, lank, thin-faced.'
sandy-hairod Tom of old ! Broad-shouldered, broad-
chested, brown-faced, brown-haired, and browr. -bearded
there was scarcely a vestige left of the boy I used tJ
know, except the bright smile, the white, even teeth, and
the eyes, which were so kind and honest in their expres-
sion, and which, in their turn, looked so sear.hinalv at
me. I had divested myself of my hat and sacque by this

? t\

#; '=

212

NORAH.

)'?!

time, and came baoJc tn ih^ a

jets to their tJtiZ tL " ",■■■• '"'""^ *^ «-

under the chandelier while W T' '*'"'' '"■'^^"y

ye-t the hot .,oorr::u r; :; rr *"

cheeks were scarlet *^ ' ^ ^''^'^ "^7

"Mii to Cr"''"""""^''^

-mer than you leHyr' """" ™ '^" ''""-^ ''"•'■
lane with me til "^ y<>'> ™lke<l down the

-. a 1™ Zr >- ""^ ^ »'^ «ood.b,e, With

yo:!:;? twt :!;Ter' '" ^^ ™""^ "^-'--^ -

yon now to IcnoZ of J^l nl ''T v """ "" " '"'"^»'-

I waa there I fell in wftb f >'" '"■ '^'"'^ '''■'' ^»a,.

going to the do " asTo' k„ "T' ""' ^""^ "^^

from it, I am .ut ZlllT ' "°"''''= '""'' "'«

English girl wrLvil! fl """'" """ " "^^'^^ "«»
^ o to wrt,s piaying tor me evervdav inri c,+;ii j

>"e faith in me, as she wrote me in her tte' t

not forget the little girl Noral, an.l Tl, ™"'''

once more. I do not know why Mr. Rand

NORAH.

ng the gas-
nd directly
Jlosely that
knew niy

." I said to

it ? "

pretty, or
les hand-
lown the
bye, with

stopped

imers as
concerns
st years
lie near
ved ine
n little
II keep-

1 could
>er and
of the

: when

lade a

Rand

213

trusted me and kept me through everything, as he did
unless it was for certain business qualities which I pos-
sessed, and because I did my work well and faithfully.
When your father died you know I offered to come home,
but you bade me not, and said you did not need me ; and
so I staid, for money was beginning to pour in upon me,
and I grew richer and richer, while you— oh, Norah, I
never dreamed to what you were reduced, or nothing
would have kept me away so long. I always thought of
you as comfortable and happy, in pleasant lodgings, with
a competence from your father. I did not know of music
scholars and daily toil to earn your bread. Why didn't
you tell me, Norah ? Surely I had a right to know— I,
your brother Tom ! "

He did not wait for me to answer, but went on :
" Six months ago Mr. Rand, ray old employer and then
partner, died, and for some good or f\ivour he fancied I had
done him, he left me £50,000, which, with what I
already had, made me a rich man, and then I began to
think of home and a little cousin who, I said, must be a
dried-up old :>iaid by this time."

At this I winced and tried to draw back from Tom, but
he held me fast while his rare smile broke all over his
face as lie went on :

" I thought I'd like to know just how you did look, and
so wrote for your photograph, which, when it came, as-
tonished me, it was so young and pretty and girlish ; not
m the least old maidish, as 1 feared it mioht be "

til

5 1

" Tom, Tom—are you crazy ? " I cried, wrenching

ray

214

NORAH.

hands from his " J'^ i.

"ot young: and I am anlSlf?- T ''"'''^' '-^
"Yes, yes, vervtiw , ." ™"' "^ «"rty-two.»

didn't ,,0 use to compare nnr^' ^""r*" '" " "'""'^.f»--

•"•"Ught up you.. seZTtyoZZ T '""' "''™ ^™

you should domineer over 1 '"' "" " ""^'^'' *V

-ere thirty-t.o. but yZllZl'T T "'■ ' '^"^^ y™

I'm ten years older tlfan youtovf l r'^f "^ ''''■

and tawny face, and brawny 21 f ? ""'''''y '-'«',

ence, will you ? " a„,, . , ,. •* "'■'■ ^"^ at the diffi).-

»e the picL-e it .tflectrd = T '" 1" "'"''"■■ ''^ ^''<'-"
dered, brown-foeed brow„7 T " '""' '"■°''d-*ouI-
^een thirty «ve, l^^^'^:^; ^'^ -%ht hav„
shoulder, the petite Hff„e of '1:. V^ ''eaehing hi,
«P^ were very p„,e. wl 1 elr^e ^^^ '"■^'■^^" -"
eyes were bright with excitem ,' ™;r "'' "''°^"
was not unbecoming even if it™ ^. « "lo^e wavy hair
-d falling about he'r lee and "l' '"'"'""' "»" '-«'•

That was Tom anrl T o i i

smile shining on me from ^h ,"' *'"" '''' "i-Wevous

^ousey, what do yr .^To f T-' ^^ "" i " ^^^«.

dash of my old sauciness • " T ih V """'e'-ed, with a

■^K'gy bear, and I like a little e;,"b.''™ ' "'^ " S^^"'

He laughed aloud and said- "V„
mentary, but I'll forgive von f„,' ' ""'" ""''^ """"P'''"

«tory. which was inter I^d a C!' T f ™ *'"' '"^
the photograph, which asl^nith d C "^ '''"'"'

termined to come home and see ifTt ^ """' ""' ' ''^-

«n-ou . now, X came, and, wii: :?—;:„, S

NORAH.

n'llish; I'm
^■o."

minute, for
when you
f:^ason why
knew you
ve. Why,
'«hy head,
thediffei-
le showed
ad-shoul-
ight havo
3hing his
head and
^, whose
avy hair
tl tossed,

hievous

" Well,

with a
a great

!ompli-
ith my
ccived
1 1 de-
And,
, cave

215

no warning of my coming, but hunted up your lodcnn^

htt e back third-floor room, and was told you had occu-
pied It for years, and not only that, but that you ^ave
music lessons for a living, and had gone out to hunt up
■scholars I don't think I quite swore, but I did tear
round a little, and bade the woman make up a roarin.
fire against your return, and told her I was going to dint
with you You ought to have seen her twist her apron
and heard her stammer and hesiUtte as she told me, Miss
Burton didnt mostly have dinners now-a-days ;' mean-
ing, of course, that you couldn't afford it. I believe I did
say d-—, with a dash, under my breath, but ^ gave her
a sovereign, and told her to get up the best dinner possi-
ble for the time, for I was hungry a. forty bears. She
courtesied almost to the floor and departed, but, upon my
soul. I Mieve they think me a burglar or something
dreadful, for one or the other of them has been on this
floor watching me .lyly to see that I was not rummaging
your things. * *»

wl,^!;"rL.''V?"'' ' ""' ''■^"S "> ''^y my wet boote,

Why, child, how wet your boots are. Why do you not
change them ? Yon will .uroly take cold. Go now and

I did not tell hin, they were all I had, but he must have
W .t f rem my manner, and looking sharply at me as
.f he would wrmg the truth from me, he said: "Norah
are ihese your only boots ? "

■:k;!'i

•, i

a ;

r i

• N'T

216

NOKAH.

with his bi/ov™„" anl ''"""l' ''""'^^'•'S o.» . ch.ir

couW «ay, and ibrtunatoly t 1 1 ' 'm' ^u"f'"'
then appeared savin,, li, ^'*"' '^'='"> Ju»t

di'l ample iustiel IT .•! '"'""'°'' '' ™». ""d Ton,
" ^y ""= way, I must be moderate here for 1 1,...

":na:"Cnr^:^.'"--''-™----
".-bored the hanr^'d:;::.!'"""''''"'"""^^''-

windows of No. - Grosvenrs ''"" *'"'™g'> ""=

to that table Tom hid been r IT''""' *■'" '""' ''^^^

^ J Kl^f rjf :t: J:: j-*^ - an inva,M-that
through a contagion lire :,:r" """■ ' ""-=• ''™
sorted hi„, and he seems to tZ I r''^ '""' '^' '""^ ^'-
-dstieks to me ii a bl ^^t" ^ "^"'^ *° "'^•
strength of thatand the litt, oJd l^tld t "' ™ ''"
veins, make much of m„ > ■ ""^^'^ '* in my

them to-night ;« ,„„;"""■"" ' ^'""' *- «"'
to-morrow" ''"™ ^o" »™- ^ut shall retnm

t little, while
over a chair
■ a stand of
't that mo-
^as notliin"-
Keith just
iking if she
s, and Tom
3ring him-

liave ano-
'he fatted

liss Ellis-
now J re-
ough the
ire it was
t; but I

id—that
•sed liim
had de-
3 to me,
on the
3 in my
le with
return

NOHAH.

217

hi/cltaTdT"''"' '"•"' "^^^'^^^^^ P-P--g
nis cottee. and after a moment he went on ■ "^ "^ ^

ton ? st "^''; """"'' "'"' '' ^"' ^^""k -^ Miss Ellis-
ton ?Se wrote you were at the san.e hotel in Paris "

GrandV ;;r.^1' T, "!'-' '''- ^^"^'^^^ ^^'^he
replied : "'^'^' ^" ^""^^ ^^"^'Prise ; and he

" No," I answered, " I did not see her or if I d,Vl T ^'a
no k„„ ,., ,„j ,,„ ,, ,^„,, ,^_^ ..oudTo ILtt it'.'
known to me, a poor music teacher."

This last I said bitterly but Tnm ^o i

hardly knowin.. wh«f T '^^ ""^ '*'P^^' ^'^^

^^ y Ku jwing ^v hat I was saying, I added :

abouu" "^^ "' '" ""'■ ^°^-^^- '^^^ talks so much

^^^"'^2^:^''-'' How do you know
face. '^' ''''^' "° "^^^'^"^^^ «f colour iu his

Very foolishly I f.Id him how I knew «nr] nf fi. u

thpn InnL-- . ,., ^"" "^"^^as ^tyet, hesaidabruDtlv

mfho e ;" T-'f ' '^"" ''^" ^^^^ ^-^^^^^ -^-h brought
downhEn r"f ^"'^"^^ ^^^^tt-«- -arried and settiL
aown in England amonir the daisies , ^

Yes, Tom," I said, with

violets

u .t

a great throb of pain in my

218

NORAH.

f-k

M )

had done. *" '"^ "'"«'"«'' '■> '"Jia

eMev::/:;:;:Lt',::e ''° "'"f • ?" *-° -- '' ■"'-

"It; to '!: ?■::""«'!? ™' ^""^' '" ' --" -'"«■

it 10 see hiin. My ],fe would not be so lonelv

have vou sick nr.«r i ^"i- ^ am gone. I cannot

j'l^u MCK now. yl<4 revoir

anf:r:i;i~;:r t^'-^'^ ---^ ^''^'■

was To. „„„ ha^ el:"e e :;. « it^r'" /' " '-^""^

-er. and the little sh inking ^'°"" '"^ '^^ °' ■"""-
worn-out, leakv boot T T*",™""'" " '''"'»<' S™y, witi,
then, to the Z and w.te, t T '^'^ ""'™ ""^ '='" h^'''
the sole,, and ntl"er eT,H f '''™ *' " «'"«' f™"

and thoj^ht wd:L:x,»(ei;,:r '°"f r

tnown I was at the hofe, and had t er 'Tn l
I»U3thave..Ue„a.Ieep..hUeIth::i;,''r:L

ston would
CO in India

was a mis-
aile at the

5uld some-
• lonely.
I liis over-

off those
I cannot

my hair
md I sat
it really
am from
ved him
y in her
ny very
nth the
'f man-
y, with
ut held
te from
eliness,
tio had
me.
he fire

NORAII.

w out, and the clock .t.ikin, twolv., vvl.c, . awoke

go ng to he w,„,Iow and looki,,. „„t into tl,o foggy ni.rl.t

oon lorn wonid con,e ag„i„. Then I crept „hivc.in. to
bod, and when I awoke the Mi»»e,s Keith were ai ',„"
roo..togethe,.withM,xT..ev,na„,a„dn:e:"a':',;i

ke;'rw';M7ttt'i;'r"" '■■^' ^""' ''*^'°

I tney lit. l£e i.s very geiicrous."

tiful F? f "". ■""'"'"'^>' '""' "™' ■"" " ^« of beau-
tiful French ga.ters, and it made me ho tiled to think of
wearing them all at once, a, I though I mu,t that I
-oary High which hrought the hidie,; ":, L t ; ]!2

::': r-rkT^'"^"''-'"^-'" ■->•''"''■ -•"■•■«.^

;Jeepy. Plea.,e go away with the .linners, and hoots and
Tom, and leave me alone. I want to sleep it out." '

s«. Zt' t ? """ "''"■ ''^"•''" ' ''^•'' ™« °f 'h-n

«hen I awoke a curious thing .seemed to have happened

which yet did not surprise nie in the leaat ^^ '

1. Norah Burton, was hidden away in the deep window

.eat wd,ero myself ,i„,,een, I could command a view of

«^e bed, which had ten brought from the litte es/

vvith a lace a» white as the pillows, save where the feve;

220

NORAH.

spot burned on either cheek, somebody was lying—some-
body who looked like me, and yet was not I, though they
called her Norah, and talked in whispers about the long
strain upon her nerves, being so much alone ; the long
walk in the November mist and fog before she was abl^,
and the repeated wetting of her feet from the want of
strong, new shoes. How queerly it all sounded ; how
curiously I watched the girl, who looked so young, lying
there so still, with her hands folded always the same way,
just over her breast, and her face turned a little toward me.'
If she had ever been restless, and, from what they said,
I judged she must have been, it was over now, and she
lay like one dead, never moving so much as an eyelid, or
])aying the slightest heed to what was passing around her.
The Misses Keith and Mrs. Trevyllan wore never all toge-
ther in the chamber now, though each came frequently,
and Mrs. Trevyllan always cried out and asked, " Do you
think she is any better ? Will she live ?" of the tall man
who sat and watched the sick girl just as closely as I did,
and who would sometimes answer, " God knows," and
again shake his head mournfully, as if there was no
hope.

How^ kind, and tender, and gentle he was— gentle, and
tender, and kind as any woman— and I found myself
wishing the girl could know he was there, and know how,
when he was all alone, he kissed tlie pale little fingers]
and smoothed the ruffled hair, and called so soft and low.
" Norah, Norah ! don't you hear me ? Don't vou know old
Tom ?" ' '

NORAH.

221

She did not hear; she did not know; and the pale
fingers never stirred to the kiss he gave them, and only
the breath from the parted lips told there still was life.
How sorry I felt for them both, sorriest I think, for the
man, who seldom left the room, and sat always where he
could see the white face on the pillow.

" Dear little face ! dear little girl ! I cannot let her die.
Please, God, spare her to me!" I heard him say once.
Then there certainly was a fluttering of the eyelids— an
effort like struggling back to life ; and I think the girl in
the bed wanted to tell the man in the chair that she
heard him, and appreciated all his watchful care.

But nature was too weak to rally, and after that one
sign the sick girl lay quiet and motionless as ever, and
only the ticking of the clock broke the deep silence of
the room. I wondered did the ticking disturb her. It
would have worried me, and I should have been forever
repeating the monotonous one-two, one-two, which the
pendulum seemed to be saying. Did my thought com-
municate itself to her the girl on my pillow, with a face
like my face, and which yet was not mine ? Perhaps, for
she did at last move uneasily, and the pale lips whispered;
" One-two, one-two ! it keeps going on forever and ever
and makes me so tired. Stop it, Tom."

He knew wdiat she meant, and the clock which had not
run down in years was silenced at once, wliile Tom's face
grew bright and hopeful, for she had spoken, and called
him by name.

Outside there was the sound of carriage wheels stopping

-u

: Mi

222

NOllAH.

before the door_a pull at the bell, a h„nio,l convention
m the hall below. Miss Keith's voieo ,o,mdi„g flurried and
confused, the other voice .self-assured, surprised, and eom-
mandmg; and then footsteps ean.e up the stairs, and
Arehjes raofher, Mrs. Browning, was standing on the
threshold red, tn-ed, panting, an,l taking in rapidly every
portion o the roon,, from the eheap hearthrug and carpet
to the tai man by the bedside, an.l the pallid face on the
p.llows^ At sight of that, her countenance changed sensi-
my, and she exclaimed :

" I did not suppose it so bad as this."

Then Tom, who had arisen from his seat, spoke a little
sternly, for he was angry at the intrusion :

" Madam, don't you know Miss Burton is very sick and
cannot see strangers ? "

"Yes, I know;" and Archie's motller pressed close to
the girl on the pillow, trailing her In.lia shawl on the floor
directly across Tom's feet. " She was engaged to read to
me every day for two hours, and I waited for her to come
or send some message, till at last I concluded to drive
round and see what had becon.e of her. You are her
cousin, I believe ? I am Mrs. Browning."

She said the last name as if between Mrs. Browning
and the cousin there was a vast diflerence, but if Tom
recognised it, he did not seem to notice it; he merely

"Yes, I am her cousin, and you were to hove been her
raother-m-law ? "

"Yes, Archie was my son. If he had lived he would

.it, '

NORAH.

223

nversation
urried and
and com-
tairs, and
g on the
dly every
nd carpet
ce on the
?ed sensi-

e a little

sick and

close to
the floor
' read to
to come
to drive
are her

owning
rf Tom
merely

;en her

would

have been heir of Briarton Lodge ; both the young lords
are dead."

" Oh, yes, and my cousin would have been Lady Cleaver
of Briarton Lodge," Tom answered, and it seemed to me
that he thought just as I did, namely, that the sick girl
was of more importance to Mrs. Browning because of what
she might have been.

The shadow of the honour she had missed reached even
to this humble room, and made Mrs. Browning more gra-
cious, more pitiful, more anxious than she might other-
wise have been. And yet it was wholly the fault of her
birth and education that she cared so much for these
things. At heart she was a thoroughly good woman, and
there was genuine kindness in her inquiries of Tom as to
what was needed most, and in her deportment toward the
sick girl, w- om she tried to rouse, calling her by name, and
saying to her :

" I am Archie's mother ; you remember Archie, who
died ? "

There was a little sob in the mother's voice, but the
girl gave no sign ; only Tom looked gloomy, and black,
and intensely relieved "when the India shawl was trailed
down the stairs, and the Browning carriage drove away.
Next day it stopped again before the house, and this time
it held an added weight of dignity in the person of Lady
Darinda Fairfax, whose heavy silk rustled up the stairs,
and whose large white hands were constantly rubbing each
other as she talked to Tom, in whom she had recognised

I : II

I" I

|! i

224

NOR AH.

the Mr Gordon seen once at Miss Ellfeton's, where she
ws calling at the same time with himself

"Really, Mr. Gordon, this is a surprise. I had no idea
I am sure, that Miss Burton was your eou,,i„ ; really iZ

Zrr T ^'" """ "'="■ ^^"'=' ™^ --. too! You
must know about Arrhie ? "

"Yes," and Tom bowed stiffly, '.phad the honour of
s ,„g hamyears ago when he visited my cousin. I went
out to India just before he died."

" ^'^: I ''''« ; '"'d did Dot return until a few days sinee
It must have shoeked you very much-the chaJe irher'
<ureu,.,stanc...s. Poor girl, we neverk„ow ituntil he ca^^^
to us for employment. I am glad for her, that you have
c»me to c«.e for her. She will live with ^ou, of ourse
if you marry .w,d .settle here." '

Wy Darmda, though esteeming herself highly bred
-as much given to direct questioning which ^metim s
seor.ied impertinent. But Tom did not reseat iUn iT
case ; he merely replied ; '" *'""

"My cousin will live with me when I am married and
I am happy to say she has no further need to look f"r
employment of any kind. I shall take care of her »

ne'r Tl e"7 TT ." ^'"' ''°'- "- '' - »ham glad-
ness. The :nt,mate friend of Miss Lucy Elliston, she had

h ard rnuc of - the Mr. Gordon who had saved Charto

i'tlZan". sThV'^ '"""""' ''"''''"' ''""-"g-
S who had , ,\ "''? ""' " "'-dly interest in the
gnl who had a<m„.( been Lady Cleaver, and that interest
was increased when she knew b.r to H- nr. !

.... — I \,Kr uQ a, near connection

NOBAH.

225

where she

d no idea,
ally, I am
-too. You

honour of
I went

lys since,
ge in her
she came
f^ou have
f course,

ily bred,
metimes
t in this

led, and
look for
r."

m glad-
she had
Charlie's
lorough
t in the
interest
nection

of Miss Elliston's Mr. Gordon. The time might come
when it would do to speak of her and possibly present
her to her friends, and she made many anxious inquiries
concerning her, and talked so rapidly and so loud that the
head on the pillo-/ moved as if disturbed, and Tom was
glad when the lady at last gathered herself up to leave,
She was still nervously rubbing her jewelled hands, and
Tom's attention was attracted to a solitaire of great bril-
liancy, the same I had observed the day I sat in her re-
ception room, and she stood talking to me and rubbing
her hands just as she was rubbing them now. Suddenly,
and as if her mind was made up, she drew off the ring,
and bending over the sick girl pushed it upon the fourth
finger of the left hand, saying to Tom as she did so :

" The ring is hers, and she ought never to have parted
with it. I don't know why she sent it back to us, but she
did, just after Archie died, and as his cousin I kept it, but
wish her to have it again, and I fancy she is too proud to
take it if she knew. I must go, now, but will come again
soon, or send to inquire. Shall I see you at Miss Elliston's
to-night at the musicale ? Lucy will be greatly disap-
pointed, if you do not come."

" I shall not leave my cousin while she is so sick," was
Tom's reply, and with a loud-spoken good-by, Lady Dar-
inda left the little room which she had seemed to fill so
full with her large, tall person and voluminous skirts.

Scarcely was she gone, when Tom took in his own the
pale little hand where the solitaire was sparkling, looked
at it a moment, then gently withdrew it ; put it in his

i^r

226

NORAH.

pocket-book, with a muttered something I could not quite
understand. Then the girl on the pillow began to grow
restless, and her fever came on, and Tom said there had
been too much talking in the room, and no one must be
admitted except the Misses KeHh and Mrs. Trevyllan and
across the window they hung a heavy curtain to exclude
the light, and so to me everything became a blank, and I
icnew no more of what was passing until one bright De-
cember morning, when I awoke suddenly to find myself
m the bed where the sick girl had lain.

I was very weak and languid, and very much bewild-
ered as I tried to recall the past, and remember what had
happened. It was something like the awakening after
Archie died, only, in place of dear old Atmt Esther here
was a tall, brown man looking down upon me, with so
much kindness and anxiety in his eyes, that without
knowing at all who he was, I tried to put out my hand
as 1 said : " You are very, very good. I'll tell Tom about
It.

" Norah, Norah. I am Tom. Don't you know me ^ "

and his great warm hands were laid on mine as he bent

over me with his eager questioning. " Don't you know

meNorah? I am Tom." I did know him then, and I
said :

"Yes, Iknow you, and IVe been very sick ; it must
have been the leaky boots which kept my feet so cold and
wot. Wherearethey, Tom?"
"Burned up, Norah, I did it myself in the kitchen
,a„g«, and have m their place twelve pairs of the neatest

NORAH.

227

1 not quite
m to grow
there had
e must be
yllan, and
:o exclude
nk, and I
right De-
id mjself

h bewild-
ivhat had
ing after
her, here
, with so
without
ny hand
m about

w me ? "
he bent
u know
I, and I

it must
3ld and

dtchen
neatest

little gaiters you ever saw, waiting for your feet to be able
to wear them. Shall I show them to you now ? "

He did not wait for me to answer, but darted into the
recess adjoining, and bringing out the boots, tumbled
them all upon the bed where I could see them. Twelve
pairs of boots, of every style and make ! Walking boots,
morning boots, calling boots, prunella boots, bronze boots,
Frenchcalf-skin boots, and what was very strange, a
dainty pair of white satin boots, which laced so very high,
and were so pretty to look at. I think these pleased me
more than all the others, though I had no idea as to when
or where I could wear them.

A handsome boot was one of my weaknesses, and lo !
here were a dozen pairs of them, and I laughed as a child
would have done over a box of toys. He let me enjoy
them a few moments, and then took them away, telling
me I was not to get too tired, and how glad he was that
I was better, and able to recognise him. I had been sick
three weeks, he said, and he had been with me all the
time, except when he went out for a short time each
day.

'^ You have been out of your head," he said, " and in-
sisted that you were sitting over in the window, and that
somebody eise was here in bed, and that I was a big bear.
What do you think of me, now ? "

I looked at him closely, and saw that the heavy over-
coat and coarse sea clothes had given place to garments of
the m.ost fashionable kind, which fitted him admirably,
and gave him quite a distingui air, while his hair and

228

NORAH.

beard were cut and trimmed after the most approved ,tvl.

r^He ""' ^°"''" ^°^' ^' '-^ heigSLfl' •

8on. He was a man to bo noticed anywhere and „ff„
inspecting him a moment. I said : "'

aJ!,""/t ^°T' ™''^ ''''=°' "'"' ^--y ''^^onie, and I
am so glad you have come home."

This was great deal to say at once in my feeble state

and he saw how tired I was. and bade me not t k an '

more and drew the covering about mo and tucked it in'

and brought me a clean handkerchief, and laid it on mv

^rhatdr'"^^"^"^ -"-"----"

Oh, those first days of getting better how hannv th
were, and how delightful it seemed to be Lade Celf oT
and petted, and waited on as if I were a princess '

kinit mr"""-?"'" '"*'°'' ">'-«™-,and wa. very
kmd to me, and sa.d once, as she was leavincr ■

^^« You will hardly come to me now as w-e had agreed

" Oh. ye., I shall." I replied. ■■ I must get to work asaia
as soon as I am able" worn again

wa;':^re;ra:i:r^°^-'^^"''-H decided

my'fr::::- ""'""' «° ""' »^ --■«---"<'-

That wa. so like Tom: and I let him have his wav
with Mrs. Browning, but was nevertheless just aa firnTin

what he had sard about being married, nor. had I any

NOR Ail.

229

roved style
of the sea-
, and after

)me, and I

Jeble state,
t talk any
iked it in,
I it on my
ly woman

'Wy they
much of,

was very

d agreed

rk again

decided

is under

bis way

firm in

rgotten

I any

doubt that he meant to marry Miss Elli.ston, and if so, our
lives must necessarily drift very far apart. But it was so
nice to have him all to myself just now, and I enjoyed it
to the full, and let him wait on me as much as he liked,
and took gladly what he brought me, rare flowers and
hot-house plants, and books of engravings for me to look
at, and books which he read aloud to me while I lay on my
pillows, or sat in my great arm-chair and watched him as
he read, and wondered at, and rejoiced over, and felt glad
and proud of the change in his appearance. I think he
was, without exception, the finest-looking man I ever saw,
and Mrs. Trevyllan quite agreed with me, always except-
ing, of course, her George. She was with me a great deal
during my convalescence, and one morning, when Tom
was out, she came with a radiant face, which I knew por-
tended some good news. Miss Elliston had actually
called — that is, she had come to the door in her carriage,
sent in her card, and with it an invitation to a large party
to be held next week.

" And are you going ? " I asked ; and she replied :
" Certainly I am. I think it was real snipping in her
not to call herself, but then I can excuse something on the
score of old acquaintance, and I must wear that lovely
silk before it gets quite out of fashion. She wrote me a
little note, saying it was to be a grand affair — quite a crash.
I can hardly wait to see it."

Just then Tom came in, and the conversation ceased,
though I was tempted to tell him T knew of the party.
He was going, of course, and I felt a little hurt that he

\'i

■ PI

230

NORAH.

Imve an engagcnent for to-night, Mousey Mis,
Elhs on g,vo., a large party, and as sl,e ha defer d it nn,^
I oouM be present, I think I ought to go" °*"'''' '""'"'

hewl:rr;it;" -^r '^"'"--^ «■--'-

things o'f Miss S ilri""' *" "■^' ""' '° "»"'' '>-1
everything *""' "'" "^^ ^ ™'> ""d h^PPy in

.oorXldTi;:;;— ----e-e

lovely a., she was, in p „k si k ^ T" """" ""^^'''S "^^

W sunny hlue e.^s :nd g^t'nllr'""' *"' """''' ^'""

"You will be the belle of the mrfv" r -i i ,

shook her head, laughingly, a:d:4ne!; ^""^ "" '"«
1 11 tell you to-morrow."
Alas ! when the morrow came the litfip l.^ - ,
were droopina and hpr «n; -, ? lady s plumes

was late in hfs' vTsl tha T ' ''"' """''• ^^"

time to tell me rab^t^ °""'' ^^' ^^ ''' ''' ^^^'^

"Such a jam !" she said • "o«^ -i. i i - ,
hour for the carriage ogft 'uo tot, .' *'^" '''"' "»

half-hour to push her Z Lfh V ' " '"""'"''

again to the ^ "■'^'°"''<''«^'"ng->-oom and down

again to the drawmg-room, where Mis, Ifii,.t • .

touched her hand and said good-evenL !!.!," '"''
shoved on in « «^ , evening , and then she was

tiJy suTrounderrr "" ""' ''^"'■«^ '"""■ -

than ifXy had he'' TT' """ ''"'""^ "o- "'^e
they had been zn the desert. Wh«n the dancing

NORAH.

231

e clone as
the very

jy- Miss
Jd it until

en, when
ink hard
lappy in

> let me
thing as
Is, with

but she

plumes

Tom

ample

lalf an
nother
down
ni just
le was
d, en-
alone

mcinsf

commenced it was better, for the parlours thinned out
and she was able to walk about a little ; but nobody
spoke to her or noticed her in any way, and she was not
introduced to a single individual, until the lion of the
evening, the man who received so much attention from
everybody, accidentally stumbled upon her, and was so
kind and good. And who do you suppose it was ? I was
never more astonished in my life. And they say he is to
marry Miss EUiston. It is quite a settled thing, I heard.
Your cousin, Mr. Gordon ; and that was his photograph,
though not very natural ; at least, I did not recognise
him from it. Perhaps, because I never thought of such a
thing."

" The picture was taken three or four years ago," I
said ; " and Tom says it was never a good one."

" Then you did know all the time that he was Miss
Elliston's Mr. Gordon, and you never told me?" Mrs.
Trevyllan cried, in a slightly aggrieved tone of voice.

" I knew he was her brother's friend," I said, " but not
till after he ce.me home. Is she so very handsome ?"

" Why, yes, I think she is, or at least she has a style
and high-bred air better than mere beauty. Last night
she was all in white, with blush roses on her dress, and in
her hair, and when she walked or danced with Mr.
Gordon, everybody remarked what a splendid couple they
were, she so tall and graceful^ and he so big and prince-
like. Did you know they were engaged ? "

She put the question direct, and I knew my cheeks
were scarlet, as I replied :

'S. l

fll

.fjrri

282

NORAH.

If ■•

III;

came

" I 8upposed~yes. I-Tom told me
be married ; that's all I know."
I was taking my breakfast, and my hand shook so thaf

" I say, Miss Burton, it's too bad. Here I'd hoon ^. m ,
■■ay for I do nctth t ■■ "" "''" "' ^ ^'l' I" '^ '»

so glad I came, and hoped I had not f„„nd it very d„ll

J "'''"f ^y '"y^^" i" " little window aleove and

I kept stili and h.ard them talk of you."
'■Of me?" I exclaimed; and she continued:
Ot you ; yes. Lady Fairfax said :

peopk. I almost envy you, Lucy, if you do marry him
By the way, do you know his coasin, Miss Burtonf vZ
She mvited to-night ? ' ■

"'No/ Lucy said. ' I've never called upon' her Shp
teaches music, you know T 3^^^^ her i, P ^

^ Oil,, xierm Paris, witn one

NORAH,

233

e home to

»ok so that
d dropped

inipulsive

^en build-
1 is to be
m free to
should at

or even
she was
^ery dull
Lirton — I
heard. I
)ve, and

I think
nd after
yself, so

ins the

ry him.

? Was

She
th one

of her pupils ; rather pretty, hut no style. Yoii never
saw her, of course ! '

" ' Yes, I have ; ' and I fancied Larly Fairfax spoke a
little hotly. ' I know all about her, iind she is as nice as
she can be, and a lady too. ,She was to have married
Cousin Archie, who died, and if she had she would have
been Lady Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge, now. She has
been very sick ; did you know that ? '

" ' Yes, I should think so. for that has kept Mr. Gordon
from us so much, and Charlie was so vexed, for he needed
amusing himself. I trust she will .soon be well. Is she
really nice ami a lady ?'

" ' Yes. every whit a lady, and I advise you to cultivate
her at once.'

From where I sat I could see Miss Elliston dis-
tinctly, and saw her give a little shrug aich she
picked up abroad, and which always irritntes me. Lady
Fairfax must have understood its meaning, for she went
on:

" ' Mr. Gordon is evidently very foi.d of his cousin, and

looks upon her as a sister, and '

How do you know that i How do you know he is
very fond of her?' Miss Elliston asked, quickly; and I
saw in a moment she was jealous of you. And when
Lady Fairfax told of her call when you were sick, and of
his devotion to you, and added, ' He will undoubtedly ex-
pect her to live with you when you are married,' she
gave another shoulder shrug and said :

" 'Cela depend, I have not married him yet, and, if I
16

f ■

234

NORAH.

should, I do not propose marrying his entire family This

girl is not of the Gordon blood.'

" What iuore they would have said I do not know, for
just then some dancers came out to cool themselves and
behmd them Mr. Gordon, looking for Lucy, who took his
arm with such a s/eet smile and air of possession, and I
heard her say to him :

"'Lady Fairfax has been telling me such nice things
about your cousin. I wish you would bring her to see
me ; J am so busy and have so many engagements, I think
she might waive ceremony with me.' "

" What did Tom reply ? " I asked, and Mrs. Trevyllan
said : "'

" I did not hear his answer; but. mark my words, she'll
make a fool of him, and he will be asking you to call on
her. But don't you do it. and don't you live with them
either."

"I never shall." was my answer; and as Tom's step
was heard in the hall just then, Mrs. Trevyllan left me to
receive his visit alone.

He looked tired and ennuied, and was absent-minded
and moody for him, while I, too, was very reticent, and
never once mentioned the party until he said :

"I met Mrs. Trevyllan as I came up. She told you
about the party last night, I suppose."

" Ves," I answered, and he continued :

"What did she say of Miss Elli.ton? They are old
friends, I believe."

" Yes : they knew each other in Ireland. She said

NORAW.

Tally. This

know, for
ilves, and
' took his
on, and I

ce things
ler to SCO
3, 1 think

revyllan

da. she'll
) call on
bh them

I'a step
t me to

ninded
it, and

d you

re old
3 said

235

she was very pretty and stylish, and so lovely last ni-dit
in white, with blush roses " "

"Yes," Tom replied, evidently wishin;^r to hear some-
thing more.

" And she said everybody was talking of you, and what
a fine-looking couple you were."

" Yes," and this time the yes ran out rather sharply,
but brought no resi)onso from mo.

I had told him all I had to tell him of Miss Elliston,
and, after waiting a few moments, he began himself :

" Miss Elliston is a very handsome girl, with fine man-
ners and style. She is considered a great catch, I believe
Would you like to see her-that is, enough to call on her
with me when you are able ? She asked me to bring
you, as her time is so fully occupied. Will you go ? "

" Mo, Tom. I'd rather not. I'd dt) much to ploaso you
but not that. It is her place to call on me, if she cares
to know me."

I said this faintly, and with tears gathering in my
eyes, and a horrid feeling of loneliness gathering in mv
heart. ''

I was losing Tom sure, and it made mo very sad, and
made the old life to which I must return seem harder
than before. Perhaps it was this, and perhaps it wa,s
that I had no vital force with which to rally, no bank to
draw from, as the physician said, which kept me an in-
valid all that winter, with barely strength to walk about
my xoom, and drive occasionally with Tom, who came to
see me nearly very day, and who surrounded me with

1 i

iWl

NORAH.

ov.y possAIe comfort „„,i ,u„„y, „,„ ^.^^
v.d.„g ™.„th a ™,,id to wait upon „,e. I pro e'rd
aga,„s a.., knowing how ha,,l it wouM bo to'go taeU
^ wo, c after .,o n.ud, potting, „n,l ,ai,| .o „„oe fo Tom
when he was spon.ling the evening with me.

he =l:eS;td';c;;:™" ''«■"'" '^^''"''""^--n^''

a,7ar,ir''''r'T ■''"'■" ^-'^ ■" "O-Ifaasoon
^^ am able, and-and-y„u arc n.arried, a, they „y
you are going to be." '^ ^

Since the morning after the party he had never men
t»ne M.S Elli.ton or ..fcrred to her in any Ta^ a„d
>- s.knee was beginning to annoy „,e. and lo I Idded
iou are, are you not?"

"Arc what r he asl<ed, with a comical gleam in his

tinutd: '""° '' "' ""■""^' " ' ''^''^^' ^^d J^^-n-

"Yes, I believe I am, provided the lady will have me
I>o you think she will ? " '

"Have you! Of course she will" T ^n,M

.e.^ and felt my Whole facet;,, ti^trc^-
And ,f I do marry," Tom added, "why should th.t
compel you to return to your teaching, Td^iK; to W
Wouldn't you still be my care V '

"No" I answered emphatically. "I shall just take
care of myself as I did before you ca.no from Ind a I
will not be any harder." ^

" i'^» ^ot so sure of that," Tom answered, with a laugh,

NORAH.

h the pro-
I protested
to go back
ce to Tom

'U mean ? "

elf as soon
they say

;ver men-
way, and
I added:

im in his
1 he con-
have me.

ite vehe-
3ment,
J Id that
know !

ist take
dia. It

a laugh,

237

nor was I so sure of it either, and after he was gone I re-
member that I cried biUeily over the certainty of his
marriage and the change it would bring to me.

During the next three or four weeks I did not see Tom
quite as often as usual; he was very busy, he told me •
occupied, I supposed, with Miss Elliston, whom I saw
with hmi in the gardens where I was taking an airing in
a Path chair one pleasant morning in April. Mrs
Trevyllan was walking by my side, and fir..t called my
attention to them coming straight tr.ward us, and so near
that to escape by turning into . .-path was impossible.
Tom saw me at the same mo. ■ . , and I fancied there was
a look of annoyance on his face as if the meetin- were
one he would have avoided. But it was too lat'e now
We were very near each other, and wishing to spare him
the necessity of recognition, if possible, I pulled my blue
hood closely about my face and pretended to be very
much interested in a bed of crocuses ; but Tom was not
mdined to pass me by, and before I quite knew what I
was doing, I had been presented to Miss Elliston, and she
was looking at me, and I was looking at her, and each
was undoubtedly forming an opinion of the other not al-
together complimentary. Mine of her was: Fine-Iookinr.
stylish, very stylish, but cold as an ice-berg, selfish'
smooth and deep, and if it be true that in the case of
every married couple there is one who loves and one who
permits it. Tom will be the one who loves, and she the
passive recipient. I should as soon think of receivin- a
caress from an iceberg as from that calm, quiet, self-pos-

a- .--if.

■: k

mmi

238

NORAH.

seesed woman. Poor T ,», with his wann loving heart,
and demons rafve natu.e ! This was my „pi„io„ „f Miss'
EIh.ton whUe hors of me, I fancy, was something as fol-
lows: "T at little dowdy, faded old maid, Mr. Gordon's

consm! and does Lady Fairfax think I'll ever coasent to

her living with me as a poor relation r-

cnrin''7'V-,™f '" "'" '" ''^"^^»- ->>'<='' '^''-"nein^e
e,mo-)y while she tried to be agreeable and said she
was glad to see me ; that she had been coming to call up-
on me for a long time, bnt really her time ;«. not h r
own, and she wished I would come to .see her with M™
Trevyllan, 'who, naughty girl, owes me a party call," she
^d ed playf,, ,y, ,„d shaking her finger at the' naugh y
girl, she made a movement to pass on

Tom said very little, and I felt he was glad when the
.nterview was over, and I was being trundled along the
road further and further from him and his fiancee. She

Zl T , ^""°""^-' --^ -"-. "-e weeks late, h

d of a place on Finchley Eoad, Hampstead, which wa.
for .ale and which he meant to buy, I was sure of it, and
asked him when it was to be. •

•• The wedding, you mean ? " and he looked so nuizzi-
-«y at me. .. I'd like it as soon as the middle of Jun
aow do you suppose that would suit her > "

1 thought he could ascertain that better by askin,. her
rather than me and I told himso a little pettishly,! am
afmid, though he did not seem the least bit ruffl'^, but
held „,e high in his arms just as he did the night he ame
fom India, and said: "Mousey must m.anage to g"

NORAH.

239

3ving heart,
lion of Miss
hing as fol-
r. Gordon's
consent to

scanned me
d said she
to call up-
as not her
with Mrs.
' call," she
" naughty

when the
along the
cee. She
later, he
hich was
5f it, and

o quizzi-
of June.

nng her
1}^ I am
bd, but
he came
to get

back some colour in her cheeks, for I want her to look her
best at 'the wedding."

Secretly I hoped J'd be sick, and unable to go, but I did
not say so, and when, a few days later, he came and told
me he had bought Rose Park, and wished me to drive out
and see it, I did not object, but put on my hat and shawl
with the feeling as if I were about to visit a grave, instead
of the charming spot which Rose Park proved to be. The
house stood in an enclosure of two acres, and we went
through the grounds first, admiring the beautiful shrubs,
the velvety grass, iha statuary gleaming so white through
the distant trees, the rustic seats and gravel walks, and
pretty little fountain which set up such tiny jets of water
near the front door. How delightful it all was ; just a
bit of country in the busy city, from which it was shut
out by a high stone wall, over which the English ivy was
rioting so luxuriantly. And yet in my heart there was
an ache as I thought how very, very seldom I should ever
go there, and in imagination saw Miss Elliston's tall,
graceful figure, wandering about the shaded walks with
Tom, or sitting down to rest in the rose-covered arbour,
just as he and I were doing, he asking me innumerable
questions about the place, how I liked it, and if I thought
his wife would be suited with it.

" Suited ! " I cried. " She ought, for I think it a little
Paradise. I did not know there was such a pretty place
in London, city and country all in one."

" Well, then. Mousey," he said, « if you like the grounds

•

240

NORAH.

i!i#j. I

, _ na What, if any, dianges you would su<..rost "
The mside of the house took my breath p w •!

-h.„« t:Sn^ :,,^- -;«". 3ti<ra.o. H,

elegant and rich anrt 7 f„u i-, ''^ •'^' "'"' y*' " ^^

led mo through i-oomaJ ""' " " '"'"" "^ '^'"^

""&" room alter room somp -aritu i« • i

and balconies, others openinr/nr m ''''°^'^''

.ou here ^.'^t and. ,1 inhere wl^^alLlu:'': ",^
suggest." -^ alteration you could

" I •' " and I looked quickly up at him " ^h
not think much of my taste, /fancy Either do 7^
she will care to have a thin. chanL / n ^° ^^^^^^
ing. especially her room." ^ '''' '' " ''' ^^ ^'^-^

That was indeed the glorv of fh^ i.^„
airy, and commanding a finTvfew of T ;" '^^ ""'
the garden walls. To' the aoutwl I We b ™ " t'^
fitted up iust Hkp « f • 1 , ^ ^'^y window.

flower/aL^i:r„:J:7,^X 7er 'r "'r^' ''"^
bird carolling a merr, songTli:^ ntjlr^^^
the west a long balcony, with two nr fl ^ ^

think of the
Jggest."
■y, it was so

if made to
iff about it,

yet it was
im as Tom
y windows
iervi Tories,
ch Hiked

n it ? " I
i to brint?
you could

'he would
lo I think

charm-

arge and

1 outside
window,
ures and
I canary
fe. To
'^-chairs,

1 droop-
ivork in
nicated

NORAH.

241

with the sleeping-room, which had the tallest bedstead
and bureau I had ever seen, and was pretty enou-h for
the queen herself. Indeed. I doubted whether ther'e was
m Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle any rooms as
pretty and suggestive of genuine comfort as these, and I
said so to Tom as we stood in what he called " my wife's
room," with the south bay window and tie lon^r west
balcony. *

" Then you really like it, and think you could be happy
here ? " Tom said, sitting down upon the blue satin couch
and drawing me beside him.

"Happy!" I repeated; "yes, perfectly happy with
people whom I loved, and I am sure you'll be happy, Tom
and I'm so glad for you that you have so beautiful a
home." He was silent for a moment, and then he said :

" Norah, you have not selected your room yet I know
^vhich I have designed for you, but I want you to be
suited. Can you tell me which you would like ? "

Now was the time to make an end of all the talk alpout
my living with him at Rose Park, and I began :

' -• om, why can't you understand how impossible it is
that I should stay here after you are married ? "
" Why impossible ? " he asked, and I replied :
" Because there is nothing in common between me and
Miss Elliston. She is elegant, and grand and high-born
and I am a little plain old maid of whom she would be
ashamed even as a poor relation. She loves vou, and you
will be happy with her alone. I should only be an ele-
ment of discord in your household. No, Tom. dont speak

ill

;M #

li M

': : m

242

NORAII.

|,!<.

«vow7eS:'"L!Ln'"'''^^""^-^-P- I -not

'ore, except a. I r.,nZltZ:LT """ ''™ ''"
and heard him say .- ^ '"* ^ ^^ «» sick

"Dear little girl, pfease God, spare her to me now »

sir>. I hfd thorx trz',:: " r ^'^ "• "- --^

»-, but when tte cobweb™ ^ri „■:,:""=: *"<• —

rbterthirLr; ™.^ -^»-ls^^^^^
;.ad -ched":i:r;rn:er:r: " r- '^

touch those of a sister N.„T " " ''P' '"'^«'-

""•3taki.ghis voice or the7,Tr'";*'"" "=""'"'«»<>
arm around my wa^it Id dr ' '" "'"' ^"""^ '■'^

"Norah," le C „ M "' "'"" '" "'"•

afternoon yea sari" ^°" ^^■"''"^^' *•>"' «"mn,er

lane, and saM^otd 'brrthrtr'^f'' ""' "'^'^°™ «■«
to take me up f Yes v T^'" ""^ ^t^S^ »'<'PPed

owed, and the^wii7:;rhrs;t':::^rr ''- ^-^

P- I cannot
k again and
le same for
I life, know-
if anything

ended Tom
>m him be-
vas so sick

now."
then, and
the sick
and man-
away the
etimes I
om's Jips
ips never
uld be no
ound his
m.

summer
own the
stopped
the boy
r meant
senior,
, I 'Was
i'" heart

NORAH,

243

as I watched you standing on the stile and waving your
hand to me, and to myself I said : ' Please God if I can't
have her, I'll never have anybody.' Then the years went
by and changes came, and the boy-love seemed to have
died out, though I never saw a fair English face in India
that I did not contrast it with yours, and say to mvself :
' Norah's is the best, though possibly not so pretty' I
was a man among men. I had money and social position,
and more than one mother wanted me for her daughter,
and I knew it, and, being human, was flattered by it some-
what, but always remembered you and the summer after-
noon when we said good-by at the stile in Middlesex.
Then Miss Elliston came to India. It was an honour to
be noticed by her, and I was thus honoured, and as the
friend of her favourite brother was often at their rooms,
and came to know her well. She is very handsome, and
though she may be cold and haughty to those whom she
considers her inferiors, she is sweet and gracious to her
equals, and was the most popular girl in Calcutta. I was
much in her society, and liked her better than any girl I
knew, and, as vras natural, our names came at last to be
mentioned together, and- I was looked upon as a suitor
for her hand ; but I never was, Norah— never."

I started then, but the arm around my waist tightened
its hold, and he continued :

" I was not a marrying man, I thought, and whenever
I did dream of a home and wife, your face came always
before me as it looked that day when you watched me
going from you, < It is not like that now,' I said to my-

244

NORAll,

self. ' Norah must have grown old in these dozen years'
and then I sent for the photograph, which, when it came
astonished me so much by its «weet. pensive beauty and
girhsh fairness tl,at I changed my mind, and thou-ht I
was a marrying man, and that no otlier fm-o than th"at of
the original could ever satisfy me. So I came hon.e and
found you more than I had hoped. I .saw at once that
you, too, associated me with Miss Elliston, and as a
means of winning you I suffered you to be deceived
Miss Elliston is nothing to me-never can be anythincr to
me even If you now refuse to select your room at Rose
Park. Which shall it be, Norah ? Will you take the
pretty suite you supposed was intended for another and
will you let me be somewhere in the vicinity, say within
call, in case you need me ? "

It was a novel way of asking me to be his wife, but it
was like Tom, and I understood what it meant, and for a
moment sat perfectly still, too much overcome to speak
Ihen, as Tom pressed me for an answer, and said •

"Come, Norah, I am bound to marry somebody so
which shall it be, Miss Elliston or you ? " I answered

" I think it had better be I ; but oh, Tom, I never
dreamed of such a thing," and then, of course, I cried, and
Tom soothed and quieted me in the usual way, and we sat
and talked it over, and I found that I must have loved
him all my life, and he was certain he had loved me since
.the first day of his arrival at the old Jiouse in Middlesex
when he chased me with an apple-tree worm, whidh he

NOR\H.

245

lozen years;'
■hen it came,
beauty and
1(1 thought 1
than that of
le home and
it once that
1, and as a
)e deceived,
anything to
)om at Rose
oil take the
nother, and
say within

wife, but it
t, and for a
le to speak,
aid :

nebody, so
iswered.
n, I never
' cried, and
and we sat
lave loved
d me since
Middlesex,
whi(Jh he

succeeded in dropping into my neck, and for which I re-
warded him with a long scratch on his face.

It was settled that we should be married some time in
June, and that Archie's mother and Lady Darinda should
be invited to the wedding, which otherwise was to be
void of guests, with the exception of the Misses Keith and
Mrs. Trevyllan. How surprised tliese last were, and how
glad, and how much they made of me as the future Mrs.
Gordon. I went and told Lady Fairfax myself, and she
insisted upon giving me a wedding, and saying that I
should be married from her house in Grosvenor Square.
But to that Tom would not listen. A (juiet wedding
suited him better, with no fuss and worry, and no one to
criticiso.

Lady Darinda was bitterly disappointed, and was not
to be appeased until Tom consented to allow her to f^ive
us a party after our return from Switzerland, for we were
going there on the bridal trip— going to see the glorious
Alps once more, with their ever-changing hues, and the
silvery lakes, which sparkle in the sunshine like silver
jewels on a bed of green. Oh ! that lovely June morn-
ing, when the air was filled with the perfume of roses and
violets, and not a cloud hung over Kensington. My wed -
ding morning, and it comes back to me so freshly now,
with the song of the robin in the tree by my window, the
dewy sweetness of the air, the smiles, and tears, and kisses
of Mrs. Trevyllan and the Misses Keith, the loud decided
talk of Lady Darinda, the quiet "God bless you, child,
and make you happy," of Archie's mother when she was

•I' i

:&.

210

NO RAM.

uahered mto my roon,, for both k^iie,, came to tho houve
and wontw,,' me to tho church on tl.c.,trc3ot ju,starou„,
the corner, where Tom „,et me, radiant and Lppy and
«ohand»me in his now suit " right from Paris," and the
^d sauey teasing smile in his eyes and about his mou«,
^ he looked down upon me and heard me promise to
love, honour and obey. There were no tears a my wed-
dmg, and I trust no sorry hearts, though Miss Lucy eTiI

and when the ceremony was over, and we wore goin,
down tho a,sle. she confrouted Tom laughingly," anS

^^•■I meant to see you married whether you invited me

To me she was very polite and affable, and I remem
bered what Tom had said ,.f her sweet graciousne" To
h^ whom she thought her ec«als. I wJthat no^nd
she sa.d .omethmg about seeing much of me whoa 1 re-
inmed to England; but she has uot, and we shall nevl
l« more than mere calling acquaintances, with occasion
ally a dinner or a lunch. '-'-^sion

Lady Darinda gave the promised party, and I wore
wh,te safn and pearls, and tho white U Tom boul
with the do.en, and Archie's solitaire, too, for Tom told
meabou .t one night at Giessbach, where we spent two
del ghtful «.eks wandering through the woods and up
and down the falls to the shores of the lake

"I did not wish to see it on your finger then," he said.

When von -arai-a ar^ o,--!. -_ i t o , oaiv^,

"■ "^ "" °'^^ ^"^ ^ reared you might die ; but

) tho house
just around
happy, and
J," and the
his mouth,
promise to
t my wed-
^ucy Ellia-
ookors-on,
ere going
ugly, and

ivitod me

I remem-
usness to
now, and
hen I re-
ill never
Dcca,sion-

I wore

bought
'om told
•ent two
and up

be said,
lie; but

NORAH. 247

now that you hav(i tho wedding ring and are absolutely
mine, I do not caro, and you can wear it if you choose."

I did choose, for I had a weakness fur diamonds, and
this was a superb one, handsomer even than the one Tom
gave me, which chagrined him, I think, a little.

The j.arty was a great success, so far as numb^'o, a^^
dress, and music, and titled people were concern jd ; and
I was, I believe, considered a success, too, especidiv after
it was generally known that I came near being r.a(iy
Cleaver, of Briarton Lodge, and that Tom was one or the
Gordons, with heaps of money and the prettiest place in
St. John's Wood. For myself, I did not like the party at
all, and felt tired, and bored, and glad when it was over
and I could come back to the beautiful home where I
have been so happy since the day Tom brought mo hero
as his bride.

It is wife now. The bridal festivities are all in the
past ; the bridal dress worn at Lady Darinda's party is
yellowed by time, and on the terrace in front of the bow
window where I am writing two children are playing—
my sweet, blue-eyed Nellie of six, and my brave sturdy
boy of four, with light brown hair and a freck on his nose,
just where Tom's used to bo when he, too, was a boy.
We called him Archie, to please the dear old lady, whom
I have learned to love so much, and who divides her time
about equally between Lady Darinda and myself. The
children call her grandma, and I heard Archie explaining
to the gardener's son, the other day, that she was reallv

•^ t

,». .

248

NORAH.

To me the past seem., all a dream, and when I look
about me upon my home, and hear the voices of my chil-
dren shouting on the lawn, and see their father comin.
np the walk, and know that he will soon be at my side"

reahze thnt 1 am she who onee plodded so drearily through
the London fog and rain, hunting for work with which to
get my dady bread God has been very good to me, and.
though I have known n.uch of poverty and sorrow it is

happ,er home than mine, or a happier pair. I am sure,
^lis done " "" ''"^' ^'°^^ "' '''' ^■'g'"''

THE END.

of his first

len I look
)f my chil-
ler cominor
it my side,
^ I cannot
ly through
1 which to

me, and,
rrow, it is
fe is not a

am sure,

1 English

KITTY CEAia

»♦»

"TZ"ITTY CRAIG was just married ; and the white satin
-L^ and fleecy lace, in which she had looked so much
like an angel that her great, handsome giant of a husband
hardly dared to touch her, was folded and packed away
in one of the trunks which stood in the hall waiting the
arrival of the express waggon which was to take them to
the train. And Kitty in her travelling-dress looked in-
finitely prettier and more ajiproachabJe than she had in
all that sheen of lace, and satin and flowers, which had
cost so much money and discussion, the mother and aunties
saying that it was a useless expense, as were nearly all
such bridal dresses, when the bride was neither wife nor
daughter of a millionaire—that in nine cases out of ten
the costly fabric was worn only at the altar and then laid
aside to fade and grow yellow with time, or at best to be
made over after a lapse of years, when there arose some
occasion which demanded it. Kitty, on the contrary,knew
she should need it, for was she not going to New York,
the ve'^y " hub " of parties, and receptions and society, and
17

250

KITTY CHAIG.

though she did not know an indivi'dual there, and mi.ht
as her quaint old aunt exprosHc<l it, be at first "a rat
among cats," instead of "a eat a.nong rats," as she had
hitherto been, she should soon have troops of friends, for
was not John the confidential derk in a first-class whole-
sale house on Broadway, and already acquainted with the
wives of his employers, Messrs. Orr, Guile and Steele, and
as each of these ladies was in her way a star, would they
not be the sesame through which Kitty would enter society
and eventually becou.e a cat. There was Mrs. Orr the
wife of the senior partner, a handsome matron, who rolled
m gold-name house and person, all golden-and teUing
of the dollars her husband couuted by the millions. John
knew her, and had once been invited to dine with her on
Sunday r I in his next letter to Kitty had delighted her
with a de.. .ption of the dinner, at which Mrs. Orr pre-
sided in satin dress of golden-brown, with diamonds in
her ears, and where her daughter, Miss Elinor Orr wore
natural camellias in her hair and talked French to her
mother all the time. Then there was Mrs. Guile, a second
wife, and a dashing brunette, whose servants did not speak
a word of English, and at who.se house John had once
taken tea on a Sunday night, M'hen his fine baritone voice
was wanted in a quartette of music which followed in the
evening.

Kitty's fancy was caught with the French servants the
camellias, and the silver service and satin of golden-biwn,
but the Sunday dining, and tea-drinking, and practising
0- muMc shocked her keen sense of right and w^rong, and

KITTY CRAIG.

251

Ci*

lowered the Orrs and Guiles a little in her estimation
To her the words. " Remember the Sabbath day, to keep
It holy," meant just that, and nothing less; and not all
John's assurances that many good, pious people in New
York visited on Sunday, especially in the evening, ava ' ,1
to convince her. Brought up in a New England town,she
had imbibed some of the puritanical notions of right and
wrong, whicli, sneer at them as we may, are the bone and
smew of that honesty of purpose and integi-ity of soul
which characterize so many of the New Englanders and
stamp them as different from their Western brother.^.
Kitty could not fellowship Sabbath-breaking, and Mes-
dames Orr and Guile were looked upon with a shadow of
distrust. But she was sure to like the young and beauti-
ful Lottie, the only daughter of Mr. Guile, whose second
marriage had been distasteful to the young girl, and hur-
ried her into matrimony with the quiet, staid Amasa Steele,
the junior partner of the firm, who was several years her
senior. John knew her well, for she often drove to the
store for her husband, and while waiting for him amused
herself with the confidential clerk, whose young face and
fresh ideas were more to her taste then the sober manners
and gray hairs of her spouse. Kitty had once seen a note
from Lottie to John, a delicate perfumed thing, inviting
him to take part in a little musicale she was getting up,
and saying so much about his splendid baritone, which
she must have, that Kitty had felt a twinge of something
like jealousy of the city girl, and was glad when J<j

I I

'onn

KITTV CEAIG.

wrote to her that Lottie Guile was married that uiornin-
and gone on her bridal tour. ^

That was two years ago, and before John was as able
to take a wife as he was now. An increase of salary and
a few thousand dollars left him by a considerate old uncle,
whose name he bore, made marriage possible, and he and'
Kitty were married on a lovely June morning, when the
air was full of sunshine and. sweet odours from the roses
and the heliotropes blossoming ia the garden beds. And
Kitty was very happy, and her heart beat high vri^> : y-
ful anticipations of the future and her life in°New Fork,
where she was sure to know people through the Orrs, and
Guiles, and Steeles. Ihe firm had sent her a bridal pre-
sent of a beautiful silver tea-set, and wholly ignorant of
the fact that neither of the three ladxcs representinn- the
firm knew anything of the gift, Kitty felt as if acquainted
with them already, and had insisted upon the white ..rfcin
and scores of things which her mother predi-,ed Jie
would never need. But Kitty knew she should. The
white satin was for the possible party which might be
given for her by some one of " the firm," and the pretty
light silk for calls at home and abroad ; and Kitty had
it all inaiked out in her'mind just what she should wear
on different occasions, and knowing but little of the para-
phernalia of a city woman's toilet, was happy accordingly.
They weie not to board ; John had had enough of that,
and felt sick every time he remembered the'boardin<..
house dinners, now done with forever. A pretty little
cozy house far up town, in the vicimty of ihe park wa^

KITTY CRAIG.

253

lat morninff

was as able
f salary ami
;e old uncle,
and he and
;•, when the
11 the roses
jeds. And

1 V't.f i ^-

New York,
e Orrs, and
bridal pre-
g'norant of
enting the
Lcquainted
-diite , afcin
li'.''-ed Jie
uld. The

might be
;he pretty
^itty had
3uld wear

the para-
jordingly .
h of that,
boardinn-
^tty little
park was

to be their home, and John had furnished it with thc^
m-ney left him by his uncle, and in the absence of other
feminine advice had ventured to ask Mrs. Lottie to "drive
round some day and see if it would do."

There was a slight elevating of Lottie's eycbroAvs and a
look of surprise at the boldness of the young man. and
then, thinking within herself, "T have talked with him so
much about music that I dare say lio thinks he can take
liberties," the lady graciously signified her readiness to
oblige. Eut she found it, wry inconvenient to go the dav
John fixed upon, veiy inconvenient, in fact, to go any
day, and at last sent her m^iid, who had " exquisite^'taste,"
and who reported " everything perfectly lovely," to John,

and "rather plain, but 'quite good enough •-' to her in is-

tress.

There was a trip to Niagara Falls, a sail down the St.
Lawrence, a few days at the White Mountains, a week of
rest in the dear old home among the Berkshire hills, and
then, right in the heat of summer, when everybody was
out of town, they came one niglit to the cozy home in
Fifty-seventh str.^et, where Susan, the maid of all work,
hired in C^hicopee, met tJiem with her kindly smile, and
the tea-table nicely spread stood waiting to gi^eet them.
John's holiday was over, and he went back to his business
the next morning the happiest man who rode down town
either in stage, or car, oi- private carriage. He was mar-
ried and Kitty was his wife, and he felt her kiss upon his
lips, and saw her looking after him with those great,
sunny blue eyes of hers, and there was a song of joy in

254

KITTT CRAia,

hi3 heart which showed itself „pon his face as he entered
the counting-room and took hi. accustomed seat at the
desk.

Messrs. Orr and Guile were away doini^ duty at Sara-
toga, but Mr. Steele was at home and welcon^ad the vonig
man warmly, and tried to say some smart thing with re-
gard to the l,usiness which had kept him away so loiig.
Ihen John ask..a for Lottie, and was told that she wa«at
Newport with a party of friends.

" Confounded bores thc.e wat, ring- plates. I can't en-
dure them; and Lottie told lao Vd better come home she
could do very well without m:," Mr. Steelesaid in a weary
kmd of way ; and John thought of Kitty and how un-
willmg he should be to be separated from her now that
she was all his own.

In the exuberance of his new happiness and because he
pitied the junior partner, who must be so lonely without
his wife, he invited him to dine with him.elf and Kitty
and Mr. Steele accepted the invitation, and was made so'
welcome by the pretty bride that he went again and again
and by the time autumn hung out her gay attire and Lot-
tie came back to her home it had become a matter of
course for him to dine with the Craigs as often a.s twi'cea
week ; and those visits, where he saw for the first time
in his life, perhaps, how pleasant a home could be with
love upon the hearthstone and in the atmosphere of eveiy
room, were influencing him for good and making him a
softer, more demonstrative man than he had been hitherto.
And when at last Lottie came early in October, he met

KITTY CRAia.

256

he entered
jeat at the

V at Sara-

theyot rag
? with re-
y so long'.
}he wa8 at

can't en-
iome, she
1 a weary

how un-
now that

ecause he
without
id Kitty,
made so
id again,
and Lot-
latter of

} twice a
rst time
be with
)f eveiy
g him a
litherto.
he met

her at the trrin. a very unusual thing for him to do, and
kissed hi;r so warmly that she looked at him with sur-
OTise, wonderin<r if he had " failed " and was trying to
.smooth it over to her.

" What is it ? Has anything happened ? " she asked.

" No, noihing,' he answered ; and, chilled with his re-
cepUon, and ashamed of having kissed his wife before
everybody, wlien she did not care two straws for it, he
sank back into his old self again, and was as silent and
quiet as ever during the drive from the station to his
house.

Lottie was very pretty next morning in her becoming
dress of drab and scarlot, and Amasa Steele admired her
secretly, and thought how handsome she was as over his
paper he watched her pouring his coffee, her white hands
moving gracefully among the silver, and every motion in-
dicative of fine lady ism and high breeding. It was pleas-
ant to have her home again, and he felt better because she
was there, and thought of Kitty and John and their pretty
little dining-room, and cleared his throat twice to speak
to Lottie about them.

The fact was that Kitty, whose thoughts and feelings
were as transparent as noon-day, had made many inqui-
ries of Mr. Steele concerning his wife, and in so doing had
shown plainly that she was anticipating a great deal of
pleasure from Mrs. Lottie's acquaintance.

" It seems so strange not to know an individual in this
Treat city, when at home I knew everybody, and I shall
.. i glad when Mrs. Steele returns," she had remarked to

256

KITTY CRAIG.

him once in reply to something he said, which implied at
least that he hoped she and his wife would see a great deal
of -^ach other.

And he did hope so, though secretly he folt doubtful
with regard to the matter. Still he meant to do his best
for the little lady whom he liked so much, and after his
coffee was drank and his paper finished, and he had
coughed ominously a few times, he began :

"By the way, Lottie, John Craig has brought his wife
to the city, and they are keeping house up in Fifty
seventh street. I've dined with thefti several times."
^ "Ah-h!" and Lottie's great black eyes looked across
the table wonderingly.

" Yes, and it's a jolly place, too ; so home-like and nice,
and Kit — Mrs. Craig I mean, is very pretty."

" Indeed ! " And Lottie was interested now. " I did
not suppose Mr. Craig able to support very much style,
but, perhaps, it was the pretty wife which took vou
there."

"It certainly was not style, but rather the absence of it,
which pleased me so much," the husband replied. " It i.s'
a little nut-shell of a house. You could almost put the
whole of it in one of our parlours, and they keep but one
servant, a perfect gem, who makes the nicest kind of
apple pie and ginger-snaps. I say, Lottie, why don't we
ever have such things ? They are a thous^.nd times better
than those French dishes you get up for dessert."

Lottie smiled derisively, but her voice was very sweet
and pleasant as she said :

KITTY CRAIG.

257

implied at
great deal

doubtful

his best
. after his

1 he had

his wife
in Fifty

mes."
ed across

md nice,

" I did
ch style,
3ok you

ice of it,
" It is
put the
but one
kind of
on't we
3 better

y sweet

" I hardly think Celine is accomplished to the extent
of apple pie and ginger-snaps."

Amasa felt the rebuke and wondered at his temerity
in expecting anything so common from a cook, whose name
was Celine, and who sometimes t(jok the title of Madame.

As yet he had made no headway with regard to the
call, and so at last he blurted it out, and told Mrs. Lottie
plainly that he wished her to call on Mrs. Craig and show
her some attention.

" She is a lady, every whit," he said, " and pretty, too,
and intelligent, and well — yes — she rather expects you to
call, and she would like to see a little of New York society,
and she don't know a single soul, and it's lonesome for
her, and you can show her some attention without hurting
you one bit, and I hope you will do it."

He had said a great deal more than he intended saying,
for something in Lottie's proud eyes exasperated him, and
without waiting for her to answer he left the breakfast-
loom suddenly, and his wife heard the bang of the street
door as it shut behind him.

" Expects me to call and show her some attention! How
absurd," she said to herself, as she went back to her room.
" She cannot be much accustomed to the usages of society
if she supposes I am to call on every clerk who happens
to get married. Why, my list is so large now that I am
nearly crazy, and I certainly shall not add Mrs. John
Craig's name to it. Apple pie and ginger-snaps, and one
servant ! Poor John ! He was a nice kind of a fellow,
and oug. J to have been rich."

258

V;i'

KITTY CRAIG.

(tl J

And then Lottie fell into ^

might have been Imd John be.u r.ch imtoad
truth

ig as to what
of poor. The

wa», Lott,e Guile had fa„cied John Craig better t(,an
any „a„ .he ever kne,., ,„„, once, after a long chat
w h h,m .„ the office, where she wa, waiti.. I. „.,.
father , he had tried tc ,„ake up her „,i„d to encourage
the hkmg he evidently had for her, bul fe.^r of what M^
Gundy would .say if the daughter of Richard Guile should
many her father's clerk prevailed, and when Amasa Steele
oS^^red h^self and h.'s ha,f-.nillion, she accepted hi., lid

iTkl t T, "°' f"" '" ^''^■'"'^ thathMooked more

^ke the confidenfal clerk, who was present at the wed-
ding, and who, she thought, seeraed a little soirv

And John was sorry that one a, young and sprightly

the sober, nnddle-a^ed An,ns. Steele. He was sorry to

to chat and laugh and ring with heron the occasions when

hance threw her in his way, hut further tha., that hi

d.d no care. He had known and Joved Kitty Clew ever

-ce she W.S a child, and he dre. Ur t eiol „ his

^led and he expected oneday to make her his wife„,o foolish
Lot ,e was mistaken when she thought there was a pang
m h,s hear a., he sav.- her made Mrs. ;Vmasa Steele and
called her by that name. She knew nothing of Kit",
Olew and went on dreaming her little romance an,' fancy-
■ng there was one joy less in John Craig's lif,, il 4
heard he was to be married. There was a shad, on 4
brow, and she felt somehow as if John had

. — I

and

KITTY CRAia.

259

deceived her, while to crown all she was expected to call
on his wife ana make a friend of her. It was a hard case
and Lottie felt aggravated, and the first time she met John
Craig she was very cool toward him, and never asked for
his wife or hinted that she knew there was such a crea-
ture in the world, John felt her manner keenly, but did
not tell Kitty, who, knowing that Mrs. Steele had returned,
began to look daily for the call she so certainly expected.
One after another the dresses her aunties had proi meed
useless were brought out and worn, and in the prettiest
of toilets Kitty waited morning, noon and night for one
who never came. Lottie did not call, neither did anyone
else except the clergyman to vvhom Kitty had brought a
le* cr of introducti i from her own rector, and who drop-
ped in for a few mc mts to see his new parishioner.

Accustomed at homo to be first in every good work,
Kitty asked what she cf dd do, and was told of the mis-
sion school, where teachers w re always needed, and of
the regular sewing society of <? church, which met one
day in each week. Kitty was pleased with the mission
school, and entered heart and soul into the work, and
found fast friends among the ragged girls and boys, who
looked upon her as a kind of divinity. From the sewing
society, however, she shrank at first, drea(]ing to encoun-
t(>r so many strangers ; but when she heard what need
there was for help, she laid aside her own personal feel-
ings aiii] went week after w«'ek, mostly from a sense of
duty, and a little, it may be, with a hope, that by some
ohauce she migut come to know those with whom she

I t

r t

ill

260

KITTY CRAia.

womhippeJ Sunday „ft..,. Sunday, and with whom eh.

!:ut;;;:r:r "'"- ""^■" "™""' "^ »"»-' »" -

And th«,e, in the little sewing-roem of St ■, ,|,„

-atone Thursday u,o,.nin,. ,. nTuoh alone a, if a,:,
.e,- th,,,,. we,e not twenty ladies or n,„,e talkin,. soeia

tr iur™K';;' "";"""""■ " ""^ "'^^-^^ '-"^-S

«hU,ea.,l he,..,elt ad.l,-e,,ed by a plea.ant-faoed. elderK

" Can y„„ tell me who that i. ! " .,h, „.,,,„,,, „„,,,„,

then talk.ng and laughing merrily, and showing in all she
d.d that she felt her,self a privileged charaeter,tnd ,
do and say what she pleased.

the eut of her dress and style of her hair, but she did net
W who *e ,vas, and she said so to her interloe t
then, a. .f the sound of a voiee speaking kindly to her
upor. so,ne other topie than her work ha3 nnloeld
pent-up feehngs, she continued :

welk tT 'T"' ""^' """■ ^ '"'™ •""=" '■"•■'^ ^''"^ after

"Is it possible ?_and they eall themselves Christian,
too, was the reply of the woman, who, having once paled
^s.md. ordeal, knew just how desolate ^.d negleeld

KITTY CRAKi.

2G1

Meiintimc there was n lull in the conversation of tlie
ladies at the ri^'ht, and, as Kitty's voice was very clear,
her words were distinctly heard \,y one of the ^Monp, at
least. Swiftly the pioud black eyes .seaiuied Kitty's face
and person, und then, as if continuiii.«if an iiiterni|>tod cori-
versatiun, the lady said, loudly enounh for l^itty to hear:

" There is one tliin;!,r this society iii'(.«ds, and that a com-
mittee, whose business it shall be to look after the new-
comers—the seiisiitive ones, who fe(!l sli;Mhtecl if they are
not noticed— and introduce them, you know."

" An admirable idt-a," said hur courianiuu. "Suppose
we make you that eoumiittee."

" No, thank you ; that is not in my line. I've no pa-
tience with peoi>le who thitdc to make the sewing .society
a ste[)pin<,f-stone to other society. I come from a sense of
duty, and tliink every ri<,dit-minded person .should do the
.same;" and again the black eyes Hashed sideways at
poor Kitty, wlio could hardly restrain her tears, and who
would have cried outright had she been alone, with no
curious ones around her.

Just then there was a fresh arrival, and the new-comer
greeted her of the bljick eyes with the exclamation :

" Why, Lottie Steele — it's an age since you were here. I
thought you had forsaken us."

Kitty did not hear the reply, so great was her astonish-
ment at learning that this woman, who had wounded her
,so cruelly, was Lottie Steele, the one for whom slie had
watched so long, and on whose acquaintance and friend-
ship she had counted so much in her utter ignorance of

i i

i if

Pi i!

262

KITTY CRAIG.

the City and its customs. Alas, how had her idol fallen
and how were all her hopes destroyed ! She had nothing
whatever to expect in that quarter-nothing to expect
anywhere ; and, with a swelling heart as she remembered
the church society at home, where she was what Lottie
Steele was here, or, as her dear old auntie expressed it
" a cat among rats," she gathered up her work, and bid-'
dmg good-morning to the pleasant-faced woman at her
side, who alone of all the ladies there had spoken famil-
iarly to her, started for home, feeling more desolate and
alone than she had thought it possible for any one in the
great city of l^ew York, which had once seemed to her
like an earthly paradise.

As she left the sewing-room she met the rector of the
parish, who said a few friendly words to her and then
passed on into the room, where he was immediately ac-
costed by Lottie Steele, who asked him who the lady was
he met with at the door.

^' That was Mrs. John Ci<tig, from Rosefield," he replied.
' She is a stranger in the city, and I wish some of my
ladies would take a little pains to be polite to her. Her
former clergyman speaks highly of her as a Christian,
f-nd a lady of culture and education. She is very regular
at church, I see, and her husband is a splendid-looking
fellow."

"Why, that must be the John Craig in our store."
chimed in Agatha Orr, a pert miss of seventeen. " Isn't
If, Mrs. Steele ? You ought to know, for you and he used
to be so intimata."

> f"

KllTY CEAIU.

263

dol fallen
d nothing
to expect
nembered
lat Lottie
)ressed it,
and bid-
an at her
en famil-
)late and
ne in the
id to her

)r of the
-nd then
itely ac-
lady was

i replied.
J of my
r. Her
iristian,
regular
looking

store,"

" Isn't

he used

A withering glance from Lottie's eyes silenced Miss
Agatha, while Lottie's chee..s were scarlet, and her pulse
throbbed faster tiian its wont. She was not naturally
hard and cruel, and given to wounding people unnecessa-
rily. She professed to be a Christian ; perhaps she was
one. She certainly was very rigid with regard to all the
fasts and holy days, and no religious devotee kept Lent
so far as church-going was concerned, more strictly than
she did ; but she had been reared and trained in the school
of fashion and caste until many of her better impulses
were warped and deformed, and she sometimes did things
thoughtlessly, of which she repented afterward. Bearing
the reputation of being exceedingly exclusive, she had no
idea of inviting into her charmed circle any who wished
to enter, and deemed it her duty to shut and bar the door
against all intruders, esp(>cially if she felt that the intruder
had some claim upon her. So, whenslie overheard Kitty's
complaint, and fe!t in her heart that not only herself but
many of her sisters in the church were sadly remiss in
their reception of strangers, she said what she did, in a
sudden fit of impatience that any one should expect to
make her acquaintance at a sewing society. But she had
no idea it was Kitty Craig wdiom she was lashing so un-
mercilully, and she would have given considerable lor the
privilege of i-ecalling her thoughtless words. But it was
too kte ; the mischief was done, and Kitty was gone, and,
as is frequently the case when we are conscious of having
injured a person in any way, Lottie, after the first pangs of
self reproach were over, found herself with a greater aver-

» H

264

KITTY CllAKl.

sion tlian over to tlmt «' nut-,sl.,.ll ni'a hoti.sc " which ini^^ht
bo put " into hor p.rlonr/' nn.l Kitty's chances for an ac-
quaintaiice with Mrs. An.asa Stc.-le were f,ir less tlian l)e-
f'ore. " A rat auionnr cats." .sh(« certainly was, atid slie felt
It keenly as she walked home, with Lottie's scornlul
words ringing in her ears and making her heart tlnob so
painfully.

" The sensitive ones, who feel slighted if they are not
noticed."

Had it really come to this, that she was thus designat-
ed ?-she, who at home ha,d been lirst in every tiling? and
had herself, perli.-.ps. been a little hard on the seiisitive
ones, not knowing then just how they felt. She knew
now, and. once alone in her room, wept bitter tears at the
first real slight she had over received. Then, as she re-
mend.ered what Lottie ha,l .said of duty, she questioned
herself closely to see how far her motives in going so re-
gularly to the sewing-rooms had been pure and such as
Cod would approve, and she found, alas ' that they would
not altogether bear the test appii,.!. Something beside a
genuine desire to do good had drawn her thither; a hope
that she n)ight by chance make some pleasant acquaint-
ance, had been strong in her heart, and she confessed it
amid a gush of tears, to the Friend who never failed her'
and to whom she always took sorrows, whetlier mv-^ or
small. *= "

Kitty's religion was not on tiie surface, a mere routine
of form and ceren)ony. She knew in whom she had be-
lieved, and she told Him all about lier trouble, with the

KITTY CllAIO.

265

hichmifrht
i for an ac-
'Ss than bo-
ind she folt
'h scornful
rt throb so

ey are not

i (Icsignat-
thing, and
i sensitive
She knew
ars at the
as she re-
uestioned
ing so rc-
d such as
ey would
; beside a
■ ; a liope
icquaint-
t'essed it,
liled lier,
greyJ- or

? routine

had be-

with the

simplicity of a little cliild, and asked to be forgiven so
far as she was M^rong, and that towa.d Lottie Steele sho
miglit feel as kin<lly iis before. Kitty's face was very
bright after that talk with God, and when John canio
home at night it was a very |»retty and gay little wife
wliich sat at his table and told him she had at last seen
Mrs. Steele, and thought her very handsome and very
bright. Of tlie insult, however, she said nothing, and
John never dreamed how little cause his wife had for
speaking as kindly as she did of the thoughtless lady who
had wounded her so sadly.

Kitty did not go to the sewing meiiting after that, but
worked at Iiouk; for the poor and needy, and felt far hap-
pier alone in her (pnet sitting-room, with only her sing-
ing-bird for eompany, tluin slu; did when surrounded by
ladies whom .she did not even know by name. She did
not expect Lottie Steele now, and never dreamed how
near that utdncky ati'air at the sewing-room came to
bringing about the very thing she had once so greatly de-
sired. For Lottie v/as disturbed and annoyed at her own
rudeness, and wislied she could ia some way atone, and
half made up her mind to call upon Mrs. Craig and make
friends with her. But when at dinner-table her husband
himself broachiMl tlu; subject, and sugg(!sted that she go
with him that very evening, her pride took alarm at once.

It was too soon ; Kitty wouldofcour.se think she came

to conciliate her, and she would not humble herself like

that before the wife of a clerk. So .she declined rather

crossly, and said she was too tired, and she didn t believe

T> w i- i i- w i, » iinwiM*^rilfcV ^

2(>6

KITTY CllAia.

Mrs. Craig wanted her to call, and she was certain "John "
did not care to have her sec in what a small way ho
was living.

Amasa Steele never talked much, and now he only
muttered something about being " so thundering proud,"
and, without a word as to where he was going, left the
house soon after dinner ; and Lottie saw no more of him
until the clock was striking eleven. Then he found her
at her prayers, for Lottie never omitted any duty of that
kind, and when her husfand came hom' he was kneeling
by the bedside with her fanciful dressing-gown sweeping
the floor, and trying to ask forgiveness for having
wounded Kitty Craig. Amasa had not much faith in
Lottie's religion, and without waiting for her devotions
to end, he asked " where the deuce his slippers were, that
he could never find them ?"

This untimely interruption brought Lottie from her
knues, feeling indignant and aggrieved, and as if she was
persecuted for righteousness' sake, and she would neither
tell her husband where his slippers were nor ask him
where he had been so long, although she was dying to
know, and felt almost sure he had visited the Craigs.
She knew he had the next day, for he told her so, and
said so much in praise of Kitty that she felt a pang of
something like jealousy, and avenged herself by driving
to the store that afternoon and talking with the confi"
dential clerk so long that her lather at last suggested that
she go home, as « women were out of place in a business
office."

KITTY CRAIG.

267

When she and Kitty met again it was at tlie altar rail
where they knelt side by .side. Lottie's rich velvet cloak
brushing against Kitty's plainer cloth, and the glitter of
her rings flashing before Kitty's oyes. As they rose and
turned away Lottie half bowed a recognition, and felt for
the remainder of the day as if she Avere a very good and
forgiving woman, inasmuch as Kitty, in her surprise, had
not retui i;d the bow.

^ New Yoi-k was very gay that winter, and Lottie ha-1
no leisure to spare to such as Kitty Craig, who would in
time have been wholly forgotten but for an event which
occurred just one year from the day when John first
brought Kit'y home as his bride. Then a new little life
came into that house; and Lottie, who chanced to be in
the city for a few days, was surprised to hear from h( r
husband that ho was to stand sponsor for little Frederick
Steele, who was to be baptized that afternoon. Wotdd
she go and see it ?

There was a shrug of Lottie's shoulders and lifting of
eyebrows, but she made no reply, except :

" You and the Oraigs must be very intimate to warrant
their taking such a liberty. Pray where have you seen
so much of them ?"

Amasa did not tell her how many of his evenings when
she was away were spent in that nut-shell of a house,
where they had apple pie and ginger-sna[)s for dessert, or
how the sight of the little round-faced boy which John
had shown him with so much Dride on tho iit-cabi-"-!-- -^-f his
last visit had raised in his heart a vague riissatiafaction

268

KITTY CRAIG.

with the stillness of his gi-and house, where baby voices
were never heard. He himself had suggested Frederic
Steele, saying .-

" I won't ask you to inflict upon him such a name as
Amasa, but my only brother was Fred., and I'd like the
little chap called for him."

So the baby was christened "F'loderic Steele," and
Lottie was there and saw it. She had no fancy for chris-
teiiing.s, where the children usually screamed so vigor-
ously, she said, but she did w-ant to see how John looked
as a father and how Amasa behaved as sponsor. So she
went to the church and mentally criticised Kitty's dress,
and the baby's dress and thought her husband very awk-
ward and John very handsome, and drove next day to
Tiffany's and selected a silver cup, which was marked
" For little Fred.," and sent it to the address of the Craigs,
who wondered greatly whence it came, and wondered, too,
what they should do with it, ihismuch as Amasa's gift
was also a silver cup, gold lined, and looking as if it were
the twin of tlie one Vi^hich had come no one knew whence,
and which Kitty put away as something to be looked at
but never used.

And noAv we must pass over a period of more than eigh-
teen months, and come to a time when, wearied out with
gaiety and dissipation, Lottie Steele was almost dad
when the days of Lent came and put an end to the par-
ties and receptions which had so engrossed her time, and
made her grow pale and thin, with dark rings around her
eyes. But she w^ould rest now, or at least lead a different

KITTY CRAIG.

269

baby voices
ed Frederic

I a name as
['d like the

teelo," and
y for chris-
i so vigor-
ohn looked
or. So she
itty's dress,
very awk-
ext day to
as marked
the Craigs,
idered, too,
masa's gift
5 if it were
w whence,
! looked at

than eigh-
1 out with
nost glad
,0 the par-
time, and
round her
a different

kind of life, for though she wore her second-best dresses
and kept all the fasts and holy-days, and never missed a
service, whether on Sunday or week day, she still had a
good deal of leisure time for quiet, and kept earlier hours,
and hoped to come out at Easter as bright and fresh as
the new bonnet which she had in her mind for that occa-
sion. Lent was really beneficial, both to her health and
her complexion, she thought, and she kept it religiously,
and affected to be greatly shocked wh^n she heard that
Kitty Craig had committed the enormity of going to the
opera, where a wonderful bird of song was entrancing the
people with its melody. Lottie went to elaborate lunches
served in darkened rooms, and went to the Philharmon-
ics, and to concerts, and lectures, but avoided the opera as
if the plague had been rioting there, and felt that the ex-
ample of consistency she tlms set before her husband was
infinitely better than that of sinful, opera-going Kitty
Craig.

But Lottie grew tired at last of the same daily routine,
and wanted something new, and devised a little musicale,
which was to be held in her parlours and to be highly ex-
clusive and recherche. Only the crcme-de-la-creme were
to be there, and these by invitation— said iiivitaticn to be
in the form of cards, for which five dollars were to be
paid, and the proceeds appropriated to a new mission
school, in which Lottie was greatly interested, and of '
which John Craig was superintendent. This had latterly
thrown John and Lottie together again, and they were
the best of friends ; and Lottie's dainty little hand hmi

270

KITTY CRAIG.

more than once rested on John's coat sleeve, and Lottie's
eyes looked straight into his while she talked of some
ragged boy, or devised some new scheme for the advance-
ment of the school.

The musicale was her hobby now, and she must have
Mr. Craig in at least three of the quartettes. And she
asked if he would come to rehearsal at her house, and go
with her to see the Misses Barrows, whose voices were
wonderful for depth and richness, and one of whom played
accompaniments remarkal)ly well ? It did not matter now
that they sold bonnets and ribbons on Broadway durin^^
the week, and that Lottie would never dream of inviting
them to her house except on an occasion like this, when
she needed their services. She wanted them, and John
must go with her and see them.

This was down in the office, and her fine face was all
aglow with excitement, and her carriage was at the door,
and John felt his blood stir a little as he looked at her
and thought of a diive up Broadway with that fashion-
able turn-out. Yes, he would go to see the Misses Bar-
rows ; and he went and met them that night at Mrs
Steele's, and before Kitty came back from a vmt she had
made at home everything was arranged, and he had pro-
mised to sing in four pieces at least, and possibly five
and meet at Mrs. Steele's for practice three evenings in a
week.

What Kitty said to him when she heard of it made him
doubt a little the propriety of going to a house where his
wife's existence had never yet been rponcrn^aaA j>„o«w,.,-i.

KITTY CRAIG.

271

id Lottie's
'd of some
3 ad Vance -

nust have
And she
se, and go
Dices were
im played
atter now
ay during
f inviting
his, when
and John

le was all
the dooi-,
ed at her
fashion-
sses Bar-
' at Mrs.
J she had
had pro-
ibly five,
ings in a

lade him
^here his

as an inquiry, and to which she would not in all human
probability be invited ; and when next day Lottie drove
down to the office to consult with him about some new
idea, he mustered courage to tell her that he wished she
would find some one to take his place, as now that his
wife had returned he did not like being away from her
evenings, as he necessarily must be if he perfected him-
self in the difficult passages assigned to him. Womanlike,
Lottie understood him at once, and knew that some bold
move on her part was requisite if she would not lose
him. And she could not do that now. He was too
necessary to the success of her musicale, and with a
mental anathema against the off'ending Kitty, she ex-
claimed :

" Oh, Mr. Craig, you know I cannot do without you and
will not. Tell your wife so, please. When did she re-
turn, and how is little Freddie Steele ? By the way, 1 do''
not believe I have sent her an invitation yet, have I ? She
was gone, you know. Suppose I write her a little note
now; that will be more friendly than a card," and snatch-
ing up a pen Lottie dashed off" a half-formal, half-familiar
note to Kitty, inviting her to the musicale, and apologizing
for not having sent the invitation earlier.

" That will settle it," she tliought, while John who saw
only the dashing eyes and beaming face, began to descend
from his stilts, and in his delight at having an autograph
letter for Kitty from this high-born lady, forgot that in .
all the two years and a half of his married life this was
the first time his wife had ever been alluded to.

ii,

; 'Si

,— JJ

272

KITTY CRAIG.

i i'5

But Kitty did not forget, nc. seem as much elated
with Lottie's autograph note as John thought she ought
to be.

"She was much obliged to Mrs. Steele," she .said, " for
the invitation, but .she could not for a moment think of
accepting it. She should feel out of place among so many
strangers."

And to this deci.sion she firmly adhered, insisting, how-
ever, that her husbar:d should go on with hi.s practice,
and not disappoint Mrs. Lottie. But to this John ob-
jected. There was something amiss somewhere, and his
better way was to remain at home with Kitty, and so the
next morning he wrote Mrs. Lottie a note, saying posi-
tively that he could not take the parts assigned to him,
and mentioning as a substitute Will Archer, whose voicJ
was quite as good as his u.v;a. and who read music even
better than himself.

"Will Archer ! That clown in my parlours ! Never ! "
was Lottie's indignant exclamation, as she threw the note
aside. " Cannot spend the time ! Why wasn't he frank
enough to say that obstinate wife of his would not let
him ? It all comes of those thoughtless words she heard
me say at the sewing society. She has never been there
since, and I really was sorry for it."

" But she don't know that," Conscience whispered ; and
then Lottie began to wonder what she could do to secure
John's services.

She could not do without him, and to get him she was
willing even to ask his wife's pardon; if necessary, and at

KITTY CRAIG.

273

all events she would call the next day and npologizo. for
John's voice she must and would have at anj cost.

♦ ♦ • # ♦ ♦ ^

Kitty's morning work was done. The little parlour-
which did duty as sitting-room and nursery too, was
nicely swept and dusted, and everything was in its place
A bright fire was blazing in the grate Freddie was
asleep in his crib, the gift of Amasa Steele, who had
mostly supplied the wants of his god-child since the day
he stood with him at the font, and Kitty, in her neat de-
laine wrapper, with faultlessly clean collar and cuffs, was
just sitting down to the pile of work which lay beside
her « Wilcox & Gibbs," John's Christmas gift to her. She
was never troubled with morning calls; for, though she
had some few acquaintances in the city by this time, they
were not of the fashionable kind to whom one hour is as
free as another, and she had no thought of the honour in
store for her, and which was even then at her very door,
in the shape of a handsome little coup^. satin lined, and
bearing the stamp of the very latest style in all its appur-
tenances, from the silver-tipped harness to the driver in
his livery, and the footman, whose coat came nearly to
the ground as he obsequiously held the door for his mis-
tress to alight.

"It isa nut-shell of a house," was Lottie's mental com-
ment, as she went up the steps and rang the bell. " Poor
John, with his refined instincts, he ought to have done
better;" and, so low doNvn in Lottie's heart that it was

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4S03

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274

KITTY CRAIG.

hardly a wrong to Amasa Steele, there was the shadow of
a regret that she had not thought twice before deciding
not to encourage her father's confidential clerk.

But it was too late now. She was Mrs. Amasa Steele,
and had come to call on John's wife, who, greatly to her
amazement, opened the door herself! Kitty had heard
the ring, and not seeing the stylish turnout in front, and
knowing that, in all human probability, Susan's hands were
in the bread, she went to the door, expecting to meet
either a book agent or somebody inquiring if Dr. Jones
lived there, he being her next neighbour, as she and John
both had learned from sundry calls at all hours of the day
and night. She was prepared for the agent and the pa-
tient of Dr. Jones, but not for the " grand dame" clad in
velvet and Russian sable, whose big black eyes looked
their surprise, but who nevertheless smiled sweetly, and
asked in the blandest of tones if this were Mrs. Crai<^.

Lottie's first impulse had been to suppose the lady a
servant, and ask for her mistress, but she had come for an
object, and it suited her to be very amiable and even
familiar.

" So kind in you to let me in youi-self," she said, as she
followed Kitty into the little parlour, and then apologized
for not having called before.

She did not say out and out that she had intended
calling, for she would not tell an absolute lie, but her
manner implied as much, and she talked so fast, and made
herself so agreeable, that Kitty began to be drawn toward
her in spite of herself, and when she praised the new

KITTY CRAIG.

276

shadow of
e deciding

isa Steele,
tly to her
iad heard
front, and
ands were
^ to meet
Dr. Jones
and John
)f the day
d the pa-
s'' clad in
is looked
etly, and
Oraig,
le lady a
ne for an
md even

id, as she
)ologized

intended
but her
nd made
1 toward
the new

Wilcox & Gibbs sewing machine, and pronounced it "the
dearest plaything in the world," and then, pouncing upon
little Freddie, called him a darling, and complimented his
eyes and his hair, the conquest was more than half com-
pleted. But when Lottie ventured at last to introduce
the musicale, and to say how sorry she was that Mrs.
Craig had declined coming, and how very badly she felt
to lose Mr. Craig's services, there was a peculiar look in
Kitty's eyes which did not bode success to Mrs. Lottie's
project. Still she was not disheartened. Her heaviest
forces were still in reserve. The day was so fine and the
air so bracing, would not Mrs. Craig like a drive in the
Park ? It would do her good, and the baby, too. Dear
little fellow, he looked pale, though possibly that was his
natural complexion.

Freddie had not been well for a day or two, and Kitty
had wished that very morning that she was rich and could
afford a drive, and now that it was so gracefully offered
to her, she hesitated at first, and then finally accepted,
and almost before she had time to think she was seated
on the satin cushions by Mrs. Lottie's side, and was rolling
over the level roads of the beautiful Central Park. Lottie
insisted upon holding Freddie herself, and was so gener-
ally charming that Kitty was sorry when the carriage
stopped at last at her own door.

Up to that moment not a word had been said of the
musicale, but Lottie bided her time, and just as Kitty was
getting out she laughingly said :
" You do not invite me, but I mean to go in and see if

;'• hi

276

KITTY CRAIG.

I cannot coax you to reconsider your decision with re-
gard to the musicale after all, and persuade your hus-
band to sing. You don't know how much I am in
earnest."

She followed Kitty into the house, and while her own
fingers helped to' disrobe little Freddie, she went on :

" If you do not come I shall think you have never for-
given those thoughtless words I said in your hearing the
first time I ever saw you. You remember them, I am sure
but you do not know how sorry I was, especially when I
learned who you were. It was wrong under any circum-
stjtnces, but we had been so annoyed with commonplace
people coming just to be noticed, and besides that I'd had
a little ' tift" that morning with Amasa about calling on
the dowdiest woman you ever saw, and I was not in the
best (if moods. You will forgive me, won't you, and be
friends ? Ah, that must be your lunch bell. I'd no idea
it was so late."

" Stay to lunch, won't you ?" Kitty faltered, ui outly
hoping her visitor would decline ; but she did not.

She was nearly famished, she said, and accepted the in-
vitation graciously, and followed on to the dining-room,
where the lunch-table was very neatly spread, for Kitty
was particular about everj'thing pertaining to her table,
which was arranged with as much care for herself and
Freddie as it was when she had company for dinner. And
Susan waited nicely and suggesied that she bring the
fresh apple pie she had ide that morning, and which
looked so tempting with its white, flaky crust, that ^Irs.

KITTY CRAIG.

277

with re-
^our hus-
I am in

her own
i on :

lever for-
aring the

am sure
{ when I
T circum-
nonplace
,t I'd had
tiling on
ot in the
, and be
i DO idea

iL outly

d the in-

3g-room,

)r Kitty

er table,

self and

er. And

ring the

1 which

latJuxs.

Lottie took a large piece, and ate a ginger-snap which
Susan also brought.

Apple pie and ginger-snaps were evidently favourites
in that house, and Lottie praised them both, and asked
how they were made, and said her husband had told her
about them. She was outdoing herself, and when at last
she said good-bye and went out to her cross coachman,
who had driven up and down, up and down, and actually
sworn about her to the footman, she had Kittie's promise
that John should sing, and that possibly she herself would
attend the musicale, while to crown all there was in her
pocket a receipt for ginger-snaps, which Susan had given
her at the last moment, when she stood in the hall tellinf'
Kitty, " It would not be a dress affair— that anything she
had would answer."

Lottie was in a very pleasant frame of mind when she
reached home that day. She had accomplished hev ob-
ject, as she felt that she deserved to do, for had she not
called on Kitty Craig and apologized for her rudeness,
and taken her to drive, and lunched with her in that
" under-ground " dining-room, not much longer than her
butler's pantry, and lunched, too, on apple-pie and ginger-
snaps, food which heretofore she had thought only fit for
those made of coarser clay than herself, and was there not
in her pocket a receipt for those same snaps, w^hich poor,
deluded Susan, who had taken a great fancy to the grand
lad^', thought maybe her cook might like, as Mr. Steele
was so fond of them ! Celine and ginger-snaps ! and Lot-
tie laughed merrily as she took out the receipt and began

I
P

278

KITTY- CRAIG.

to rear], " One cup of molasses; half-a-cup of butter; and
half -a-cup of lard "

" Lard ! Horrors. I can never insult her dignity with
that. Amasa must go elsewhere for his snaps," and turn
ing to the grate the little bit of paper was soon blackened
upon the coals, and Amasa's chance for snaps at home
was lost.

Kitty had said that John should sing, and she did not
find it at all hard to keep her word. He was fond of
music, and only too glad of an opportunity to serve Mrs.
Lottie, who had been and who continued to be so very
kind to Kitty. Lottie never did anything by halves, and
now she had taken up the Craigs she meant to keep them
up until after the musicale at least, and she frequently sent
to Kitty flowers and fruit, and even her carriage for the
dear little boy to take the air, and Kitty, though she in a
measure understood it all, wisely concluded to accept the
goods the gods provided, and submitted patiently to
John's absence three nights in a week, and when he was
home, played the music for him, accompanying him with
her voice until she was almost as familiar with it as he
was himself, and, as he declared, played better than the
Misses Barrows, who did not always keep perfect time or
give the best expression.

Kitty was going to the musicale, too, and she began to
look forward to it with a great deal of pleasure, although
she dreaded it somewhat, inasmuch as "she had nothing

KITTY CRAIG.

279

to wear." All those pretty silks made at the time of her
marriage were out of style. The sleeves were too large,
the waists too small, and " they had not a bit of stuck-up
behind," Susan said, when she tried them on one after
another to see if they would do. Only one was at all
"aufait" in that respect, and that a plain black silk,
which, having been made over the summer previous, was
nearly enough " bouffant " in appearance to suit the fas-
tidious Susan.

" Some do take a newspaper," she said, as she tried to
make the overskirt stand out as far as Mrs. Steele's had
done. " Some do take a newspaper and tie on, and if you
was to do that you'd buncli out beautiful."

But Kitty declined the newspaper, and when the night
of the musicale came she looked very pretty and modest
in her black silk, with her coral and real lace, and John
kissed her proudly and told her she was sure " to pass
muster." They were among the first arrivals, and they
fbund the house ablaze with light and full of flowers,
while Lottie herself was splendid in silk, and lace, and
jewels, and in a high state of excitement. The last re-
hearsal had been very satisfactory and she had reason to
expect a great success. But where were the Misses Bar-
rows, her piatust and soprano ? They had promised to be
early, and it lacked but half an hour of the time appoint-
ed for the first piece, and they had not yet appeared.

" Dressing, probably, a.s if anybody will care what they
wear," she said to Kitty, thus showing the estimate in
which she held them outside the services she desired.

> ■

280

KITTY CRAIG.

There was a sharp ring at the door and a servant
brought a note to Lottie, who, feeling intuitively that it
in some way concerned her greatly, tore it open at once,
her face flushing and then turning pale as she read that
the Misses Barrows had just received news that their
mother was dying, and they must start for home that
night if they would see her alive. It was a bitter disap-
pointment, and Lottie felt as if that poor woman dying
in that little village in Ohio had somehow injured her.
But there was no help for that now. The Barrows were
out of the question, and in her utter helplessness and dis-
tress, she turned to John to know what they should do.

" It is a failure, of course," she said, and the great tears
stood in her fine ej'es.

John hesitated a moment and glanced toward his wife,
and then, to her utter dismay, replied :

" Not necessarily an entire failure, perhaps. I think it
just possible that Mrs. Craig can play the accompaniments
and, possibly, sing as well."

" Oh, John," Kitty gasped, while Lottie's black eyes
flashed a curiously doubtful glance at her, and Lottie's
voice said :

" She— your ivife" as if even to her the idea was pre-
posterous.

" Yes, my wife," John answered proudly. " She has a
fine voice and was accounted a good musician at home."

" And will she— will you try ? " Lottie asked, willing,
now that her first feeling of surprise was over, 'to grasp at
a straw. " Dear Mrs. Craig, will you try ? It is a

posi

KITTY CRAIG.

281

a servant
ely that it
Bn at once,
5 read that
that their
home that
tter disap-
nan dying
ijured her.
rows were
js and dis-
lould do.
jroat tears

i his wife,

I think it
paniments

•lack eyes
d Lottie's

. was pre-

She has a
t home."
i, willing,
grasp at
is a posi-

tive failure if you do not, I might ask that horrid Mrs.
Ba iks, but her voice is like a peacock's. Do, Mrs. Craig,
and I will love you for ever."

She had her arm around Kitty's waist and was draw-
ing her toward the piano, where iti a moment poor, be-
wildered Kitty found herself seated with piles of music
before her, and a crowd of strange people staring at her
and asking each otlier who that little nun-Iike^woman
was, and where the Misses Barrows were. Very softly
Kitty played over a few of the more difficult jilaces, and
Lottie, who was a judge of fine playing, began to feel
confidence in her new performer, and whispered encourag-
ingly:

"You are doing splendidly," while to herself she
groaned : " Oh, if I only knew what her voice was."

She did know ere long, and as Kitty's clear, bird-like
tones began to fill the room, growing sweeter, and clearer,
and stronger, as Kitty became more confident of herself,'
she could have hugged the little woman in her joy, and
did kiss her when the musicale was over and pronounced
a perfect success.

" You are a darling, a second Nilssou. I shall never
forget this, never." she said, while many of her friends
crowded around Kitty, asking for an introduction, and
thanking her for the treat she had given them. " And to
think she never tried the music before ! It is wonderful,"
Lottie kept saying, while others, too, expressed their sur-
prise that she could play such difficult music at sight.
For a few moments Kitty sat irresolute; then her love
19

282

KITTT CRAIG.

of truth prevailed over every other feeling, and crossing
to where John stood, she put her hand on his arm and
said : " Please let nio speak a word to you all."

In an instant there was a hush throughout the room,
and every eye was fixed upon the brave little woman who
would not even act a lie, and whose voice was very clear
and distinct, as she said : " It would be wrong for me to
leave an impression on your minds that I never tried
that music before. I have played it many times at home
for my husband, and sang it with him when he was
practising. I cannot play at sight like that. I am not a
very fine musician." '

" But you are a good, conscientious, little darling ! " was
Lottie's impulsive exclamation, while a murmur of admi-
ration for this unexpected frankness ran through the
room. " I could never have done that, I know I could
not. I should just let them think it was my first effort,
but somehow I love you better for it," Lottie whispered
to Kitty, when for a moment they stood together alone,
and as she said it, the fashionable woman of the world
felt that she had learned a lesson of good from plain,
simple-hearted Kitty, who found hei-self the belle of the
evening, and received so much attention that when at last
she was put into Lottie's carriage and sent home, with
Lottie's kiss warm on her lips, and Lottie's assurance that
she should see a great deal of her now that she knew her.
she felt herself to be in a bewilderedi dazed kind of state,
sure of nothing except that the door of society, so long
locked and barred against her was open now, and that if

KITTY CRAIG.

283

«hc Chose she could enter the charmed circle she had
once thoucrht so desirable.

" Oue.s what I've brought you, little woman ? An in-
vitafon to dine with Mrs. Steele ! What think you of

hat John said to Kitty one night, about a week after
the drawmg-room musicale. " The Guiles and Orrs ar,
to be there too. Quito an affair ! You don't suppose
there would be time for you to got a new dress made, do

John was a good deal excited, and, if the truth was
told a httle proud of being invited to a company dinner
with the old and haughty members of the finn

"Just our own people, you know-papa's family and
the Orrs, Lottie had said to him, and John felt that he
was recognised a^ one of " our own people," and was flat-
tered accordingly, and said he knew no reason why he
should not accept; and thought to himself that Kitty
should have a new dress, made with puffs, and ruffles and
bows and which should stand out like Lottie Steele's
and have a New York look.

Of the cost of such a dress. an,» r-,e time and trouble to
get it up, he knew nothing. He only thought Kitty
should have one, and put a iifty dollar bill in his pocket
for the emergency, and went home half an Hour earlier
than usual to tell Kitty of the honour in store for her
And Kitty was pleased, too, and her face flushed a little
as she said she guessed the old black silk would have to
do duty again, as a new one, such as he had in his mind
wafl far beyond their means.

284

KITTY CIIAIO.

" When is it?" she asked, and then John felt again a little
twinge he had experienced when Mrs. Lottie named Sun-
day as the most convenient time for getting " all the
family," as she termed tliera, together.

" Sunday, at six o'clock," she had said, adding, when
she saw the questioning look on John's face : "You know
it is dark now at six, and the Sabbath ends at sundown;
besides that, I mean to have some sacred music in the
evening, so be prepared, please."

John would rather the dinner had been on'some other
day, but what people like the Guiles and Steeles did must
be right, and he had not a thought that Kitty would ob-
ject. But she did — firmly and decidedly.

" God never meant that His day should be remembered
by giving dinner parties," she said. " That was not keep-
ing it holy, and she could not go to Mrs. Steele's, much as
she would like to." And to this decision she stood firm ;
and when John met Mr. Steele next day in the office, he
told him to say to Mrs. Steele that he regretted it exceed-
ingly, but he must decline her invitation to dinner.

" The fact is," he said, " my wife was brought up in
New England, where I guess they are moi-e strict about
some things than the people in New York, and she thinks
she "

John hesitated as fearful that to give Kitty's reason
would sound too much like a reproof, but Mr. Steele
understood him and said, '* She does not believe in Sun-
day dinner parties ; that is what you mean. Well, well,
I've seen the day when I did not- but that time seems to

KITTY (UUIO.

285

gain a little
lamed Sun-
g "all the

ding, when
You know
i sundown ;
usic in the

some other

js did must

would ob-

jmembered
s not keep-
's, much as
itood firm ;
e office, he
I it exceed-
mer.

ight up in
trict about
she thinks

;y's reason
^r. Steele
^e in Sun-
^Vell, well,
s sssins to

me ages and ages ago. Somelu.w here in Now York first we
know wo get to doing things wlucli once we would net
have done for the world, and Sunday visiting is one of
them. I'll tell Lottie. Slio will bo torribly disMppointed
for she wanted you badly, but I gnoss your wife is ri-d.t
I m sure she is. Remon.bor the Sahbath-I'vo most forgot-
ten how it goes, though I used to say it the best of any of
them, when I was a boy at homo ;" and folding his hands
behind him, Amasa Stoolo walked up and down his office,
thinking of the sun)morH years ago, when he sat in tl e'
old-fashioned pew in that little churoh at the foot of the
mountain, and saw the sunshine lighting up the cross be-
hind the chancel, and folt upon his cheek the air swoot
with the fragrance of the hay cut yesterday in the
meadow by the woods, and said his catechism to the
white-haired rector, whose home was now in Heaven.-

That time seemed long, longago-ay, was loni- ago, be-
lore ho was the city millionaire, and husband of the dash-
ing, self-willed Lottie, who, while professing to believe
just what Kitty did, practised a far different creed. All
the tithes of anise, and mint and cummin she brought,
but she neglected the weightier matters, and her dark
eyes flashed angrily for a moment when she heard Kitty s
reason for declining the Sunday dinner.

"As if she were so much better than anybody else," she
said, and she was going on to say more when her hus-
band cut her short with, " I suppose she does not feel like
going straight from the altar to a dinner party. Isn't it
communion next Sunday in your church ?"

28G

KITTY CRAIG,

Yes,

was, but Lottie had forgotten that, and her face
flushed as her husband thus reminded her of it. The two
did not seem to be wholly congruous, and so she staid at
home next Sunday, and felt a strange feeling of disquiet,
and thought more of Kitty Craig, and how she would
look with that expression of peace on her face when she
turned away from the altar than she did of the grand
dinner which was being prepared in her kitchen, and
which, though pronounced a success by those of her guests
who cared nothing for the fourth commandment, seemed
to her a failure. Nothing suited her; everything was
wrong, from the colour of the gravy to the flower in her
step-mother's hair, and the fit of Mrs. Orr's dress ; and
when all was over, and the company gone, and she was
alone with her thoughts and the Bible she tried to read,
which by some chance she opened at the words, " Re-
member the Sabbath day to keep it holy," she said to her-
self, " I don't believe I'll ever try to have another dinner
party on Sunday."

She went to see Kitty the next day and chided her for
her absence, and called her a little Methodist and a Puri-
tan, and asked how she came to be so strait-laced, and
ended with : " But I believe you are right after all, only
here in the city people do difl'erently, and you will be like
us in time."

" I trust I never may forget that God is in the city as
well as in the country," was Kitty's reply, which Lottie
pondered long in her heart, and which at last bore the
fruit which ripens on the everlasting hills of gloiy.

^'^.

KITTY CRAIG.

287

It IS two years since the niyht of the mnsicale. and more
than one carriage with servants in liverv ar.d ladies crayly
dressed has stopped at Kitty's door, and Kitty has the
mtree to many a fashionable house. But having tasted
the once coveted apple and found how unsatisfying it was
she has put it from her and sees but little of tlie heaL
momh save such as she sometin.es meets at the house of
Lottie Steele, who i.s now her best friend, and whose car-
mge stands at her door on the nig' ,f which we write
Ihere was a message from Mr. Steele, to John and Kitty
traig, tellmg them to come immediately for Lottie he
leaied, was dyino-. '

There were tears in Kitty's eyes, and a throb of pain in
hei- heart, as she read the note and then prepared for the
arive. There was a hushed air about the house as if death
had already entered there, and the servant who opened
the door spoke in a low whisper, as in reply to Kitty's
questions she said, " Very low, and asking for you Will
you go up now ?"

Without waiting to throw aside her wrappings, Kitty
followed up the stairs, past the room where Lottie's week-
old baby girl was sleeping, and on to the chamber where
the young mother lay There was the pallor of death on
lier face, and her eyes seemed larger and blacker than
ever; but they lighted up suddenly and her white cheek
flushed when she saw Kitty come in.

" Oh, Mrs. Craig. I am so glad. I wanted to tell you
how much I owe you. and that but for you I could not be

:J^^-

288

KITTY cnAia.

as happy lying here right in the face of death— for I am
going to die, I Icnow it and feel it— but first I want to see
baby baptized, and you and your husband must be her
sponsors. Please, Am, tell them to brines her in "

'J'ho child was brought, and the clergyman, who had
been waiting for the Craigs, was summoned from the
parlour below.

" I would call her Kitty," Lottie said, as she laid her
hand on the silken curls of the little one, " but Am wants
her named for me. Poor Am ! I didn't think he'd care so
much. I'm sorry I have not done better," she continued,
looking up into the face of her husband, who gave one
great choking sob as he whispered : "Don't, Lottie, don't.
You Aave done well;" then taking the little girl in his
arms, he hdd it so low that Lottie's hand rested as in
blessing on its head all through the Hrst of the service,
until the clergyman took the little one himself and bap-
tized it, "Charlotte Maude."

Then, when all w.-is over and the clergyman gone, Lottie
said, " Hold me. Am ; raise me up and let me lay my head
on your arm while I talk to Mrs. Craig, and tell her how
much good she -has done me, and how her speaking the
truth so frankly that night of the musicale, and her refus-
ing to come to my dinner on Sunday, set me to thinking
that she possessed something which I did not ; and the
more I thought about it, the more I saw of her consistent
life, the more I was convinced that niy religion was one of
mere form, and that my heart had never been touched. I
had been confirmed, it is true, but I did not know what

KITTY CRAia.

989

for, except that it was the proper thin^ to do. and wa.
expected of me. Tl.oro i. too much of that kind of thir.cr
done, and young peo,.le need more instruction, more pert
sonal talks than tliey get oftentimes, and so the church is
harmed I meant to do right, an.l I kept all the feasts
and holy-days. and denied n,yself many things in Lent
and thought I was a saint to do it. and all the while was'
just as selfish and proud as I could be, and felt above

every body, and was bad to Am "

"No. Lottie, never bad," and Mr. Steele pressed the
hand he held in his, while Kitty wondered to see this
grave, quiet man so tender and loving when she had here-
tofore thought him cold and indifferent.

" Yes. I w,.s bad," Lottie said. " I've never been the
wife I ought to have been, and I'm so sorry now, and when
I m gone I want you to think as kindly of me as you can
and bnng baby up to be just such a woman as Kitty
Cra.g. Not fashionable, Am, though she might be even
that and a good woman, too. There are many such I
know, but do not let her put fashion before God. Don't
let her be what I have been. Mrs. Craig will see to her
and tell her of her mother, who was a better woman be-'
fore she died ; for I do believe I am, and that the Saviour
IS with me, and has forgiven even me. I'd like to live
for baby's sake, and show Am that I could be good but I
am wdhng to die, and ready, I trust; and maybe if I get
weU I should be bad again; so it is right, and Heaven
knows best. Lay me down now, husband, and H Kitty
Craig kiss me good-by. and tell me she forgives the cruel

290

KITTY CRAIG,

words I said when I first saw her, and my neglect after
that." *

She seemed like a little child in her weakness and con-
trition, and Kitty's tears fell like rain as she gave the
farewell kiss, and said that she had lorig ago forgotten
the insult offered her.

" Now go : I breathe better when there is no one here
but Am," Lottie said. " And when you come again, may-
be J shall be gone, but I hope I shall be at peace where
there is no more pain or temptation to be bad."

So John and Kitty went out togethei-, and left her alone
with her husband, who drew the covering about her, and,
smoothing her tumbled pillow, bade her sleep if she could.'
And Lottie slept at last, while her husband watched be-
side her with his eyes fixed upon her white face, and a
heavy crushing pain in his heart as he thouglit of losing
her now, just as he had a glimi)se of what she might be
to him, and as he hoped, just as she was beginning to love
him.

He had always loved her in his quiet, awkward way—
always been proud of her ; and though her frivolities and
inconsistencies had roused his temper at times, and made
him say harsh things to her and of the religion she pro-
fessed, he had through all been fond of her and believed
in God— that is, believed in the God he had learned about
in the New England Sunday-school at the foot of the
mountain, and he thought of Him now, and for the first
time in years his lips moved with the precious words •

"Our Father."

KITTY CRAIO.

291

That prayer had once been so familiar to him, and as
he said It nov^ the past came back again, and he was a
boy once more, with all the glow and fervour of youth, and
Lottie was to him all she had been when he first called
her his wife, only he seemed to love her more ; and, with
a choking sob, he cried :

" I can't let Lottie die. Oh. Father, save her for me.
and 111 be a better man."

Softly he kis.sed the white hand he held, and his tears
dropped upon it, and then a feeble voice said, in some
surprise :

"Am. are you crying, or was it a dream ? and did you
pray for me, and do you love me sure, and ^ant me to
get well ?"

" Yes, darling, I do," and the sobs were loud now, and
the strong man's tears fell fast upon the face turned so
wonderingly and joyfullj- toward him.

" Then I will get well." Lottie said ; " or at least I'll
try. I really thought you would be happier without me.
1 ve been such a bother, and it was not worth while to
make an effort, but, if you do love me and want me, it's
different, and I feel better already. Kiss me, Am, and if
1 live well both start new and be good- won't we ?"

Lottie did not die. and when Kitty went to inquire for
her next morning she found her better and brighter with
an expression of happiness on her face which she had
never seen there before.

"I almost went over the river," she said; " and felt sure
I was dying when Am's voice called me back. Dear old

292

KITTY CRAIG.

Am. do yon think he actually prayed for me, that I might
get well, and I thought once he did not believe in pray-
ing. Anyway he used sometimes to say that my prayers
were all humbug, and I guess they were ; some of those
long ones I used to make when I came from a dancing
party at two in the morning, and he was tired and sleepy
and wanted me to turn off the gas. But he is different
now, and says he loves me after all I've been. Why, I
never gave him a speck of love, or kissed him of my own
accord. But I'm going to do better ; and I guess God
will let me live to prove to Am that there is a reality in
our church as well as in others. He says he believes in
the Methodist— his grandmother was one— and when we
were first married he used to want me to play those funny
hymns about ' Travelling Home,' and ' Bound for the Land
of Canaan,'— and he believes a little in the Presbyterians,
and some in the Baptists, but not a bit in the Episco-
palians—that is, he didn't till he knew you, who, he
thinks, are most as good as a Methodist; and lam going
to try and convince him that I am sincere, and mean to
do right and care for something besides fashion and dress.
I have baby now to occupy my time, and I am glad, for
when the spring bonnets and styles come out, my head
might be turned again, for I do dote on lace and French
flowers. Do you think I ought to wear a mob cap and a
serge dress to mortify myself ?"

Kitty did not think so ; and when two months later
she met, down in one of the miserable alleys in the city,
where want, and misery, and vice reigned supreme, " a

KITTY CRAIG.

293

love of a " French chip hat. trimmed with a bunch of
exquisite pansiesand blonde lace, she did not believe that
the kindness paid to the poor old paralytic woman who
died with her shrivelled hand clasped in Lottie Steele's,
and her lips whispering the prayer Lottie had taught her
was less acceptable to God than it would have been had
Lotties face and form been disfigured by the garb with
which some well-meaning women make perfect frights of
themselves.

Lotties heart was right at last, and Amasa never mut-
tered now nor swore if he could not find his slippers
while she was saying her prayers. On the contrary, he
said them with her. and tried to be a better man. just as
he said he would, and at last one morning in June, even
the heated city seemed to laugh in the glorious summer
sunshine, he knelt before the altar and himself received
the rite of which he had once thought so lightly
^^ " We are so happy now," Lottie said to Kitty one day.
And I am so glad of Maudie, though I did not believe
m babies once; and Am is just like a young lover, and
Id rather have him than all the men in the worid if '
he wa^ fifty his last birth-day. and I am only twenty-five •
and do you know I charge it all to you. who have influ '
encedmeforgood ever since I first saw you, and made
that atrocious speech."

" Let us mther both ascribe to Heaven every aspiration
after a hoher, better life whieli we may have," was Kitty,
reply but her heart was very happy that day. as she felt
.ha. she might perhaps have been an instrument of good

294

KITTY CRAIG.

to one household at least, and that to have been so wa«
infinitely of more value and productive of more real hap-
pmess than getting into society, which she had once
thought so desirable, and which, now that she was or
could be in it if she chose, seemed so utterly worthless
and unsatisfactory.

THE END,

en so was
real hap-
lad once
was or
•vorthlesa