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rOPULAll NOVELS.

By May Agnes Fleming.

I. -GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE.
II.— A WONDERFUL WOJIAN.
III.— A TERRIBLE SECRET.

"Mrs. FU.minR'B Btorioa aro RrowinR more and more popu-
lar every <iay. Their (lilinciitiiins of (.hiinictcr,
life-like conversations, llashesi of wit, cou-
stantly voryin^,' Kccnes, ami deeply in-
terest int? pliiti, Cdinbine Id place
their author in the very llrst
rank of Modern
KovcliatJi."

All pablishod uniform with thU volume. Price $1.76
each, and aunt free by mall, on receipt of price, by

a. W. CAIIXETON & CO.,
New York.

Terrible Secret.

a Bobtl.

MAY AGNES FLEMING,

AUTHOR Of

■

"Guv Earlscourt's Wtfe," "A Wondurful Woman," " Norinb Bour-

don," ETC.

GREATER VICTORIA

PUBLIC LIBRARY

NEW YORK:

G. fF. Car let on & Co., Publishers.

LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.,

M.DCCC.LXXIV.

Entered according to Act of Congress, Jn the year 1874, by

G. W. CAnLKTON & CO.,
In tho Office of tUo Libmria.i of Congress, cxt WoBhington.

John F. Trow & Son, Printf.rs,
203-213 Kast 12TH St., Nkw Youk.
Mnclauchlan, Sti>rcotyper,
145 Si W! Mulberry St., near Grand, N. Y.

CHRISTIAN RE ID,

AUTHOR OP

"V A L Eli IK Ayi.MKRr ETC.,

TOKEN OF ADMIRATION AND ESTEEM,

Story is pED

I CAT ED,

MAY AGNES FLEMING.

Urooklvn, )
cptcmber, 1874. )

iiepu

ClIA

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER
I.-
II.-
III.-

IV.-

V.-

VI.-

VII.-

VIII.-

IX.-

X.-

XI.-

XII.-

PAOE

Bride and Bridegroom Elect 9

-Wife and Ilcir '8

-How Lady Catheron came Home 27

-" I'll not Believe but Desdemona's Honest " 32

-In the Twilii^ht 39

-In the Moonli-ht 5°

-In the Nursery S^

-In the Darkness ^2

-From the " Chesholm Courier " 77

-From the " Chesholm Courier "—Continued 83

-'•Ring out your Bells! Let Mourning Shows be Spread!" 89

-The first Ending of the Tragedy 96

PART II

;o:-

L--iMiss Darrell I03

II, _A Night in the Snow "5

HI.— Trixy's Tarty 127

1 V._" Under tlie (laslight" 140

v.— Old Copies of tlie «' Courier " I48

VI.— One Moonlight Night 159

VII.— Short and Sentimental 17°

VIII.— In Two Boats I?^

CONTENTS.

CnAPl'KR PAOB

IX.— Alas for Trix 1S7

X. — How Trix took it 200

XI. — How Lady Helena took it 207

XII.— On St. Partricli,'c Day 215

XIII. — How Charley took it 222

XIV. — To-morrow 231

XV.— Lady Helena's I3all 244

XVI.— "O My Cousin Shallow-hearted 1 " 250

XVII.—" Forever and Ever " 257

XVII I.— The Summons 268

XIX. — At Poplar Lodge 279

XX. — How the Weddin[.j-day IJcgan 2S7

XXL— How the Wedding-day Ended 294

XXII.— The Day After 300

XXIIL— The Second Ending of the Tragedy 310

PART m.

-:o:-

I. — At Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford Street 320

II.— Edith 330

III How they Met 341

IV. — How they Parted 347

v.— The Telling of the Secret 353

VI. — The last Ending of the Tragedy 365

VII. — Two Years After 373

VIII. — Forgiven or — Forgotten ? 37S

IX. — Saying Good-by 383

X. — The Second Bridal 393

XL— The Night 401

XII. — The Morning 405

A TERRIBLE SECRET.

CHAPTER I.

BRIDK AND URIDEGROOM ELECT.

IRF.LIGMT falling on soft velvet carpet, where
while lily buds trail along azure ground, on
chairs of white-polished wood that glitters like ivory,
with i)uffy of seats of blue satin ; on blue and gilt
l)an(.-lled walls; on a wonderfully carved oaken ceiling; on
sweeping drajjcries of blue satin and white lace ; on h.df a
dozen lovely pictures ; on an open piano ; and last of all,
on the handsome, angry face of a girl who stands before it
— Inez Calheron.

The month is August — the day the 29th — Miss Catheron
has good reason to remember it to the last day of her life.
15ut, whether the August sun blazes, or tiie January winds
howl, the great rooms of Catheron Royals are ever chilly.
So on the white-tiled heardi of the blue drawing-room this
summer evening a coal fire llickers and falls, and the mis-
tress of Catheron Royals stands before it, an angry Ikisli
burning dee;) red on either dusk cheek, an angry frown con-
tracting her straight black brows.

Tiic mistress of Catiieron Royals, — llie biggest, oldest,
(lueerest. grandest place in all siuiny Cheshire, — this slim, dark
girl of nineteen, for three years past the bride-elect of Sir
Victor Catheron, baronet, the last of his Saxon race and
name, the lord of all these sunny acres, this noble Norman
pile, the smiling village of Catheron below. The master of

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

a stately park in Devon, a moor and " bothy " in the Iiigh-
laiuls, a villa on tlic A mo, a gem of a cottage in the Isle of
Wiglit. " A (larhng of the gods," young, handsome, healthy ;
and best of all, with twenty thousand a year.

She is his bride-elect. In her dark way siie is very hand-
some. She is to be married to Sir Victor early in the ne.\t
month, and .she is as much in love with him as it is at all |)ossi-
ble to be. A fair fafesnrely. And yet while the Aii;4iist nij;lit
shuts down while the wind whistles in the trees, while the long
fmg(!rs oi the elm, just outside the window, tap in a ghustly
way on the pane, she stands here, (lushed, angry, impatient,
and sullen, her handsome lips set in a tight, rigid line.

She is very dark at all times. Her cousin Victor tells
her, laughingly, she is an absolute nigger when in one of her
silent rages. She has jet-black hair, and big, brilliant, S[)anish
eyes. She is Spanish. Her dead mother was a Castilian,
and that mother has left her her Spanish name, her beautiful,
])assionate Spanish eyes, her hot, passionate Si)anish heart.
In Old Castile Inez was born ; and when in her tenth
year her English father followed his wife to the grave, Inez
came home to Catheron Royals, to reign there, a little, im-
perious, hot-tempered Morisco princess ever since.

She did not come alone. A big boy of twelve, with a
shock head of blue-black hair, two wild, glittering black
eyes, and a diabolically handsome face, came with her. It
was her only brother Juan, an in)p incarnate from his cra-
dle. He did not remain long. To the unspeakable relief
of the neighborhood for miles around, he had vanished as
suddenly as he had come, and for years was seen no
more.

A Moorish Princess ! It is her cousin and lover's favorite
name for her, and it fits well. There is a certain barbaric
splendor about her as she stands here in the lireliglu, in her
trailing purple silk, in the cross of rubies and fine gold that
burns on her bosom, in the yellow, perfumy rose in her hair,
looking stately, and beautiful, and dreadfully out of temper.

The big, lonesome house is as still as a tomb. Outside the
wind is rising, and the heavy patter, patter, of the rain-beats
on the glass. That, and the light fall of the cinders in the
polished grate, are the only sounds to be heard.

A clock on the mantel strikes seven. She has not stirred

BRIDE AND liRIDEG/iOOiM ELECT.

for ncarl)' an hour, hut she looks uj) now, her black eyes
full of passionate ;ingjr, passionate inipatic-nce.

"Seven !" she says, in a suppressed sort of voice; "and
ho should have been here at six. What if he should defy
me? — what if he does not come after all ?"

She can remain still no longer. She wa"-'^ across the
room, and she walks as only Spani>h women 1o. She
draws hack one of the window curtains, ami leaa.j out into -
the niiiht. The crushed sweetness of the raiu-heaten roses
tloats up to her in the wet darkness. Ni»tliing to be s"en
but the vague tossing of the trees, nothing to be heard but
the .soughing of the wind, nothing to be felt but the f.ist and
still faster failing of tiie rain.

She lets the curtain fall, and returns to the fnc.

" Will he dare defy me ? " she whispers to herself " Will
he dare stay away ? "

There are two pictures hanging ovei the mantel — she
looks uj) at them as she asks the ipiestion. One is the sweet,
patient face of a woman of thirty ; the other, the smiling
face of a fair-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking lad. It is a
very pleasant face ; the blue eyes look at you so brightly, so
frankly ; the boyish mouth is so sweet-tempered and laugh-
ing that you smile back and fall in love with him at sight,
it is Sir Victor Catheron and his late mother.

Miss Inez C'at heron is in many respects an extraordinary
young lady — Cheshire society has long ago decideil that.
They would have been more convinced of i^ than ever, could
they have seen her turn now to Latly Catheron's portrait and
appeal to it aloud in imi)assioned words :

" On his knees, by your dying bed, by your dying com-
mand, he vowed {o love and cherish me always — as he did
then. Let him take care how he liilles with that vow — let
him take care ! "

She lifts one hand (on which rubles and diamonds Hash)
menacingly, then stops. Over the s\vee|) oi the storm, the
rush of the rain, comes another sound — a sound she has
been listening for, longing for, i)r.aying for — the rapid roll of
carriage wheels up the drive. There can be but one visitor
to Catheron Royals to-night, at this liour and in this storm —
its master.

She stands still as a stone, white as a statue, waili/ig. She

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

loves him ; she has hungered and thirsted for the sound of
his voice, the sight of his face, the clasp of his hand, all
. these weary, lonely niontiis. In some way it is her life or
death she is to take from his hands to-night. And now he is
here.

She hears the great hall-door open and close with a clang ;
she hears the step of the master in the hall — a (juick, assured
tread she would know among a thousand ; she hears a voice
— a hearty, pleasant, manly, English voice ; a cheery laugh
she remembers well.

" The Chief of Lara has returned again."

The quick, excitable blood leajjs up from her heart to her
face in a rosy rush that makes her lovely. The eyes light,
the lii)s part — she lakes a stej) forward, all anger, all fear,
all neglect forgotten — a girl in love going to meet her lover.
The door is llung wide by an impetuous hand, and wet and
splashed, and tall and smiling, Sir Victor Cathercn stantls
before her.

" iMy dearest Inez!"

He comes forward, jnits his arm around her, and touches
his blonde mustache to her flushed cheek.

" i\Iy dearest co/, I'm awfully glad to see you again, and
looking so uncommonly well too." He puts up his eye-
glass to make sure of this fact, then dro[)s it. " (Jncom-
nioniy well," lie repeats ; " give you my word I never s:uv
you looking half a cjuarter so handsome before in my life.
Ah ! why can't we all be Moorish princesses, and wear pur-
ple silks and yellow roses ? "

He llings himself into an easy-chair before the fire, throws
back his blonde head, and stretches forth his boots to ihe
blaze.

"An hour after time, am J not ? But blame the railw.'y
l)eople — uon't blame vie. Beastly sort of weather for the
last week of August — cold as Iceland and raining cats and
dogs ; the very ilickens of a storm, I can tell you."

He give the fire a poke, the light leaps up and illumines
his liantlsome face. He is very like his i)icture — a little
older— a little worn-looking, and with man's " crowning
glory," a mustache. The girl has moved a little away from
him, the flush of " beauty's bright transcient glow" has died

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

)iin(l of

md, all

life or

\v lie is

llniuines
-a little

out of her face, the hard, angry look has come back. That
careless kiss, that easy, cousinly embrace, ha\ told their
story. A moment ago her heart beat high with ho[)e — to
the (lay of her death it never beat like that again.

He doesn't look at her ; lie gazes at the hre instead, and
talks wuh the hurry of a nervous man. The handsome fiice
is a very effeminate face, and not even the light, carefully
trained, carefully waxed mustache can hide the weak, irreso-
lute moiuh, the delicate, characterless chin. While he talks
carelessly and quickly, while his slim white fingers loop and
unloop his watch-chain, in the blue eyes fixed upon the fire
there is an uneasy look of nervous fear. And into the
keepuig of this man the girl with the dark, powerful face
has given her heart, her fate!

" It seems no end good to l)e at home again," Sir Victor
Catheron says, as if afraid of that brief pause. "You've no
idea, Inez, how uncommonly familiar antl jolly this blue room,
this red lire, looked a monieui ago, as I stepped out of the
darkness and rain. It brings back the old times— this used
to be licr favorite morning-room," he glanced at the mother's
picture, "and siunuier and winter a fire always: burned here,
as now. And you, Inez, cara mia, with your gyi)sy face,
most fimiliar of all."

She moves over to the mantel. It is very low ; she
leanes one arm upon it, looks steadily at him, and speaks at

last.

" I am glad Sir Victor Catheron can remember the old
times, can still recall his mother, has a '^l'";ht regard left for
Catheron Royals, and am humbly grat^.ul for his recollec-

tion of his gypsy cousin.

l''iom his conduct of late it was

hardly to have been expected."

" It is coming," thinks Sir N'ictor, with an inward groan ;
"and, O I-ord ! -a'/uit a row it is going to be. When Inez
shuts her lips up in that tight line, and snai)s her black eyes
in tint unpleasant way, I know to my cost, it means 'war to

the kmte.

I'll be routei

cireat

Iful

■.laujhter,

ant

I i !;.'/. S I
goes!"

notto is ever, " Woe to the conquer

I '

I
Well, here

Me looks up at her, a good-humored smile on his good-
looking face.

" Humbly grateful for my recollection of you I My

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

dear Inez, I don't know what you mean. As for my ab-
sence — "

" As for your absence," slic interrupts, " you were to have
been here, if your memory will serve you, on the first of
June. It is now the close of August. Every day of that
absence has been an added insult to me. Even now you
would not have been here if I had not written y(ni a letter
you dare not neglect — sent a command you dare nottlis-^
obey. You are here to-night because you dare not stay
away."

Some of the bold blood of the stern old Saxon race from
which he sjirung is in his veins still, lie looks at her full,
still smiling.

"Dare not!" he rejreats. "You use strong language,
Inez. I'ut then \oii have an excitable sort of nature, and
were ever inclined to hvperbole ; and it is a lady's jjrivilege
to talk."

" And a man's to ac:t. l!nt I begin to think Sir Victor
Cathcron is something less than a man. 'J'Ik; Catheron
blood has bred many an outlaw, many bitter, bad men, but
to day I begin to think it has bred something infinitely
worse — a traitor and a coward ! "

He half springs up, his eyes llashing, fhen falls back, looks
at the lire again, and laughs.

" Meaning me ? "

" Meaning you."

" Strong language once more — you assert your ])reroga-
tive royally, my handsome cousin. l''rom whom diil y^ni
inlierit that two-edged tongue of yours, Inez, I wondrr ?
Yoiu' Castilian mother, smely ; the women of oiu- house
were riever shrews. And even vcw, niy dear, may go a little
too far. Will you drop vituperation and explain? How
have I been traitor and coward? It is well we should ini-
derstand each other ful'y."

He has grown |)ale, though he speaks (|uietly, and his
blue eyes gleam dangerously. He is always (piiet when most
angry.

"It is. And we shall understand each other fully befue
we part— be very sure of that. \'ou shall h arn what I have
inherited from my Castilian mother. You shall learn

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

whether you are to play fast and loose with me at your sov-
ereign wiU. Does your excellent memory still servo you, or
must 1 tell you what clay the twenty-third of September is
to be?" '

He looks up at her, still pale, that smile on his lips, that
gleam in his eyes.

" My memory serves me perfectly," he answers coolly ;
" it was to have been our wedding-day."

Was to have been. As he speaks the words coldly, almost
cruelly, as she looks in his f:ice, the last trace of color leaves
her own. The hot fire dies out of her eyes, an awful terror
comes in its place. WiUi all her heart, all her strength, she
loves the man she so bitterly reproaches. It seems to her
she can look back upon no time in which her love for hina
is not.

And now, it was to have been !

She turns so ghastly that ho springs to his feet in alarm.

"Good Heaven, Inez! you're not going to faint, are
you ? Don't ! Here, take my chair, and for pity's sake don't
look like that. I'm a wretch, a brute — what was it I said?
Do sit down."

He has taken her in his arms. In the days that are gone
he has been very fond, and a little afraid of his gipsy cousin.
He is afraid still — horribly afraid, if the trudi must be told,
now that his momentary anger is gone.

All the scorn, all the defiance lias died out of her voice
when she speaks again. The great, solemn eyes transtix
him with a look he cannot meet.

" Was to have been" she repeats, in a sort of whisper ;
"was to have been. Victor, does that mean it never is
to be?"

Ill" turns away, shame, remorse, fear in his averted face.
He holds the back of the chair with one hand, she clings to
the other as though it held her last hope in life.

"Take time," she says, in the same slow, whispering way.
" I can wait. 1 have waited so long, what does a few min-
utes more matter now? IJut think well before you speak —
tliere is more at stake than you know of My whole future
life hangs on your words. A woman's life. Have you ever
thought what that imi)lies? ' Was to have been,' you said.
Does that mean it never is to be ?"

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

Still no reply. lie hoUls the back of the chair, his face
averted, a criminal before his judge,

"And wiiile you think," she goes on, in that slow, sweet
voice, " let nie recall the past. Do you remember, Victor,
the day when I and Juan came here from Spain ? Do you
remember me ? I recall you as plainly at this moment as
though it were but yesterday — a little, flaxen-haired, blue-
eyed boy in violet velvet, unlike any child 1 had ever seen
before. 1 saw a woman with a face like an angel, who took
me in her arms, and kissed me, and cried over me, for my
father's sake. We grew up togetlier, Victor, you and I,
such happy, happy years, and I was sixteen, you twenty.
And all that time you had my whole heart. Then came our
first great sorrow, your mother's dealii."

She pauses a moment. Still he stands silent, but his left
hand has gone up and covers his face.

'• You remember that last night, Victor — the night she
died. No need to ask you ; whatever you may forget, you
are not likely to forget that. \V^e knelt together by her bed-
side. It was as this is, a stormy summer night. Outside,
the rain beat and the wind blew ; inside, the stillness of
death was everywhere. We knelt alone in the dimly-lit
room, side by side, to receive her last blessing — her dying
wish. Victor, n\v cousin, do you recall what that wish
was ? "

She holds out her arms to him, all her heart breaking forth
in the cry. liut he will neither look nor stir.

" With her dying hands she joined ours, her dying eves
looking at you. With her dying lips she spoke to you : ' Inez-
is dearer to me than all the world, Victor, except you. She
mu it never flice tlie world alone. My son, you love her —
l)romise uie you will cherish and protect her always. She
loves you as no one else ever will, rromise me, Vlctcjr,
that in three years from to-night you will make her your
wife.' These were her words. And you took her hand,
covered it with tears and kisses, and promised.

" We buried hi.'r," Inez went on, "and we parted. You
went up to Oxtbrd ; 1 went over to a I'aris pcnsioiuiat. In
the hour of our parting we went up together haml in hand
to her room. We kissed the pillow where her dying head
had lain ; we knelt by her bedoide as we had done that other

BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM ELECT.

night. You placed this ring upon my finger ; sleeping or
waking it has never left it since, and you repeated your vow,
t)iat that night three years, on the twenty-third of September,
I should be your wife."

She lifts the betrothal ring to her lips, and kisses it."
"Dear litde ring," she says softly, "it has been my one;
comfort all these years. Though all your coldness, all your
neglect for the last year and a half, I have looked at it, and
known you would never break your plighted word to the
livint^ and the dead.

" 1 came home from school a year ago. You were not
here to meet arid welcome me. You never came. You
fixed the hrst of June for your coming, and you broke your
word. Do 1 tire you with all these details, Victor? 15ut I
must speak to-niglu. It will be for the last time — you will
never give me cause again. Of the whispered slanders that
have reached me 1 do not speak ; 1 do not believe them.
"Weak you may be, fickle you may be, but you aie a gentle-
man of loyal race and blood ; you will kee[) your ph-.ucd
troth. Oh, forgive me, Victor I Why do you make me say
such things to you ? 1 hate myself for them, but your neg-
lect has driven me nearly wild. What have 1 done?"
Again she stretclies forth her hands in eloquent appeal.
" See ! 1 love yon. What more can I say ? 1 forgive all
the past ; 1 ask no (jucstions. I believe nothing of the
horrible stories they try to tell me. Only come back tome.
If I lose you I shall die."

Her face is transfigured as she speaks — her hands still
stretched out.

" O Victor, come I " she says ; " let the past be dead and
forgotten. My darling, come back !"

iUit he shrinks away as those soft hands touch him, and
pushes her off.

" Let me go ! " he cries ; " don't touch me, Inez ! It can
never be. You don't know what you ask ! "

Ht: stands confronting her now, pale as herself, vith eyes
alight. She recoils like one who has received a blow.

" {.'an never be ? " she repeats.

" Can never be I " he answers. " I am what you have
called me, Inez, a traitor and a coward. I stand here per-
jured before God, and you, and my dead mother. It can

WIFE AND HEIR.

never be. I can never rnarry you. I am married al-
ready ! "

Tlie blow has fallen — the horrible, brutal blow. She
stands looking at him — siie hardly seems to comi)rchend.
There is a pause — the lirelight ilicliers, they hear the rain
lashing the windows, the soughing of the gale in the trees.
'J'hen Victor Calheron bursts ibrlli :

" I don't ask you to forgive me — -it is past all that. 1
make no excuse ; the deed is done. I met her, and I loved
her. She has been my wife for sixteen months, and — there
is a son. Inez, don't look at me like that ! I am a scoun-
drel, I know, but — "

He br:aks down — the sight of her face unmans him. He
turns away, his heart beating horribly thick. How long the
ghastly pause that follows lasts he never knows — a century,
counting by what he undergoes. Once, during that pause,
he sees her fixed eyes turn slowly to his mother's picture —
he hears low, strange-sounding words drop from her
lips :

" He swore by your dving bed, and see how he keeps his
oath !"

Then the life that seems to have died from her face flames
back. Without speaking to him, without looking at him,
she turns to leave the room. On the threshold she pauses
and looks back.

" A wife and a son," she says, slowly and distinctly. *' Sir
Victor Catheron, fetch them home ; I shall be glad to see
them."

CHAPTER H.

WIFE AND HEIR.

^N a very genteel lodging-house, in the very genteel
neighboihood of Russell Square, early in the after-
noon of a September day, a young girl stands im-
patiently awaiting the return of Sir Victor Catheron.

This girl is his wite.

It is a bright, sunny day — as sunny, at least, as a London

id al-

WIFE AND HEIR.

day ever can make up its mind to be — and as the yellow,
slanting rays pour in tiirough the muslin curtains full on face
and figure, you may search and find no flaw in either. It
is a very lovely face, a very graceful, though petite ligure.
She is a blonde of the blondest type : her hair is like spun
gold, and, wonderful to relate, no Yellow Wash : no (lol-
den Fluid, has ever touched its shining abundance. Her
eyes are bluer than the September sky over the Russell
Square chimney-pots ; her nose is neither aquiline nor Gre-
cian, but it is very nice ; her forehead is low, her mouth and
chin " morsels for the gods." The little figure is deliciously
rounded and ripe ; in twenty years from now she may be a
heavy Britisli matron, with a yard and a half vvid waist —
at eigliteen years old she is, in one word, perfection.

Her dress is perfection also. She wears a white India
muslin, a marvel of delicate embroidery and exquisite text-
ure, and a great deal of Valenciennes trimming. She has
a pearl and tui![ loise star fasteniiv; her lace collar, pearl and
turquois drops i;i her ears, and a half dozen diamond rings
on her plump, boneless fingers. A blue ribbon knots up the
loose yellow h..;r, and you may search the big city from end
to end, and fiii.l nothing fairer, fresher, sweeter than Ethel,
Lady Catheron.

If ever a gentleman and a baronet had a fair and sufficient
excuse for the folly of a low marriage, surely Sir Victor
Catheron has it in this fairy wife — for it is a " low marriage"
of the most heinous type. Just seventeen months ago,
sauntering idly along the summer sands, looking listlessly at
the summer sea, thinking drearily that this time next yea,r
his freedom would be over, and his Cousin Inez his lawful
owner and iwssessor, his eyes had fallen on that lovely
blonde face — that wealth of shining hair, and for all time —
aye, for eternity — his fate was fixed. The dark image of
Inez as his wife faded out of his mind, never to return
more.

The earthly name of this dazzling divinity in yellow ring-
lets and pink muslin was Ethel Margaretta — Dobb !

Dobb! It might have disenchanted a less rajilurous
adorer — it fell powerless on Sir Victor Catheron's infatuated
ear.

It was at Margate this meeting took place — that most

WIFE AND HEIR.

popular and most vulgar of all Knglish watering-places ', and
the Cheshire baronet had looked just once at the ])each-
bloom face, the blue eyes of laughing light, the blusliiiig,
dinii>ling, seventeen-year-old Hice, and fallen in love at once
and forever.

He was a very impetuous young man, a very selfish and
unstable yowng man, witli whom, all his life, to wish was lo
have. He iiad been spoiled by a doling mother from his
cradle, spoiled by obsequious servants, spoiled by Inez
Catheron's boundless worship. And he wished for this
"rose of the rose-bud garden of girls" as he had iiever
wished for anything in his two-and-twenty years of life. As
a man in a dream he went through that magic ceremony,
" Miss Dobb, allow me to present my friend, Sir Victor
Catheron," and they were free to look at each other, talk to
each other, fall in love with each other as nuu:h as they
l>leased. As in a dream he lingered by her side three gol-
den hours, as in a dream he said, "Good afternoon," and
walked back to his hotel smoking a cigar, the world glorified
above and about him. As in a dream they told him she was
the only daughter and heiress of a well-to-do London soap-
boiler, and he did not wake.

She was the daughter of a soap-boiler. The paternal
manufactory was in the grimiest ipart of the grimy metropo-
lis ; but, remarkable to say, she had as much innate i)ridi..-,
self-respect, and delicacy as though "all the blood of all the
Howards " flowed in those blue veins.

He wasn't a bad sort of young fellow, as young fellows
go, and frantically in love. There was but one question to
ask, just eight days after this — " Will you be my wife ? " —
but one answer, of course — " Yes."

But one answer, of course ! How would it be possible
for a soap-boiler's daughter to refuse a baronet ? And yet
his heart had beaten with a fear that turned him dizzy and
sick as he asked it ; for she had shrunk away for one in
stant, frightened by his fiery wooing, and the sweet face had
grown suddenly and startlingly pale. Is it not the rule tluii
all maidens shall blush when their lovers ask tlie question of
questions ?

The rosy briglitness, the smiles, the dimples, all faded out
of this face, and a white look of sudden fear crossed it.

WIFE AND HEIR.

The st.irtled eyes had shrunk from his eager, flushed face
and looked over the wide sea. I'or fully five minutes she
never spoke or stirred. To his dying day that hour was with
him — his passionate love, his siek, horrible fear, his <X\/./.y
rapture, when she spoke at last, only one word — " yes." To
his dying day he saw her as he saw her then, in her sum-
mery muslin dress, her gii)sy hat, the pale, troubled look
chasing the color from the drooping face.

But the answer was "yes." VVas he not a baronet?
Was she not a well-trained English giil ? And the ecstasy
of pride, of joy, of that city soap-boiler's family, who shall
paint? "Awake my muse" and — but, no! it passeth all
telling. They bowed down before him (figuratively),
this good British tradesman and his fat wife, and worshipped
him. They burned incense at his shrine ; they adored the
ground he walked on ; they snubbed their neighbors, and
held their cliins at an aUitude never attained by the fa.nily
of Dobb before. And in si.v weeks Miss Ethel Dobb be-
came Lady Catheron.

It was the quietest, the dullest, the most secret of wed-
dings — not a soul present except Papa and Mamma Dobb, a
military swell in the grenadier guards — Pythias, at present,
to Sir Victor's Damon— the i)arson, and the pew-oi)ener.
lie was madly in love, but he was ashamed of the family
soa]:)-boiling, and he was afraid of his cousin Inez.

lie told them a vague story enough of family matters,
etc., that rendered secrecy for the present necessary, and
nobody cross-questioned the baronet. That the parson was
a parson, the marriage bona fide, his daughter "my lady,"
and himself the prospective grandfather of many baronets,
was enough for the honest soap-boiler.

I'or the bride herself, she said little, in a .shy, faltering
little way. She was very fond of her dashing, high-born,
in)i)ulsive lover, and very well content not to come into the
full blaze and dazzle of high life just yet. If any other
romance had ever l"igured in her simple life, the story was
finished and done with, the book read and put away.

lie took her to Switzerland, to (jcrmany, to Southern
France, keeping well out of the way of other tourists, and
ten months followed — ten months of such exquisite, unal-
loyed bliss, as rarely falls to mortal man. Unalloyed, did I

WIFE AND HEIR.

say ? Well, not quite, since earth and heaven are two
different places. In tiie dead of pale Southern nights, with
the shine of the moon on his wife's lovely sleeping face ; in
the hot, brilliant noontide ; in the sweet, green gloaming —
Inez Catheron's black eyes came menacingly before iiiin —
the one bitter drop in his cup. All his life he had been a
little afraid of her. He was something more than a little
afraid of her now.

They re-varned. The commodious lodgings in Russell
Square awaited him, and Sir Vi:tor "went in " for domestic
felicity in the parish of Bloomsbury, " on the quiet." Very
nuich "on the quiet" — no tiieatre going, no ojjera, no visi-
tors, and big Captain Jack Krroll, of the Second (Grenadiers,
his only guest. Four months of this sort of thing, and tlien
— and then there was a son.

Lying in her lace-draped, satin-covered bed, looking at
baby's fat little, funny little face, Ethel, Lady Catheron,
began to think. She had time to think in her quiet and
solitude. Monthly nurses and husbands being in tiie very
nature of things antagonistic, and nurse being reigniiig po-
tentate at present, the husband was banished. And Lady
Catheron grew hot and indignant that tiie heir of Catheron
Royals should have to be born in London lodgings, and the
mistress of Catheron Royals live shut up like a nun, or a
fair Rosamond in a bower.

" You have no relations living but your cousin, Victor,"
she said to him, more coldly than she had ever spoken in
her life. " Are you master in your own house, or is she ?
Are you afraid of this Miss Catheron, who writes you such
!ong letters (which 1 never see), that you dare not take your
wife home ? "

He had told her something of that other story necessarily
— his former engagement to his cousin, Inez. Only some-
thing — not the bare ugly truth of his own treachery. The
soap-boiler's daughter was more noble of soul than the
baronet. Gentle as she was, she would have des[)ised him
thoroughly had she known the truth.

" This secrecy has lasted long enough," Lady Catheron
said, a resolute-looking expression crossing her pretty, soft-
cut mouth. "The time has come when you must speak.
Don't make me think you are ashamed of me, or afraid of

WIFE AND HEIR.

her. Take me home — it is my right ; acknowledge your son
— it is his. When there was only I, it did not so much matter
— it is different now."

She lifted one of baby's dots of hands, and kissed it.
And Sir Victor, his face hidden in the shadow of the cur-
tains, his voice husky, made answer :

"You are right, Ethel — you always are. As soon as you
both can travel, my wife and child sliall come home with me
to Catheron Royals."

Just three weeks later, as the August days were ending,
came that last letter from Inez, commanding his return.
His hour had come. He took the next morning train, and
went forth to meet the woman he feared and had wronged.

The afternoon sun drops lower. If Sir Victor returns
from Cheshire to-day, Lady Catheron knows he will be here
in a few minutes. She looked at her watch a little wearily.
The days are very long and lonely without him. Looks up
again, her eyes alight. A hansom has dashed uj) to the
door, and it is her husband who leajjs out. Half a minute
and he is in the room, and she is clasped in his arms.

" My darling ! " he exclaims, and you need only hear the
two words to tell how rapturously he loves his wife. ." Let
nie look at you. Oh ! as pale as ever, I see. Never
mind ! Cheshire air, sunshine, green fields, and new milk
shall bring back your roses. And your son and heir, my
lady, how is he ? "

He bends over the pretty bassinet, with that absurd
paternal look all very new f:Uhers regard the hrst blessing,
and his mustache tickles baby's innocent nose.

A flush comes into her face. She looks at him eagerly.

" At last 1 Oh, Victor, when do we go ? "

" To-morrow, if you are able. The sooner the better."

He says it with rather a forced laugh. Her face clouds a
little.

" And your cousin ? Was she very angry ! " she asked,
wistfully ; " very much surprised ? "

" Well — yes — naturally, I am afraid she was both. We
must make the best of that, however. To tell the truth, I
had only one interview with her, and that rf so particularly
unpleasant a nature, that I left next morning. So then we

WIFE AND HETR.

start to-morrow ? I'll just drop a line to Erroll to apprise
him."

He catches hold of his wife's writing-table to wheel it
near. l>y some chiiiisiiiess his foot catches in one of its
spidery claws, and with a crash it tojjples over. Away goes
the writing case, Hying open and scattering the contents far
and wide. The crasli siiocks baby's nerves, baby begins to
cry, and the new-made mamma Hies to her angel's side,

"I say!" Sir Victor cries. "Look hero! Awkwaid
thing of me to do, eh, J'Uhel ? Writing case broken too.
Never mind, I'll pick 'cm up."

He goes down on his knees boyishly, and begins gathering
them up. Letters, cnvelo])es, wax, seals, pens and pencils.
He flings all in a heap in the broken case. Lady Catheron
cooing to baby, looks smilingly on. Suddenly he comes to
a full stop.

Comes to a full stop, and holds something before him as
though it were a snake. A veiy harmless snake ajiparently
— the photograph of a young and handsome man. For fully
a minute he gazes at it utterly aghast. "Good Heaven !"
his wife hears liim say.

Holding baby in her arms she glances at him. The back
of the picture is toward her, but she recognizes it. Her fl^ce
turns ashen gray — she moves round and bends it over baby.

" Ethel ! " Sir Victor says, his voice stern, " what does
this mean ? "

"What does what mean ? Hush-h-h baby, darling. Not
so loud, Victor, i)lease. 1 wan't to get babe asleep."

" How comes Jr.an Catheron's picture here ? "

She catches her breath — the tone, in which Sir Victor
speaks, is a tone not pleasant to hear. She is a thoroughly
good little thing, but the best of little things (being women)
are cr;:^o dissemblers. For a second she dares not face him;
then she conv;s bravely up to time and looks at him over
her shoulder.

"Juan Catheron! Oh, to be sure. Is that ])icture here
yet?" with a little laugh. "I thougiit I had lost it centu-
ries ago." " Cood Heaven ! " she exclaims inwardly ; " how
coidd I have been such a fool ! "

Sir Victor rises to his feet — a curious jiassing likeness to
his dark cousin, Inez, on his fair blonde face. " Then

WIFE AND ITEIR,

apprise

vhcel it
ic of its
■A)' goes
cuts far
;ins to

wkwarcl
cii too.

athcriiig
I ])cncils.
Juthcroii
comes to

e him as
iparcntly
For fully
cavcn ! "

The back

Her face

iver baby.

t'hat does

ng. Not

iir Victor
lioronghly
^ women)

face him;

him over

:ture here

it ccntii-

ly ; " how

kcness to
" Then

joii know Juan Cathcron. You! And you never told
me."

" My dear Sir Victor," with a little pout, "don't be un-
reasonable. I should have something to do, if I put you an
coiiraiit of all my acquaintances. 1 knew Mr. Callicron —
slightly," with a gasp. " Is there any crime in that ? "

"Yes!" Sir Victor answers, in a voice that makes his
wife jinnp and his son cry. "Yes — there is. I wouldn't
own a dog— -if Juan Calheron had owned hiin before nie.
'I'o look at him, is pollution enough — to know him — dis-
grace ! "

" Victor ! Disgrace I "

" Disgrace, Ethel I He is one of the vilest, most profli-
gate, most lost wretches that ever disgraced a good name.
I'Uhel, 1 command you to tell me — was this man ever any-
thing to you — friend — lover — what?"

" And if he has been — what then ? " She rises and faces
him proudly. "Am I to answer for his sins ?"

" Yes — we all must answer more or less for those who
are our friends. How come you to have his picture ? What
has he been to you? Not your lover — for Heaven's sake,
Kthel, never that I "

"And why not? Mind !" she says, still facing him, her
blue eyes aglitter, "I don't say that he was, but // he was
— what then ? "

" What then ?" He is white to the lips with jealous rage
and fear. " This then— _>'<?« sliould never again he luifc of
viine ! "

" Victor ! " she puts out her hands as if to ward ofT a
blow, "don't say that— oh, don't say that! And — and it
isn't true — he never was a lover of mine — never, never ! "

She bursts out with the denial in passionate fear and
trembling. In all her wedded life she has never seen him
look, heard him speak like this, though she has seen him
jealous — needlessly — often.

"lie never was your lover? You are telling me the
truth?"

"No, no — never! never, Victor — don't look like that!

Oh, what brought that wretched picture here ! I knew him

slightly — only that — and he did give me his photograpli.

How could I tell he was the wretch you say he is — how

WIFE AND HEIR.

could I think there would be any barm in taking a picture ?
He seemed nice, Victor. What did he ever do ? "

" He seemed nice ! " Sir Victor repeated, Oitterly ; " and
what did he ever do ? What has lie left undone you had
better ask. He has broken every command of the decalogue
— every law human and divine. He is dead to us all — his
sister included, and has been these many years. Ethel, can
I believe—"

•' I have told you, Sii Victor. You will believe as you
please," his wife answers, a little sullenly, turning away from
him.

She understands him. His very jealousy and anger are
born of his passionate love for her. To grieve her is tor-
ture to him, yet he grieves her often.

For a tradesman's daughter to marry a baronet may be
but one remove from paradise ; still it is a remove. And the
serpent in Lady Calheron's Eden is the ugliest and most
vicious of all serpents — ^jealousy. He has never shown his
green eyes and obnoxious claws so palpably before, and as
Sir Victor looks at her bending over her baby, his lierce
paroxysm of jealousy gives way to a fierce paroxysm of
love.

•• Oh, Ethel, forgive me ! " he says ; " I did not mean to
wound you, but the thought of that man — faugh ! l>ut I
am a fool to be jealous of you, my white lily. Kiss me —
forgive me — we'll throw this snake in the grass out of the
window and forget it. Only — 1 had rather you had told
me."

He tears up the wretched little mischief-making picture,
and flings it out of the window with a look of disgust. Then
they " kiss and make up," but the stab has been given, and
Avill rankle. The folly of her past is dcjing its work, as all
our follies past and present are pretty sure to do.

now LADY GATHER ON CAME HOME.

CHAPTER III.

HOW LADY CATHERON CAME HOME.

j.CT^^ATE in the afternoon of a September day Sir Vic-
r p)^ tor Catheron, of Catlieron Royals, brought home
L^^ his wife and son.

-^^^ His wife and son ! The county stood astounded.
And it had been a dead secret. Dreadful ! And Inez
Catheron was jilted ? Shucking ! And she was a soap-
boiler's daughter ? Horrible ! And now when this
wretched, misguided young man could keep his folly a
secret no longer, he was bringing his wife and child home.

The resident gentry sat thunderstruck. Did he expect
they could call? (This was the gentler sex.) Plutocracy
might jostle aristocracy into the background, but the line
must be diawn somewhere, and the daughter of a London
soap-boiler they would not receive. Who was to be posi-
tive there had been a marriage at all. And poor Inez
Catheron ! Ah it was very sad — vory sad. There was a
well-known, well-hidden taint of insanity in the Catheron
family. It must be that latent insanity cropping up. The
young man mast siin|)ly be mad.

Nevertheless bells rung and bonfires blazed, tenantry
ch'*ered, and all the old servants (with Mrs. Marsh, the
housekcci)er, and Mr. Hooper, the butler, at their head)
were drawn up in formidable array to receive them. And
if both husband und wife were very pale, very silent, and
very nervous, who is to blame them ? Sir Victor had set
society at defiance ; it was society's turn now, and then —
there was Inez !

For Lady Catheron, the dark, menacing figure of her hus-
band's cousin haunted her, too. As the big, turretcd, tow-
ered, ivied pile of stone and mortar called Catheron Royals,
with its great bell booming, its Union Jack waving, reared
up before the soap-boiler's daughter — she absolutely cowered
with a dread that had no name.

" 1 am ahaid ! " she said. " Oh, Victor, I am afraid 1 "

He laughed — not quite naturally, though. If the painful

HOW LADY CAT HERON CAME HOME.

truth must be told of a baronet and a Catheron, Sir Victor
was afraid, too.

" Afraid ? " he laughed ; " of wliat, Ethel ? The ghost of
the Gray Lady, vvlio walks twice in every year in Rupert's
Tower? Like all fine old families, we have our line old
family ghost, and would not part with it for the world. I'll
tell you the legend some day ; at present ' screw your cour-
age to the sticking place,' for here we are."

He descended from the carriage, and walked into the
grand manorial hall, vast enough to have lodged a hun-
dred men, his wife on his arm, his head very high, his face
very pale. She clung to him, poor child ! and yet she
battled hard for her dignity, too. Hat in hand, smiling
right and left in the old pleasant way, he shook hands with
Mrs. Marsh and Mr. Hooper, presented them to my lady,
and bravely inquired for Miss Inez. Miss Inez was well,
and awaiting him in the Cedar drawing-room.

They ascended to the Cedar drawing-room, one of the
grandest rooms in the house, all gilding and ormolu, and
magnificent upholstery — Master Baby following in the arms
of his nurse. The sweet face and soft eyes of Lady Catheron
had done their work already in the ranks of the servants —
she would be an easier mistress to serve than Miss Inez.

" If she ever is mistress in her own house," thought Mrs.
Marsh, who was "companion" to Miss Catheron as well as
housekeeper; "and mistress she never will be while Miss
Catheron is at the Royals."

The drawing-room was brilliantly lit, and standing in the
full glare of the lamps — Inez. She was gorgeous this even-
ing in maize silk, that was like woven sunshine ; she had a
white camelia in her hair, a diamond cross on her breast,
scented laces about her, diamonds on her arms and in her
cars. So she stood — a resplendent vision — so Sir Victor
beheld her again.

He put up his hand for an instant like one who is
dazzled — then he led forward his wife, as men have led on a
forlorn hope.

" My cousin," he said, "my wife ; Inez, this is Ethel."

There was a certain pathos in the simi^licity of the words,
in the tone of his voice, in the look of iiis eyes. And as
some very uplifted young empress might bow to the lowliest

JIOIV LADY CATHERON CAME HOME.

of her handmaidens, IMiss Catheron bowed to Lady Cath-
cron.

"Elliel," she rei)cated, a smile on her lips, "a pretty
nan)e, and a pretty face. I congratulate you on your taste,
Victor. And this is tiie baby — 1 must look at him."

There was an insulTerable insolence in the smile, an in-
sufferable sneer in the compliment. Ethel had half extended
a ti:n'(l h.i'ul — Victor had wholly extended a pleading one.
Sh!^ took m.'t the slightest notice of either. She lifted the
white veil, and looked down at the sleeping baby.

"The heir of Catheron Royals," she said, "and a fine
baby no doubt, as babies go. 1 don't pretend to be a judge.
He is very bald and very tlabby, and very fat just at present.
Whom does lie resembie ? Not you, Victor. . O, no doubt
the distaff side of the house. What do you call him, nurse ?
Not christened yet ? But of course the heir of the house is
alwaj's chri.>tened at Catheron Royals. Victor, no doubt
you'll follow tiie habit of your ancestors, and give him his
mother's faunly name. Your mother was the daughter of a
maniuis, and you are Victor St. Albans Catheron. Good
customs should not be dropped — let your son's name be
Victor Dohb Catheron."

She laughed as she dropped the veil, a laugh that made
all the blood in Sir Victor's body tingle in his face. But he
stood silent. And it was Ethel who, to the surprise of
every one, her husband included, turned upon Miss Cathe-
ron with tkrshing eyes and Hushing cheeks.

"And suppose, he is christened Victor Dobb Cathe-
ron, what then ? It is an honest English name, of which
none of my family have ever had reason to feel ashamed.
My husband's mother may have been the daughter of a mar-
quis — my son's mother is the daughter of a tradesman — the
name th" . has been good enough f.r me will be good enough
for hini. 1 have yet to learn there is any disgrace in honest
trade."

Miss Catheron smiled once mor?, a smile more stinging
'than words.

" No doubt. You have many things yet to learn, I am
quite sure. Victor, tell your wife that, however dulcet her
voice may be, it would sound sweeter if not raised so very
high. Of course, it is to be expected — I make every allow-

HO IV LADY CAT/IE RON CAME HOME.

a nee, poor child, for the failings of her — class. The dress-
ing-bell is ringing, dinner in an hour, until then — ait
rei'oir."

Still with that most insolent smile she bows low once
more, and in her gold silk, her Spanish laces, her diamonds
and s])lendor. Miss Catheron swept out of the room.

And this was Ethel's welcome home.

*|C SjC Sf* *|? ^» ?|» ^? ^* ^* •!*

Just two hours later, a young man can'se walking briskly
up the long avenue leading to the great portico entrance of
Cadieron Royals. The night was dark, excej)! for the chill
white stars — here under the arching oaks and elms not even
the starlight shone. But neither for tlie darkness nor loneli-
ness cared this young man. With his hands in his pockets
he went along at a swinging pace, whistling cheerily. He
was very tall ; he walked with a swagger. You could make
out no more in the darkness.

The great house loomed up before him, huge, black, grand,
a row of lights all along the first floor. 'J'he young man
stopped his whistling, and looked up with a smile not pleas-
ant to see.

" Four years ago," he said, between his teeth, ** you flung
me from your door like a dog, most noble baronet, and you
swore to lodge me in Chesholm jailif I ever i)resunied to come
back. And 1 swore to pay you off if I ever had a chance.
To-night the chance has come, thanks to the girl who jilted
me. You're a young man of uncommonly high stomach,
my baronet, iiroud as the deuce and jealous as the devil. I'll
give your pride and your jealousy a chance to show them-
selves to-night."

He lifted the massive brass knocker, and brought it down
with a clang that echoed through the house. Then he be-
gan whistling again, watching those lighted, lace-draped win-
dows.

"And to think," he was saying inwardly, "to think of our
litde Ethel benig mistress here. On my word it's a lift in
life for the soap-boiler's pretty daughter. I wonder what
they're all about up there now, and how Inez takes it. 1
should think there must have been the dickens to pay when
she heard it first."

The heavy door swung back, and a dignified elderly gen-

HO IV LADY CAT/IE RON CAME HOME.

tlenian, in black broadcloth and silk stockings, stood gazing
at the intruder. The young man stepped from the outer
darkness into the ligiitcd vestibule, and the elderly gentle-
man fell back with a cry.

"Master Juan!"

'■^Mister Juan, Hooper, if you please — Mister Juan.
William, my old cockalorum, my last rose of summer, how
goes it ? "

. He grasped the family butler's hand with a jolly laugh,
and gave it a shake that brought tears of torture to its
owner's eyes. In the blaze of the hall chandelier he stood
revealed, a big fellow, with eyes and h:.ir raven black, and a
bold, bronzed face.

"What, Villiam ! friend of my childhood's days, 'none
knew thee but to love thee, none named thee but to praise'
— not a word of welcome ? Stricken dumb at sight of the
prodigal son! I say! \V'here's the rest? The baronet,
you know, and my sister, and the new wife and kid? In
the dining-room ? "

" In the dining-room," Mr. Hooper is but just able to
gasp, as with horror pictured on his face he falls back.

"All right, then. Don't fatigue your venerable shanks
preceiling mc. I know the way. Bless you, William, bless
you, and be happy ! "

]Te bounces up the stairs, this lively young man, and the
next instant, hat in hand, stands in the large, handsome,
brilliantly lit dining-room. They are still lingering over the
dessert, and with a simultaneous cry, and as if by one im-
pulse, tiie three start to tiieir feet and stand contbunded.
The young man strikes a tragic tiieatrical attitude.

"Scene — dining-room of the reprobate ' Don Giovanni '
— tremulo music, lights half down — enter statue of virtuous
Don Pedro." He breaks into a rollicking laugh and changes
his tone for that of every-day life. " Didn't expect me, did
you?" he says, addressing everybody. "Joyful surprise,
isn't it? Inez, how do? I'aronet, your humble servant.
Sony to intrude, but I've been told my wife is here, and I've
come after her, naturally. And here she is. Kthel, my dar-
ling, who'd have thought of seeing you at Catheron Royals,
an honored guest? (live us a kiss, my angel, and say
you're glad to see your scrapegrace husband back."

*'DESDEMONA'S HONEST:'

He strides forward and has her in his arms before any one
can speak. He stoops his blackbcaidcd face to kiss h(.r,
just as with a gasping sob, her golden head falls on his
shoulder and she faints dead away.

CHAPTER IV.

" I'll not believe but desdemona's honest."

ITH a cry that is like nothing human, Sir Vic-
tor Calheron leaps forward and tears his fainting
wife out of the grasp of the black-bronzed, bearded,
piratical-looking young man.

"You villain !" he shouts, hoarse with amaze and fury;
"stand back, or by the living Lord I'll have your life ! You
scoundrel, how dare you lay hands on my wife !"

"Your wife I Yours! Come now, I like that! It's
against the law of this narrow-minded country for a woman
to have two husbands. You're a magistrate and ought to
know. Don't call names, and do keep your tem[)er — vio-
lent language is unbecoming a gentleman and a baronet.
Inez, what does he mean by calling J^thel his wife ? "

"She is his wife," Inez answers, her black eyes glittering.

" Oh, but I'll be hanged if she is. Slie's mine — mine hard
and fast, by jingo. There's some little misunderstanding
here. Keep your temper, baronet, and let us clear it up. J
married Miss Ethel Dobb in Glasgow, on the thirteenth of
May, two years ago. Now, Sir Victor Catheron, when did
yon marry her."

Sir Victor made no answer; his face, as he stood support-
ing his wife, was ghastly with rage and fear. Ethel lay like
one dead ; Juan Catheron, still eminently good-humored
and self-possessed, turned to his sister :

" Look here, Inez, this is how it stands : Miss Dobb was
only fifteen when I met her first. It was in Scotland. We
fell in love with each other ; it was the suddenest case of
spoons you ever saw. We exchanged pictures, we vowed
vows, we did the ' meet me by moonlight alone ' business —

*'DESDEMONA'S HONEST:'

you know the ]5rogramiTie yourself. Tlie time came to part
— EtliL-l to return to school, I to sail for the China Sea — and
the day we left Scotland we went into churcli and were mar-
ried. There ! I don't deny wc parted at the church door,
and have never met since, but slie's my wife ; mine, baronet,
by Jove ! since the fust marriage is the legal one. Come,
jiow ! You don't mean to say that you've been and married
another fellow's wife. Ton my word, you know I shouldn't
have believed it of J-lthel."

"She is reviving," Inez said.

She spoke quietly, but her eyes were shining like black
stars. Slie knew her brother for a liar of old, but what if
this were true ? what if her vengeance were here so soon ?
She held a glass of iced champagne to the white lips.

" Drink ! " she said, authoritatively, and Ethel mechani-
cally drank. Then the blue eyes opened, and she stood
erect in Sir Victor's arms.

"Oh, what is it?" slie said. "What has happened?"

Her eyes fell upon the dark intruder, and with a cry of
fear, a shudder of repulsion, her hands Hew up and covered
her face.

"Don't be afraid, my darling," Sir Victor said, holding
her close, and looking with Hashing, defiant eyes at his
enemy ; " this coward has told a monstrous falsehood.
Deny it, my love. I ask no more, and my servants shall
kick him out."

"Oh, shall they!" said Mr, Catheron ; "well, we'll see.
Now, Ethel, look here. I don't understand this business,
you know. What does Sir Victor mean by calling you his
wife? It isn't possible you've gone and committed bigamy
— there must be a mistake. Vou are my wife, and as such
I claim you."

" Ethel, you hear that," Sir Victor cried in a voice of
agony; "tor Heaven's sake speak ! The sight of this fellow
— the sound of his voice is driving me mad. Speak and
deny this horrible charge."

"She can't," said Juan Catiieron !

" I can I I do ! " exclaimed Ethel, starting up with
Hushing face and kindling eyes; "It is a monstrous lie.
Victor ! O, Victor, send him away I It isn't true — it isn't,
it isn't 1"

"DESDEMO/V.rS HONEST."

"Hold on, Sir Victor," Mr. Catlieron, interposed, "let
me ask this young lady a question or two. Ktlioi, do you
remember May, two years ago in Scotland? Look at this
picture; it's yours, isn't it? Look at this ring on my little
finger; you gave it to me, didn't you ? Think of the little
CMasgo\v presbytery where we went through the ceremony,
and deny that I'm your husband, if you can."

But her blood was up — gentle, yielding, timid, she had
yet a spirit of her own, and lier share of British " pluck."

She faced her accuser like a small, fair-haiied lioness, her
eyes flashing blue fire.

" I do deny it ! You wretch, how dare you come here
with such a lie I" She turned her back upon him with a
scorn under which even he winced. " Victor ! " she cried,
lifting her clasped hands to her husband, "hear me and for-
give me if you can. I have done wrong — wrong — but I — I
was afraid, and I thought he was drowned. I wanted to tell
you all — I did, indeed, but paj^a and mamma were afraiil —
afraid of losing you, Victor. I told you a falsehood about the
photograph — he, that wretch, did give it to me, and — " her
face drooped with a bitter sob — "he was my lover then,
years ago, in Scotland."

"Ah!" quoted Mr. Catheron, "truth is mighty and will
prevail I Tell it, Ethel ; the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth."

"Silence, sir!" Lady Cameron cried, "and don't dare
call me Ethel. I was only fifteen, Victor — tliink of it, a child
of fifteen, spending my holidays in Glasgow when 1 met
him. And he dared to make love to me. It amused him
for the time — representing himself as a sort of banished
prince, a nobleman in disguise. He took my silly, girlish
fancy for the time. What did I at fifteen know of love ?
The day I was to return home, we exchanged pictures and
rings, and he took me out for a last walk. He led me
into a solitary chapel, and made me join hands, and pledge
myself to be his wife. There was not a soul in the place
but ourselves. As we left it we met papa. We shook
hands and i)arted, and until this hour I have never since
set eyes on his face. Victor, don't blame me too mucli —
think what a child I was — remember I was afraid of him.
The instant he was out of my sight I disliked him. He

''DESDEMONA'S HONEST."

wrote to me — I never answered his letters, except once,
and then it was to return his, and tell him to trouble me no
more. That is all. O Victor ! don't look like that ! I
am sorry — 1 am sorry. Forgive me or I shall die."

He was ashen white, but there was a dignity about him
that awed into silence even the easy assurance of Juan
Catheron. He stooped and kissed the tear-wet, passionate,
pleading face.

"I believe yon," he said; "your only fault was in not
telling me long ago. Don't cry, and sit down."

He placed her in a chair, walked over, and confronted
his cousin.

" Juan Catheron," he said, " you are a slanderer and a
scoundrel, as you always were. Leave this house, and never,
wliilst I live, set your foot across its threshold. Five years
ago j'ou committed a forgery of my name for three thousand
pounds. I turned you out of Catheron Royals and let you
go. 1 hold that forged check yet. Enter this house again,
repeat your infamous lie, and you shall rot in Chesholni
jail ! I spared you then for your sister's sake — for the
name you bear and disgrace — but come here again and de-
fame my wife, and I'll transport you though you were my
brother. Now go, and never come back."

He walked to the door and flung it wide. Juan Catheron
stood and looked at him, his admirable good-humor unruffled,
something like genuine admiration in his face.

" l>y Jupiter ! " he exclaimed, "who'd have thought it!
Such a milk-sop as he used to be ! Well, baronet, I don't
deny you got the upper hand of me in that unpleasant little
aftair of the forgery, and Portland Island with a chain on
my leg and hard labor for twenty years I don't particularly
crave. Of course, if Ethel won't come, she won't, but I say
again it's deuced shabby treatment. Because, baronet, that
sort of thing is a marriage in Scotland, say what you like. I
suppose it's natural she should prefer the owner of Catheron
Royals and twenty thousand per annum, to a jioor devil of
a sailor like me ; but all tlie same it's hard lines. Good-by,
Inez — be sisterly, can't you, and come anil see a fellow. I'm
stopping at the 'Ring o' Bells,' in Chesholm. Good-by,
Ethel. ' Thou hast learned to love another, thou hast broken

•• DESDEMON.'VS HONEST:*

every vow,' but you mif;ht shake liands for the scke of old
times. You won't— well, then, good-by without. The ne\t
time I mairy I'll make sure of my wife."

He swaggered out of the room, giving Sir Victor a friendly
and forgiving nod, (lung his wide-awake on his black curls,
clattered down the stairs and out of the liouse.

" By-by, William," lie said to the butler. " I'm off again,
you see. Most inhospitable lot / ever saw — never so much
as offered me a glass of wine. Good- night, my daisy. Oh river !
as they say in French. Oh river ! "

The door closed upon him. He looked back at the lighted
windows and laughed.

" I've given them a rare fright if nothing else. She went
oft" stiff at sight of me, and he — egad ! the little fair-haired
baronet's plucky after all — such a molly-coddle as he used
to be. Of course her being my wife's all bosh, but the scare
was good fun. And it won't end here — my word for it. He's
as jealous as the Grand Turk. I hope Inez will come to see
me and give me some money. If she doesn't I must go
and see her, that's all."

He was gone — and for a moment silence reigned.
Lights burned, llowers bloomed, crystal and silver shone,
rare wines and rich fruits glowed, liut a skeleton sat at
the feast. Juan Catheron had done many evil deeds in his
lifetime, but never a more dastardly deed than to-night.

There was a flash of intolerable triumph in the dark eyes
of Inez. She detested her brother, but she could have kissed
him now. She had lost all, w(.'alth, position, and the man
she loved — this girl with the tangled yellow hair and pink
and white face had taken all from her, but even her jiath
was not to be altogether a path of roses.

Ashen pale and with eyes averted. Sir Victor walked back
and resumed his seat at the table. Ashen pale, trembling
and frightened, luhel sat where he had placed her. And no
one spoke — wliat was there to be said ?

It was a fortunate thing that just at this juncture baby
should see fit to wake and set up a dismal cry, so shrill as
to penetrate even to the distant dinner-room. Lady
Catheron rose to her feet, uttered a hasty and incoherent
apology, and ran from the room.

"DESDEMON.VS HONEST:'

She (lid not return. Peace reigned, tlie infant licir of tlie
Callierons was soothed, but his nianiina went downstairs no
more tiiat night. She lingered in the nursery for over an
hour. Somehow by her baby's side she felt a sense of peace
and safety. Slie dreaded to meet her husband. What must
he think of her ? She had stooped to concealment, to false-
hood — would he ever love her or trust her again?

She went at last to her rooms. On the dressing-table wax
lights burned, but the bedroom was unlit. She seated her-
self by tiie window and looked out at the starlit sky, at the
darkly-waving trees of the park. "And this is my welcome
home," she thought, " to fmd in my husband's house my
rival and enemy, whose first look, whose first words are in-
sults. Slie is mistress here, not I. And that fatal folly of
my childhood come back. That horrible man ! " She
sliudderei as she sat alone. " Ah, why did I not tell, why
did maniiUabeg me to hide it from him ? She was so afraid
he would have gone — so afraid her daughter would miss a
baronet, and I — I was weak and a coward. No, it is all
over — he will never care for me, never trust me again."

He came in as she sat there, mournful and alone. In the
dusk of the chamber the little half-hidden white figure
caught his eye, the golden hair glimmering through the dusk.

" Ethel," he said, " is that window oi)en ? Come away
immediately — you will take cold in the draught."

He spoke gently but very coldly as he had never spoken
to her before. She turned to him with a great sob.

" Oh, Victor, forgive me ! " she said.

He was silent for a moment. He loved her with a great
and passionate love ; to see her weep was torture, to see
her suffer, misery. She had never been dearer than in this
hour. Still he stood aloof, torn by doubt, racked by jeal-
ousy.

*' Ethel," he cried out, " 7a/iy did you deceive me ? I
thought — I could have sworn you were all truth and inno-
cence, stainless as a lily, white as an angel. And to
think that another man — and of all men Juan Catheron.
No. I cau't even think of it — it is enough to drive me
mad ! "

She fell down on her kn^es before him and held up her
clasped hands.

''DESDEMONA'S //OA'EST."

" I was only a child, Victor. I knew nothing of liim,
nothing of love. 1 have clone wrong, shamefully, sinfully
wrong in concealing the trutii, but you were so exacting, so
jealous, and I was so afraid of losing you. I loved you so
— 1 loved you so. O, Victor, forgive nie or 1 sluill die ! "

He looked down at her, the hatred that is twin sister to
love in his eyes.

"And I was a baronet. Had that anything to do with
your fear of losing me, or was the deception, the falsehood,
caused wholly by love ? "

It was the first cruel thing he had evet said to her, re-
pented of as soon as said. She arose to her feet and turned
away.

"1 have deserved it," she answered. " I told you a false-
hood once — why should you believe me now ? I have no
more to say. The woman who had ever known Juan Catheron,
could be no wife of yours — that was your sentence — was I
likely to confess after hearing it ? I hid the trutii for fear of
losing you — attribute the motive to what you please. 1 am
yours to dispose of as you see fit. Send me away if you
like. It will be no more than I deserve."

She stood with her back toward him looking out into
the night. He was standing also quite still, listening and
watching her. Send her awnv. She knew him well ; knew
that it was as utterly impos.iilile he could let her go, could
live without her, as that siie could reach up and remove one
of those shining stars.

" Send you away," he repeated ; " send you away, Ethel !
my love, my wife I "

She was in his arms, held to him in a strained embrace.
She trembled, she shrank in his grasp. The fierce impe-
tuosity of his love frightened her at times.

" Then you do forgive me ? '' she whispered. " Oh,
Victor, I am, I a/n sorry. Indeed, indeed, my darling, it
was because I loved you I dared not tell. You forgive me, I
know, but let me hear you say it."

*' Forgive you ! Ethel, is there anything in the world I
would noi forgive ? I have heard of men who went mad and
died for women. I laughed at them once — I can understand
it now. I should die or go mad if I lost you. I forgive you,
but — if you had only told me before."

IN THE TWr LIGHT.

There was a little sob, and her head lay on his shoulder.

" I tried to once or twice — 1 ditl indeed, but you know
what a cow, I 1 lam. And nianiina forbade my telling — tiiat
is the truth. She said I had been a little fool — that was all
over and done with — no need to be a great fool, telling my
own folly. And after we were married, and I saw you
jealous of every man I looked at — you know you were, sir!
— 1 was more scared than ever. 1 thought Juan Cathcroii
was dead. I never wrote to him. I had returned all his
letters. I thought 1 had destroyed his picture ; I never knevv
that I had done so very wrong in knowing him at all, until
that day in Russell Square. But Victor — husband — only
forgive me this once, and I'll never, never have a secret from
you again as long as I live."

Slie was little better than a child still — this pretty youthful
matron and mother. And with the sweet, pleading face
upliucd, the big blue eyes swimming in tears, the quivering
]i|)s, the padietic voice, he did what you, sir, would have
done lu his place — kissed and forgave her.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE TWILIGHT.

words can be strong enough to reprehend your
conduct, Victor. You have acted disgracefully ;
you are listening, sir, — disgracefully, I say, to your
cousin Inez. And you are the first of your line
who has blurred the family escutcheon. Dukes' daughters
have entered Calheron Royals as brides. It was left for
you to wed a soap-boiler's daughter ! "

Thus Lady Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, to her
nephew. Sir Victor Catheron, just one fortnight after that
memorable night of his wife and heir's coming home. The
young man stood listening in sullen anger, the red blood
mounting to his very temi)les. His Cousin Inez had man-
aged during the past two weeks to make his existence as
thoroughly uncomfortable as a thoroughly jealous and spite-

:4o

IN THE TWILIGHT.

fill woman can. He had flown at last to his aunt for comfort,
and this is how he got it.

" Lady Helena," he burst forth, " this is too much ! Not
even from you will I bear it. A soap-boiler's daughter my
wife may be — it is the only charge that can be brought
against her. I have married to please myself, and it docs
please me enormously. Inez, confound her ! badgers me
enough. I didn't expect, Aunt Helena, to be badgered by
you."

" I have no wish to badger you. I bring no charge
against your wife. I have seen her but once, and j^ersonally
I like her excessively. I believe her to be as good as she
is pretty. But against yntir conduct I do and will i)rotest.
You have cruelly, shamefully wronged your cousin — humil-
iated her beyond all telling. I can only wonder — yes,
Victor, wonder — that with her fiery nature she takes it as
quietly as she does."

"As quietly as she does ! Good Heavens ! " burst forth
this "badgered" baronet. "You should live in the same
house with her to find out how quietly she takes it. Women
understand how to torture — they should have been grand
inquisitors of a Spanish inquisition, if such a thing ever ex-
isted. I am afraid to face her. She stabs my wife in fifty
different ways fifty times a day, and I — my guilty conscience
won't let me silence her. Ethel has not known a hai)])y
hour since she entered Catheron Royals, and all through her
infernal serpent tongue. Let her take care — if she were ten
times my cousin, even she may go one stc]) to far."

" Does that mean, Victor, you will turn her from Catheron
Royals?"

"It means that, if you like. Inez is my cousin, Ethel is
my wife. You are her friend, Aunt Helena ; you will be do-
ing a f iendly action if you drop her a hint, I wish you
good-morning."

He took his hat and turned to go, his handsome blonde
face sullen and set.

" Very well," Lady Helena answered ; " I will. You are
to blame — not that poor fair-haired child. I will speak
to Inez; and, Victor, I will try to forgive you for your
mother's sake. Though you broke her heart she would have
forgiven you. I will try to do as she would have done — and

IN THE TWILIGHT.

I like the little thinp;. You will not fail me on Thuisdiiy
next ? If / take up your wife all the neighborhood will, you
may depend."

" We are not likely to fail. The invitation is like your
kindness, Aunt Helena. Thanks very much !"

His short-lived anger died away ; he gave his hand frankly
to iiis aunt. She was, his wife's friend — the only one who
had taken the slightest notice of her since her arrival. For
the resident gentry had decided that they couldn't — really
couldn't — call ujion the soap-boiler's daughter.

Sir Victor Catheron had shocked and scandalized his order
as it had not been shocked and scandalized for half a cen-
tury. A banker's daughter, a brewer's daughter, they were
prepared to accept — banking and brewing are genteel sort
of things. But a soap-boiler ! — and married in secret ! — and
a baby born in lodgings ! — and Miss Catheron jilted in cold
blood ! — Oh it was shameful I — shameful ! No, they could
not call upon the new Lady Catheron — well, at least until
they saw whether the Lady Helena Powyss meant to take
her up.

Lady Helena was the only sister of the young baronet's
late mother, with no children of her own, and very strongly
attached to both Sir Victor and Inez. His mother's dying
desire had been that he should marry his cousin. He had
promised, and Lady Helena's strongest hope in life had
been to see that promise fulfilled. The news of his low
marriage fell upon her like a thunderbolt. She was the
proudest of dowagers — when had a Catheron made a mesal-
liance before ? No ; she could not forgive him — could
never receive his v/lfe.

But when he came to her. [lale, sad, appealing for pardon,
she relented. It was a very tender and womanly heart, de-
spite its pride of birth, that beat in Lady Helena's bosom;
and jolly Scjuire Powyss, who had seen the little wife at the
Royals, took sides with his nejihew.

" It's done, and can't be undone, my dear," the squire
said, philosphically ; "and it's always wise to make the best
of a bad bargain ; and 'pon my life, my love, it's the sweetest
little face the sun ever shone on ! Gad ! I'd have done it
myself. Forgive him, my dear — boys will be boys — and go
and see his wife."

IN THE TWILIGHT.

Lady Helena yielded — love for her boy stronger than
pride or anger. Slie went ; and there came into one of tlie
dusk drawing-rooms of the Royals, a little white vision, witli
fair, floating liair, and pathetic blue eyes — a little creature,
so like a cluld, that the tender, motherly heart of the great
lady went out to her at once.

" You pretty little thing ! " she said, talcing her in her
arms and kissing her as though she had been eight rathe:
than eighteen. " You're nothing but a baby yourself, and
you have got a baby they tell uie. Take me to see him, my
dear."

They were friends from that hour. Ethel, with grateful
tears in her eyes, led her up to the dainty berceaunetle
whore the heir of Catheron Royals slept, and as she kissed his
velvet cheek and looked pityingly from babe to mother, the
last remains of anger died out of her heart. Lady Helena
Powyss would " take Lady Catheron up."

"Slie's pretty, and gentle, and good, and a lady if ever I
saw one," she said to Inez Catheron ; "and she doesn't
look too happy. Don't be to hard on her, my dear — it isn't
her fault. Victor is to blame. No one feels that more
than I. But not that blue-eyed child — try to forgive her
Inez, my love. A little kindness will go a long way there."

Inez Cathercn sitting in the sunlit window of her own
luxurious room, turned her face from the rosy sunset sky
full upon her aunt.

" 1 know what I owe my cousin Victor and his wife,"
- she answered steadily, "and one day I shall pay my debt."

The large, lustrous Spanish eyes turned oni:e more to the
crimson light in the western sky. Some of that lurid splen-
dor lit her dark, colorless face with a vivid glow. Lady
Helena looked at her uneasily — there was a depth here she
could not fathom. Was Inez "taking it quietly" after
all?

" I — I don't ask yon to forgive him, my dear," ';he said,
nervously — "at least, just yet. I don't think I could do it
myself. And of course you can't be expected to f.'el very
kindly to her who has usurped your place. Ikit I would let
her alone if I were you. Victor is master liere, and his wife
nuist be mistress, and naturally hedo*"sn't like it. Yo.^ m'^^ht
go too far, and then — "

b:i

re
St;
bi
in
w;
pi

IN THE TWILIGHT.

" He might turn me out of Catheron Royals — is that what
you are trying to say, Aunt Helena ? "

" Well, my dear — '

" Victor was to see you yesterday. Did he tell you this?
No need to distress yourself — I see he did. And' so I am
to be turned from Catheron Royals for the soaj)-boiler's
daughter, if I don't stand aside and let her reign. It is well
to be warned — I siiall not forget it."

Lady Helena was at a loss. What could she say ? What
could she do? Something in the set, intense face of the
gill frightened her — absolutely frightened her. She rose
hurriedly to go.

" Will you come to Powyss Place on Thursday next ? "
she asked. " I hardly like to press you, Inez, under the
circumstances. For poor Victor's sake I want to make the
best of it. I give a dinner party, as you know ; invite all
our friends, and present Lady Catheron. There is no help
for it. If I take her up, all the country will ; but if yoii
had rather not appear, Inez — "

There was a sharp, quick, warning flash from the black
eyes.

" Why should I not appear? Victor may be a coward —
/am not. I will go. I will face our whole visiting list, and
'' jfy them to pity me. Take up the soai)-boiler's heiress by
ai' means, but, powerful as you arc, I doubt if even you will
• - able to keep her afloat. Try the experiment — give the
t«in:er party — I will be there."

"It's a very fine thing for a tradesman's daughter to
marry a rich baronet, no doubt," commented Lady Helena,
as she was driven home; "but, with Inez for my rival, ./
jhouldn I care to risk it. I only hope, for my sake at least,
she will let the poor thins; alone riext Thursday."

The " ])oor thing " indeed 1 If Sir Victor's life had been
badgered dining the i)ast fortnight, his wife's life had been
rendered nearly unendurable. Inez knew so well how to
stab, and she never spared a thrust. It was wonderful, the
biiterest, stinging things she could say over and over again,
in her slow, legato \.owc?,. She never spared. Her tongue
was a two-edged sword, and the black deriding eyes looked
pitilessly on her victim's writhes and quivers. And Ethel
bore it. She loved her husband — he feared his cousin — for

IN THE TWILIGHT.

his sake she endured. Only once, after some trebly cruel
stab, she had cried aloud in her passionate pain :

"1 c 'n't endure it, Victor — 1 cannot! She will kill nie.
Take u '" "V to London, to Russell Square, anywher-^ away
from your ful cousin ! "

He had ,.i :ied her as best he miyht, and riding over to
Powyss Place, had given his aunt that warning.

" It will seem a horribly cruel and inhuman thing to turn
her from the home where she has reigned mistress so long,"
he said to himself. " I will never be able to ho'd up my
head in the county after — but she must let Ethel alone. Py
fair means or foul she must.

The day of Lady Helena Powyss' party came — a terrible
ordeal for Ethel. She had grown miserably nervous under
the life she had led the past two weeks — the ceaseless
mockery of Miss Catheron's soft, scornful tones, the silent
contemi)t and derision of her iiard black eyes. What should
she wca,r ? how should she act ? \Miat if she made some
absurd blunder, betraying her plebeian birdi and breeding ?
What if she mortified her thin-skinned husband? Oh ! why
was it necessary to go at all ?

" My dear child," her husband said, kissing her good-hu-
moredly, "it isn't worth that despairing face. Just put on
one of your pretty dinner-dresses, a tlower in your hair, and
your pearls. Be your own simple, natural, dear little self,
and there will not be a lady at Aunt Helena's able to shine
you down."

And when an hour after, she descended, in a sweeping
robe of silvery blue, white lilies in her yellow hair, and pale
pearls clasping her slim throat, she looked fair as a dream.

Liez's black eyes flashed angrily as they fell up)n her.
Soap-boiler's daughter she might be, with the blood of many
Dobbs in her veins, but no young peeress, born to the pur-
ple, ever looked more graceful, more refined.

For Miss Catheron iierself, she was quite bewildering in a
dress of dead white silk, soft laces and dashes of crimson
about her as usual, and rubies flashing here and there. She
swept on to the carriage with head held haughtily erect, a
contemptuous smile on her lips, like anything on earth but
a jilted maiden.

Lady Helena's rooms were filled when they entered ; not

m THE TWIUGHT.

one invitation had been declined. Society had mustered in
fullest force to sec Sir Victor Catheron's low-born wife, to
SCO how Miss Catheron bore her humiliation, ilow would
the one bear their bcrutiny, the other their pity ? IJiit .Miss
Catheron, handsome, smiling, brilliant, came in among them
with eyes that said : "Pity me if you dare ! " And upon
Sir Victor's arm there followed the small, graceful figure,
the sweet, fair face of a girl who did not look one day more
than sixteen — by all odds the prettiest girl in the rooms.

Lady Helena — who, when she did that sort of thing, did
do it — took the little wife under her wing at once. People
by the score, it seemed to the bewildered Ethel, were pre-
sented, and the stereotyped compliments of society were
jKnired into her ear. Sir Victor was congratulated, sincerely
by the men, with an undercurrent of pity and mockery by
the women. Then they were all at dinner — the bride in the
place of honor — running the gauntlet of all those eyes on
the alert for any solicism of good manners.

She went through it all, her cheeks Hushing, her eyes
kindling with excitement growing prettier every moment.
Her si)irits rose — she would let these people and Inez Cath-
eron see, she was their equal in all things save birth. She
talked, she laughed, she took cai'tive half the male hearts,
and when the ladies at length sailed away to the drawing-
room. Lady Helena stooped and kissed her, almost with
motherly pride.

" My dear," she whispered, "let me congratulate you.
Nothing could be a greater success. All the men are in love
with you — all the women jealous. A most excellent begin-
ning indeed I "

She laughed pleasantly, this kindly dowager, and passed
on. It was an unspeakable relief to her to see her nephew's
low-born wife face society so bravely and well. And better
still, Inez had not launched one single poisoned dart. But
the evening was not ended yet. Inez's time was to come.
Enter the gentlemen presently, and flirtations are resumed,
tCti'-a-tCtcs in quiet corners recommenced, conversation be-
comes general. There is music. A certain Lord Verriker,
the youngest man jiresent, and the greatest in social status,
monopolizes Lady Catheron. He leads her to the piano,
and she sings. She is on trial still, and docs her best, and

TN THE TWILIGHT.

her best is very good — a sweet Scotch ballad. There is
quite a murmur of applause as she rises, and through it there
breaks Miss Catheron's soft, sarcastic laugh. The ilush
deepens in Ethel's cheek — the laugh is at her performance
she feels.

And now the hour of Inez's vengeance comes. Young
Captain Varden is leaning over her chair ; he is in love with
Miss Catheron, and hovers about her unceasingly. He
talks a great deal, though not very brilliantly. He is telling
her in an audible undertone how Jack Singleton of " Ours "
has lately made an object of himself before gods and men,
and irretrievably ruined himself for life by marrying the
youngest Miss Potter, of Potter's Park.

" Indeed ! " Miss Catheron responds, with her light laugh,
and her low, clear voice perfectly distinct to all ; " the

youngest Miss Potter. Ah, yes
The paternal Potter kept a shop

enough behind
tenant Singleton

! I've heard of them,
in Chester, didn't he — a
grocer, or s mething of the sort, and having made money
the counter, has retired. And poor Lieu-
has married the youngest Miss Potter !
* Whom the gods wish to destroy they first lake mad.' A
very charming girl no doubt, as sweet as the paternal
treacle, and as melting as her father's butter. It's an old
custom in some families — my own for instance — to quarter
the arms of the bride on the family shield. Now what do
you suppose the arms of the Potter family may be — a white
apron and a pair of scales ? "

And then, all through the room, there is a horrible sup-
pressed laugh. The blood rushes in a hery tide to the face
of Sir Victor, and Lady Helena outglows her crimson velvet
gown. Ethel, with the youthful Lord Verriker still hover-
ing around her, has but one wild instinct, that of tlight. Oh !
to be away from these merciless peo[)le — from that bitter,
dagger-tongued Inez Catheron 1 She looks wildly at her
husband. Must she bear this ? But his back is to her — he
is wilfully blind and deaf The courage to take up the
gauntlet for his wife, to make a scene, to silence his cousin,
is a courage he does not possess.

Under the midnight stars Lady Helena's guests drive
home. In the carriage of Sir Victor Catheron there is dead
silence. Ethel, shrinking from her husband almost as much

IN THE TWILIGHT.

as from his cousin, lies back in a corner, pale and mute.
Inez Catlieron's dauntless black eyes look \\\) at the white,
countless stars as she softly hiuns a tune. Sir Victor sits
with his eyes shut, but he is not asleep. He is in a rac^e
with himself, he hates his cousin, he is afraid to look at his
wife. One way or other he feels there must be an immedi-
ate end of this.

The first estrangement that has parted him and Ethel has
come. He hardly knows her to-nigiit — her cold, brief words,
her averted face, her palpable shrinking as he approaches.
She despises him, and with reason, a man who has not the
courage to protect his wife from insult.

Next day Lady Catheron declines to appear at either
breakfast or luncheon, and when, live minutes before dinner,
Sir Victor and Miss Catheron meet in the dining-room, she
is absent still. He rings the bell angrily and demands where
she is.

"My lady has gone out," the footman answers. "She
went half an hour ago. She had a book with her, and she
went in the direction of the laurel walk."

" I will go in search of her," Sir Victor says, taking his
hat ; "let dinner wait until our return."

Eii;el has gone, because she cannot meet Inez Catheron
agam, never again break bread at the same board with her
pitiless enemy. She cried herself quietly to sleep last night ;
her head aches with a dull, sickening pain to-day. To be
home once more — to be back in the cosy, common-place
Russell square lodgings I If it were not for baby she feels
as though she would like to run away, from Sir Victor and
all, anywhere that Inez Catlieron's black eyes and derisive
smile could never come.

The September twilight, sparkling with frosty-looking stars,
is settling down over the trees. The great house looms up,
big, sombre, stately, a home to be i)roud of, yet Etiiel shud-
ders as she looks at it. The only miserable days of her life
have been spent beneath its roof ; she will hate it before
long. Her very love for her husband seems to die out in
bitter contempt, as she thinks of last night, when he stood
by and heard his cousin's sneering insult. The gloaming is
chilly, she draws her shawl closer around her, and walks
slowly up and down. Slow, miserable tears trickle down her

IX THE TWILIGHT.

cliecks as she walks. She feels so utterly alone, so utterly
forlorn, so utterly at the mercy of this merciless woman.

" Oh ! " she says, with a passionate sob, and unconsciously
aloud, '■'■wJiy did I ever many him ? "

" If you mean Sir Victor Calhcron," answers a voice, " I.
think I can tell you. Yon married Sir Victor Cathcron be-
cause he was Sir Victor Cathcron. But it isn't a marriage,
my dear — you know that. A young lady can't have two
husbands, and I'm your legal, lawful-wedded spouse."

Siie utters a cry — she recoils with a face of terror, for
there in the twilight before her, tall, black, sinister, stands
Juan Catheron.

" You P' she gasps.

" I, my dear — I, in the flesh. Did you think I had gone ?
My dear Ethel, so I would have gone, if Inez had come down
in the sisterly way she should. But she hasn't. I give you
my word of honor her conduct has been shabby in the ex-
treme. A few hundreds — [ asked no more — and she
wouldn't. What was a miserly fifty pun' note to a man like
me, with expensive tastes, and who has not set foot on Brit-
ish soil for two years ? Not a jewel would she part with —
all Sir Victor's presents, forsooth I And she's in love with
Sir Victor, you know. Perhaps you doiit know, though.
'Pon my life, she is, Ethel, and means to have him yet, too.
That's what she says, and she is a girl to do as she says, is
Inez. That's why I'm here to-niglit, my dear. I can't go
to Sir Victor, you understand — motives of delicacy, and all
that — so I waited my chance, and have come to you. You
may be fickle, but I don't think you're stingy. And some-
thing is due to my outraged feelings, blighted affections, and
all that. Give me five hundred pounds, Ethel, and let us
call it square." •

He came nearer, his big, brown hand outstretched. She
shrank away, hatred and repulsion in her face.

" Stand back ! " she said. " Don't come near me, Juan
Catheron ! How dare you intrude here ! How dare you
speak to me I "

" How dare I ? Oh, come now, I say, I like that. If a
man may not speak to his own wife, to whom may\\<i speak?
If it comes to tliat, how dare you throw me over, and com-
mit bigamy, and marry Sir Victor Catheron ? It's of no use

IN THE TWILIGHT.

your riding the high horse with me, Ethel ; yon had better
give me the five hundred — I'm sure I'm moderate enough —
and let me go."

"I will not give you a farthing; and if you do not leave
this place instantly, I will call my husband. '* Oh ! " she
burst forth, frantically, " between you and your sister you
will drive me mad ! "

"Will you give me the money?" asked Juan Catheron,
folding his arms and turning sullen.

"1 have not got it. What money have I? — and if I had,
I say I would not give you a farthing. J'.i-gone 1 or — "

" You have diamonds." lie pointed to her hands.
"They will do — easily convertible in London. Hand them
here, or, by all the gods, I'll blow the story of your bigamy
all over England ! "

" You will not ! " she cried, her eyes flashing in the twi-
light — "you coward! you dare not! Sir Victor has_>w/ in
his power, and he will keep his threat. Speak one word of
that vile lie, and your tongue will be silenced in Chesholm
jail. Leave me, I say ! " — she stamped her foot passion-
alely — " I am not afraid of you, Juan Catheron 1 "

"And you will not give me the jewels ?"

"Not one — not to keep you from si)reading your slander
from end to end of England ! Do your worst ! — you can-
not make me more wretched than I am. And go, or I will
call for help, and see whether my husband has not courage
to keep his word."

" You will not give me the rings ? "

" Not to save your life ! Hark ! some one is coming !
Now you will see which of us is afraid of the other ! "

He stood looking at her, a dangerous gleam in his black
eyes.

" Very well ! " he said ; " so be it ! Don't trouble your-
self to call your hero of a husband — I'm going. You're a
plucky little thing after all, Ethel. I don't know but that I
rather admire your spirit. Adieu, my dear, until we meet
again."

He swung round, and v-!,nishcd among the trees. He was
actually singing as he went,

" To-day for me.

To-morrow for thee —

But will that to-morrow ever be ? "

IN THE MOONLIGHT.

The last rustle of the laurels died away ; all was still ; the
twilight was closing darkness, and, wilh a shudder, Ethel
turned to go.

" ]>ut will that to-morrow ever be?" — the refrain of the
doggerel rung in her ears. " Aui 1 never to be free from
this brother and sister?" she cried to herself, desperate!)', as
she advanced to the house. "Am 1 never to be free from
this bondage ? "

As the last llutter of her white dress disappeared. Sir Victor
Catheron emerged from the shadow of tlie trees, and the
face, on which the rising moon shone, was white as the face of
death.

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE MOONLIGHT.

E had not overheard a word, he had not tried to
overhear ; but he had seen them together — that
was enough. He had reached tlie spot only a mo-
ment before their parting, and had stood con-
founded at sight of his wife alone here in the dusk with Juan
Catheron.

He saw them part — saw him dash through the woodland,
singing as he went — saw her turn away and walk ra]:)idly to
the house. She had come here to me.-t iiim, then, her
former lover. He had not 1 'ft Cheshohn ; he was lurking
in the neighborhood of the Royals, and she knew it. She
knew it. How many times had they met before — liis wife
and the man he abhorred — the man who claimed her as his
wife. What if she zoire his wife ? \Vhat if that plight
l)ledged in the Scotch kirk were binding ? She had loved
Juan Catheron then. W'hat if she loved him still ? She had
hidden it from him, until it could be hidden no longer — she
had deceived him in the past, she was deceiving liim iii llv?
l)resent. So fair and so false, so innocent to all outward
seeming. Yet so lost to all truth and lienor.

He turned sick and giddy j he leaned against a tree, feel-

IN. TflF. MOONrJGfTT.

-she

.■l-

ing ns ihoiigh he could never look iiiion her false face again.
Yi't the ni.'xt moment he stalled pas ionatcly up.

" 1 will }i;o to her," he tliought ; " I will liear what she lias
to sny. ir bl^c voUmtarily tells me, I mu^t, 1 will believe her.
If she is silent, 1 will lake it as proof of her guilt."

lie strode away to the house. As he entered, his man
Edwards met him, and [)ri\sentrd him a note.

" Brought by a groom iVom I'owyss I'lace, Sir Victor," he
said. " S(iuire I'owyss has had a stroke."

The baronet tore it open — it was an impetuous summons
from Lady Helena.

" The scjuire has had an attack of apoplexy. For
Heaven's sake come at once,"

He crushed it in his hand, and went into the dining-room.
His wife was not there. He turned to the nursery ; he was
pretty sure of always finding her iJwre.

She was there, bending over her baby, looking fair and
sweet as the babe it^,elf. Fair and sweet surely. Yet why,
if innocent, that nervous start at sight of him — that fright-
ened look in the blue eyes. The nurse stood at a distance,
but he did not heed her.

"A sununons from Powyss Place," he said; " the poor
old squire has had a fit of apoplexy. This is the second
within the year, and may j^rove fatal. I must go at once.
It is not likely I shall return to-night."

She looked at him, startled by his deadly paleness ; but
then, perhaps, the summons accounted for that. She mur-
nnired her regrets, then bent again over her baby.

"You have nothing to say to me, Ethel, before I go?"
he said, looking at her steadily.

She half lifted her head, the words half-rose to her lips.
She glanced at the distant nurse, who was still busy in the
room, glanced at her husband's pale set face, and they died
away again. Why detain him now in his haste and trouble?
Why rouse his rage against Juan Catheron at this inoi)])or-
tunetiine? No, she would wait until tomorrow — nothing
could be done now ; then she would reveal that intrusion in
tlie grounds.

" 1 have nothing to say, except good-by. I hope poor
Mr. Powyss may not be so ill as )ou fear."

He turned away— a tumult of jealous rage within him. A

IX THE MOONLIGHT.

deliberate lie he thon;;ht it ; there could be no doubt of
her guilt now. And yet, insanely inconsistent as it seems,
he hud never loved her moie passionately than in that
hour.

He turned to go without awoid. He had reached the
door. All at once he turned back, caught her in his arms
almost fiercely, and kissed her again and again.

" Good-by," he said, " my wile, my love — good by."

His vehemence fii;;htencd her. She releascil herself and
looked at him, her heart tluttering. A second time he
walked to the door — a second time he paused. Something
seemed to stay his feet on the llnc-shold.

" You will think me foolish, Mthel," he said, with a forced
laugh; "but I seem afraid to leave you to-night. Nervous
folly, I suppose; but take care of yourself, my darling, until
I return. I shall be back at the earliest possible mo-
ment."

Then he was gone.

She crossed over to the low French window, standing
wide open, and looked after him wistfully.

"Dear Victor," she thought, "how fond he is of me, after
all."

The n)oon was shining brightly now, though the day still
lingered. She stood and watched him out of siglu. Once,
as he rode away, he turned back — she kissed and waved lur
hand to him with a smile.

" Poor Victor ! " she thought again, " he loves me so
dearly that I ought to forgive him everything. How happy
we might be here together, if it were not for that horrible
brother and sister. I wish — I wish he would send her
away."

She lingered by the window, fascinated by the brilliancy
of the rising September moon. As she stood there, the
nursery door opened, and Miss Catheron entered.

" You here," she said, coolly ; " I didn't know it. I
wanted Victor. J thought I heard his voice. And how is
the heir of Catheron Royals ?"

She bent, with her usual slight, chill smile over the crib of
that young gentleman, and regarded him in his sleep. The
nurse, listening in the dusk, she did not perceive.

" Jiy the bye, 1 wonder if he is the heir cf Catheron Royals

IN THE MOONLIGHT.

though? I ;un iciuHiig up the Scottish Law of Marriage,
and really I have iny doubts. If you are Juan's wife, you
can't hi; Sir Victor's, consequently the Kgitiinacy of his son
may yet he — "

She never finished the sentence. It was the last drop in
the I)iii.)iiiiii;^ cup — the straw that broke the camel's back —
thi; one nisuit of all others not to be borne. With eyes afire
in the dusk, Sir Victor's wife confronted her.

"You iiave uttered your last affront, Inez Catheron," she
exclaimed. " You will never utter another benriuh this roof.
To-morrow you leave it ! I am Sir Victor ( aheron's wife,
the mistress of Catheron Royals, and this is the last night
it shall ever shelter you. (lo ! " Slie threw open the nurs-
ery door. " When my husband returns either you or 1 leave
this house forever ! "

The nurse was absolutely forgotten. For a second even
Inez Catheron quailed before the storm she had raised ; then
black eyes met blue, with defiant scorn.

"Not all the soap-boiler's daughters in London or Eng-
land shall send me from Catheron l\.o)aIs I Not ail the Miss
Di)bbs that ever bore that distinguished appellation shall
drive ine forth. You may go to-morrow if you will. I
fehall not."

She swept from the room, with eyes that blazed, and voice
that rang. And Jane I'ool, the nurse, thinking she had
heard a little too much, softly opened an opposite door and
stole out.

" Good Lor' ! " she thought, •• here be a pretty flare up !
Ain't Miss Inez just got a temper though. I wouldn't stand
in my lady's shoes, and her a-iiating me so ; no, not for all
her money, I'll go down and get my supper, and call for
Master 15aby by and by."

Mrs. Pool descended to the servants' hall, to narrate, of
course in confidence, to her most particular friends, the
scene she had just overheard. Tiiere was Welsh rabbits for
supjier — nurse was particularly fond of Welsii rabbits — and
in discussing it and Miss Inez's awful temper half an hour
sli))ped away. Then she arose again to see after her
charge.

" Which he should have been undressed and tucked away
for the night half an hour ago, bless him," she remarked ;

IN THE MOONLIGIir.

" but I could not make up my miijcl to flice my lady after
Hiat row. Poor thip'j;! It does seem hard no'v she can't l)c
mistress in her own 'ouse. It's a pity Sir Victor can't turn
Turk and marry 'em both, since he can't abear to part
with neither."

Mrs. Pool made her exit and wended her way to the
nursery. She tajiped at the door — there was no reply
— slie opened it and went in — my lady had quitted it, no
doubt.

No — to her surprise my lady was still there. The window
still stood wide open, the white, piercing moonlight streamed
in. An arm-chair stood near this window, and lying back in
the arm-chair was my lady, fast aslee;).

Fast asleep. Jane Pool tiptoed over to make sure. She
was pale as the moonlight itself. Her li|)s quivered as she
slept like the lips of a hurt child, her eyelashes were yet wet
with tears. Sitting there alone she had cried herself to
sleep.

" Poor thing ! " Jane Pool said again. She was so
you"ng, so pretty, so gentle, that all the household loved her.
" Poor dear thing ! 1 say it's a biwning shame for Sir Victor,
so fond as he is of her too, to let Miss Inez torment her. /
wouldn't stand her hairs and her 'aughtiness, her temjier and
her tongue ; no, not to be ten baronets' ladies, ten times
hover !"

In his pretty blue silk, white lace, and carved rosewood
nest. Master Victor lay still, sleeping also. Mrs. Pool softly
folded a shawl around her lady's shoulders, lifted babe with-
out awakening him, and stule softly out. The night nursery
was an upjier room. Jane Pool carried hini up, disrobed
him, fed him, and tucked him up for the night. He fell
again asleep almost instantly. She summoned the under
nur.se-maid to remain with him, and went back to the lower
regions. Half an hour had i)asscd since she left; it struck
the half hour pTter eiglit a', she descended the stairs.

"I'm sore afraid my iady will catch cold sleeping in the
night air. I do tliink now I ought to go in and wake
her."

While she stood hesitating before it, the door opened
suddenly and Miss Catheron came out. She was very pale.
Jane Pool was struck by il, and the scarlet shawl she wore

■I

IN Tilt: MOONLIGHT.

twisted about her, made her face look ahnost ghaslly in
tlic lamplight.

" You here?" she said, in her haughty way. "What do
you want ? Where is baby ? "

"IJaby's asleep, miss, for the night," Jane answered, with
a stiff Utile curtsey ; "and what I'm liere for, is to wake my
lady. Sleejiing in a draught cannot be good for anybody.
But ]>erhaps she is awake."

" You will let my lady alone," said Miss Catheron sharply,
"and attend to your nursery. She is asleep still. It is not
your place to disturl) her. Go ! "

"Drat her!" Nurse Pool exclaimed inwardly, obeying,
however; "she's tiiat 'aughty and that stuck up, that she
thinks we're the dirt under her feet. I only hope she'll be
'^ent packing to-morrow, but I has my doubts. Sir Victor's
afraid of her — anybody can see that with half an eye."

She descended to the servants' regions again, and encoun-
tered Ellen, Lady Calheron's smart maid, sociably drinking
tea with the housekeeper. And once more into their at-
tcritivc ears she poured forth this addenda to her previous
narrative.

" What was Miss Inez doing in there ?" demanded the
maid ; " no, good, I'll be bound. She hates my lady like
posion ; Sir Victor jilted her, you know, and she's in love
with him yet. My lady s/iall be woke up in si)ite of her ;
she'd like her to get her death in the night air, 1 dare say.
I've an easy missis anil a good place, and I mean to keep
'em. I ain't afraid of Miss Inez's black eyes and sharp
tongue ; I'll go and wake my lady up."

She hnished her tea and left. Siie reacl.^-d the nursery
door and rapped as Nurse Pool had doiv.;. There was no
rei)ly. She turned the handle softly and went in.

The large, crystal, clear moon was high in the sky now ; its
chill brightness filled the room. The arm-chair still stood
under the window ; the small figure of my lady still lay
n)Otionless in it.

" Afy lady," Ellen said gently, advancing, " please wake-
up."

There was no reply, no stir. She bent closer over her.

" Please, my lady, wake up ; I'm afraid you'll catcli your
deatli of — "

56 /// THE NURSERY,

The words ended in a shriek tlirvt ranj; ihroiipjh the lionsc
from end to ciul — a woman's sin ill, car-splitliiig sin irk. She-
had laid her hand ujion my lady's bosom to arouse iier ; she
snatched it away and sjirang hack in horror. yVsleej) 1 Yes,
tile sicep that knows no wakmi;. Sir Victor Calheron's
l)retfy youni^ wife lay there in tiie moonlight— dead.

Dead! There is blood on the white dress, blood on the
b'ae s'lawl, blood on I'dlen's hancl, blootl tiiekliiiL; in a small
red stream from under the left breast, lOihel, Lady Cath-
eron, lies there before her in the moonlight stone dead —
foully murdered.

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE NURSERY.

jTIE stands for a moment paralyzed — struck. dumb
by a horror too great for word or cry. Then she
rushes to the door, along the passages, into the
midst of the startled household like a mad creature,
shrieking that one most awful word, " Murder !"

They tlock around her, they catch hold of her, and keep
her still by main force. They ask her (juestions, but she
only screams still that ghastly word, " Murder ! "

" Who is murdered ? \V'here — what do you mean ? Good
Lord ! young woman," cries Mr. Hooper, the butler, giving
her a shake, " do come out of tliese hysterics if )0U can, and
speak ! M'hJ s inurdered ? "

" i\ry lady ! Oh, my lady ! my lady ! my lady ! "

She is like a creature distraught. There is blood on her
riglit hand; she sees it, and with a gasping cry at the grisly
sight, and before they know what she is about, she falls
down in a faint in their midst.

They lift her up ; they look into one anoth.er's i^ale faces.

" My lady ! " they repeat, in an awe-struck whisper.
''Murdered!''

" Here I " cries Mr. Hooper, his dignity coming to his aid,
"let us investigate this here. Lay this young wcunan Hat

IN THE NURHERY.

on her back on the floor, sjirinkle her with water, and let her
come to. I'm goiiiLj to find out wliat she means."

'1 hey lay poor Ellen stif.ly out as directed, some one
dashes water into her face, then in a body, with Mr. Hooper
at their h'jad, they march off to inve^tigate.

"She was in the day-nursery," Nurse Pool suggests, in a
whisper, and to the day-nursery they go.

On the threshold for a second or two they halt, their
courage failing. I5ut there is nothing very terrifying. Only
the solemn moonlight, only the motionless little figure in
the arm-chair. And yet a great awe holds them back.
Does death — does murrler stand grisly in their midst ?

" Let us go in, in the name of Providence," says Mr.
Hooper, a tremble in his voice; "it — it can't be what she
says. O good Lord, no ! "

They go forward on tiptoe, as if afraid of awakening that
quiet sleeper whom only the last trump will evtr awake now.
They bend above her, holding their breath. Ves, there it i >
— the blood that is soaking her dress ' ipping horribly on
the cari)ct — oo-^ing slowly from that crin i wound.

A gasi)ing, inarticulate soit of groan C' nes heavilv from
every lip. Old Hooper takes her wrist between his -haking
fingers. Stilled forever, already with the awfui chill of
death. In the crystal light of the moon the sweet ) >ung
face has never looked fairer, calmer, more peaceful than
now.

The old Initler straightens himself up, ashen gray.

"It's too true," he says, with a sort of sob. "O Lord,
have mercy on us — it's too true ! She's dead ! She's mur-
dered ! "

He drops the wrist he holds, the litde jewelled, dead hand
falls limp and heavy. He jiuts his own hands over his face
and sobs aloud :

" Who Will tell Sir Victor ? O my master I my dear
young master ! "

No one speaks — a spell of great horror has fallen upon
them. Murdered in their midst, in their peaceful household
— they cannot eomjjrchend it. At last —

" Where is Miss Catlicron i " asks a sombre voice.

No one knows who speaks ; no one seems to care ; no
one dare reply.

IN THE NURSERY.

"Where is Inez Catheron ?" the voice says again.

Somcihing in tlic tone, sonietliing in the ghastly i-il'-nce
that follows, seems to arouse the butler, Fiuce his tenth
year he has been in the service of the Catherons — his father
bjfore him was butler in this house. Their honor is his.
He starts angrily rounil now.

" Who was that ? " he demands. " Of course Miss Inez
knows nothing of this."

No one had accused her, but lie is unconsciously defend-
ing her already.

"She must be told at once," he says. " I'll go and tell
her myself. Edwards, draw the curtains, will you, and light
the candles?"

He leaves the room. The valet mechanicallv does as he
is bid — the curtains arc drawn, the waxlights illumine the
ai)artment. No one else stirs. The soft, abundant light
falls down upon that tranquil, marble face — upon that most
awful stain of blood.

The butler goes straight up to his young lady's room.
Wayward, passionate, proud Aliss Inez may be, but she is
very dear to him. He has carried her in liis arizis many a
time, a little laughing, black-eyed child. A vague, sicken-
ing fear fills him now.

" She hated my lady," he thinks, in a dazed, hcli)less sort
of way; " everybody knows that,
she hears this?"

He knocks ; there is no rei'ly.
calls huskily :

"Miss Inez, are you there? Tor the dear Lord's sake
open the door 1 "

" Come in ! " a voice answers.

He cannot tell whether it is Miss Inez or not. He 0[)ens
the door and enters.

This room is unlit too — the shine of the moon fills it as
it fills that other room below. Here too a solitary figure
sits, crouches, rather, near the window in a 'range, distorted
attitude of jjain. He knows the llowing bi ick hair, the scar-
let wrap — he cannot see her face, she do*. .^ not look round.

"Miss Inez!" — his voice shakes- " 1 bring you bad
news, awful news. Don't be shocked but — a murder has
been done."

What will she say when
He knocks again and

)

IN THE NURSERY.

There is no answer. If she hears him she does not heed.
She just sits still and looks out into the night.

" Miss Inez ! you hear me ? "

He comes a little nearer — he tries to sec her face.

" You hear me ? " he repeats.

" I hear you."

The words drop like ice from her Ups. One hand is
clutching the arm of her chair — her wide-open black eyes
never turn from the niglit-scene.

"My lady is dead — cruelly murdered. O Miss Inez!
do you hear ? — murdered ! What is to be done ? "

She does not answer. Her li|)s move, but no word comes.
An awful fear begins to fill tlie faithful servant's lieart.

" Miss Inez ! " he cries out, "you tnusl come — they are
waiting for you below. There is no one here but you — Sir
Victor is away. Sir Victor — "

His voice breaks ; he takes out his handkerchief and sobs
like a child.

" My dear young master ! My dear young master ! • He
loved the very ground she walked on. Oh, who is to tell
him this ? "

She rises slowly now, like one who is cramped, and stiff,
and cold. She looks at the old man. In her eyes there is
a blind, dazed sort of horror — on her face there is a ghast-
liness no words can describe.

"Who is to tell Sir Victor?" the butler repeats. "It
will kill him — the horror of it. So pretty and so young — so
sweet and so good. Oh, how could they do it — how could
they do it I "

She tries to speak once more — it seems as though her
white lips cannot shape the words. Old Hooper looks up
at her pitcously.

" Tell us what is to be done, Miss Inez," he implores ;
"you are mistress here now."

She shrinks as if he had struck her.

" Shall we send for Sir Victor first ?"

" Yes," she says, in a sort of whisper, " send for Sir
Victor first."

The voice in which she speaks is not the voice of Inez
Catheron. The butler looks at her, that great fear in liis
eyes.

IN THE NURSERY.

"You haven't seen lu-r, Miss Inez," he says.
fcaiTul si'jht— but — will vou come down?"

It is a

ile almost dreads a tcliisal, but siie does not refuse.

turns at once to go.

" 1 will go down," she answers, anc

The servants stand huildled together in the centre ol' the
room. // lies there, in its dreadfid (juiet, before them.
Ever eye turns darkly upon Miss Catheron as she comes
in.

She never sees them. She advances like a sleep-walker,
that dazed, dumb horror still in her eyes, the whiteness of
death on her face. She walks over and looks down upon
the dead mistress of Catheron Rovals. No change comes
over her — she softens neither into jiity nor tears. So long
she stands there, so rigid she looks, so threatening are
the eyes that watch her, that Hooper interposes hig portly
figure between her and them.

" Miss Inez," he says, "will you please give your orders?
Shall I send for Sir Victor at once, or — "

" Yes, send for Sir Victor at once." She arouses herself
to say it. " And I think you had better send to Cheshohu
for a doctor and — and the police."

" The police ! "

" A murder has been committed," she says, in a cold, hard
voice ; " the murderer must be found."

Something of her old calm, stately haughtiness returns as
she s|)eaks,

" This room tnust be cleared. Let no one touch her^^
she shudders and looks away, " until Sir Victor comes.
Ellen, Pool, Hooper, you three had better remain to watch.
Edwards, mount the fastest horse in the stables and ride to
Powyss Place for your life."

"Yes, miss," Edwards answers, in a low voice; "and
please, miss, am I to tell Sir Victor?"

She hesitates a moment — her face changes, her voice
shakes a little for the first time.

" Yes," sh.e answers, faintly, " tell him,"

ICdwards leaves the room. She turns to another of the
men servants.

" You will ride to Chesholm and fetch Dr. Dane. On
your way stop at the police station and apprise them. The
rest of you go. Jane Pool, where is the baby ? "

IN THE NURSERY.

" Up sfairs in the night nursery," Jane Pool answerii sul-
lenly.

" And crying, too — 1 hear him. Hannah," to the under
nurse, "go up and remain with him. I am going to my own
rooMi. W'h Ml," slie pauses a second and s]K'ai<s with an ef-
fort, "when Sir Victor comes, you will receive your further
orders from him. I can do nothing more."

She left the room. Jane Pool looked ominously after her.

" No," she said, between her set lips ; " you have done
enough."

" Oh, Jane, hush !" l"'Jlen whispers in terror.

There has still been no direct accusation, but they under-
stand each other ]ierfectly.

" When the time comes to speak, you'll see whether Pll
hush," retorts Jane. " What was she doing in this room
fifteen minutes before you found my lady dead ? A\'hy
wouldn't she let me in? why did slie tell me a lie? what
made her say my lady was still asleep ? Asleep ! Oh, poor
soul, to think of her being murdered here, while we were all
enjoying ourselves below. And if I hadn't took away the
baby its my opinion it would iiave been — "

" Oh, Jane ! "

" ' Oh, Jane,' as much as you plecse, it's the gospel truth.
Them that killed the mother hated the child. When tlie
time comes I'll speak, if she was twice the lady she is,
Ellen I "

"Lor!" Ellen cried with a nervous jump, "don't speak
so jerky Mrs. Pool. You make my blood a mask of ice.
"What is it?"

"Ellen," Jane Pool said solemnly, " where is the dagger ?"

" What dagger ? "

" The furrin dagger with the gold handle and the big ruby
set in it, that my lady used as a paper knife. Pll take my
oath I saw it lying on the table there, shining in the moon-
light, when I took away baby. Where is it now ?"

The dagger the muse spoke of, was a curious Eastern
knife, that had belonged to Sir Victor's mother. It had a
long, keen steel blade, a slim handle of wrought gold set with
a large ruby. Sir Victor's wife had taken a fancy to the
pretty Syrian toy, and converted it into a paper knife.

"I saw it on that there table when I took away baby,"

IN THE DARKNESS.

Jano said compressing her lips; "/'/ would do it. Where is
it now ? "

" (lone," Ellen answered. " Oli, Jane do you think — "
"She has been stabbed, you see, right througli the heart,
and there isn't much blood. That devilish little glittering
knife has done the deed. There it was ready for its work, as
if Satan himself had left it handy. Oh, poor lady — i)oor
lady ! to think that the toy she used to play with, should one
day take her life ! "

While they whispered in the death room, up in her cham-
ber, while the hours of the dreary night wore on, Inez Cath-
eron sat, crouched in a heap, as Hooper had found her, her
face hidden in her hands. Two hours had passed, an awful
silence filled the whole house, while she sat there and never
stirred. As eleven struck from the turret clock, the thunder
of horses' hoofs on the avenue below, came to her dulled
ears. A great shudder shook her from head to foot — she
lifted her haggard face. The lull before the storm was over
— Sir Victor Catheron had come.

CHAPTER VHI.

IN THE DARKNESS.

ALF an hour's rapid gallop had brought Edwards,
the valet, to Powyss Place. The stately mansion,
park, lawn, and terraces, lay bathed in the silvery
shower of moonlight. From the ui)per windows,
where the sick man lay, lights streamed ; all the rest of the
house was in deep shadow.

In one of those dimly lighted rooms Sir Victor Catheron
lay upon a lounge fast asleep. He had remained for about
two hours by the sick man's bedside ; then, persuaded by his
aunt, had gone to lie down in an inner department.

" You look pale and ill yourself," she had said, tenderly ;
" lie down and rest for a Uttle. If I need you, 1 will call
you at once."

IN THE DARKNESS.

He had obeyed, and had dropped off into a heavy sleep.
A chill oppression of heart and soul beset him ; he had no
n)ind to slumber — it had come ui)on him unawares. He was
awakened suddenly by some one calling his name.

"Victor! Victor !" the voice called, "awake!"

He sat up with a bewildered face. Was that his aunt's
voice, so hoarse, so strange ? Was this his aunt with that
white, horror-struck face ?

" Victor ! " she cried, the words a very wail. " Oh, my
boy ! my boy ! how shall I ever tell you ? Oh, why did I
send for you this dreadful night? Ethel" — her voice
choked.

He rose to his feet, staring at her blankly.

" Ethel ! " he repeated. " Ethel—"

She covered her face with her hands and burst into a hys-
terical outbreak of tears. Edwards, standing behind her in
the doorway, made a step forward.

" Tell him, Edwards," said Lady Helena. " I cannot. It
seems too horrible to tell or to believe. Oh, my poor Vic-
tor ! my poor, poor boy 1 "

Edwards came forward reluctantly, with a very pale, scared
face.

"It's dreadful news. Sir Victor — I don't know how to tell
you, but my lady, I'm afraid she — she's dead."

" Dead I "

He repeated the word dully, staring almost stupidly at the
speaker.

" Dead, Sir Victor ! " the man repeated, solemnly. " I'm
sore afraid, murdered ! "

There was a sudden, headlong rush from the room ; no
other re]ily. Like a flash Sir Victor passed them both.
Tiiey heard him clear the stairs, rush along the lower hall,
and out of the house. The next instant the valet and Lady
Helena were in pursuit.

He was mounted on Edwards' horse and dashing furiously
away, before they reached the court-j'ard. They called to
him — he neither heard nor heeded. He dashed his spurred
heel into the horse's side and flew out of sight like the
wind.

" I'ollow him ! " Lady Helena cried, breathlessly, to the
groom. " Overtake him, for the love of Heaven ! Oh, 7uho

IN THE DARKNESS.

can have done this awful deed? Fxlwards, you arc sure
there is no mistake ? It seems too unnatural, too impossi-
ble to believe."

"There is no mistake, my lady," the man answered, sadly.
" I saw her myself, the blood llowing where the^ iiad stab-
bed her, cold and dead."

Lady Helena wrung her hands and turned away.

" Ride for your life after your master ! " she said. " I
will follow you as soon as I can."

She went back to iier husband's side. He was no worse
— he seemed if anything, better. She might leave him in
her housekeeper's charge until morning.

She ordered the carriage and rapidly changed her dress.
It was about one in the morning when she reached Calheron
Royals. The tall turrets were silvered in the moonlight, the
windows sparkled in the crystal light. The sweet beauty
and peace of the September night lay like a benediction
over the earth. And, amid all the silence and sweetness, a
foul, a most horrible murder had been done.

She encountered Mrs. Marsh, the housekeeper, in the
hall, her face pale, her eyes red with weeping. Some dim
hope that up to this time had upheld her, that, after all,
there mii^^ht be a mistake, died out then.

*' Oh, M arsh," she said, piteously, " is it true ? "

Mrs. Marsh's answer was a fresii burst of tears. Like all
the rest of the houaehold, the gentle ways, the sweet face,
and soft voice of Sir Victor's wife had won her heart from
the first.

" It is too true, my lady — the Lord have mercy upon us
all. It seems too horrid for belief, but it is true. As she
lay asleep there, four hours ago, in her own house, surrounded
by her own servants, some monster in human form stabbed
her through the heart — through the heart, my lady — Dr.
Dane says one blow did it, and that death must have been
instantaneous. So young, so sweet, and so lovely. Oh,
how could they do it — how could any one do it ?"

Mrs. Marsh's sobs grew hysterical. Lady Helena's own
tears were flowing.

" I feel as though I were guilty in some way myself," the
Iiousekeeper went on. " If we had only woke her up, or
fastened the window, cr anything ! I know the monster,

IN THF. DARKNESS.

whoever he was, got in through the window. And
niv liuly !" — Mis. Mars!> wiped her eyes suddenly, and

oh,
low-

ered her voice to an excited whisper — " I wi>h you Mould
si)eak. to Jane Tool, tlie nurse. She doesen't dare say
anything out openly, but the iool^s she gives, and the hints
she drt)ps, are almost worse than the murder itself.
You can sec as clear as day that she suspects — Miss
Inez."

" Afarsh ! Great Heaven ! " Lady Helena cried, recoil-
ing in horror. " Miss Inez ! "

" Oh, my lady, / don't say it — / don't think it — Heaven
forbid ! — it's only that wicked, s])iteful nurse. Pool. She
hates Miss Inez — she has hated her from the first — and she
loved my lady. Ah ! who could help being fond of her —
poor, lovely young lady ! — with a sweet smile and pleasant
word for every one in the house? And you know Miss
Inez's high, haughty way. Jane Pool hates her, and will do
her mischief if she can. A word from you might check her.
No one knows the harm a babbling tongue may do."

Lady Helena drew herself uj) proudly.

" I shall not say one word to her, Marsh. Jane Pool
can do my niece no harm. The bare repetition of it is an
insult. Miss Catheron — that I should have to say such a
thing ! — is above susi)icion."

" My lady, I believe it ; still, if you would only speak to
her. You don't know all. She saw Miss Inez coming out
of the nursery a quarter of an hour before we found Lady
Catheron dead. She wished to enter, and Miss Inez ordered
her away. She has been talking to the police, and I saw
that Inspector Darwin watching Miss Inez in a way that
made my blood run cold."

But Lady Helena waived the topic away haughtily.

" Be silent, Afarsh ! I will not hear another word of this
— it is too horrible ! Where is Miss Inez ? "

" In her own room, my lady. And — I beg your jrardon
for alluding to it again — but I think she suspects She
seemed dazed-like, stupefied at first ; she is more like her-
self now. Will you not go in and see her, \)oox soul, be-
fore you go to Miss Inez ? Oh, my lady, iny lady ! it breaks
my heart when I look at her — when I look at Sir Victor."

For a moment Lady Helena shrank.

IN THE DARKNESS.

' "Sir Victor is in llicrc — with her? " she faUercd.

*' Yes, my lad)' — Hke a man all struck stupid. It fri,L;li-
tens me to see liiiii. If he would only sjjevik, or cry, or lly
out agiiust liic murderer — but he just sits there as if turn-
ing to stone.''

His aunt covered her face for an instant with both hands,
heartsick with all these horrors; then slie looked up, and
moved forward.

" Where is she?" she asked — "in which room?"

"In the wliite drawing-room, my latly ; the doctors
brought her there. Sir Victor is with her, alone."

Lady Helen slowly advanced. At the door she paused a
moment to nerve herself for what she must see j then she
turned the handle and went in.

It was one of the stateliest rooms in the house — all white
and gold, and dimly lit now by wax tapers. Lying on one
of the white velvet sofas she saw a rigid figure, over which a
white covering was drawn ; but the golden iiair and the fair,
marble face gleaming in the waxlights as beautiful as ever in
life.

He sat beside his dead — almost as motionless, almost as
cold, almost as white. He had loved her with a love tiiat
was akin to idolatrous — he had grudged that the eye of man
should rest on his treasure — and now he sat beside her —
dead.

If he heard the door open, he neither moved nor stirred.
He never once looked up as his aunt came forward ; his
eyes were riveted upon that ineffably calm face with a va-
cant, sightless sort of stare that chilled her blood.

"Victor I " she cried out, in a frightened voice ; " Victor
speak to mc. For jMty's sake, don't look like that? "

The dull, blinded eyes looked up at her, full of inlinite,
unutterable despair.

" She it dead," he said, in a slow, dragging sort of voice
— "dead! And last night I left her well and hapi)y — left
her to be murd. red — to — be — murdered."

The slow words fell heavily from his lips — his eyes went
back to her face, his dulled mind seemed lapsing into its
stupefied trance of quiet. More and more alarmed, his aunt
gazed at him. Had the death of his wife turned Jiis brain ?

"Victor!" she exclaimed, almost angrily, "you must

his

br;

IN THE DARKNESS.

rouse yourself. You must not stay licrc. I'o a man !
W.'.lu' u|). Your wife has been murdered. Go and fuid
her murderer."

" Her murderer," he rei)Hed, in tlie same slow tone of
unnatural (luiet ; "lier murderer. It seems strange, Aunt
Helena, doesn't it, that any one could murder her? ' 1 must
find her murderer.' Oh," he cried, suddenly, in a voice of
anguish ; " what does it matter about l',er murderer ! It
won't bring her back to life. She is dead 1 tell you — dead ! "

He Hung himscUoff his chair, on liis knees by the couch.
He drew down the white satin counterpane, and pointed to
that one dark, small stab on tiie left side.

" Look ! " he said, in a shrill, w; .iling voice, " tiirough the
heart — through the heart I She did not si'^er — the doctors
'•ay that. Through the heart as she slei/t. Oh, my love,
my darling, my wife !"

He kissed the wound — he kissed the hands, the fice, the
hair. Then with a long, low moan of utter desolation, he
drew back the covering and buried his face in it.

" Leave me alone, ' he said, despairingly ; " I will not go
— I will never go from her again. She was mine in life — •
mine only. Juan Cathcron lied, she is mine in death. My
wife— my Ethel 1 "

He started up as suddenly as he had flung himself down,
his ghastly face flaming dark red.

" J.eave me alone, I tell you ! Why do you all come
here? 1 will not go ! Leave me, I command you — 1 am
master here I "

She shrank from him in absolute physical terror. Never
over-strong at any time, her worst fears were indeed true,
the shock of his wife's tragic death was turning Sir Victor's
brain. There was nothing to be done — nothing to be said
— he must be obeyed — must be soothed.

" Dear Victor," she said, " I will go. Don't be hard with
poor Aunt Helena. There is no one in all this world as
sorry for you as 1 am. Only tell me this before I leave you
— shall we not send for her father and mother ? "

"No," he answered, in the same fierce tone ; " they can't
bring her back to life — no one can now. I don't want
them. I want nobody. Ethel is mine 1 tell you — mine
alone I ''

IN TlIK DARKNESS.

Kc motioned her imperiously to leave him — a light in his
eye — a iliish on his face there was no mistaking. She went
at once. Mow was it all to end she wondered, more and
more sick at heart — this mysterious murder, this suspicion
against Inez, this dreadful overthrow of her nei)hew's
mind ?

" May Heaven help ns ! " she cried. " What have we
done that tiiis awful trouble should come upon us I "

"Aunt Helena."

She looked round with a little cry, all her nerves trembling
and unstrung. Inez stood before her — Inez with i^ uk, reso-
lute eyes, and stony face.

" I have been waiting for you — they told me you were
there.'" Siie pointed with a shudder to the door. " What
are we to do ? "

" Don't ask me," Lady Helena answered, helplessly. " I
don't know. 1 feel stunned and stupid with all these hor-
rors."

"The police are here," Miss Catheron went on, "and the
coroner has been apprised. 1 suppose they will hold an in-
quest to-morrow."

Her aunt looked at her in surprise. The calm, cold tone
of her voice grated on her sick heart.

"Have you seen /liin?" she asked almost in a whisper.
"Inez — I fear — I fear it is turning his brain."

Miss Catheron's short, scornful upper lip, curled with the
old look of contempt.

"The Catheron brain was never noted for its strength. I
shall not be surprised at all. Poor wretch!" She turned
away and looked out into the darkness. " It does seem
hard on him."

" Who can have done it ? "

The question on every lip rose to Lady Helena's, but
somehow she could not utter it. Did Inez know of the
dark, sinster suspicion against herself? Coiihh he know
and be calm like this ?

"I forgot to ask for Uncle Godfrey," Inez's quiet voice
said again. " Of course he is better, or e>'en at such a
time as this you would not be here?"

" He is better, Inez," she broke out desperately. " Who

/iV THE DARKNESS.

can have done this ? She had not an enemy in the vorld.
Is — is there any one susi)ecte(l ?"

"There is," Inez answered, turning from the window, and
facing her aunt. " The servants sus[)ect vie"

-Inez!"

"Their case isn't a bad one as they make it out," puisued
Miss Catheron, cooly. " There was ill blood between us.
It is of no use vlenying it. I hatrd her wiUi my whole
heart. I was the last person seen coming out of the room,
fifteen minutes before they found her dead. Jane Pool sa)'S
I refused to let her go in — periiaps I did. It is (juite likely.
About an hour previously we had a violent quarrel. Tiio
ubiquitous Mrs. Pool overheard that also. You see her
case is rather a strong one."

" But— Inez— ! "

" I chanced to overhear all this," still went on Miss
Catheron, quietly, but with set lips and gleaming eyes.
"Jane Pool was holding forth to the inspector of police. I
walked up to diem, and they both slunk away like beaten
curs. Orders have been issued, that no one is to leave the
house. To-morrow these ficts are to be placed before the
coroner's jury. If they hnd me guilty — don't cry, Aunt
Helena — 1 shall be sorry for _)w^ —sorry I have disgraced a
good old name. For the rest, it doesn't much matter what
becomes of such a woman as I am."

She turned again to the window and looked out into the
darkness. There was a desjierate bitterness in her tone that
l/uly Helena could not understand.

" (lood Heaven I " she bur^ \ forth, " one would tiiink you
wiMc all in a conspiracy to drive iiie mad. It doesn't mat-
ter, what bc<;omes of you, doesn't it r I tell you if this last
worst misery falls upon us, it will kill r'.e on tlie si)ot ; just
that."

The girl sighed drearily.

"Kill you, Aunt Helena," she rep
" No — we don't any of us die so easily.
I am not likely to talk in this way before any one but you.
1 am only telling you the truth. They will have die in-
cjuest, and all that Jane P',<ol can say against me will be
said. Do you think Victor will be able to appear ?"

" I don't think Victor is in a condition to a[)i)ear at an

:.'ated, mournfully.
Don't be afraid —

AV THE DARKNESS.

that even the tragic

inquest or anywhere else. Ah, poor boy 1 he loved her so
de.uly, it is enough to shake the mind of a stronger num."

Bat Miss Catlieron was dead silent — it was evident her
feelings here were as bitter as ever-
death of her rival had not softened her.

" He will survive it," she answered, in the same half-con-
temptuous tone. "Men have died and worms have ealen
them, bat not for love."

"Inez," said her aunt, suddenly coming a step nearer, "a
rumor has reached me — is it true? — that Juan is back — diat
he has been here ? "'

" It is quite true," her niece answered, without turnirg
round ; " he has been here. He was here on the night
Lady Catheron first came."

"There is another lumor afloat, that there was a violent
quarrel on that occasion — that he claimed to be an old
lover of Ethel's, poor child, and Uiat Victor turned him out.
Since then it is said he has been seen more than once
prowling about the grounds. For everybody's sake I hope
it is not true."

Inez faced round suddenly — almost fiercely.

"And what if i say it *;.$• true, in every respect? lie did
come — there was a quarrel, and Victor ordered him out.
Since then he has been here — prowling, as you call it — try-
ing to see me, trying to force me to give him money. I
was tlinty as usual, and would give him none. VVhcie is the
crime in all that ? "

" Has he gone ? " was Lady

" 1 believe so — I hoj^e so.
Of course he lias gone."

" I am glad of that, at least

Helena's response.

He had nothing to stay for.

do nothing more at present,

And now, as it seems I can

I will return home. Watch

I will return at the

\'ictor, Inez — he needs it, 1 lieve me.
earliest possible moment to-morrow."

So, in the ciiill gray of the fast-coming morning, Lady
Helena, very heavy-hearted, returned to Powyss Place and
her sick husband's bedside.

Mcanti'nc matters were really beginning to look dark for
Miss Catheron. The superintendent of the district, Mr.
I'errick, was filling his notebook with vt;ry ominous inform-
ation. She had loved Sir Victor — siic had hated Sir Vic-

IN THE DARKNESS.

tor's wife — they had led a cat-and-dog lue from the first — an
liour before the iiiurdcr they had had a violent quarrel —
Lady Catheron had threatened to make her husband turn
her out of the house on the morrow. At eight o'clock, Jane
I'ool had left the nursery with the baby, n)y lady peacefully
asleep ill her chair — the Eastern poniaid on the table. At
half-past eight, returning to arouse my lady, she had encoun-
t(-'red Miss Inez coming out of the nursery, and Miss Inez
had ordered her sharjily away, telling her my lady was still
asleep. A quarter of nine, Ellen, the maid, going to the
room, found my lady stone dead, stabbed through the heart.
Miss Inez, when sunnnoned by Hooper, is ghastly i)ale at
first, and hardly seerns to know what she is doing or saying.
A very pretty case of tragedy in high life. Superintendent
Ferrick thinks, pursing up his lips with professional zest,
and not the first murder jealousy has made fine ladies
connnit, either. Now if that Turkish dagger would only
turn up.

Two policemen are sent quietly in search of it through
the grounds. It isn't likely they'll find it, still it will do no
harm to try. He finds out which are Miss Catheron's
rooms, and keeps his official eye upon them. He goes
through the house with the velvet tread of a cat. \w the
course of his wanderings everywhere, he brings up presently
in the stables, and finds them untenanted, save by one lad,
who sits solitary among the straw. He is rather a dull-look-
ing youth, with a fiorid, vacant face at most limes, but look-
ing dazed and anxious just now. "Something on his mind,"
thinks the superintendent, and sits sociably down on a box
beside him at once.

"Now, my man," Mr. Ferrick says, jileasantly, "and
what is it that's troubling jw^/ Out with it — every little's a
helj) in a case like tliis."

'The lad — his name is Jimmy — does not need pressing —
his secret has been weighing uneasily ui)()n him for the last
hour or more, ever since he heard of the nuu'der, in fact,
and he i)ours his revelation into the superintendent's eager
ear. His revelation is this :

East evening, just about dusk, strolling by chance in the
direction of the Laurel walk, he heard voices raised and an-
gry in the walk — the voices of a man and a woman. He

IN THE DARKNESS.

liad i>ecpccl through the branches and seen my lady and a
very tall man. No, it wasn't Sir Victor — it was a iniuii big-
ger man, with long black curling hair. Didn't see his face.
It was (lark in there among the trees. Wasn't sure, but it
struck him it might be the tall, black-avised man. who came
hrst the night Sir Victor brought home my lady, and who
had been seen skulking about tiic park once or twice since.
Had heard a whis()er, that the man was Miss Inez's biother
— didn't know himself. All he did know was, that my lady
and a man were quarrelling on the evening of the murder in
the Laurel walk. What were they quarrelling about ? Well,
he couldn't catch their talk very well — it was about money
he tiiought. The man wanted money and jewels, and my
lady wouldn't give 'em. He threatened to do something or
tell sou)ething; then she threatened to have him put in
Chesholm jail if he did. He, Jimmy, though full of curiosity,
was afraid the man would si)ring out and catch him, and so
at that juncture he came away. There! that was all, if it
did the gentleman any good, he was welcome to it.

It did the gentleman a world of good — it complicated
matters beautifully. Five minutes ago the case looked dark
as night for M i.-,s Catheron— here was a rift in her sky. Wlio
was this man — taas it Miss Catheron's scapegrace brother ?
Jimmy could tell him nothing m<;re. '* If you wants to fnid
out about Miss Inez' brother," said Jimmy, "you go to old
Hooper. He knows. All / know is, that they say he was
an uncommon bad lot; but old Hooper, he's knowed him
ever since he was a young 'un and lived here. If old
Hoo])er says he wasn't here the night Sir Victor brought my
lady home, don't you believe him — he was, and he's been
seen off and on in the grounds since. The women folks in
the servants' hall, they say, as how he must have been an
old sweetheart of my lady's. You go to old Hooper and
worrit it out of him."

Mr. Sui)erintendent Ferrick went. How artfully he be-
gan his work, how delicately and skillfully he "pumped"' old
Hooper dry, no words can tell. Mr. Juan Catheron was an
" uncommon bad lot," he had come to the Iiouse and forced
an entrance into the dining-room the night of Latly Cath-
eron's arrival — there had been a quarrel, and he had been
compelled to leave. 15it by bit this wa; drawn from Mr,

IN THE DARKNESS.

Hooper. Since then, Jackson, the head groom, and Ed-
wards, the valet, had seen him hovering about the grounds
watching tlie house.

Mr. Ferrick ponders these things in his heart, and is still.
This vagabond, Juan Catheron, follows my lady to Catheron
Royals, is exj)e!'cd, haunts the grounds, and a man an-
swering to his descrijition is discovered rjuarrelling wilh my
lady, dcmandmg nK)ney, etc., two or three hours before the
minder. The window of the room, in which she takes that
fatal sleep, opens on the lawn ; any one may enter who sees
lit. No one is about. The Oriental dagger lies convenient
to his hand on the table. " Here, now," says Mr. Ferrick
to Mr. Ferrick, with a reflective frown, " which is guilty —
the brother or sister ? "

Me goes and gives an order to one of his men, and the
man startes in search of Mr. Juan Catheron. Mr. Catheron
must be found, though they summon the detectives of Scot-
land Yard to aid them in their search.

The dull hours wear on — the new day, sunny and bright,
is witii them. The white drawing-room is darkened— the
master of Catheron Royals sits tliere alone with his dead.
And presently the coroner comes, and talks with the super-
intendent, and they enter softly and look at the murdered
lady. The coroner departs again — a jury is summoned, and
tlie intpie^t is lixed to begm at noon next day in the
"Mitre" tavern at Chesholm.

Lady Helena returns and goes at once to her nephew.
Ine/., in spile of her injunctions, has never been near him
once. He sits there still, as she left him many hours ago ; he
has never stirred or spoken since. Left to liimself he is al-
most apathetic in his tpuet — he rouses into fury, when they
strive to take him away. As the dusk falls. Lady Helena,
passing the door, hears him softly talking to the dead, and
once — oh, pitiful Heaven ! she hears a low, blood-chilling
laugh. She opens the door and goes in. He is kneeling
besides the sofa, holding the stark figure in his arm.s, urging
her to get up and dress.

" it is a lovi'ly night, ICthel," he says ; "the moon is shin-
ing, and you know, you like to walk out on moonlight nights.
L)o you remember, love, those nights at Margate, when we
walked together hrst on the sands ? Ah ! you never lay like

IN THE DARKNESS.

this, cold and still, then. Do get up, Ethel ! " petulantly
this ; " I am tired of sitting here and waiting for you to
awake. You have slept long enough. Get up ! "

He tries to lift her. Horror struck, Lady lielena catches
him in time to jjrevent it.

" Victor, Victor ! " she cries, "for the love of Heaven put
her down. Come away. Don't you know she is dead?"

He lifts his dim eyes to her face, blind with the misery of
a dumb animal.

''ZJcW///" he whispers.

Then with alow, moaning gasp, he falls back in her arms,
fainting wholly away.

Her cries bring aid — they lift him and carry him up to his
room, undress and place him in bed. The family physician
is summoned — feels his pulse, hears what Lady Helena has
to say, and looks very grave. Tlie shock has been too
much for a not overstrong body or mind. Sir Victor is in
imminent danger of brain fever.

The night shuts down. A messenger comes to Lady
Helena saying the scpiirc is nuich belter, and she makes up
her mind to remain all nigiit. Inez comes, pale and calm,
and also takes her place by the stricken man's bedside, a
great sadness and |)ity for the lirst time on her face. The
White Room is locked — Lady Helena keeps the key — one
pale light burns dimly in its glittering vastness. And as the
night closes in blackness over tiie doomed house, one of the
policemen comes in haste to Superintendent Ferrick, tri-
umph in his face. He has found the ilagger.

Mr. Ferrick opens his eyes rather — it is more than he ex-
pected.

"A bungler," he mutters, "whoever did it. Joues, where
did you find this ? "

Jones explains.

Near the entrance gates there is a wilderness of fern, or
bracken, as high as your waist. Hidden in the midst of tliis
unlikely place Jones lias found the dagger. It is as if the
party, going down the avenue, had llung it in.

" Huiigler," Siii)erintcndent Ferrick says again. "It's
bail enough to be a murderer without being a fool."

He takes the dag'^er. No doubt about the work it has
done. It is incrusled with blood — dry, dark, and clotted up

IN THE DARKNESS.

to the liilt. A strong, sure hand had certainly done the
deed. T'or the first tune tlie thought strikes him— rr?///// a
•woman's iiand, strike that one strong, sure, deadly blow ?
Miss Calhcron is a fragile-looking young lady, willi a waist
he could span, slim little fuigcrs, and a delicate wiist.
Could she strike this blow — it is quite evident only one has
been struck.

"And besides," says Superintendent Ferrick, argumenta-
tively to himself, "it's fifteen minutes' fast walking from the
house to the gates. Fifteen minutes only elapse between
the time Nurse I'ool sees her come out of the nursery and
Maid Ellen finds her mistress murdered. And I'll be sworn,
she hasn't been out of the house to-day. All last night they
say she kept herself shut up in her room. Suppose she
wasn't — suppose she went out last night and tried to hide it,
is it likely — come, I say ! is it likely, she would take and
throw it right in the very spot, where it was sure to be
found? A Tartar that young woman is, 1 have no doubt,
but she's a long way olf being a fool. She may know who
has done this muixler, but I'll stake my inofessional reputa-
tion, in spite of Mrs. Pool, that she never did it herself"

A thin, drizzling rain comes on with the night, the trees
drip, drip in a feeble melancholy sort of way, the wind has a
lugubrious sob in its voice, and it is intensely dark. It is
about nine o'clock, when Miss Catheion rises from her plnce
by the sick-bed am' goes out of the room. In the corridor
she stands a moment, with the air of one who looks, and lis-
tens. She sees no one. The dark tigure of a woman, who
hovers afxr olT and watches her, is there, but lost in a shad-
owy corner ; a woman, who since the murder, has never en-
tirely lost sight of her. Miss Catheron does not see her,
she takes up a siiawl, wraps it'about her, over her head, walks
rapidly along the passage, down a back stairway, out of a
side door, little used, and so out into the dark, dripping,
sighing night.

There are the Chcsholm constabulary on guard on the
wet grass and gravel elsewhere — there arc none here. IJut
the tiuiet figure of Jane Pool has followed her, like her
shadow, and Jane Pool's face, peers cautiously out from the
hair-oi)en door.

In that one instant while she waits, she misses her prey

IN THE DARKNESS.

— she emerges, but in the darkness notliing is to be seen or
heard.

As she stands irresolute, she suddenly hears a low, dis-
tinct whistle to the left. It may be the call of a night-bird
— it may be a signal.

She glides to the left, straining her eyes through the
gloom. It is many minutes before she can see anything, ex-
cept the vaguely waving trees — then a fiery spark, a red eye
glows through the night. She has run her prey to earlh— it
is the lighted tip of a cigar.

She draws near — her heart throbs. Dimly she sees the
tall figure of a man ; close to him the slender, slighter figure
of a woman. They are talking in whispers, and she is mor-
tally afraid of coming too close. What is to keep them from
murdering her too ?

" I tell you, you must go, and at once," are the first words,
she hears Inez Catheron speaking, in a passionate, intense
whisper. " I tell you I am suspected already ; do you
think you can escape much longer? If you have any feel-
ing for yourself, for me, go, go, I beseech you, at once !
I'hey are searching for you now, I warn you, and if they
find you — "

" If they find me," the man retorts, doggedly, " it can't
be much worse than it is. Things have been so black with
me for years, that they can't be much blacker, lint I'll go.
I'm not over anxious to stay. Lord knows. Give me the
money and I'll be off."

She takes from her bosom a package, and hands it to him ;
by the glow of the red cigar-tip Jane sees her.

"It is all I have-^all 1 can get, jewels and all," she says ;
"enough to keep you for years with care. Now go, and
never come back — your coming has done evil enough,
surely."

Jane Pool catches the words — the man mutters some sul-
len, inaudible reply. Inez Catheron speaks again in the
same passionate voice.

"How dare you say so?" she cries, stamping her foot.
" You wretch ! whom it is iny bitterest shame to cull
brother. IJut for you she would bo alive and well. Do you
think I do not know it ? Cio — livirjg or dead, I never want
to look upon your face again ! "

FROM THE '''CHESHOLM COURIER."

-It

Jane Pool hears those teriil)le words and stands para-
lyzed. Can it be, that Miss Inez is not the murderess after
all? The man retorts again — she does not h.ear how — then
plnnges into the woodland and disai)pears. An instant the
girl stands motionless looking after him, then she turns and
walks rapidly back into the house.

CHAPTER IX.

FROM THE "CUESHOLM COURIER."

^1-

HE RTonday morning edition of the Chesholm Cou-
rier, September 19th, 18 — , contained the follow-
ing, eagerly devoured by every man and woman
in the county, able to read at all ;

THE TRAGKUY AT CATMERON ROVALS.

" In all the annals of mysterious crime (began the editor,
with intense evident relish), noliiing more mysterious, or
more awful, has ever been known, tiian llie recent tragedy
at Calheron Royals. In tlie annals of our town, of our
county, of our country we may almost say, it stands unpi'Tl-
leled in its atrocity. A young and lovely lady, wedded litUe
better than a year, holding the very highest position in
society, in the sacred privacy of her own household, sur-
rounded by faithful servants, is struck down by the dagger
of the assassin. Her youth, her beauty, the sanctity of
slumber, all were powerless to shield her. Full of life,
and hope, and happiness, she is foully and hideously mur-
dered — her babe Lft motlieile^s, her young husband be-
reaved and tlesolate. If anything were needed to make
the (.Ireadt'ul tragedy yet more dreatlful, it is, tliat Sir Victor
Catlieron lies, as we write, hovering between life and death.
The blow, which struck her down, has stricken him too — has
laid hun upon what may be iiis death-bed. At present he
lies mercifully unconscious of his terrible loss tossing in the
delirium of violent brain fever.

" Who, we ask, is safe after this ? A lady of the very high-

FKOM THE " CnilSlIOLM COURIER:''

est rank, in her own home, surrouncK'd by her servants, in
open (lay, is stabbed to tl)0 heart. W'iio, we ask again, is
sate after tiiis ? Who was tlu; assassin — wiiat was the mo-
tive ? Does lliat assassin yet hirk in our midst ? Let it be
the work of the coroner and his jury to discover the terrible
secret, to bring the wretch to justice. And it is the duty of
every man and woman in Chesholm to aid, if they can, that
discovery."

« « * . « He

# From Tuesday's Edition.

The inquest began at one o'clock yesterday in the parlor
of the Mitre Inn, Lady IleUma Powyss, of Powyss Place,
and Miss Inez Catheron being pre.sent. The first witness
called was Ellen Butters.

Er-LEN I'urrERS sworn. — " I was Lady Catheron's maid ;
I was engaged in London and came down with licr here ; on
the afternoon ofl''riday, i6Ui, I last .saw my lady alive, about
half-past six in the afternoon ; she had dressed for dinner ;
the family dinner hour is seven ; saw nothing unusual about
her ; well yes, she seemed a little out of sjiirits, but was
gentle and i)atient as usual ; when I had finished dressing
her she tin-ew her shawl about her, and took a book, and said
she would go out a few minutes and take the air; she did
go out, and 1 went down to the servant's hall ; sometime
after seven Jane Pool, the nurse, came down in a great ilinry
and said — "

TiiK Coroner. — " Young woman we don't want to hear
what Jane Pool said and did. We want to know what you
saw yourself."

Ellen Luiters (sulkily). — "Very well, that's what I'm
trying to tell you. If Jane Pool hadn!t said Sir Victor had
gone off to Powyss Place, and that she didn't think it would
be i)roi)er to disturb my lady just then, 1 would have gone
up to my lady for orders. Jane had her supper and went up
to the nursery for baby. She came back again after awhile
— it was just i)ast eight — in a tem[ier, saying she had left my
lady aslee[) when she took away baby, and returned to awake
her. She had met Miss Inez who ordered her away about
her business, saying niy lady was still asleep. Jane Pool
said—"

FROM THE '■ Cnr.snOLM COURTERy

Thf. Coroner — "Young woman, we //c/zV want to hear
what Jane Pool said. Jane Pool will tcUhcr own stoiy pres-
ently ; we won't Ironhle yon to tell both. At what hour did
you go \\\) to the nursery youiself?"

JOi,Lr,>J ]?i;tti;us (more sulkily). — " I (lisrememl)'?r ; it was
after eight. I could tell all about it better, if you wouldn't
keep interrupting and ))utling me out. It was about a
(juarter or twenty minutes jiast eight, I think — "

TiiK CoRO.MCR (dogmatically). — " What you think won't
do. Be more precise if you please, and keep your temper.
What o'clock was it, 1 say, when you went up to the nur-
sery ? "

Kf.i.tcn Buttfrs (excitedly). — "It was about a quarter
or twenty minutes past eight — how can I know any sum \' hen
I don't know. I don't carry a watch, and didn't look at the
clock. I'm sure I never expected t(> be badgered about it in
this way. I said I'd go and wxikc my lady up, and not leave
her there to catch her death, in spite of fifty Miss Catherons.
1 rapped at the door and got no answer, then 1 opened it
and went in. There was no light, but the moon was shining
bright and clear, and I saw my lady sitting, with her shawl
around her, in the arm-chair. I thought she was asleep
and called her — there was no answer. I called again, and
put my haiul on her bosom to arouse her. Something wet
my hand — it was blood. I looked at her closer, and saw
blood on her dress, and oozing in a little stream from the
left breast. Then I knew she had been killed. 1 ran scream-
ing from the room, antl down among the rest of the servants.
I told tiicm — I didn't know how. And I don't remember
any more, for 1 fell in a faint. When 1 came to 1 was alone
— tile rest were up in the nursery. I got up and joined them
— that's everything I know about it."

Ellen Butters retired, and William Hooper was called.
This is Mr. Hooper's evidence :

" I have been butler in Sir Victor Catheron's family for
twenty years. On the night of Friday last, as I sat in the
servants' hall after supi)er, the young woman, Ellen l>atters,
my lady's London maid, came screeching downstairs like a
creature gone mad, that my lady was murdered, and
frightened us all out of our senses. As she was always a
lligiity young person, I didn't believe her. 1 ordered her

FKOM rilE *' CIIEHIIOLM COURIER."

to be quiet, and tell ns what she meant. Instead of doing
it ^hc■gave a sort of gasp and fell fuinliug down in a heap.
1 made them lay her down on Uic tluor, and then follow me
up to die nniM'iy. We went in a body — I ut the head.
'I'here was no light but the moonlight in the room. My lady
lay buck in tlie aini-chair, her eyes clcsed, bleeding and quite
dead. I ran up to Miss Inez's roonxand called her. My
master was not at home, or 1 would liave ealledhim instead.
I think she must have been dead some minutes. She was
growinjT cold when 1 found her."

"William Hooper," continued the Chesholin Courier, com-
numicatively, " was cross-examined as to the precise time of
finding tlie body. He saiil it was close upon half-past eigiit,
tlie half hour struck as he went up to Miss Inez's rooui."

James Dick-ey was next called. James Dick' ey, a shamb-
ling lad of eighteen, took his jjlace, his eyes roUing in abject
terror, and uiiJer the evident impression that he was being
tried for his life. Every answer was wrung from this fright-
ened youth, as with red-hot pincers, and it was with the ut-
most ilihlcul'v anvlhing consistent couid be extorted at alK

•' About haif-pajt six on Frida • evening, Mr. Di^ ksey was
rambling about Uie grounds, in thedirectionof the laurel walk.
In the 0|jen ground it wa;; still quite light, in the laurel walk
it was growing du.^k. As he drew near, he heard voices
in the laurel walk — ang'y voices, though not very loud — the
voices of a man and a woman. Peeped in and saw my lady.
Yes, it was my lady — yes, he was sure. Was it likely now
he wouldn't know my lady ? The man was very tall, had a
fiirrin-looking hat pulled over his eyes, and stood with his
back to him. He didn't see his face. They were quarrel-
ling and — well yes, he did listen. Heard the man call her
' I'lihel,' and ask for money. She wouldn't give it to him.
Then he asked for jewels. She refused again, and oidered
him to go. She v.as very angry — she stamped her foot once
and said : ' If you don't go iiis.tamly 111 call my husband.
Between you and your sister you wi.l drive me mad.' When
she said that, he guessed at once, who the big fun in-looking
nian was. It was Miss Inez's brother, Mr. Juan Ca'.heron.
Plad heard tell of him often, and knew he had been at the
house the night of my lady's arrival, and that there had been
a row."

FROM THE •' CIIESnOLM COURIER."

ht,

Mr. Dicksey was here sharply reprimanded, informed that
his suspicions and iicarsays \V(;re not wanted, and requested
to come back to the i)oint. He came back.

" My lady wouldn't give him anything, then he got mad and
said : (James Dicksey had been vaguely impressed by these
remarkable words at the time, and had been silently revolv-
ing ihem ever since) '(Jivenie the jewels, or by all the gods
I'll blow the story of your marriage to me all over England !' "

The breathless silence of coroner, jury, and spectators at
this juncture was something not to be described. In that
profound silence, James Dicksey went rambling on to say,
that he could swear before the Queen herself to those words,
that he had been thinking them over ever since he had heard
them, and that he couldn't make to|) or tail of them.

Till', CouoNKR (interrupting) — " What further did you
overhear ? lie careful, remember you are on oath."

Jamks Dicksey. — " I heard what my lady said. She was
in an awful passion, and spoke loud. She said, * You will
not, you dare not, you're a coward ; Sir Victor has you in
his power, and if you say one word you'll be silenced in
Che^holm jail.' 'I'hen she stamped her foot again, and said,
' Leave me, Juan Catheron ; I am not afraid of you.' Yes,
he was sure of the name ; she called him Juan Catheron,
and looked as if she could eat him alive. He had heard no
more ; he was afraid of being caught, and had stolen quietly
away. Had said notliing at all about it to any one, was
afraid it might reacli my lady's ears, and that he would lose
his place for eavesdrojiping. At ten o'clock that night was
told of the nuirder, and was took all of a tremble. Had told
Superintendent Ferrick something of this next day, but this
was all — yes so help him, all he had heard, and just as he
had heard it."

James Dicksey was rigidly cross-examined, and clung to
his testimony with a dogged tenacity nothing could alter or
shake. He could swear positively to the name she had ut-
tered, to the words both had si)oken, if he were dymg. A
profound sensation ran through the room as James Dicksey
sat down — a thrill of unutterable apprehension and fear.

The examination of these three witnesses had occupied
the whole of the afternoon. The court adjourned until next
morning at ten o'clock.
4*

FROM T/IE ''CI/ESIIOLM COURIER."

On Tuesday morning, despite the incliiiu'ncy of the
M'oathcr (said the Chrs/iohn Courier to its readers) the par-
lor of tlie '' Mitre," the halls, the stairways, and even the inn
yard were filled at the hour of nine. The exeitenient was
intense — you might have heard a pin drop in the silence,
when the examination of witnesses was resumed. William
Hooper was again called to take the stand.

The CoRO.VfCR. — "You remember, I suppose, the evening
on which Sir Victor brought Lady Catheron home ? "

WlTNKS.S.— "I do."

Coroner. — "You had a visiior on that night. You ad-
mitted him, did you not, Mr. Hooper? Who was that visi-
tor ? "

" It was ^fr. Juan Catheron."

"Was Mr. Juan Catheron in ihehabit of visiting Catheron
Royals?"

" He was not."

" Can you recollect, how long a period had elapsed since
his previous visit ? "

" Mr. Catheron had not been at the Royals for over four
years. He was wild — there was ill-feeling between him and
my master."

" Between him and his sister also ? "

" 1 don't know. 1 — believe so." Here the witness
looked piteously at the jury. " 1 had rather not answer
these questions, gentlemen, if you please. I'm an old ser-
vant of the family — whatever family secrets may have come
under my knowledge, I have no right to reveal."

The Coroner (blandly). — '* Only a few luore, Mr. Hooper.
We refiuire to know on what footing .Mr. Juan Catheron
stood with his family. Did he ever come to Catheron Roy-
als to visit his sister ?"

" He ilid not."

"Had he ever been forbidden the house?"

"I— believe so."

" On tile evening of Sir Victor and Lady Cathcron's arrival,
his visit was entirely unexpected then ?"

" I don't know."

" You admitted him ?"

" I did."

" What did he say to you?"

FROM rilE "CI/LS//OLM COURIER'' -^CONTINUED. 83

"I don't reincinlier. Some rattling nonsense — nothing
more. He was always liglitlieaiiot!. He ran upstairs and
into the dining-room Ijcfore I could i)revent it."

" How long did he remain ?"

" About twenty minutes — not longer, I am certain. Then
he came running back and 1 let him out."

" Had there been a quarrel ? "

" I don't know," doggedly ; " I wasn't there. Mr. Juan
came down laughing, J know that. I know nothing more
about it. I have never seen him since."

CHAPTER X.

FROM THE " CHESHOLM COURIER " CONTINUED.

■■.V*

ANE Pool was called. A suppressed muiinur of
deepest interest ran through tlie room at the name
of this witness. It was understood her evidence
would have the deepest bearing on the case. Afrs.
Pool took the stand. " A decent, intelligent young woman,"
said the C/us/iolm Courier. " who gave her evidence in a
clear, straightforward way that carried conviction to every
hearer." " I am Jane I'ool. I am nurse to Sir Victor
Catheron's infant son. Early in August 1 entered the ser-
vice of the deceased Lady Catheron in London ; the first
week of September I accompanied them down here. On
the evening of the murder, about half-past si.\^ o'clock, or
perhaps a quarter of seven, v.hile I was busy in the day
nursery over my duties, my lady came in, as she often did,
though not at that hour. She looked i)ale and Hurried, and
bent over baby, who lay asleep, without speaking. Sir Vic-
tor came in while she was still there, and without taking any
notice of me, told her he had received a note from Lady Hel-
ena Powyss saying Sciuire Powyss had had a stroke, and that
he must go at once to Powyss Place. He said he thought he
would be absent all nigiit, that he would return as soon as he
could, and that she was to take care of herself. He kissed her
good-by and left the room. My lady went to the window and

84 ^^OM THE ''CUES I/O LM COURIEIV' — CONTEYUED.

waved her hand to him, and watched him out of si.;ht.
About ten niiiiutcs after, while she still stood there, the door
opened and Miss Inez came in and asked for Sir Victor ; she
said she w.mied him. Then she stooped. over and looked at
the baby, calling him the heir of Cathcron Royals. Then she
laughed in her soft way, and said : " I wonder if he is the heir
of Cathcron Royals? I have been reading the Scotch mar-
riage law, and after what you and my l)rother said the other
night — " If she said any more I didn't catch it — my lady
turned round in such a llame of anger as I never saw her in
before, and says she : "You have uttered your last insult,
Inez Cathcron — you will never utter another beneath this
roof To-morrow you leave it. 1 am Sir Victor Catheron's
v,-ife, and the mistress of Cathcron Royals — this is the la^,t
night it will ever shelter you." Then she opened the door.
'Col' she said; 'when my husband returns you or 1
leave this forever.' Neither of them took the least notice of
me ; I was afraid of being seen, and keep as ([uiet as I
could. 1 heard Miss Inez answer: 'Not all the soaj)-
boilers' daughters in England shall send nie from Cathcron
Royals. You may go to-niorrow if you will, but 1 will
never go, never ! ' With tliat she went away, and my lady
shut the door upon her. 1 tiid not want her to see me
there, when she turned rountl, so I slipped out of another
door, and downstairs. I took my supper, lingering, I dare
say, half an hour; I don't think it was much more than
half after seven when 1 returned to the nursery for baby.
I found n)y lady asleep in the arm-chair beside the open
window. She had been crying — lii^'re were tears on her
cheeks and eyelashes as she slept. 1 tliJ not disturb her.
I lifted baby and carried hiin uj) to the night nursery. 1 left
him in charge of the under nursemaid, and returned to the
room my latly was in. The clock was striking eight as I caun?
downstairs. 1 was going in to awaken my lady, not liking to
have her sleep in the night air. My hand was on the hanille,
when the door opened and Miss Inez came out. She locjki.'d
l)aler than common, 1 thought, but she spoke just as high
and iiauglity as usual. She asked me what I wanted there ;
I told her I wanted to waken my lady. She looked at me,
as though she would like to bite off my head — slie was in one
of her tempers, 1 could see. ' You had better let my Luly

FROM THE^'CHESllOLM CO CA'/EK''— CONTINUED. 85

:.lon(\' she snys, 'and attend to your nursery. She's a^ileep
still, and it isn't jv'.vr place to awaken her. Go.' 1 was in
a fiuy ; 1 don't mind owning that, but 1 said nothing and I
went. When Miss Inez looked and spoke like that, every
servant in the house knew it was as niucli as her placi was
worth to disobey her, 1 went back and told Ellen Butters.
Ellen was drinking her tea ; she couldn't abide Miss Inez,
and the minute she finished her cup she jumps up. '/'/'//
not afraid of her,' s, ys Ellen ; 'she ain't viy missis ; I'll go
and wake my lady up.' She went ; we staid below. It
migiu be five minutes after, when she comes Hying back,
screaming fit to wake the dead, ' Murder! murder!' 'I'liere
was blood on one of her hands, and before we could get any-
thing more from her except ' My lady ! my lady ! ' she drops
down in a faint. We left here there, ancl followed Hooi)er
upstairs. There was my lady lying in the arm-chair under
the window, as I had seen her last — stone dead. We were
all so shocked and frightened, 1 hardly know what was said
or done for a while. Then somebody says — 1 don't know
who to this minute, 'Where is Miss Catheron?' Nobody
made answer. Says the purson again : ' Where is Miss
Catheron?' I think it frightened Hooper. He turned
round, and said lie would go for her. He went — we waited.
He came back with her in a short while, and we all looked
at her. She was nearly as nuich like a dead wouKin as my
lady herself. I never saw such a look on any face before —
lier eyes seemed da/.ed in her head, like. She hardly seemed
to know what she was saying or doing, and she didn't seem
a bit susprised. Hooi-)er said to her : ' Shall I send for Sir
Victor?' She answered, still in that stunned sort of way :
' Yes, send for Sir Victor, and the doctor, and the police at
once.' She was shivering like one ia the chills, as she
said it. She said she could do notliing more, and she left us
and went back to her room. It was then I first missed the
digger. I can swear it was iyingon the table beside a book,
when my lady first fell asleep ; when I looked round, the
book was still there, the dagger gone."

The blood stained dagger found by the policeman, was
here pro ! iced and identified at once by the witness.

"It is the same — I have had it in my hand a hundred

86 FROM THE ''CIIESIIGLM COURIEIV— CONTINUED.

times, and seen it with her. Oh, my lady — my lady— my
dear lady ! "

The sight of the blood-incnisted weapon, seemed totally to
unnerve the witness. She broke out into hysterical sobbing,
which nothing could quiet. It being now noon, the cou;t
adjourned till two o'clock.

Jane Tool was then again called, and resumed her impor-
tant testimony, in the same rapid, narrative, connected style
as before.

"1 felt dreadfully about the murder, and I don't mind
owning I had my suspicions. I said to myself : 'I'll keep
an eye on iNIiss Inez,' and I did, as well as J could. She
kept her room nearly all next day. Toward night, Sir Victor
was took down with the fever — wild and raving like, and
Miss Inez went with Lady Helena to sit witli him and
watch. I was watching too. Sir Victor's room door. 1
don't know why, but I seemed to expect sometliing. About
nine, or a little later, as I stood atone end of theliall in the
shadow, 1 saw the door open and Miss Inez come out. She
looked up and down to see if the coast was clear, then put
her shawl over her head, and walked very fast to the op])o>ite
end, downstairs and out of the side door. 1 followed her.
It was raining and very dark, and at hrst I lost her among
the trees. Then I heard a wiiistle, and following it, the
next tiling I saw was a tall man smoking a cigar, close be-
side her. It was too dark to see his face ; I could just
make out that he was very tall. "I'hey were talking in whis-
l)ers, and what with the dri[), drip of rain and the rustling of
the trees, 1 couldn't catch at fust what tliey were saying."

" Indeed, Mrs. Pool," tiie coroner observed at this jjoint,
" that is to be regretted. Eavesdropping seems to be vour
forte."

" 1 don't think it is any harm to listen in a good cause,"
Mrs. Pool retorted, sullenly. " If you don't care to have
me repeat my eavesdropping, I won't."

" Repeat what you heard, if it bears on fliis case."

" The first words I heard, were from Miss Inez. She was
giving him something — money, I thought, and she said :
'Now go and never come back. Your coming has done
evil enough surely.' I couldn't catch his answer. He took
what she gave him, and Miss Inez burst out, as she always

FRO.ir rilE'^CirESIIOLM COURIEir'— CONTINUED. 8-

(Iocs, in one of her tearing passions : ' How dare you say so,
yoii wretch ! whom it is my tjitterest sliame to call brother.
But for you s/te would be al'ne aiui ii>c//—-<\o you tiiink I
don't know it ? (lo ! Living or dead, I never want to look
upon your face again.' "

The .sensaiion in the court [said the CJieshohn Courier^ as
the witness repeated these words, was something indesciib-
able. A low. angry murmur ran from li|) to lip; even tiie
coroner turned pale.

" VV'itne>s," he said, "take care! You arc on oatii, re-
member. Mow can you recall accurately word for word what
you heard ? "

" Arc they the sort of words likely to be forgotten ? "
Jane I'ool retorted. " 1 know I'm on oath ; I'll take five
liuiuhcd oaths to these words, if you like. 'J'iiose were the
very words Miss Inez Catheron spoke. She called liim her
brother. She said but for him she would be alive to-night.
'I'licn he plunged into the wood and disai)peared, and she
went back to the house. I hav'nt spoken of iliis to any one
since. I wrote the words down when I came in. Here is
the writing."

She handed the coroner a slip of paper, on which what
she had repeated was written.

" I knew I would ha\e to swear to it, so I wrote it down
to make sure. But my memory is good ; 1 wouldn't iiave
forgotten."

The witness was rigidly cross-examined, but nothing could
shaki; her testimony.

•'Tile window," she said, "of the room where the mur-
'Icr was committed, opened on a lawn and flower-garden —
uiy one could have entered by it. The knile lay on the
table close by."

Dr. Dane was next called and gave his medical testimony.
The dagger shown, would inflict tlie wound that caused
Latly Catheron's death. In his opinion, but one blow had
been struck and iiad penetrated tiie heart. Death nuist
have been uiNtantaneous. A strt)ng, sure hand must have
struck the blow.

The policeman who had foimd the dagger was called, and
tcstil'ied as to its discovery among the brake, on the evening
succeeding the murder.

88 FROM THE ''CUES HOLM COURIER''— CONTINUED.

Miss Cathcron was the next and last witness siunnioncd.
At tlie soiuid of her name a low, ominous hi.^s was heard —
sternly repressed at once by the coroner.

*'Miss Catheron came in," quoth the Courier, "as pale
as marble and looking as emotionless. Her large dark eyes
glanced over the crowded ro'jm, and dead silence fell. The
young lady gave her evidence clearly and concisely— perfectly
calm in tone and manner.

"On the I'Viday evening in question, the deceased Lady
Catheron and myself had a misunderstaniling. It was my
fault. I made a remark that wounc'ed her, and she retorted
by saying 1 should Jeave Catheron Royals on the morrow.
I answered equally angrily, that 1 would not, and left the
room. ^Vhen I was alone I began to regret what 1 had so
hastily said. I thought the matter over for a time, and
fuially resolved to return and apologize. I went back to the
nursery, and found Lady Catiieron fast asleep. I would not
disturb her, and innnediately left the room. On the thresh-
old, 1 encountered Nurse Pool. I had always disliked the
woman, and spoke sharply to her, ordering her away. Half
in hour after, as 1 sat in my room alone. Hooper, the butler,
came up, and told me in\ lady was murdered. 1 was natur-
ally shocked and horrified. 1 went down with him, and saw
her. I hardly knew w \\a\. to do ; 1 felt £tuimed and bewiltlered
by the suddenness of so terrible a catastrophe. I told the
butler to send for Sir Victor, for the family physician, and
the police. I knew not what else to do. I could not re-
main in the room, because the sight of blood always turns
me faint and sick. I retired to my own apartment and re-
mained there until the arrival of f,ady Helena Powyss."

There was one fact, the Clu'sholin Courier did not chron-
icle, concerning Miss Catheron's evidence-- the f(jnnal,
constrained maimer in which it was given, like one who re-
peats a well-learned lesson by rote.

As she concluded, the coroner ventured to put a few re-
spectfui questions.

" On the night succeeding the murder, Miss Catheron,
you met after dusk a man in the grounds. Do you object
to telling us who that man was ? "

''LET MOURNING SHOWS BE SPREAD !"

" I do," Miss Catlieron leplicd, haughtily. " I most de-
cidedly object. 1 have tokl all I have to tell conccrniii;^'
this murder. About my private affairs I will answer no iin-
l)ertiiieiit questions, either now or at any future time."

Miss Calheron was then allowed to retire. The jury
held a consultali(jn, and it was projiosed to adjourn the in-
quest for a few days, until Juan Catheron should be dis-
covered.

In one of the rooms of the " Mitre," Miss Catlieron stood
with Lady Helena, Sir Roger Kendrick, and a few other
sympathizing and indignant friends. 'J'here was but little
said — but little to say. All felt that a dark, terrible cloud
was gathering over the girl's head. It broke sooner than
they looked for.

As they lingered there for a few moments, awaiting the is-
sue of the incpiest, a constable entered with ;> warrant, ap-
])i cached and touched Miss Catheron lightly on the shoul-
der.

Lady Helena uttered a gasping cry ; Sir Roger strode
forward ; the young lady slightly recoiled. The constable
took off his hat and spoke :

" Very sorry, Miss, but it's my jiainful duty. I have a
warrant here from Squire Smiley, Justice of the Peace, to ar-
rest you on suspicion of wilful murder."

CHAPTER XL

" RING OUT YOUR IJELLS ! LET

SPREAD ! "

MOURNING SHOWS BE

ff^^^'HRI^lC days after, a long and stately jirocession

;tsr!!£*!p passed slowly through the great gates, under the

\': ^^Ri lofty Norman archway, bearing to the Catheron
" vaults the botly of Ethel, last lady Catheron.

A long and sad ceremonial ! Why, it seemed only yester-
day that that mournful, passing bell had rung c>iu the v.cl-

'' RliVG OUT YOUR BELLS!

coming i)eal ; but yesterday since tlicy had lit tlie hon-fircs,

and tossed their hats in the air, and cheered with ;il!
their hearts and souls, the gallant husband and lovely wile.
For a " squire of high degree" to marry beneath him, is
something that goes home, warm and true, to every humble
heart. Sir Victor's tenantry had never been half so proud
of him, as when he had brought among them his lovv-boru
wife. It seemed but yesterday that all the parish had seen
her, walking up this very aisle, in pale, llowing silks, and with
the sweetest face the sun ever shone on, leaning on her
hapi)y young husband's arm ; and now they carried her dead
— foully nnudered — to the open Catheron vault, and laid
her to slei.'p forever beside the high-born dames of the race
who slept their last sleep there.

"All men are equal on the tnrf and under it," once said
a famous sporting nobleman, Ethel Dobb, the London
soap-boiler's daughter, took her place to-day, among the dead
daughters of earls and marquises, their etiual at last, by right
divine of the great leveller, Death.

A great and solenm hush pervaded all ranks, sexes, and
classes. Struck down in her sleep, without a moment's warn-
ing, in her own home — a deep nun-nun-, that was like the
nuirmur of an angry sea, ran through them as they collected
together.

Who had done this deed? — the girl coniined in Chesholm
jail, or her scoundrel brother? 1 hey remembered nim well
— like Ishmael of old, his hand against every man, and every
man's hand against him, the head and instigator of every
poaching fray, or hen-roost robbery, every hght and evil deed
done in Cliesholm. IJolh brother and sister hated her — Inez
Catheron that she had taken her lover from her — Juan Cath-
eroii that he liad lost her himself After Sir Victor he was
heir-at-law. Failing the life of tl;e infant son, he might one
day write himself Sir Juan.

It was a hickv th.int:, croaked the Chesholm gossiiis. that
Nurse Pool had removed the baby, else the dagger that
stabbed the mother would have found its way to the heart of
the child. Curse the black-hearted nunderer of sleeping
women and from the thrcjiig in the churchyard there rose
up a groan to Heaven, and a hundred angry hearts pledged
themselves to avenge it if the law would nut.

LET MOURNING SHOWS BE SJ'READ!"

"The coroner would have let the \'oinv^ lady escape,"
Slid (Hie. " See how he snuhhed Mrs. I'ool, and how easily
he let her betters off. Jf Justice Sniih.'y hadn't got out his
warrant, she'il have been off to the ccjiuiiient anil clear away,
\oiy^ before this."

"Why don't they find Juan Cathcron?" said another.
"They .frtrv they're looking for him — why don't they find him
then ? Murderers don't escape so easily nowadays — the
l.iw finds 'em if it wants to find 'em. It's seven days
since the murder was done, and no tale or tidings of him

y-'^-" . . .

" And when he is found neither he nor his sister shall es-
cape. If the law lets them clear, «'t' won't. The time when
rank could shield crime is over, thank Heaven. Let them
hang as high as Haman — they deserve it. I'll be the first to
pull the roi)e."

Day-by-day, the feeling had grown stronger and bitterer,
against brother and sister. The I-aiglishman's proverbial
love of " fair play," seemed for once forgotten. The merci-
ful reasoning of the law, that takes every man to be innocent
unlit he is pi oven guilty, was too lenient to be listened to.
Tile l^rother had iiuudered her — the sister had aided and
abetted. Let them both hang — that was the vox popiili of
Cnesholm — hanging was too gootl for them.

" How did she take her arrest — she was always as i)roud
as Lucifer and as haughty as a duke's daughter?" asked
the curious townfolk.

She had taken it very (juietly as though she had expected
it. When Lady Helena and Sir Roger had cried out in hor-
ror at her arrer^t, she had stood firm. A slight, sad smile had
even crossed her lips.

" Dear Aunt Helena — dear Sir Roger," she had said,
" there's nothing to be surprised at. Don't interfere with
this man ; he is only doing his duty. 1 knew this would
come. 1 have expected it from the first. It will be un-
pleasant for the time — of the result I have no fear. Li these
days, when so many guilty escape, it is not likely the inno-
cent will be punished. Let me go with this man quietly,
Aunt Helena ; 1," allushof proud i>ain passed over her face,
"I don't want the servants — 1 don't want the rabble to see
me."

"RING OUT YOUR BELLS I

She held out her haiul to her aunt, and her aunt's old
friend.

" (lood-by, Aunt Helena," she said wistfully. " (loud b\-,
Sir l-logor. NothiuL; that they can brini,' against nie will
shake your faith in uie, I know. You will both come to see
nic often, I hope, and bring nie news of poor Victor.
Should— 1 mean 7li/u'ii he recovers — don't tell him of this — -
don't, I beg. It can do no good — it may do him liarm.
C'lood-by once more — give my love to Uncle Clodfrcy. Aunt
Helena, don't distress yourself so ; 1 cannot bear it."

" Do you think I will let you go alone ? No, I will go
with you to the prison, if these besotted wretches i)ersist in
sending you there. J>ut oh, there iniist be some mistake —
it is too atrocious. Sir Roger, can't you do something?
(Jreat Heaven! the idea of Inez Catheron being lodged in
Chesliolm jail like a common felon ! ''

•'Sir Roger can do nothing," Inez answered; " the law
must take its course. Let us vn(\ this painful scene — let us
go p.t once." She shuddered in spile of herself "The
sooner it is over the better,"

She shook hands again with Sir Ro'«<.'r. A cab was at the
door — the old baronet handed the ladies in, and stood bare-
headed, until they were driven out of sight. They reached
the square, gloomy, black building called Chesholm jail,
standing in the center of a gloomy, paved ([uailrangle. Miss
Catheron was shown to a room, 'i'he jailer had once been
a servant in the Powyss family, and he pledged himself now
to make Miss Inez as comfortable as was admissible under
the circumstances.

Once in the dreary room, with the heavy door close<l and
locked. Lady Helena suddenly fell down on the stone lloor
before her niece and held up her hands,

" Inez,'' she said, " in Heaven's name hear me ! You are
shielding some one — that guilty man — you saw him di> this
deed. Speak out ! Save yourself — let the guilty sutler.
What is he, that you should pcri.ih for his sake? He was al-
ways evil and guilty— forget his blood Hows in )'our veins —
S[)eak out and save yourself. Let him who is guilty suffer
for his own crime ! "

The soft September twilight was filling the room. One
pale Hash of sunset came slanting through the grated wiiiibjvv

IllL

LET MOURNIXC SHOWS DR SPREAD r'

.1.1

\vm\ fell on Inez Catheron's face. She stood in the micklle
of the lloor, her clasped hands han!:;ing loosely before lu-r,
ail indesc'.rib ible expression on her face.

" Poor Jium," she said, wearily ; "don't be too liard on
liiin, Aunt Helena. We have none of us ever l)een too
jienlle with hini in his wron;' doinj;, and he wasn't really bad
at heart thai. If any letter should come from him to you,
fur me, say nothing about it — bring it here. I don't tliirk
he will be taken ; he can double like a hare, and he is used
to being hunted. 1 hope he is far away at sea before this.
l''{)r the rest, 1 have nothing to say — nothing. I can live
disgraced and die a felon if need be, but not ten thousand
disgraceful deaths can make me speak one word more than
1 choose to utter."

Lady Helena's stifled sobbing filled the room. " Oh, my
child I my child ! " she cried; "what madness is tliis, and
for one so unworthy ! "

"Hat there will be no such tragical ending. I will be
tried at the Assi/.es and acquitted. They can t bring me in
guilty. Jane I'oole's circumstancial evidence may sound
very conclusive in the ears of Mr. Justice Smiley, but it won't
bring conviction with a grand jury. You see it wasn't suffi-
cient even for the coroner. The imprisonment here will be
the worst, but you will lighten that. Then when it is all
over, I will leave England and go back to Spain, to my
UKjiher's i)eoi)le. They will receive me gladly, I know. It
is growing ilark, Aunt Helena — pray don't linger here
longer."

Lady Helena arose, her flice set in a look of quiet, stub-
born resolve.

" Take good rare of poor V'ict<5r, and watch the baby well.
He is the la^t of iho Oatherons now, you know. Don't let
any one apiroach V'ictor but NLs. Marsh, and warn her not
to speak of ii ,• .irr 'st— the shock might kill him. I wish —
I \\i>h 1 had tic. tied her more kindly in the past. I feel as
thuunli 1 could never forgive myself now."

"You had better not talk so much, Inez," her aunt said,
almost coldly. " You may be overheard. I don't pretend
to understand you. Vou know best, whetlier he, for whom
you are making this sacrifice, deserves it or not. Good-
night, my poor child — 1 will see you early to-morrow."

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

[/.

1.0

I.I

l^|28 |2.5

^ lii 12.0

1.8

— 6"

11-25 11.4 11.6

//,

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, NY. MS80

(716) 872-4503

i/j

''RING OUT YOUR BELLS I

Lady Helena, her lips set in that rigid line of resolve, her
tears dried, rode back to Cathcron Royals. The darkness
had fallen by this time — fallen with black, fastdrifiing clouds,
and chill whistling winds. Two or ihree lights, here and
there, gleamed along the lofty facade of the old mansion, now
a house of mourning indeed. Beneath its roof a foul, dark
murder had been done — beneath its roof its niast.-r lay ill
unto death. And for the guilty wretch who had wrought
this ruin, Inez Catheron was to suffer imprisonment, susi^ic-
ion, and life-long disgrace. The curse that the towns-peo-
l)le invoked on Juan Catheron, Lady Helena had it in her
heart to echo.

Her first act was to dismiss Jane Pool, the nurse.

"We keep servants, not spies and informers, at Catheron
Royals," she said, imi)erious!y. " Go to Mrs. Marsh — what
is due you she will pay. You leave Catheron Royals with-
out a cl'racter, and at once."

" I'm not afraid, my lady," Jane Pool retorted, with a toss
of her head. "People will know why Pin turned away, and
Pll get plenty of places. I knew I would lose my situation
for telling the truth, but Pm not the first that has suffered in
a good cause."

1 ady Helena had swept away, disdaining all leply. She
.'tsccnded to Sir Victor's room — the night lamp burned low,
niourntul shadows filled it. A trusty nurse sat patiently by
the bedside.

" How is he now ?" asked his aunt, bending above him.

" Much the same, your ladyship — in a sort of stupor all the
time, tossing about, and nnittering ceaselessly. I can't
make out anything he says, except the name Ethel. He re-
peats that over and over in a way that breaks my heart to
hear."

The name seemed to catch the dulled ear of the delirious
man.

" Ethel," he said, wearily. " Yes — yes I must go and
fetch Ethel home. I wish Inez would go away — her black
eyes make one afraid — they follow me everywhere, ii^thei
— Ethel — Ethel!" He niurnuired the name dreamily, ten-
derly. Suddenly he half started uj) in bed and looked about
him wildly. "What brings Juan Catheron's picture here?
Ethel ! come away from him. How dare you meet huu

LET MOURNING SHOWS BE SPREAD I''

here alone ? " He grasped Lady Helena's wrist and looked
at her with haggard, bloodshot eyes. " He was your lover
once — how dare he come here? Oil, Ethel you won't leave
nie for him ! I love you — I can't live without you — don't
go. Oh, my Ethel ! my Ethel ! my luhel ! "

He fell back upon the bed with a sort of sobbing cry that
brought the tears streaming from the eyes of the tender-
hearted nurse.

" He goes on like that continual, my lady," she said,
"and its awful wearing. Always ' Ethel.' Ah, it's a dread-
ful thing ? "

" Hooper will watch with you to-night, Martha," Lady
Helena said. " Mrs. Marsh will relieve you to-morrow.
No stranger shall come near him. I will take a look at
baby before going home. I shall return here early to-
morrow, and I need not tell you to be very watchful ! — I
know you will."

" Vou needn't indeed, my lady," the woman answered,
mournfully. " 1 was his mother's own maid, and I've nursed
him in my arn)s, a little white-haired baby, many a time. I
will be watchful, my lady."

Lady Helena left her and ascended to the night nursery.
She had to pass the room where the tragedy had been
enacted. She shivered as she went by. She found the
little heir of Catheron Royals asleep in hi3 crib, guarded by
the under-nurse — head nurse now, vice Mrs. Pool cashiered.

" Take good care of him, nurse," was Lady Helena's last
charge, as she stooped and kissed him, tears in her eyes ;
" poor little motherless lamb."

" I'll guard him with my life, my lady," the girl answered,
sturdily. " No harm shall come to //////."

Lady Helena returned to Powyss Place and her con-
valescent husband, her heart lying like a stone in her
breast.

" If I hadn't sent for Victor that night— if I had left him
at home to jjrotect his wife, this might never have hap-
l)ciK'(l," she thought, remorsefully ; " he would never luive
lolt her alone and unprotected, to sleep beside an open w""
dow in the chill night air."

Amid her multiplicity of occui)ations, amid her own great
distress, she had found time to write to Air. Dobb and his

T//E FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

wife a touching, womanly letter. They had come down to
see their dead daughter and departed again. She had been
taken out of their life — raised far above ihein, and even in
death they wouKl nut claim her.

And now that the funeral was over, Inez in prison, the
tnniull and excitement at an end, who sliall describe tlie
awful quiet that fell upon the old house. A ghastly stillness
reigned — servants spoke in whispers, and stole from room to
room — the red shadow of Minder rested in their midst.
And npstairs, in that dusk chamber, while the nights fell,
Sir Victor lay hovering between life and death.

CH.M'TER XII.

^^H

'|B

-'^^1

^^B

ill

^fl

J^H

^^1

THE FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

IGHT days after the burial of Lady Catheron, sev-
eral events, occurred that wrought the seething ex-
citement of Chesholm to boiling-over point — events
talkeil of for many an after year, by cottage Preside
and manor hearth.

The first of these, was Miss Catheron'sexamina.ion before
the police magistrate, and her committal to jail, until the as-
sizes. The justice before whom the young lady appeared
was the same who had already issued his warrant for her ar-
vest — a man likely to show her little favor on account of her
youth, her beauty, or her rank. Indeed tiie latter made him
doubly bitter ; he was a virulent hater of the " bloated aris-
tocracy." Now that he had one of them in his power, lie
was determined to let the world at large, and Chesholm in
small sec that neither station nor wealth could be shields for
crime.

She took her place in the prisoner's dock, pale, proud,
disdainful. She glanced over the dark sea of threatening
faces that thronged the court-room, with calmly haughty eyes
— outwardly unmoved. Her few friends were there — few in-
deed, for nearly all believed that if hers was not the hand
that had struck the blow, she had been at least her brother's

THE FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

own to
(1 been
:vcn in

3n, the
.be the
itiUness
ooin to
midst.
Its fell,

on, sev-
hing ex-
— L'vcnts
: fireside

)n before
il the as-
iippoarcd
ir her ar-
int of her
nade hini
ited aris-
lowor, he
ishol.n in
hields for

le, proud,
reatening
ighty eyes
'__fo\v ih-
ihe hand
brother's

abettor. Many were bronglit forward who could swear how
she Iiad hated my lady ; how she had taken every opportn-
iiitv to insult and annoy iier ; how again and again my lady
had been found crying lit to bn-ak her heart aficr the lash of
Miss Inez's stinging tongue. She had hjved Sir Victor — she
was furiously jealous of his wife — she had fu-ry Spanish Ijlood
in her vx-ins, and a passionate temper that stopped at nothing,
jane Pool was there, more bitter than ever — more deadly m
Ikt evidence. Iloojjer was there, and his reluctantly cxtoitcd
testimony told dead against her. 'I'he examination lasted
two days. lne<; Catheron was rc-connnitted to prison to
stand her trial for nnucler at the next assi/cs.

The second fiict worthy of note was, thatdesjiite the etTorts
of the Cheshohn police, in spite of the J^ondon detectives,
no tale or tidings of Juan Catheron were to be found. The
earth might have opened and swallowed him, so completely
had he disappeared.

The third fact was, that Sir Victor Catheron had reached
the crisis of his disease and passed it safely. The fever was
slowly but steadily abating. Sir Victor was not to die. but
to "take up the burden of life again'' — a dreary bmden,
with tlK wife he had loved so fondly, sleeping in the vaults
of Chesholm Church.

The fourth fact was, that the infant heir of the Cathcrons
had been vjnioved from Cathe'on Royals to I'owvss Place, to
be brought uj) under the watchful eye and care of his grand-
aunt, Lady Helena.

On the evening of the day that saw Inez Catheron com-
mitted for trial, the ]iost brought Lady Helena a letter. The
handwriting, evidently disguised, was imfiimiliar, and yet
sonicthirg about it set her heart throbbing She tore it open ;
it contained an inclosure. There were but three lines for
herself:

" Dear Lady IL: If you will permit a rej^robatc to be on
such familiar terms with your highly respectable namt-, I ad-
dress I , under cover to you, as per order. J. C."

The inclosure was sealed. Lady Helena destroyed her
own, and next day drove to the jirison with the other. Slie
found her niece sitting comfortably enough in an arm-chair,

THE FIRST E\'DING OF THE TRAGEDY.

reading, and except that she had grown thinner and paler,
looking little the worse. All that it was possible to do, to
make her comfortable, had been done. Without a word the.
elder woman presented the letter — without a word the
younger took it. She turned to the window and read ils
brief contents.

" Thank Heaven ! " her aunt heard her fervently say.
'' May I see it, Inez ? What does he say ? Is he coming
here to — "

" Commg here ! " The girl's dark eyes looked at her in
grave astonishment. " Certainly not. He is safe away, I
am thankful to say, and out of their reach."

" And he leaves you here to suffer in his stead, and you
thank Heaven for it ! Inez Catheron, you are the most
egregious — . Give me that note ! "

Inez smiled as she gave it. Her aunt put up her double
eye-glass, and read :

"On Board the Thrfe Bells, )
"Ofi- Plymouth, Oct. — . \
"Dear I.: — I've dodged the beaks, you see. I bought a
disguise that would have baflled Fouche himself, and — here
I am. In twenty minutes we'll have weighed anchor and
away to the West Indies. I've read the papers, and I'm
sorry to see they've taken you on suspicion. Inez, you're a
trump, by Jove ! I can say no more, but mind you, only I
know they can't commit you, I'd come back and confess all.
I would, by jingo. I may be a scoundrel, but I'm not such
a scoundrel as that.

"I see the baronet's down with brain fever. If he goes
off the hooks, there will be only the young 'un between me
and the succession. Suppose he goes off the hooks too, then
I'll be a fiillfledgod baronet ! But of course he won't. I'm
always an unlucky beggar. You may write me on board the
Three Bells, at Martinique, and let me know how things go
on in England. J."

A flush — a deep angry flush reddened the face of Lady
Helena Powyss, as she finished this cool epistle. She crushed
it in her hand as though it were a viper.

"The coward! the dastard! And it is for the iieartless
writer of this insolent letter that you suffer all this. Inez

tall.

THE FIRST F.XD/Xu OF 77/ F TRAGEDY.

d paler,
t) do, to
,'ord die
ord the
read its

iay.

; coming

It her in

away,

and you
;he most

:r double

LLS, )

bought a

nd — here

:hor and

and I'm

you're a

)u, only I

)nfess all.

not such

f he goes
ween me

too, then
)n't. I'm
board the

things go

J-"

e of Lady
10 crushed

; heartless
his. Ine^

Cathcron, I command you — speak out. Tell what you know.
J ,rl the iViihy wretch yoii call hrotlier, suffer for liis own criiiu;. '

IiiLV, K)i)k'j(l at her, with somcthinL; of llie stern, luiui^luy
glance she luul east upon the rabble of th«_ court room.

" Enough, Lady Helena! You don't know wiiat you are
tallciiig about. I Iiave told you before; all I had to say 1
;ud at the inquest. I' is of no use our talking about it.
Couu' what may, I will i ver say one word more."

And looking at her sten. resolute face. Lady Helena knew
she never would. She tore the letter she i>eld into minutest
morsels, and tied them up in her handkerchief.

" I'll burn them wiien 1 get home, and I never want to
hear his name again. For you," lowering her voice, '' we
nnst save you in si)ite of yourself. You shall never stand
your trial at the assizes."

Miss Catherton looked wistfully at the heavily bolted and
barred window.

" 1 siiould like to be saved," she said, wearily, " at any
otiicr price dian tiiat of speaking. Once 1 thought I would
die sooner than stoop to run aw.'^.y — a fortnight's imprison-
ment changes all that. Save me if you can, Aunt Helena —
it will kill me to face that horrible mob again."

Her voice died out in a choking sob. She was thorouL;hly
brave, but she shuddered with sick fear and loathing, from
head to foot, as she recalled the dark, vindictive facs, the
merciless eyes that had coiuronted her yesterday on every
side.

Lady Helena kissed her quietly and turned to go.

" Keep uj) heart," she said ; " before the week ends vou
sliall be free."

Two days later, Lady Helena and the warden of Chesholm
j.iil sat closeted together in deep an' mysterious conference.
On the table between them lay a crossed check for seven
thousand pounds.

The jailor sat with knitted brows and troubled, anxious
fice. II(i had been for vears a servant in Lady Helena's
funily. Her inlluence h;id procured him his present situation.
He had a sick wife and a large fLimily, and seven thousand
l)ounds was an immense temptation.

"Y>)u risk nothing," Laily Helena was saying, in an agi-
tated whisper, " and you gain everything. They will blame

ICO THE FIRST EXDING OF T/fF TRAGEDY.

you for nothing worse tlian carelessness in the dischaige of
your duty. Voii may lose \ our sittiation. Very well, lose it.
Here are seven thousand pounds for you. In all your life,
grubbing here, you would never accumulate half or quarter
that sum. You can remove to London ; trust to my inlluence
to procure you a better situation there than this. And oh,
think of /ur — young, guiltless — think what her life has been,
think what it is now destined to be. She is innocent — I
swear it. You have danglUers of your own^ about her age —
think of them and yield ! "

He stretched forth his hand and answered, resolutely :
" Say no more, my lady. Let good or ill betide — I'll do
it."

The issue of the Chcshohn Courier four days later con-
tained d paragraph that created the profonndest excitement
from end to end of the town. We quote it :

" Escape of Miss Inez Cathf.ron from Chesholm Jail
— Xo Trace of Her to he Found — Suspected Foul
Play — The Jailer Threatened by the Mob.

" Early on the morning of Tuesday the under jailer, go-
ing to Nliss Catheron's cell with her breakfast, found, to his
astonishment and dismay, that it was empty and his pris-
oner flown.

"A moment's investigation showed him the bars of the
window cleanly filed through and removed. A rope ladder
and a friend without, it is quite evident, did the rest. The
man instantly gave the alarm and aid came. The head
jailer apj>ears to be as much at a loss as his underling, but
he is suspected. He lived in his youth in the I'owyss
family, and was suspected of a strong attachment to the
prisoner. He says he visited Miss Catheron last night as
usual when on his rounds, and saw nothing wrong or suspi-
cious then, either about the filed bars or the young lady.
It was a very dark night, and no doubt her escape was
easily enough effected. If any proof of the i)risoner's guilt
were needed, her flight; from justice surely renders it. Kliss
Catheron's friends have been permitted from the fust to
visit her at their pleasure and bring her what they chose —
the result is to be seen to-day. 'I'he police, both of our

Fthifti
Ti
Itiou.
lena,

V'ere
Ibaroi

Urs.

rilE FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY, jqi

arge of
lose it.
)iir life,
(liKirtcr
ilhioncc
\i-k1 oil,
IS been,
cent — I

:elv :
-I'll do

tor con-
citement

)i.M Jail

ED I'OUL
B.

ailer, go-
d, to his
his pris-

rs of the
le ladder
;st. The

he head
rling, but
Towyss
it to the

night as

or suspi-
img lady,
cape was
ner's guilt

it. Miss
le fust to
y chose —
th of our

town and the metropolis, are diligently at work. It is
hoped their labors will be more productive of success in
the case of the sister than they have been in that of the
biolher.

"The head jailer, it is said, will be dismissed from his
liost. No doubt, pecuniarily, this is a matter of indiffer-
ence to him now. He made his appearance once in the
street this morning, and came near being mobbed. Let
tiiis escai)e be rigidly investigated, and let all implicated be
punishetl."

The escape created even more intense and angry excite-
ment than the murder. The rabble were furious. It is not
every day that a young lady of the upper ten thousand
comes before the lower ten million in the popular character
of a murderess. They had been lately favored with such
rich and sensational disclosures in high life, love, jealousy,
quarrels, assas, ination. Their victim was safely in their
hands ; they would try her, condenni her, hang her, and
teach the aristocracy, law was a game two could play at.
And lo ! in the hour of their triumi)li, she slips from between
tiuir hands, and, like her guilty brother and abettor, makes
good h(.r escape.

The town of Chesholni was furious. If the jailer had
shown his face he stood in danger of being torn to pieces.
'1 hey understood thoroughly how it was — that he had been
bribed. In the dead of niglil, the man and his family shook
the dust of Chesholni off their feet, and went to hide them-
selves in the busy world of London.

Three weeks passed. October, with its mellow days and
[frosty nights, was gone. And still no trace of the fugitive.
[All the skill of the officials of the town and country had
Ibcen bafllcd by the cunning of a woman. Inez Catheron
Imight have flown with the dead summer's swallows for all
Ithe trace hhe had left behind.

The fust week of November brought still another revela-
Ition. Sir Victor Catheron had left the Royals ; Lady Hel-
ena, the s(]uire, the b;i.by, the nurse, Powyss I'lace. They
wcie all going to the south of France for the young
Ibaionet's spirits and health. Catheron Royals, in charge of
drs. Marsh and Mr. Hooper, and two servants, on board
yagcs, was left to silence and gloom, rats and evil repute,

102 THE FIRST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

aiitumiKil rain and wind. Tlio room of the tragedy was
sli'it np, a doomed room, "under the ban" fon-ver.

And so for t!ie present the " tra;_^e(ly of Catheron Royals"
had ended. IJrotlier and sister had lied in their guilt, ahtco
from justice and vengeance. Ethel, Lady Catheron, lay
widi folded hands and sealed lips in tiie grim old vaults, and
a parchment and a monument in Chesholm Church recorded
her name and age — no more. So for the present it had
end'^d.

,'i,dy was
r.

1 Royals"
ni'.l, alike
icron, lay
aults, and
1 recorded
;nt it lud

PART II.

CHAPTER L

MISS DARRELL.

Y had been a week of ceaseless rain — the whole
country side was sodden. The month was March,
and after an unusually severe January and February,
a " soft spell " had come, the rain had poured or
dripped incessantly from a smoke-colored sky, the state of
the earth was only to be described by that one uncomfortable
word " slush." Spring was at hand after a horribly bitter
winter — a spring that was all wet and slop, miserable east-
erly winds, and bleak, drizzling rain.

Perhaps if you searched the whole coast line between
Maine and Florida, you could not light upon a drearier,
dirtier, duller little town than the town of Sandypoint,
Massachusetts. It was a straggling i)lace, more village than
town, consisting mainly of one long street, filled with frame
houses of staring white, picked out with red doors and
very green shutters. Half a dozen pretentious "stores,"
a school-house, one or two churches, a town hall, and three
hotels, comprised the public buildings. Behind Sandypoi.it
stretched out the "forest primevui;" before Sandypoint
spread away its one beauty, the bright, broad sea.

To-day it looked neither bright nor broad, but all blurred
in gray wet mist ; the surf cannonaded the shore with its
dull thunder ; the woodland in the background was a very
black forest in the dreariness, and the roads — who shall
paint the state of the Sandypoint roads ? Worst of all, the
weather showed no sign of relenting, no symptoms of clear-

104

AIJSS DARPELL.

I'no; ii]'*. The new clock recently alfixcd to tlic S.in(l\ point
'J'own Hall, was strikiiii; tin' matutinal lumi ot" ii'ii. 'I Iv >)i)|)-
Illation of Sandypoint ini^lit all liavo Wxw dead and biiiiod,
for anv sit^n of life liuK-pcntli-nte s'reet showed. Doors
and wiiulows were all closed in a nielaiviholy w.iy — a slia\,
dra:^gleil dog the only living creatine to be seen.

(_)r stay — no! there vvas p 'il besides the doj;, almost as
draggled as her tourfootfd coninanion. A girl of eighteen,
])erhaps, who widked along thrcKigh rain and discomfort, with-
out so much a., an umbrella to jirotect her. She had come
out of one oi the iigliest of the ugly buildings nearest the
sea, and walked along in a slii):.hod sort of way, never turn-
ing to the right or left to avoid an unusually deep puddle.
She plunged right on through it all — a dark, sullen-looking
girl in a shabby l)lack dress, a red and black tartan shawl,
an old black felt hat with dingy red flowers, long past being
spoilt by rain or wind.

And yet she was a pretty girl too — a very i^n tty girl.
Take the Venus Celestis, plump her down in a muddy road
in a rainstorm, dress her in a draggled black alpaca, a faded
shawl, and shocking bad hat, and what can you say for your
goddess but that she isn't a bad-looking young woman ?
Miss Edith Darrell labors under all these disadvantages at
present. More — she looks sulky and sour ; it is evident her
personal appearance has troubled her very little this dismal
March morning. And yet as you look at her, at those big
black somber eyes, at those almost classically regular fea-
tures, at all that untidy abundance of blackish brown hair,
you think involuntarily " what a pretty girl that might be if
she only combed her hair, put on a clean dress, and wasn't
in bad temper ! "

She is tall, she is slender — there is a supple grace about
her even now — she has shapely feet and hands. She is a
brunette of the most pronounced type, widi a skin like
creamy velvet, just touched on either ripe cheek with a
peach like glow, and with lips like cherries. You know wiLh-
out seeing her laugh, that she has very white teeth. She is
in no way inclined to show her white teeth laughingly this
morning. She goes steadily along to her destination — one of
the " stores " where groceries anil provisions are sold. The
storekeeper smilingly accjsts her with a brisk " Good-morn-

M/SS DARRELL.

105

ni;^, Miss Darrcll ! Whu'd Ii;ivo thought of seeing yoii out
lliis n,i>ty \vlu:tl;ei- ? Can I do anything for you to-day ? "

'• If you couldn't do anythinij; for nic, Mr. WcbstL-r," an-
swers Aliss Darrcli, in no vciy conciliatory tone, "it isn't
likely you'd see nie in your shop this morning. Ciive me one
poiuul of tea, one pound of coffee, three pounds of brown
su^ar, and a (lujrter of starch. Put them in this basket, and
I'll call for them when I'm ^ ling home."

She goes out again into the rain, and makes her way to
an em[)orium whcc ilry goods, boots and shoes, milinery,
and crockery are for sale. A sandy-haired young man, with
a sandy nuistache and a tendency to blushes, springs forward
at sight of her, as though galvanized, reddening to the florid
roots of his hair.

" Miss Darrell 1 " he cries, in a sort of rapture. " Who'd
a thought it ? So early in the morning, and without an um-
brella ! How's your pa and ma, and all the children ? "

" My pa and ma, and all the children are veil of course,"
I the young lady answers, impatiently, as though it were out of
j the natiue oS. things for anything to ail her family. " Mr. Doo-
liitle, 1 want six yards of crash for kitchen towels, three pairs
of shoes for the children, and two yards and a half of stone-
colored ribbon for Mrs. Darrell's drab bonnet. And be
[quick."

The blushes and emotion of young Mr. Doolittle, it was
[quite evident, were entirely thrown away upon Miss Darrell.
J" Not at home to lovers," was \)Iainly written on her moody
[brow and impatient lips. So Mr. Doolittle produced the
Ici ash and cut otf the si.x yards, the three pairs of shoes were
|l)i(;ked out, and the stoniest of the stone colors chosen, the
pu.rcel tied up and paid for.

"We didn't see you up to Squire Whipple's surprise party
last night, Miss Edith," .Mr. Doolittle timidly ventured, with
strong "Down East" accent. " We had a hunky supper
111(1 a rale good time."

"No, you didn't see me, Mr. Doolittle, and I don't think
I'oii'ie likely to in a hurry, eitluM-. The deadly liveliness of
xuulypoiiit surprise parlies, and the beauty of Sandyi)oint,
nul its beastly weather are about on a par — the parties, if
Miy thing, the most dismal of the three."
1 ith which the young lady went out with a cool parting
5*

io6

JI//SS DARl'iLLL.

nod. Tlicrc was one more ciTan<l lo go^ — this one for lier-
bulf. It was to the post-office, and even the old post-master
lit up into a smile of welcome at sight of his visitor. It was
evident, that when in good temper Miss Darrell must be
ratiier a favorite in the neighborhood.

"Letters for you? Well, y*-'s, Miss Edie, I think there
is. Wiiat's this? Miss Edith S. Darrell, Sandypoint
Mass. Tliat's for you, and from New York again, I see.
Ah I I hoi)e none o' them York cliaps will be coming down
here to carry away tiie best-luokin' gal in town."

He handed her the letter. For a moment her dark face
lit up with ail eager iliish ; as she took the letter it fell. It
was sui>erscribed in a girl's spidery tracery, sealed with blue
wax, and a sentimental French seal and motto.

" From Trixy," she said, under her breath ; " and I felt
sure there would be one from — Are you sure this is all, Mr.
Merriweather ? I expected another."

" Sure and certain. Miss Edie. Sorry to disappoint you,
bnt that's all. Never mind, my dear — he'll write by next
mail."

She turned shortly away, putting the letter in her pocket.
Her face relapsed again, into what seemed its habitual look
ot gloom and discontent.

" He's like all the rest of tiie world," she thought, bitterly,
" out of sight, out of mind. 1 was a fool to think he would
remember me long. I only wonder I'eatrix takes the
trouble of writing to this dead-and-alive place. One thing
is very certain — she won't do it long."

She returned for her parcels, and set out on her wet re-
turn walk home. Mr. Doolittle volunteered to escort iier
thither, but she made short work of//////. Through tiiciain,
through the slop, wet, col(" comfortless, the girl left tiie
ugly town behiml her, and came out on the lonely road that
led along to the sea. I'ive minutes more, brought her in
sight of her home — a forlorn house, standing bleak and bare
on a cliff One path led to it — another to tiie sands below.
At the point where she must turn either way. Miss Darrell
stood still and looked moodily up at the house.

" If I go there," she muttered, "she'll set me to hem tht-
towels, or trim the bonnet, or make a pudding for dinner.
It's wash day, and I know what that means in our house. 1

i1//6.b- DARHELL.

107

li'oitt go — it's better out in the rain ; the towels and the
drab bonnet may j^o an dlablc, and my blessed stepmother
with thcMu, if it conies to that.."

She turned sharj^ly and took the path to the right. Half
way down slie came to a sort of projection in the cliff, partly
slK-ltered from the rain by a clump of spruce-trees. Seating
herself on this, with the grey sea sending its flying spray
almost up in her face, she drew forth her letter, broke the
seal, and read :

New York, March 13, 18 — .

" Df.arest Dithy : — Just half-an-hour ago I came home
from a splendid ball, the most sjjlendid by far of the winter,
and before one ray of all its brilliance fades from my frivo-
luiis mind, let me sit down and tell you all .about it if 1 can.

"The ball was held at the De Rooyter house, up the
avenue, in honor of their distinguished English guests, Lady
Helena Powyss, of Powyss Place, Cheshire, and Sir Victor
Callieron, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire. How grand the
titles sound ! My very i)en expands as it writes those patri-
cian names. Lady Helena. Oh, Dithy ! how delicious it
must be to be, ' My Lady ! '

" What did I wear, you ask ? Well, my dear, I wore a
lovely trained green silk — gas-light green, you know, under
white tuile, all looped up with trailing si)rays of lily of the
valley and grasses — ditto, ditto, in my hair, and just one i)ink,
half-blown rose. A trying costume you say ? Yes, I know
i^ but you see, the only beauty jioor 'I'rixy can claim is a
tolerable pink and white comjilexion, and a decent head
of light brown hair. So I carried it off — everyone says I
really looked my very I; 'st, and — don't set this down to van-
ity dear — the gentiemen's eyes indorsed it. I danced all
night, and here is where the rapture comes in. three times
with the ba:onet. I can't say much for his waltzing, but he's
delightful, Uithy — charming. Could a baronet be anything
else ? He talks with l!iat delightful English accent, which
it is impossible to imitate or describe — he is very young,
about three-and-twenly, I should judge, and really (n, that
blonde English way) very hand^ciine. His hair is very light
--he has large, lovely, short-sighted blue eyes, and wears an
eye-glass. Now, I think an ej'e-glass is distinguished look-

io8

J//SS DARRr.LL.

\\v^ in itself, and it is haut ton to lie short sighted. Why are
ih jy in New York du 1 hoar you siy ? Lady ilcL-na was
recommended a sea voyage for her health, and her nephew
accompanied lier. Lady Helena is not young nor beautiful,
as you might imagine, but a fair, fat, and sixty, I should say,
British matron. She is the daughter of the late ALirquis of
St. Albans, and a widow, her husband having died some
time ago. And they are immensely rich. Lmmensely,
Dithy ! Capitals can't do justice to it. And of course all
the young ladies last niglit were making a dead set at the
young baronet. Oh, Ditliy — child, if he should only fall in
love with me — with me, and make me Lady Catheron, I be-
lieve I should just die of pure ecstasy (is that word spelled
light ?) like Lord Berleigh's bride in the story. Fancy your-
self reading it in the papers :

" ' On the — th inst, by the Rev. Blank Blank, assisted
by etc., etc, at the residence of the bride's father. Sir Victor
Catheron, Baronet, of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, England,
to Beatrix Marie Stuart, only daughter of James Stuart, Esq.,
banker of Fifth avenue, New York. No Cards!

" Dithy, think of it 1 It makes my brain swim, and
stranger things have happened. My twentieth birthday
comes next week, and ma gives a large party, and Lady H.
and Sir V. are coming. I am to wear a pink silk with trim-
mings of real point, and pa sent home a set of pearls from
Tiffany's yesterday, for which he gave §r,ooo. If the rose
silk and pearls fail to finish him, then there is another pro-
ject on i e carpet. It is this. Lady H. and Sir V. go home
the first week of May, and we are going with them in the
same ship. I say we — pa, ma, Charley, and me. Won't it
be lovely ? If you were coming, you might write a book
about our haps and mishaps. I think they will equal the
' Dodd Family Abroad.' Seriously, though, Edith dear, I
wish you were coming with us. It's a burning siiame that
you should be buried alive down in that poky Sandypoint,
with your cleverness, antl your accomplishments, and good
looks, and everything. If 1 marry the baronet, Dilh, I shall
like you with me to England, and you sliall live happy for-
ever after.

" I set out to tell you of the De Rooyter ball, and see

MISS DARRELL.

109

hvow I run on. All New York was there — the crush was
awful, the music excellent, the supper — heavenly ! Sir Vic-
tor likes us Americans so much ; but then who could help
liking us ? Oh, it has been a charming winter — parties
somewhere every night. Nilsson singing for us, some
slcigliing, and skating no end. I have had the loveliest skat-
ing costume, of violet velvet, satin and ermine — words can't
CiO it justice.

" Hark ! A clock down-stairs strikes five, and, ' Kath-
i.'cn Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking' over the de-
serted city streets. As Lady Macbeth says, ' To bed — to
bed ! ' With endless love, and endless kisses, ever thine
own.

" Beatrix. "

She finished the letter — it dropped uj^on her laj), and her
large, dark eyes looked blankly out over the cold, gray,
rain-beaten sea. This was the life she longed for, prayetl
for, dreamed of, the life for which she would have sold half
the years of her life. The balls, the operas, tiie rose silks
and pearls, the booths and merry -go rounds of Vanity Fair.
She thirsted for them as the blind lliirst for sight. She longed
for tlie "halls of dazzling light," the dainty dishes, the violet
velvet and ermine, with a longing no words can paint. She
li ul youth and beauty ; she would have suited the life as
the Hfe suited her. Nature had made her for it, and Fate
had planted her here in the dreariest of all dreary sea-coast
towns.

The rain beat upon her uncovered head, the cold wind
blew in her face — she felt neither. Her heart was full of
tunuilt, revolt, bitterness untold.

IJealrix Stuart's father had been her dead mother's cousin.
AVhy was Beatrix chosen among the elect of Mammon, and

I'.diih left to draii out " life

the lowly?" She sat

here while the moments wore on, the letter crushed in her
Lip, her li|)s set in a line of dull pain. The glory of the
world, the desh-pots of I''gypt, the purple and fine linen of
life, her heart craved with an exceeding great longing, and
all life had given her was hideous poverty, going errands in
shabby hats, and her stepmother's rubbers, through rain and
mud, and being waited upon by such men as Sam Doolittle.

MISS DARRELL.

She looked with eyes full of passionate despair at tlie
daik, stormy sea.

" If I only iiad courage," she said, between her set teeth,
" to jump in there and make an end of it. I will some day
— or I'll run away. I don't inucli care what becomes of
me. Nothing can be worse than tliis sort of life — nothing."

She looked dangerous as she thouglit it —dangerous to
herself and others, and ready for any desperate i\<^k:i\. So
absorbed was she in her own gloon)y thoughts, as she sat
there, that she never heard a footstep descending the rocky
path behind her. Suddenly two gloved hands were clasi)ed
over Tier eyes, and a mellow, masculine voice, sang a verse
of an appropriate song :

" ' Break, break, break,

On thy cold grey stones, oh sea !
And I would that my tonLjue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me. '

" T would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that
arise in me, concerning young ladies who sit i)erched on rocks
in the rain. Is it your favorite amusement, may I ask,
Miss Darrell, to sit here and be rained on ? And are there
no lunatic asylums in Sandypoint, that they allow such people
as you to go at large ? "

She sprang to her feet and confronted him, her breath
caught, her eyes dilating.

"Oh!" she cried, in a breathless sort of way, "it is
Charley ! "

She held out both her hands, the whole expression of her
face changing — her eyes like stars.

" Charley, Miss Darrell, and if it had been the Man in
tlie AfocMi you could hardly look more thunderstruck. And
now, if I may venture to propoimd so delicate a conun-
drum, how long is it since you lost your senses ? Or had
you ever any to lose, that you sit here in the present beastly
state of the weather, to get comfortably drenched to the
skin?"

He was holding both her hands, and looking at her as he
spoke — a young man of some five-and twenty, wilii grey
eyes and chestnut hair, well-looking and well-dressed, and
with that indescribable air of ease and fashion which belongs
to the "golden youth" of New York.

MISS DAK R ELL.

Ill

" You don't say you're glad to see me, Ditliy, and you do
look uncommonly blank. \\\\\ you end my agonizing sus-
))ense on this point, AHss Daiicll, by saying it now, and giv-
ing me a sociable kiss ?"

He made as tliougli he would take it, but Edith drew back,
laughing and blushing a little.

"You know what Gietchen says to Faust : * Love me as
much as you like, but no kissing, that is vulgar.' I agree
with. Gretchen — it is vulgar. Oh, Mr. Stuart, what a sur-
jnisc this is! I have just been reading a letter from your
sister, and she doesn't say a word of your coming."

" For the excellent reason that she knew nothing about it

when that letter was written. Let me look at

you,

Edie.

AViiat have you been doing to yourself since I left, that you
should fall away to a shadow in this manner ? But perhaps
your failing is the natural and inevitable result of my leav-

" No doubt. Life would naturally be insupportable with-
out you. Whatever /may have iost, Nfr. Stuart, it is quite
evident you have not lost the most striking trait in your
character — your self-conceit."

" No," the young man answered ; " my virtues are as last-
ing as they are numerous. May 1 ask, how it is that I have
suddenly become ' Mr. Stuart,' when it has been 'Charley'
and ' dear Cousin Charley ' for the i)ast two years ? "

Miss Darrell laughed a little and blushed a little again,
showing verv white teeth and love'y color.

" I have ij._-n reading Trixy's letter, and it fills me with
an awfid rcsjiect for you and all the Stuart family. How
could I presume to address as plain Ciiarley any one so for-
tunate as the bosom friend of a baronet ?"

"Ail!" Mr. Stuart remarked, i)lacidly ; "Trixy's been
giving you a cjuarter quire cossed sheets of that, has she ?
You really wade through that poor child's interminable
epistles, do you ? I hardly know which to admire most, the
genius that can write twenty ])ages of — nothing — or the
patience which reads it, word for word. This one is Sir Vic-
tor from date to signature, I'll swear. Well, yes. Miss Dar-
rell, I know the baronet, and he's a very heavy swell and a
blue diamond of the fust water. Talk of pedigree, there's a
pedigree, if you like. A Catheron, of Cathdon, was hand

I 12

Af/SS DARRELL.

and glove with Alfred the Great. He's a very lucky young
fellow, and why the gods should have singled ////;/ out as the
recipient of tlieir favors, and left me in the cold, is a
problem I can't solve. He's a baronet, he has more thou-
s:inds a year, and more houses in more counties tiian you,
with your limited knowledge of arithmetic, could count.
He has a fair complexion, a melancholy contrast on that
point to you, my poor Edith ; he has incipient, pale, yellow
w'uskers, he has an English accent, and lie goes through life
mostly in a suit of Oxford mixture and a round felt hat.
He's a very fine fellow, and I approve of him. Need I say
more ? "

" More would be superfluous. If yon approve of him,
my lord, all is said in that. And Lady Helena?"

" Lady Helena is a ponderous and venerable matron, in
black silks, Chantilly lace, and mara'jout feathers, who
would weigh down sixteen of you and me, and who wor-
ships the ground her nephew walks on. She is the daughter
of a marquis and a i^eeress in her own right. Think of that,
you poor, little, half-civilized Yankee girl, and blush to re-
member you never had an ancestor. But why do I waste
my breath and time in these details, when Trix lias narrated
them already by the cubic foot. IMiss Darrell, you may be
a mermaid or a keli)ie— that sort of j-oung person does
exist, I believe, in aj^crpetual shower bath, but 1 regret to in-
form you /am mortal — very mortal — subject to melancholy
colds in the head, and depressing attacks of influenza. At
the present moment, my patent leather boots are leaking at
every pore, the garments I wear beneath this gray overcoat
are saturated, and little rills of rain water are trickling down
the small of my back. You nursed me through one ])ro-
longed siege of fever and freezing — unless you are especially
desirous of nursing me through another, perhaps we had bet-
ter get out of tliis. I merely throw out the suggestion — it's
a matter of indifference to me."

Edith laughed and turned to go.

" As it is by no means a matter of indifference to me, I
move an adjournment to the house. No, thank you, I don't
want your arm. This isn't the fashionable side of P.roadway,
at four o'clock of a summer afternoon. 1 talk of it, as though
I had been there — I who never was farther than Boston in

M/SS DARRELL.

113

my life, and who, judging from present appearances, never
will."

*' Then," said Mr. Stuart, " it's very rash and premature
to jud_:,'e by jjiesent ai)pearances, my errand here being to —
Miss Darrell, doesn't it strike you to inquire what my errand
liere may be ?"

" Shooting," Miss Darrell said, i:)romi)tly.

"Shooting in March. Good Heavens, no I"

" Fishing then."

" Fishing is a delightful recreation in a rii)i)llng brook, on
a hot August day, but in this month and in this weather !
For a Massachusetts young lady, Dithy, 1 must say your
guessing education has been shamefully neglected. No, I
have come for something better than either fishing or shoot-
ing — I have come for jw/."

" Chadey ! "

" I've got her note somewhere," said Charley, feeling in
his pockets as they walked along, " if it hasn't melted away
in the rain. No, here it is. Did Trix, by any chance, al-
lude to a projected tour of the governor's and the maternal's
to Furope ? "

"Yes." Her eyes were fixed eagerly on his face, her lips
apart, and breathless. " Oh, Charley ! w'hat do you mean ? "

In the intensity of her emotions she forgets to be formal,
and becomes natural and cousinly once more.

"Ah ! I am Charley again. Here is the note. As it is
your healthful and refreshing custom to read your letters in
the rain, I need hardly urge you to open and peruse this
one."

Hardly ! She tore it open, and ran over it with kindling
cheeks and fast throbbing heart.

" My Dkar EniTM : Mr. Stuart and myself, Charles
and IJeatrix, propose visiting Europe in May. From my
son I learn that you are proficient in the French and Ger-
man languages, and would be invaluable to us on tlie jour-
ney, besides the jileasurc your society will afford us all. If
you think six hundred dollars per annum sulVicient recom-
pense for your services and all your expenses paid, we shall
be glad to have you return (under proper female charge)
with Charley. 1 trust this will prove acceptable to you, and

114

J//SS DARRELL.

thai your papa will allow you to come. The advantages of
foreign travel will be of inestimable benefit to a young lady
so thoroughly educated and talented as yourself, lieatrix
bids me add she will never forgive you if you do not come.

'•With kindest regards to Mr. and Mrs. Darrell, I remain,
my dear EaUiIi, Very sincerely yours,

Chaklo'ite Stuart."

She had come to a stand still in the middle of the muddy
road, while in a rapture she devoured this. Now she looked
uj), her face transfigured — absolutely glorified. Go to Eu-
rope ! Frar- e, Italy, Germany, Switzerland ! live in
that radiant upper world of her dreams ! She turned to
Charley, and to the unutterable surprise of that young gen-
tleuian, flung her arms around him, and gave him a frantic
hu:^.

" Charley ! Charley ! Oh, Charley I " was all she could

Mr. Stuart returned the impulsive embrace, with a promp-
titude and warmth that did him credit.

" I never knew a letter of my mother's to have such a
pleasant effect before. How delightful it must !)e to be
a postman. It is yes, then, Edith ? "

"Oil, Charley! as if it could be anything else? I owe
this to you — I know I do. How shall I ever thank you?"

" By a re|>etition of your little jierformance. You won't ?
Well, as your stepmother is looking at us out of the window,
wiih a face of verjuice, perha[)s it is just as well. You're
sure the dear old dad won't say no?"

" Poor papa ' " her radiant face clouded a little, " he will
miss me, but no — he couldn't refuse me anything if he tried
— least of all this. Charley, I do thank you — dear, best
cousin that ever was — with all my heart ! "

She held out both hands, her heart full, and brimming
over in her b!.ick eyes. For once in his life Charley Stuart
forgot to be flippant and cynical. He held the hands genllj',
and he looked half-laughingly, half-compassionately into the
flubhed, earnest face.

"You poor chilfl ! " he said; "and yen think the world
outside this sea, and these sandhills, is all sunshine and colcur
dc rose. Well, think so — it's a harmless delusion, and one

A NIGHT IN THE SNOW.

115

that won't last. And whatever betides," he said this ear-
nestly, " wliatever this new life brings, you'll never blame
mc, Kdith, for having taken you away from the old one?"

" Never 1 " she answered. And she kept her word. In
all tlie sadness — the shame, the pain of the after-time, she
would never have gone back if she could — she never blamed
him.

They walked on in silence. They were at the door of the
ugly bleak house which Edith Darrell for eighteen years had
called home, but which she was never to call home more.
You would hardly have known her — so bright, so beautiful
in a moment had Hope made her — a smile on her lips, her
eyes like dark diamonds. For Charley, he watched her, as
ho might some interesting natural curiosity.

" When am I to be ready ? " she asked him, softly, at the
door,

" The sooner the better," he answered.

Then she opened it and went in.

CHAPTER II.

A NIGHT IN THE SNOW.

NE snowy February night, just two years before,
Edith Darrel and Charles Stuart had met for the
first time — met in a very odd and romantic way.
Before relating that i)eculiar first meeting, let me
premise that Edith Darreil.'s mother had been born a Miss
Eleanor Stuart, the daughter of a rich New York merchant,
wh.o had fallen in love at an early period of her career with
her father's handsome book-keeper, Frederic Darrell, had
eloped with him, and been cast off by her whole family from
thenceforth, forever. Ten years' hard battling with ])overty
and ill-health had followed, and then one day she kissed her
husband and little daughter for the last time, and drifted
wearily out of the strife. Of course Mr. Darrell, a year or
two after, married again for the sake of having some one to
look after his house and little Edith as much as anything else.

ii6

A XIGIIT IN THE SNO^V.

Rfrs. Darroll No. 2 was in every rcsi^cct the exact contrast of
Mrs. Darrell No, i. She was a brisk Htlle woman, with
snapping bhick eyes, a sharp nose, a complexion tif sat^Von,
anil a ton^^ue like a carving-knife. I'"rederic Darrell was by
nature a feeble, helpless sort of man, but she galvani^ed even
him into a spasmoilic sort of life. He was master of three
living languages and two dead ones.

•' If you can't support your fiimily by your hands, Mr.
Darrell," snapped his wife, " support them by your head.
There are plenty young men in the world ready to learn
French and German, Greek and I^atin, if they can learn them
at a reasonable rate. Advertise for these young men, and
I'll board them when they come."

He obeyed, the idea |)roved a good one, the young men
came, Mrs. Darrell boarded and lodged them, Mr. Darrell
coached them in classics and languages. Edith shot up like
a hop-vine. Five more little Darrells were added in the
fulness of time, and the old problem, that not all the mathe-
matics he knew could ever solve, how to make both ends
meet, seemed as knotty as ever. For his daughter he felt it
most of all. The five great noisy boys who called Mrs.
Darrell " ma," he looked at through his sjjectacles in fear and
trembling. His handsome daughter he loved with his whole
heart. Her dead mother's relatives were among the pluto-
cracy of New York, but even the memory of the dead
Eleanor seemed to have faded utterly out of their minds.

One raw February afternoon two years before this March
morning, Edith Darrell set out to walk from Millfield, a large
manufacturing town, five miles from Sandypoint, home. She
had been driven over in the morning by a neighbor, to buy
a new dress ; she had dined at noon with an acquaintance,
and as the Millfield clocks struck five, set out to walk home.
She was a capital walker ; she knew the road well ; she had
the garnet merino clasped close in her arms, a talisman
against cold or weariness, and thinking how well she would
look in it next Thursday at the i>arty, she tripped blithely
along. A keen wind blew, a dark drit'ting sky hung low over
the black frozen earth, and before Miss Darrell had finished
the first mile of her i)ilgrimage, the great feathery snow Hakes
began whirling down. She looked up in dismay — snow !
She had not counted on that. Her way lay over hills and

A NIGHT IN THE SNOW.

117

clown valleys, the pith was excellent, hard and hcatcn, but
il" it snowed — and night was coining on fast. Wliat should
.s!ic do? Prudence whi:;pered, '' turn hack ;" youtli's ini|i:i-
liencc and coniklence in itself cried out, "go on," Juliili
went on.

It was as lonely a five-niile walk as you would c:^^ to take
in an August noontide. 'I'hink what it must luu'e been this
stormy February evening. She was not entirely alone. " Don
Cesar," the house dog. a big Englisli mastiff, trotted by Jier
side. At long intervals, down by -pallis and across lields,
there were some half dozen habitations, between Milllieid
and Sandypoint — that was all. Faster, faster came the
wliite whirling flakes ; an out-and-out February snowstorm
had set in.

Again — should she turn back ? She paused half a minute
to debate the question. If she did there would be a sleep-
less night of terror for her nervous father at home. And
slie w/i,"/// be able to keep the path with the "Don's"
aid. Personal fear she felt none ; she was a thoroughly brave
little woman, and there was a spice of adventure in braving
the storm and going on. She shook back her clustering
curls, tied her hood a little tighter, wrapped her cloak more
closely around her, whistled cheerily to Don Caesar, and
went on.

" In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as
'Fail'," she said gayly, patting the Don's shaggy head.
^^ En a-'afit, Don Cicsar, man brave!" The Don under-
stood French ; he licked his mistress's hand and trotted con-
tentedly before.

" As if 1 could lose the path with the Don," she thought ;
" what a goose 1 am. I shall make Mamma Darrell cut out
my garnet merino, and begin it before 1 go to bed to-night."

She walked bravely and brightly on, .vhistling and talk-
ing to Don C;T3sar at intervals. Another mile was got over,
and the night had shut down, white with whirling drifts. It
was all she could do now, to make her way against the storm,
and it grew worse every instant. Three miles of the five lay
yet before her. Mer heart began to fail her a little ; the
l^ath was lost in the snow, and even the Don began to be at
fault. Tlie drifting wilderness nearly blinded her, the deep
snow was imutterably fatiguing. There was but one thing

ii8

A NIGHT IN THE SNOIV.

ill her favor — the ni;^lit, for Fi'bniary, was niiUl. She was
all ill a ylow of warmth, but what if she should got lost and
llotiiidcr about here iiniil iuorniiig ? And what would i)ai)a
think of her absence ?

She stopped short again. If she could see a light she
would make for it, she thought, and take refuge from the
night and storm. Hut through the white whirl no light was
to be seen. Right or wrong, nothing remained but to go on.

Hark I what was that ? She stopjjed once more — the
Don pricked up his sagacions cars. A cry unmistakably —
a cry of distress.

Again it came, to the left, faint and far off. Yes— no
doubt about it, a cry for helj).

She did not hesitate a moment. Strangers, who had tried
this hillpath before now, had been found stark fro/en next
day.

" Find him, Don — find him, good fellow ! " she said and
turned at once in the direction of the call.

•' Coming ! " she shouted, aloud. " Where are you ?
Call again."

" Here," came faintly over the snow.

She shouted back a cheery answer.
faint reply — then all was still.

Suddenly the Don stopped. Imi)0ssible to tell where they
were, but there, prostrate in a feathery drift, lay the dark
figure of a man. The girl bent down in the darkness, and
touched the cold face with her hand.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "How do you come
to be lying here ? "

There was just life enough left within him, to enable him to
answer faintly.

" I was on my way to Sandypoint — the pight and storm
overtook me. I missed the jialh and my footing ; I slijjpcd,
and have broken my leg, I'm afraid. I heard you whistling
to your dog and tried to call. I didn't dream it was a
woman, and I am sorry I have brought you out of your way.
Still, as you are here, if you will tell them at the nearest
house, and — " his voice died entirely away, in the sleepy
cadence of a freezing man.

The nearest house — wlierc was the nearest house? Why,
this poor fellow would freeze to death in half an hour if left

" Here, to the left."
Once more came a

A Miarrr in tife snow.

119

to himself. ImpossiliU; to leave him. What should she do?
.She ihoiii^ht for a monient. Quick and bright of invciuioi),
she made ii|) her mind what to do, Siie h.id in iier pocket
a lliile |)assl)ook and pencil. In the darkness she tore out
a leaf — in the darkness she wrote, " I'oliow Don. Come at
once." She pinned the note in her hantlkerchief — tied the
handkerchief securely rf)itnd the do^f's neck, put her arms
a!)out him, and gave his black head a hug.

"do home, Don, go home," she said, "and fetch papa
here.

The largo, half-human eyes looked up at her. She pushed
him away with both hands, and with a low growl of intctli-
gi'uce he set off. And in that sea of snow, lost in the niglit,
lulith Darrell was alone witii a freezing man.

In her satchvd, among her other purchases, she had sevcMal
cents' worth of 1. matches for household consumption. With a
girl's curiosity, even in that hour, to see what the man was
like, she struck a match and looked at him. It llared througli
the white darkness a second or two, then went out. Tiiit
second showed her a face as white as the snow it.self, tlie
eyes closed, the lips set in silent pain. She saw a shaggy
great coat, and fur cap, and — a gentleman, even in that
briefest of brief glances.

"You mustn't go to sleep," she said, giving him a shake ;
"do you hear me, sir ? You mustn't go to sleep."

"Yes — mustn't 1?" very drowsily.

" You'll freeze to death if you do." A second shake. " Oh,
do rouse up like a good fellow, and try to keep awake. I've
sent my dog for help, and I mean to stay with jou until it
comes. Doe your leg pain you much ?"

"Not now. It did, but I — feel — sleepy, and — "

" I tell you, you mushit ! " She shook him so indignantly
this time that he did rouse up. " Do you want to freeze to
death ? I tell you, sir, you must wake u|) and talk to ///<'."

" Talk to you ? I beg your jiardon — it's awfully good of you
to stay with me, but I can't allow it. You'll freeze yourself."

" No, I won't. /';// all right. It isn't freezing hard to-
night, and if you hadn't broken your leg, you wouldn't freeze
either, 1 wish I coidd do something for you. Let me rub
your hands — it may helj) to keep yon awake. And see, I'll
wrap this round your feet to keep them out of the snow."

I20

A NIGHT IN THE ^NOW.

And then — who says that heroic self-sacrifice has gone
out of fashion ? — slic unfurled the garnet merino and twisted
i;s glowing folds around the boots of the fallen man.

"It's awfully good of you, you know," he could but
just repeat. "If 1 am saved I shall owe my life to you.
I think by your voice you arc a young lady. Tell me your
name ? "

" Edith."

"A pretty name, and a sweet voice. Supjwse you rub
my other hand ? How delightfully warm yours are ! I begin
to feel better already. If we don't freeze to death, I
shouldn't much mind how long this sort of thing goes on.
If we do, they'll find us, like the babes in the wood, under
the snow-drifts to-morrow."

Miss Darrell listened to all this, uttered in the sleepiest,
gentlest of tones, her brown eyes open wide. What man-
ner of young man was this who paid compliments while
freezing with a broken leg? It was quite a new experience
to her and amused her. It was an adventure, and excited
all the romance dormant in her nature.

"You're a stranger hereabouts ?" she suggested.

" Yi.'s, a stranger, to my cost, and a very foolhardy one,
or I should never have attempted to find Sandypoint in this
confounded storm. Edith — you'll excuse my calling you so,
my name is Charley — wouldn't it have been better if you
had left me here and gone for some one. I'm dreadfully
afraid you'll get your death."

His solicitude for her, in his own danger and pain, quite
touclied Miss Edith. She bent over him with maternal
tenderness.

" There is no fear for me. I feel perfectly warm as I told
you, and can easily keep myself so. And if you think I
could leave you, or any one else with a broken leg, to die,
you mistake me greatly, that is all. I will stay with you if it
be till morning."

He gave one of her hands a feelily grateful squeeze. It
was a last effort. His numbed and broken limb gave a hor-
rible twinge, there was a faint gasp, and then this young man
fainted (juietly away.

She bent above him in despair. A great fear filled her —
was he dead, this stranger in whom she was interested

A NIGHT IM THE SNOW.

121

gone
n'isted

I but
yon.
your

)CglM

already ? She lifted his head on her lap, she chafed his face
and hands in an agony of pity and terror.

" CIkuIcv ! " she called, with something like a sob ; "O
Charley, vion't die ! AVake up — speak to me."

liiit cold and white as the snow itself, "Charley" lay,
dumb and unresiioiisive.

And so an hour wore on.

What an hour it was — more like an eternity. In all her
after-life — its i^ride and its glory, its downfall and disgrace,
tluvt night remained vividly in her memory.

She woke many and many a night, starting up in her
warm bed, from some startling dream, that she was back,
lost in the snow, with Charley lying lifeless in her lap.

Pnit help was at hand. It was close upon nine o'clock,
when, through the deathly white silence, the sound of many
voices came. When over the cold glitter of the winter
night, the red light of lanterns llared, Don Caesar came
l)Uuiging headlong through the drifts to his little mistress'
side, with loud and joyful barking, licking her face, her
hands, her feet. Thev were saved.

She sank back sick and dizzy in her father's clasp. For
a moment the earth rocked, and the sky went round — then
she sprang u|), herself again. VIit fadiei wa;- there, and the
three young men, boarders. They lifted the rigid form of
the stranger, and carried it between them somehow, to Mr.
IXurell's house.

His feet were slightly frost-bitten, his leg not broken after
all, only sprained and swollen, and to Edith's relief he was
pronounced in a fainting-fit, not dead.

" Don't look so wh.te and scared, child," her step-mother
said pettishly to her step-daughter ; " he won't die, and a
pretty burthen he'll be on my hands for the next three
weeks. Co to bed — do — and don't let us have jt7« laid up
as well. One's enough at a time."

"Yes, Didiy, darling, go," said her fiither, kissing her
tenderly. " You're a brave little woman, and you've saved
his life. I have always been proud of you, but never so
proud as to-night."

It certainly vhis a couple of weeks. It was five blesF^rd
weeks before " Mr. Charley," as they learned to call him,

122

A aWIGIIT m THE SNOW.

could get about, even on crutches. For fever and some-
times delirium set in, and Charley raved and tossed, and
shouted, and talked, and drove Mrs, Frederic Darrell nearly
frantic with his capers. The duty of nursing fell a good
deal on Edith. She seemed to take to it quite naturally.
In his "worst spells" the soundof iier soft voice, the touch
of her cool hand, could soothe hiui as nothing else could.
Sonielimes he sung, as boisterously as his enfeebled state
would allow : " We won't go home till morning ! " Some-
times he shouted for his mother; very often for "Trixy."

WHio was Trixy, Edith wondered with a sort of inward
twinge, not to be accounted for ; his sister or —

He was very handsome in those days — his great gray eyes
brilliant with fever, his checks Hushed, his chestnut hair
falling damp and heavy off his brow. What an ad-
venture it was, altogether, Edith used to think, like some-
thing out of a book. Who was he, she wondered. A gen-
tleman " by courtesy and the grace of God," no mistaking
that. His clothes, his linen, were all superiine. KJw one
finger he wore a diamond that made all beholders wink, and
in his shirt bo:som still another. His wallet was stuffed with
greenbacks, his watch and chain, Mr. Darreli ahirmcd
were worth a thousand dollars — a sprig of gentility, who-
ever he might be, this wounded hero. They found no
papers, no letters, no card-case. His linen was marked
" C. S." twisted in a monogram. They must wait until he
was able himself to tell them the rest.

The soft sunshine of April v/as filling his room, and bask-
ing in its rays in the parlor or rocking-chaii sat " ^fr. Char-
ley," pale and wasted to a most interesting degree. He was
sitting, looking at Miss Edith, di!;;ging industriously in her
flower-garden, with one of the boarders for under-gardener,
and listening to .\rr. Darrell. proposing he should tell them
his name, in order that they might write to his friends. The
young man turned his large languid eyes from the daughter
without, to the father within.

" My friends ? Oh ! to be sure. 13ut it isn't necessary,
is it? It's very thoughtfulof you, and all that, but my friends"
won't worry themselves into an early grave about my
absence and silence. They're vised to both. Next week,
or week after, I'll drop them a line myself. I know I must

A NIGHT IN 711 E SNOW.

123

;oine-

and

icarly

good

be an awful nuisance to Mrs. Darrell, but if I might trespass
on your great kindness and remain here until — "

" My (kar young fiiend," n-sponded Mr. Darrell, warmly,
"you shall most certainly rem. ';i here. For Mrs. Darrell,
you're no trouble to her — it's Dithy, ii! )ss her, who does all
the nursing."

The gray dreamy eyes turned irom Mr. Darrell again, to
that busy figure in the garden. With her cheeks Hushed,
her brown eyes shining, her rosy lips apart, and laugliing, as
she wrangled with that ])articular boarder on tlie subject of
lloriculture, she looked a most dangerous nurse for any
young mivn of tlu'ee-and twenty.

" 1 owe Miss Darrell and you all, more than I can ever
repay," he said, quietly ; "///«/ is understood. I have never
tried to thank her, or you e'lher — words are so inadequate
in these cases. Believe me though, I am not ungrateful."

"Say no more," Mr. Darrell cut in hastily ; "only tell us
how we are to address you wliile you remain. ' Mr. Char-
ley' is an unsatisfactory sort of application,"

" IVfy name is Stuart ; but, as a favor, may I request
you to go on calling me Charley ? "

" Stuart ! " said the other, quickly ; " one of the Stuarts,
bankers, of New York ? "

" The same. My father is James Stuart ; you know him
probably ? "

The face of Frederic Darrell darkened and grew almost
stern. " Your father was my wife's cousin — Editli's mother.
Have you never heard him speak of Kleanor Stuart?"

" Wlio married Frederic Darrell ? Often. My dear Mr.
Darrell, is it possible that you — that 1 have the happiness
of Loing related to j-ou ? "

"To my daughter, if you like — her second cousin — tome,
no," Mr. Darrell said, half-smiling, half sad. "Your father
and his funily long ago repudiated all claims of mine — I am
not going to force myself upon their notice now. Edie —
ICilie, my love, come in here, and listen to some strange
ne*'s."

She threw down her spade, and came in laughing and
glowing, her hair tumbled, her collar awry, her dress soiled,
her hands not over clean, but looking, oh ! so indescribably
fresh, and fair, and healthful, and handsome.

124

A NIG FIT IN THE SNOW.

" What is it ? " slie asked. " Has Mr. Charley gone and
sprained his otiier ankle ? "

" Not quite so bad as that." And then her fiuhcr nar-
rated the discovery they had mutually niade. Miss Dilliy
opened her bright brown eyes.

" Like a chai)ter out of a novel where everybody turns out
to be somebody else. ' It is — it is — it is — my own, my long-
lost son ! ' And so we're second cousins, and you're Char-
ley Stuart ; and Trixy — now who's Trixy ?"

" Trixy's my sister. How do you happen to know any-
thing about her ? "

Edith made a wry face.

" The nights I've spent — the days I've dragged through,
the tortures I've undergone, listening to you shouting for
'Trixy,' would have driven any less well-balanced brain
stark mad ! May I sit down ? Digging in the sunshine, and
rowing with Johnny Ellis is awfully hot work."

" DicminiT in the sunshine is detrimental to the comidex-
ion, and rowing with Johnny Ellis is injurious to the temper.
I object to both."

"Oh, you do?" said Miss Darrell, opening her eyes
again ; " it matters so much, too, whether you object or
not. Johnny Ellis is useful, and sometimes agreeable.
Charley Stuart is neither one nor t'other. If I mayn't dig
and quarrel with him, is there anything your lordship wou'J
like me to do ? "

"You may sit on this footstool at my feet — woman's
pro]ier place — and read me to sleei). That book you were
reading aloud yesterday— what was it? Oh, ' Pendennis,'
was rather amusing— what I heard of it."

" What you heard of it ! " Miss Darrell retorts, indignantly.
"You do well to add that. The man who could go to sU-ep
listening to Thackerav is a man worthy only of contempt
and scorn ! There's Air. Ellis calling me — I must go."

Miss Darrell and Mr. Stuart, in his \)resent state of con-
valescence, rarely met except to quarrel. They spoke their
minds to one another, with a refreshing fiankness remark-
able to hear.

" You remind me of one 1 loved very dearly once, Dithy,"
Charley said to her, sadly, one day, after an unusually
stormy wordy war — " in fact, the only one I ever did love.

A NIGHT IN THE SNOIV.

12:

and

out

lar-

You resemble her, too — the same sort of hair and complex-
ion, and exactly the same sort of — ah — temper! Ilei name
was l''itlo — slie was a black and tan terrier — very like yon,
my dear, very like. Ah ! these accidental resemblances are
cruel things — they tear o])eu half-healed wounds, and cause
tlie:!i to bleed afresh. T'ido met with an untimely end — she
was drowned one dark night in a cistern. I thought I had
outlived t!i(it grief, but when I look at you — "

A stinging box on the ear, given with right good will, cut
short the mournful reminiscence, and brought tears to Mr.
Stuart's eyes, diat were not tears of grief for Fido.

"You wretch!" cried Miss Darrell, with flashing eyes.
" I've a complexion of black and tan, have I, and a tem-
per to match ! Tlie only thing /see to regret in your story
is, that it wasn't Fido's master who fell into the cistern, in-
stead of Fido. To think 1 should live to be called a Luack
and tan ! "

They never met except to quarrel. Edith's inflammatory
temper was up in arms perpetually. They kept the house
in an uncommonly lively state. It seemed to agree with
Charley. His twisted ankle grew strong rapidly, llesh
antl color came back, the world was not to be robbed of
one of its brightest ornaments just yet. He put off writin'r
to his friends from day to day, to the great disapproval oi
Mr. Darrell, who was rather behind the age in his notions of
lilial duty.

"It's of no use worrying," Mr. Stuart made answer, with
the easy insouciance concerning all things earthly which sat
so naturally upon him; " bad shillings always come back —
u't that truthful old adage console them. Why should I
fidget myself about them. Take my word they're not fidget-
ing themselves about me. The governor's absorbed in the
x\m and fall of stocks, the maternal is ui) to her eyes in the
last jiarlies of the season, and my sister is just out and ab-
sorbed body and soul in beaux and dresses. They never
expect me until they see me."

' About the close of April Mr. Stuart and Miss Darrell
fought their last battle and |)arted. He went back to New
York and to his own world, and life stagnant and Hat llowed
back on its old level for Edith Darrell.

Stagnant and ilat it had always been, but never half so

126

A NIGHT IN THE SNOIV.

dreary as now. Something had come into her life and gone
out of it, something briglit and new, and wondei fully pleas-
ant. There was a great blank wliere Charley's handsome
face had been, and all at once life seemed to lose its relish
for this girl of sixteen. A restlessness took possession of
of her. Sandypoint and all belonging to it grew distastt Uil.
Sh'i wanted change, excitement — Charley Stuart, perhaps—
something ditlerent certainly from what she was used to, or
likely to get.

Charley went home and told the "governor," and the
"maternal," and "Trixy" of his adventure, and the girl
who had saved his life. Miss Beatrix listened in a glow of
admiration.

" Is she pretty, Charley ? " she asked, of course, the first
inevitable female question.

••i:'retty?" Charley responded, meditatively, as though
the idea struck him for the first time. " Well, ye-e-es. In
a cream-colored sort of way, Edith isn't bad-looking. It
would be very nice of you now, Trix, to write her a letter, I
think, seeing she saved my life, and nursed me, and is your
second cousm, and everything."

Beatrix needed no urging. She was an impetuous, en-
thusiastic young woman of eighteen, fearfully and wonder-
fully addicted to correspondence. She sat down and wrote a
long, gushing letter to her " cream-colored " cousin. Mrs.
Stuart dropped her a line of thanks al.io, and C'nirley, of
course, wrote, and there her adventure seemed to come to an
end. Miss Stuart's letters were longand frecjuent. Mr. Stuart's
rambling epistle alternately made her laugh and lose her tem-
l)er, a daily loss with poor, discontented Edith. With the fine
discrimination most men possess, he sent her, on her seven-
teent! .rthday, a set of turquoise and pearls, which made
her sallow complexion hideous, or, at least, as hideous as
anything can make a pretty girl. That summer he ran
down to Sandypoint for a fortnight's fishing, and an oasis
came suddenly in the desert of Edith's life. She and C'har-
ley might quarrel still, and I am bound to say they did, on
every |)ossible occasion and on every possible point, but
they were never satisfied a moment apart.

The fortnight ended, the fish were caught, he went back,
and the dull days and the long nights, the cooking, darning.

TJi/XV'S /"ARTY.

127

mending began again, and went on until madness would
liave been a relief. It was the old story of the Sleeping
Ijeauty waiting for tlie prince to come, and wake her into
into life and love with iiis kisri. Only in this instance the
prince had coaie and gone, and left ijeauty, in the sulks, be-
ll in d.

Slie was eighteen years old and sick of her life. And
just when disgust and discontent were taking palpable form,
and she was debating between a jump into Sandypoint bay
and running off, came Chaiivy, with his mother's letter.
From that hour the story of Edith Darrell's life began.

g. Jt

:ttcr, I

your

CHAPTER III.

TRIXYS PARTY.

"S^

WO weeks sufiiced for Miss Darrell's preparations.
A quantity of n>i\v linen, three new dresses, one
hat, one spring sacque — that was all.

Mr. Darrell had consented — what was there ho
could have refused his darling? He had consented, hilling
the bitter l>ang it cost him, deep in his own quiet heart. Jt
was the loss of her mother over again ; the tender passion
and the jiresent Mrs. Darrell were two facts perfectly
incompatible.

Mrs. Darrell aided briskly in the ])reparation — to tell the
truth, she was not sorry to be rid of her step-daughter, be-
tween whom and herself perpetual war raged. Edith as a
worker was a failure ; she went about the dingy house, in
her dingy dresses, with the air of an out-at-elbows duchess.
She snubbed the boarders, she boxed the juvenile Darrell's
ears, she " sassed " the mistress of the house.

" It speaks volumes for your amiability, Dithy," Charley
remarked, " the intense eagerness and deligiit, with whicii
everybody in this establishment hails your departure. Four
dirty little Darrells run about the j)assages with their war-
whoop, 'Dithy's going — hooray! Now we'll have fun!'
Vour step-mother's sere and yellow visage beans with bliss;

128

TRIXY'S PAR TV.

even the young gentlemen who are lodged and boarded,
Grcek-cd aTiJ Latin-cd here, wear faces of ^;u[)|)re^sell relief,
that tells I'.a cwa tale to the student of luimau nature.
Your welfare must be un.s|)eakal)ly precious to tiieui, I'klie,
when they bea.r their approaching bereavement so well."

lie paused. The speech was a lengthy one, and lengthy
speeches mostly exhausted Mr. Sluait. He lay back,
watching h;s fair relative as she sat sewing near, with lazy,
halt'- closed ej'es.

Her work dropped in her lap, a faint flush rose up over
her dusk face.

*' Charley." she responded, gravely, " I don't wonder you
say this — it is true, and nobody feels it more than I. 1 am
a disagreeable creature, a selfish nuisance, an idle, discon-
tented kill-joy. I only wonder, you are not afraid to take
nie with you at all."

Mr. Stuart sat up, rather surprised.

" My dearest coz, don't be so tremendously in earnest.
If I had thought you were going to take it seriously — "

" Let us be serious for once — we have all our lives left
for quarreliirsg,'' said .Miss Darrell, as though quarrelling
were a pleasant recreation. " I sit down antl try to think
sometimes why I am so miserable— so wretched in my
present l:fe, why I hail the prospect of a new one with
such delight I see oiiier girls — nicer, cleverer girls than 1
am every \vay, and their lives suffice for them — the daily,
domestic routine that is most horrible drudgery to me,
pleases and satisfies them. It must be that 1 have an inca-
pacity for life ; I daresay when the novelty and gloss wear
off, I shall tire equally of the life I am going to. A new
dress, a dance, a beau, and the hoi)e of a prospective hus-
band sufiices for the girls I speak of, l'"or me — none of
your sarcastic smiles, sir — the thought of a future husband
is—"

"Only vanity and vexation of spirit. ]?ut there is a
future husband. Vou are forced to admit that, Dithy. I
wonder what he is to be like ? A modern Sir Laimcelot,
with the beauty of all the gods, the courage of a Cceur de
Lion, tlie bow of a Chesterfield, and the purse of Fortu-
natus. Tiiafs the photo, isn't it?"

" No, sir — not a bit like it. The purse of a Fortunatus,

TRixY's Party.

129

if you like — I ask nothing more. The Sir Launcclots of
life, if they exist at all, are mostly poor men, and I don't
want anything to do with poor men. My marriage is to he
a purely business transaction — I settled i/tai long ago. He
may have the form and face of a Satyr; he :iay have sev-
enty years, so that he be worth a million or so, 1 will drop
my best courtesy when he asks, and say, 'Yes, and ihanky,
sir.' If the Apollo himself, knelt before me, with an
eini)ty purse, I should turn my back upon him in jiity and
di^dain."

" Is that meant for me, Edie ? " Mr. Stuart inquired,
rising on his elbow, and admiringly gazing at his own
handsome face in the glass. " Because if it is, don't e.\-
cite 3-ourself. Forewarned is forearmed — I'm not going to
ask you."

" I never thought you were," Edith said, laughing. " I
never aspired so high. As well love some bright particular
star, etcetera, etcetera, as the only son of James Stuart,
Esquire, lineal descendant of the Princes of Scotland, and
hanker of Wall Street. No, Charley, I know whatjw/ will
do. You'll drift through life for the next three or four
years, as you have drifted up to the present, well looking,
well dressed, well mannered, and then some day your father
will come to you and say gruffly, 'Charles!' (lulith grows
dramatic as she narrates — it is a husky masculine voice that
speaks:) ' Here's. iMiss Petroleum's father, with a million and
a halt" — ^only child — order a suit of new clothes and go and
ask her to marry you ! ' And you will look at him with a
helpless sigh, anil go. Your father will select your wife, sir,
and you'll take her, like a good boy, when you're told. I
slicnildn't wonder now, but that it is to select a wife for you,
and a husband for Trixy, he is taking this projected trip to
l"uro]ie."

"Shouldn't you? Neither should I. Never wonder.
Against my principles." Charley murmurs.

"There are plenty of titled aristocracy abroad — so I am
told — ready to silver-gild their coronets by a union with
lilutocracy. Plenty Lady Janes and Lady xVIarys ready to
sell themselves to the highest bidder."

"As Edith Darrell is?"

" As Edith Darrell is. It's all very fine talking of love
G*

130

TniXY'S PARTY.

and devotion, and the emptiness of life without. Believe
me, if one has plenty of money one can dispense with love.
I've read a good many novels, but they haven't tuinei.! my
head on i/iat subject. From all I've read, indeed, I slxuild
think it must be a very imcomfortable sort of intermittent
fever, indeed. Don't love anybody excei)t yourself, and it
is out of the power of any human being to make you very
wretched."

" A sentiment whose truth is only equaled by its — selfish-
ness."

" Yes, it is selfish ; and it is your thoroughly selfish
pcojile, who get the best of everything in this world. I am
selfish and worldly — ambitious and heartless, and all that is
abominable. I may as well own it. You'll find it out- for
yourself soon."

"A most unnecessary acknowledgment, my dear child — ■
it is patent to the dullest observer, liut, now, Edith — look
here — this is serious, mind I" He raises himself again on •
his elbow, and looks, with a curious smile into her darkly-
earnest, cynical young face. " Suppose I am madly in love
with you — 'madly in love' is the correct phrase, isn't it? —
suppose I am at your feet, going through all the phases of
the potential mood, 'commanding, exhorting, entreating'
you to marry me — you wouldn't say no, would you, I'^die?
You like me — don't deny it. You know you do— like me
well enough to marr)' me to-morrow, \yould you refuse
me in spite of my dependence on my father, and my empty
purse ? "

He took her hand, and held it tightly, desi)ite h r strug-
gles.

" Would you, Fxlie?" he says, putting his arm around her
waist. "I'm not a sentimental fellow, but 1 believe in love.
Come I you wouldn't — you couldn't bid ine go."

Her color had risen — that lovely rose-pink color, that lit
her brunette face into such beauty — but she resolutely
freed herself, and met his half-tender, half-merry glance,
full.

" I would," she said, " if I — liked you so, that you filled
my whole heart. Let me go, sir, and no more of this non-
sense. I know what I am talking about, and what conies
of marrying for love. There was my own mother, she left

T/e/XV'S PARTY.

131

a rich and luxurious home, wealthy suitors, all the comforts
and elegances of life, without wliicli life isn't worth living,
and ran away with papa. 'J'iien followed long years of pov-
erty, discomfort, illness, and miserable grubbing. She never
complained — perhaps she wasn't even very unhajipy ; hcr's
wasn't the sort of love that Hies out of the window when
l)overty comes in at the door — she just faded away and died.
For myself I \\fvc been dissatisfied with my lot ever since
1 can remember — pining for the glory and grandeur of this
wicked world. There is but one way in which they can
ever be mine — by marriage. If marriage will not bring
them, then I will go to my grave Edith Darrell."

"Which I don't think you will," Mr. Stuart responded.
" Yomig ladies like you, who set out on tiie searcii niatri-
moiii.il with lots of common-sense, worldliness, selfishness,
and mercenary motives, generally reach the goal. It's a
fair enough exchange — so much youth and good looks for
so many thousand dollars. I wish you all success. Miss
Darrell, in your laudable undertaking. It is well we should
understand each other, at once and forever, or even I some
day might be tempted to make a fool of myself. Your ex-
cellent counsels, my dearest cousin, will be invaluable to me,
should my lagging footsteps falter by the way. Edith ! where
have you learned to be so hard, so worldly, so — if you will
pardon me — so unwomanly?"

"Is it unwomanly r"' she repeated dreamily. "Well,
perhaps it is. I am iionest at least — give me credit for that.
My own hard life has taught inc, books have taught me,
looking at my mother and listening to my step-mother have
taught me. I feel old at eighteen — old and tired. I am
just one of those girls, I think, who turn out very good or
very bad women, as fixte deals with them. It's not too late
yet to draw back, Charley. Your mother can easily get
another young lady to do the French and German business.
You can tell her I don't suit, and leave me at liome."

" Not too late to draw back," he said, with his indolent
smile. " Is there ever such a thing as drawing back at al! ?
What is done is done. I couldn't go without you now, if I
tried. O, don't look alarmed, I don't mean anything. You
amuse and interest me, that is all. You're something of a
study — entirely diflfcrent from the genus young lady I'm ac-

133

TJiJXY'S PARI v.

customed to. Only — keep yni'r frankness for Cousin Char-
ley, lie's harmless; don't dis|ilay U to tlie rest of the workl.
It might spoil your cliaiices. I'-ven senile millionnuires ilon't
care to walk into the traj), unless die springs are hitldeii in
roses. Come, throw down that endless sewing, and let's
have a walk on the beach. W'lio knows when we may sec
the Sim go down, together again, over the classic waters of
Sandypoint J>ay." *

ICdith laughed, but she rose to obey.

" And I thought you were not sentimental, One would
think it the Bay of Naples. However, as we start to-mor-
row, I don't mind going down and bidding the old rocks and
sands good-by."

She put on her hat, and the two went wandering away
together, to watch the sun set over the sea. In the rosy
light of the spring sunset, the fishing boats drifted on the
shining waters, and the fisherman's chant came borne to
their ears.

" It reminds me of that other April evening two years
ago, Dithy, when we came down here to say good-by. You
cried then at parting — do you remember? ]5ut you were
only sixteen, poor child, and knew no bett':v. You wouldn't
cry now, would you, for any man in the ur.iv'.irse ? "

" Not for Charley Stuart certainly — he iv^edn't think it."

" He doesn't think it, my pet ; he never looks for impos-
sibilities. 1 wonder if that night in the snow were to come
again if you'd risk your life now, as you did then ? "

" Risk my life I What bosh 1 Tliere was no risk ; and
bad as I am, and heartless as I've grown, I don't think — 1
don't think I'd walk away, and leave any poor wretch to
die. Yes, Charley, if the night in the snow came over
again, I'd do now as I did then."

" I don't believe it was a kindness after all," Charley re-
sponds. " I have a presentiment that a day will come,
Dithy, when I'll hate you. 1 shouldn't have suffered much
if you had let me freeze to deatii. And I've a strong ])re-
science (is that the word) that I'll fiill in love with you some
day, and be jilted, and undergo untold torture, and hate you
with a perfect freiizy. It will be a very fatiguing experience,
but I feel in my bu.ies that it is to be."

" Indeed ! A Saul among the prophets. I shall not be

Th'LXY'S PARTY.

133

and

surprised, however ; it is my iisiKil fate to he liatcd. And
now, as we scciii to have thifted into disagreeable and per-
sonal sorv jf talk, suppose we change the subject? There
is a dory jonder; if your indolent sultanship can hear the
lab )r of steering, I'll give you a last row across the hay."

'I'liey tai;e the dory and glide away. Charley lies back,
his hat pulled over his eyes, smoking a cigar and steering.
She has the oars, the red sunlight is on her face, l-ldith de-
fies tan and sunburn. She looks at lazy Charley, and sings
as she pulls, a saucy smile of det'iancc on her lips :

*' It was on a Monday morning,

KiL;lit t-aily in llie year,
That (_ liailcy caino to our town,

'I'lic youii;^ Clii-'valicr.
Anil Charley he's my (hurling,

My (laiHni;, '"Y iharliiip ;
And Cliarlcy lie's my darling,

Tile young Clievaiier ! "

What Charley answers is not on record. Perhaps the
aged milliop.naire, who is to be the future happy possessor of
Miss Darrell's charms, would not care to hear it. They
drift on — they are together— they ask no more. The rosy
after-glow of the sunset fades out, the night comes white
with stars, the faint spring wind sighs over the bay, and both
are silent. " And," says Charley's inner consciousness, " if
this he not falling in love, 1 wonder what is? "

They linger yet longer. It is the last night, and roman-
tically enough, for so worldly and cynical a pair, they watch
the faint little April moon rise. Kdith looks over her left
shoulder at it, and says something under her breath.

"What invocation are you murmuring there?" Charley
asks, half asleep.

" 1 was wishing. I always wish when I see the new
moon."

" For a rich husband of course, Edie ! " He sits up sud-
denly. "There's the baronet ! Sui)pose you go for him."

" ' Go for him ! " What a horribly vulgar way you have
of speaking. No. I'll leave him for Trixy. Have you
had enough of starlight and moonlight, Mr. Stuart, on Sandy-
point Bay, because I'm going to turn and row home. I've

134

TRIXY'S PARTY.

had no supper, and I shall eat you if we stay here fasting
imich longer."

She rows back, and arm in arm they ascend tlic rocky
path, and hnger one last moment at the garden gate.

" So ends the old life," Edith says, softly. " It is my last
night at home. I ought to feel sad, I suppose, but 1 don't.
I never felt so happy in my life."

He is holding her hand. For two who are not lovers, and
never mean to be, they understand each other wonderfully
well.

"And remember your promise," he answers. "Let the
life that is coming bring what it may, you are never to blame
me."

Then Mrs. Darrell's tall, spare figure ajjpears in the
moonlight, summoning them sharply to tea, and hands are
unclasped, and in silence they follow hej.

The first train from Sandyjioint to Boston bears away
Edith Darrell and Charley Stuart. Not alone together,
however — forbid it Mrs. (Irundy ! Mrs. Rogers, the Sandy-
])oint milliner, is going to New York for the sununer fashions,
and the young lady travels under her protection. They
reach ]5oston in time for the train that coimects with the
Tail River boats. It has been a day of brightest sunshine ;
it is a lovely spring night. They dine on board. Mrs.
Rogers is sleepy and tired and goes to bed (she and Edilh
share the same state-room), with a last charge to Mr. Stu-
art not to keep Miss Darrell tooMong on deck in the nigiit air.

They lloat grandly up the bright river. Two wandering
harpists and a violinist play very sweetly near them, and
they walk up and down, talking and feeling uncounnonly
hai)py and free, until Charley's watch points to eleven, and
the music comes to a stop. They say good-night. She goes
to Mrs. Rogers and the upper berth, and Mr. Stuart medita-
tively turns to his own. He is thinking, that all thir.gs con-
sidered, it is just .,s well tiiis particularly fascinating com-
panionship, ends in a manner to-morrow.

To-morrow comes. It is Miss Beatrix Stuart's birthday.
The great party is to be tonight. They shake hands and
part with Airs. Rogers on the pier. Charley hails a hack
and assists his cousin in, and they are whirled off to the
l>alatial aveime up-lown.

TKIXY'S PARTY.

135

Tlic house is a stately brown-stone front, of course, and
on a sunny corner. Edith leans back, quite silv-nt, her
heart beating as siie looks. 'I'lie wiiirl, the crash, the rush
of New York streets stun her, the statcliness of the Stuart
mansion awes her. Siie is very pale, her lii)s are set to-
gether. She turns to Charley suddenly, and holds out her
hands to him as a helpless child might.

" 1 feel lost already, and — and ever so little afraid. How
big and grand it looks. Don't desert ine, Charley. I feel
as though I were astray in a strange land."

He squeezes the little hand, he whispers something reas-
suring, and life and color come back to her face.

" Make your mind easy, Dithy," is what he says. " Like
Mrs. Mieawber, ' I'll never desert you. ' "

He rings the door bell sharply, a smart-looking young
wmnan admits them, and Edilli goes with hiu) into a splen-
did and spacious apartment, where three people sit at break-
fist. Peiliaps it is the garish sunshine, si)arkling on so much
cut glass and silver, liial dazzles Edith's eyes, but f'jr a min-
ute she can see noliiing. Tiien the mist clears away, ihe
trio have risen — aiiomi)ous-looking old gentleman in a shi,^!ng
bald head and expansive white vest, a pallid, feeble-looking
elderly lady in a lace cap, and a tall, stylish girl, with Charley's
eyes and hair, in violet ribbons and white cashmere. The
bald gentlemen shakes hands witli her, and welcomes her in
a huhky baritone ; tiie faded, elderly lady, and stylish young
lady kiss her, and say some very pleasant and gracious
words. As in a dream Edith sees ami hears all — as in a
dieam she is led olf by Beatrix.

" 1 shall take you to your room myself I only hope you
may like it. The furniture and arrangement are my tisle,
every bit. Oh you dear darling ! " cries Miss Stuart, stopping
in the passage to give Edith a hug. " You don't know bow-
frightened I've been tliat you wouldn't come. I'm in love
with you already ! And what a iieroine you are — a real
Crace — what's-iier-name — saving Charley's life and all that.
And best of all, you're in time for tiie ball — wh'ch i--. a
riiyme, thougli 1 didn't mean it.'' Slie laughs and sudilen'y
gives Edith another hug. " You pretty creature ! " she says;
" I'd no idea you were half so good-looking. I asked

136

TRIXY'S PARTY.

Cliarley, but you might as well ask a lamp-post as Charley.
Here is yt'ur room — how do you like it ? ''

She would have been diflicult to please indeed, if she had
not liked it. To Edith's inexperienced eyes, it is a glowing
nest of amber silk curtains, yellowisii Brussclls car[)et, lint>:d
■Wiiiis, i)ietty pictures, gilt frames, mirrors, ornaments, and
dainty French bed.

" Do you like it? But I see by your face you do. I'm
so glad. This is my room adjoining, and here's your bath.
Now lay off your things and come down to breakfast."

Still in a clream Edith obeys. She descends to breakf.ist
in her gray travelling suit, looking pale, and not at all bril-
liant. Miss Stuart, who has had her doubts, that this country
cousin may prove a rival, is reassured. She takes her
breakfast, and then Beatrix conducts her over the iiouse — a
wonder of si)lendor, of velvet carpets, magnificent ujjIioI-
stering, lace drai)ings, gilding and ormolu. But her face
keeps its pale, grave look. Trixy wonders if slie is not a
stupid little body after all. Last of all they reach the sacred
inivacy of Trixy's own room, and there she displays her
ball dress. She expiates on its make aiul its merits, in pro-
fessional language, and with a volubility that makes Edith's
head swim.

"It is made with a court train, trimmed with a deep
ilounce, waved in the lower cr\ge, and this llounce is trimmed
with four narrow flounces, edged with narrow point lace.
The sides arc en rcvcrs, with sashes tied in butterfly bow in
the centre of the back, below the puffing of the skirt near
the waist. The front of the skirt is trimmed to correspond
with the train, the short apron, flounced and trimmed wiih
l)oint lace, gathered up at the sides, under the rrcers on tiie
train. The waist is high in the shoulders, V shaped in front
and back, with small flowing sleeves, finished with jilaiiings
of white silk tulle. And now," cries Trixy, breathless and
triumjjhant, 'if ///r?/ doesn't fetch the baronet, you may tell
me what will ! The pearls are sui)erb — liere they are.
Pearls are en regie for weddings only, but how was poor
pa to know that? Arn't they lovely?"

They lie in their cloudy luster, necklet, earrings, bracelet.

"Lovely!" Edith repeats; "lovely indeed. Beatrix,
what a fortunate girl you are."

dill
up
thci

TRIXY'S PARTY.

Tliore IS a touch of envy in her tone. Beatrix lauglis,
and giw's her a third hug.

"Why? l>ecause 1 have pearls? Bless yon! they're
nothing. You'll have diamonds beyond counting yourself,
one of those days. You'll marry ricii, of course — brunettes
are all the style now, and you're sure to look lovely by
g„i ;ht. Wliat are you going to wear to-night?"

:''n like flora Mcl'limsey," Edith laughs; "I have
ii ' ..,,g to wear. There is a white Swiss muslin in my
trunk, but 't will look w'ofully rustic and dowdy, I'm afraid,
in your gorgeous drawing-t-ooms."

'• .Vonsense ! Plain Swiss is always in taste for gi'ls of
cigl'tecn. I wore it greatly my first season. T)o you know
I feci awfully old, Edith — twenty-one to-nighi I tnusi do
something toward settling before the year ends. Let us see
the white Swiss. Now there is a lovely amber tissue I have
— it isn't my color. 1 never wore it but once> and it would
suit you exactly. Lucy, my inaid, is a perfect dress-maker,
and could alter it to fit you easily before — Now, Edith !
you're not angry ? "

J'or the color has risen suddenly all over Edith's proud,
pale face.

" You hav;; .rude a mistake. Miss Stuart, that is all —
meant kind .-, i a 'i sure. If my white muslin is admissible,
1 will weii .' not, I can keep to my room. r)Ut neither

now, nor m .■ fu re time, can 1 accej)! — charity."

Trixy gives .■ 1 ilc shriek at the word, and inflicts a fourth
hug on Edith, l'k is the soul of easy good-nature herself,
and ready to take anything and everything that is offered
her, from a husband to a bouciuet.

" Bless the child I " ^' exclaims. " Charity ! As if any
one ever thought of such a thing. It's just like me, how-
over, to make a mess of it. 1 mean well, but somehow I
always do make a mess of it. And mv pioplietic soul tells
uie, the case of Sir Victor Catheron will be no excei)tion to
the rest

The I'u" wears on. Edith drives down town, shopjiing
with Mad ,3 'nii Afademoiselle Stuart; she returns, and
dines instate with the fiimily. The big, brown house is lit
up from basement to attic, and presently they all adjourn to
their rooms to dress.

138

TRIXY'S PARTY.

" Don't ask me to appear while you are receiving your
guests," Edith says. " I'll step in unobserved, when every-
body has come."

She decline. aU offers of assistance, and dresses herself.
It is a siinj)le . ' rely — the crisp white nnihiin, out of

which the pol'she.. ilders rise; a little gold chain and

cross, once her mo .'r's ; earrings and biai:elet of gold
and coral, also once her mother's ; and her rich, abundant,
blackish-brown hair, gathered back in a graceful way peculiar
to herself. She looks very pretty, and she knows it. Pres-
ently sails in Miss Stuart, resi)lendent in the pink silk and
pearls, the " court train " trailing two or three yards behinil
her, her light hair " done up " in a pyramid wonderful to
behold, and loaded with camelias.

" How do I look, Dithy ? This strawberry-ice jjink is
awfully becoming to me, isn't it? And you — why, you
look lovely — lovely I I'd no idea you made up so hand-
somely. Ah ! wc blondes have no chance by gaslight, against
you brunettes."

She sweeps downstairs in her rose-colored splendor, and
Edith is alone. She sits by the open window, and looks out
at the night life of the great city. Carnage after carriage
roll up to the door, and somehow, in the midst of all this
life, and brightness, and bustle, a strange feeling of loneli-
ness and isolation comes over her. Is it the old chronic
discontent cro[)iiing up again? If it were only not im-
proper for Charley to come up here and sit beside her,
and smoke, in the sweet spring dusk, and be sarcastic as
usual, what a comfort it would be just now! Somehow
— "how it comes let doctors tell" — that restless familiar of
hers is laid when he is by her side — never lonely, never dis-
contented then. As she thinks this, innocently enough,
despite all h -r worldly wisdom, there is a tap at the door,
and Lucy, the maid, comes smilingly in, holding an exquisite
boiupiet, all ])iiik and white roses, in her hand.

*' Mr. Charles' com])liments, please, miss, and he's waiting
for you at the foot of the stairs, when you're ready, miss,
for tlie ball room."

She starts and colors with pleasure.

"Thank you, J.ucy!" she says, taking the bouquet.
" Tell Mr. Stuart I will be down in u monient."

TRIXY'S PARTY.

139

The p;ii"l leaves the room.

Wiih a smile on her face it is just as well " Mr. Charles"
ilofs not see, she stands looking at her roses ; then she
buries her face, almost as bright, in their dewy sweet-
ness.

'•Dear, thoughtful Charley!" she whisj^ers gratefully.
"What would ever have become of nie but for him ?"

She selecis one or two bits of scarlet blossom and green
spray, and artistically twists them in the rich vi'aves of her
hair. She takes one last glance at her own pretty image
in the mirror, sees that fan, lacehandkercliief, and adorn-
ment generally, are in their places, and then trips away and
goes down.

In elegant evening costume, looking unutterably hand-
some and well-dressed, Mr. Charles Stuart stands at the foot
of the grand stairway, wailing. He looks at her as she
stands in the full glare of the gasaliers.

"White nnislin, gold and coral, pink roses, and no chig-
non. My dear Mi>s Darrell, taking you as a whole, I think
1 have seen worse-looking youi'g women in my life."

lie draws her hand through his arm, wiih this enthusiastic
remark, and Julilli fin<ls herself in a blaze of light and a
ciowd of brilliantly dressed people. Three long drawing-
rooms are thrown o{)^:n, en suilc \ beyond is the b-.H-room,
with its wa.xed floors and invi.->ible musicians. Flowers, gas-
light, jewels, handsouK; women, and gallant men are every- .
where ; the band is crashing out a jnilse tingling waltz, and
still I'.dilh hears and sees, and moves in a dream.

" Come," Charley says. His arm is around her waist,
and they whirl away among the waltzers. Edith waltzes
well, so does Charley. She feels as though she were float-
ing on air, not on earth. Then it is over, and she is being
introduced to people, to resplendent young ladies and al-
most equally resplendent young gentlemen. Charley
resii^ns her to one of these latter, and she glid 's through a
mn/urka. That too ends, and as it j^rows rather warm, her
|>artner leads her away to a cool music-room, whence pro-
ceed melodious sounds. It is Trixy at the piano, informing
a select audience in shrill sojirano, and in the character of
the "Queen of the May," that "She had been wild and
wayward, but she w.i.i not wayward pou'T Edith's partner

I40

" UNDER THE GASLIGHT:'

finds her a scat and volunteers to go for an ice. As she
sits fanning herself, hhe sees Charley ai)proaching with a
young uKui of about his own age, taiier than he is— fairer,
witii a look altogether somehow of a different nationality.
lie has large blue eyes, very fair hair, aud the blondest of
coniplexi'ins. Instinctively she knows who it is.

"Ah, Ktlith," Charley says, "here you are. I have been
scarciniig for you. Miss Darrell, allow me to present to you
Sir Victor Catheron."

CHAPTER IV.

UNDER THE GASLIGHT.

|WO darkly solemn eyes look up into Sir Victor
Catheron's fiice. Both bow. Both murmur ti)e
pianissimo inibecility requisite on such occasions,
and Edith Darrell is acquainted with a baronet.

With a baronet ! Only yesterday, as it were, she was
darning hose, and ironing linen at home, going about the
dismal house slipshod and slatternly. Now she is in the
midst of a brilliant ball, diamonds sparkling around Iier, and
an English baronet of fabulous wealth and ancestry asking
her for the fxvor of tiie next wait/. ! Something ridiculous
and absurd about it all, struck her ; she felt an idiotic desire
to laugh aloud. It was all unreal, all a dream. She would
awake presently, to hear her step-mother's shrill call to
come and help in the kitchen, and the howls of tlie
juvenile Darrells down the passage. A familiar voice rouses
her.

" You'll not forget, I hope, Edith," Charley is saying, " tliat
next redowa is mine. At present I am g'Mug to meander
through the lancers with Mrs. Featherbrain."

He takes her tal;lets, coolly writes his name, smiles,
shows his white teeth, says " Au revoir," and is gone. She
and the baronet are alone.

What .shall she say to him ? She feels a whimsical sort of
trepidation as she llutters her fan. As yet the small-talk of
society, is Sanscrit, to this young lady from Sandypoint. Sir

" UNDER THE GASLIGHTS

141

Victor leans lightly against tlie arm of her chair, and lool^s
down upon her as she sits, with ihished checks, half smiHng
lips, and long black lashes drooping. He is thiiiliiiig
\vh;it a wonderfully bright and charming face it is — for a
brunette.

For Sir Victor Cathcron does not fancy brunettes. I le
lias his ideal, and sees in her the future Lady C.'atiieron. \\\
far-off Cheshire there is a certain l.ady Ciwendoline ; she is
an earl's daughter, the owner of two soft bkie eyes, a
complexion of pink and snow, a soft, trained voice and
fcatliery halo of amber hair. Lady (IwendoHne is his ideal
of f.iir, sweet womanhood, turning coldly from all the rest
of the world to hold out her arms to one happy possessor.
The vision of Lady Gwendoline as he saw her last, the morn-
ing sunshine searching her fair English face and finding no
flaw in it, rises for a second before him — why, he does not
know. Then a triumphal burst of music crashes out, and
lie is looking down once more upon Edith Darrell, in her
white dress and coral ornaments, her dark hair and pink
roses.

" You seem quite like an old acquaintance. Miss Darrell,"
he; says, in his slow, pleasant, English accented voice ; " our
mutual friend, the orinci., lias told me about his adventure in
the snow, and your heroism."

" The prince ?" she repeats, interrogatively, and Sir Vic-
tor laughs.

" Ah ! you don't know. They call him the prince here —
Prince Charlie. I don't know why, I'm sure, unless it be
j that his name is Charles Edward Stuart, and that he is the
prince of good fellows. You have no idea how delighted I
am that he — that the whole family are going across with us
in May. You accompany them. 1 understand, Miss Dar-
Irell?"

" .\s companion and interpreter on the continent," Miss
jDarrt'll answers, looking up at him very steadily. "Yes."

"And yon will like the continent, I know," Sir Victor
50CS on. " You will like Paris, of course. All Americans go
Ito Paris. You will meet scores of your countrymen in every
continental city."

' I am not sure that that is an advantage," responds the
I'Oung lady coolly. " About my liking it, there can be no

142

" UNDER THE GASLIGHT.''

question. It has been the dream of my life — a dream I
thought a? likely to be realized a month ago, as that I slioiild
take a trip to the moon. For yon, Sir Victor, I suppose
every nook and corner of Europe, is as familiar to you, as your
own native Cheshire ? '

The brown brilliant e\'es look up at him frankly. She is
at her ease at last, and Sir Victor thinks again, what beauti-
ful eyes, brown eyes are. For a dark young jjcrson, she is
really the most attractive young person, he has ever met,

"Cheshire," he repeats with a smile, "how well you know
my birihulace. No, not my birthplace exacily, for I was born
in Ix)iidon. I'm a cockrey, Miss Darrell. JJefore you all go
abroad, you are to come and spend a week or two down in
my sunny Cheshire ; both my aunt and I insist upon it. You
don't know how many kindnesses — how many pleasant days
and nights we owe to our friends, the Stuarts. It shall be
our endeavor when we reach England to repay them in kind.
May I ask. Miss Darrell, if you have met my aunt ? "

" No," Edidi replies, lluttering a little again. " I have not
even seen Lady Ilelena as yet."

"Then allow me tlie pleasure of making you acquainted.
I think you will like her. I am very sure she will like
you."

The color deepens on Edith's dark cheek ; she arises and
takes his proffered ann. How gracefully deferential and
courteous he is. It is all custom, no doubt, and means
nothing, but it is wonderfully pleasant and flattering. For
the moment it seems as though he were conscious of no
Other young lady in the scheme of creation than Miss Dar-
rell — a tlirting way a few young men cultivate.

They walk slowly down the long brilliant rooms, and
many eyes turn and look after them. F^very one knows
the cxtremly bl<)nde young baronet — the dark damsel on his
arm is as yet a stranger to most of them. " Dused pretty
girl, you know," is the unaniu)ous verdict of masculine New
York; "who is she?" "Who is that young lady in the
dowdy white muslin and old fashioned corals ? " asks fem-
inine New York, and both stare as they receive the same
whispered reply: "A i)i)()r relation — a country cousin, or
something of the sort, going to Europe with them as com-
panion to Beatrix."

" UNDER THE GASLIGHT:'

143

Edith sees the looks, and the color deejiens to carnation
in her face. Her brown eyes gleam, she lifts her head with
iKiugiity grace, and (lashes baci< almost defiance at tliese in-
solent starers. She feels what it is they are saying of her,
and Sir Victor's high breil couitesy and deference, go to the
very depths of her heart by contrast. She likes him ; he in-
terests her already; tiiere is something in his face, she can
liardly tell what, — a sort of sombre shadow that underlies all
his smiling society manner. In repose and solitude, the
prevailing expression of that face will be melanclioly, and
yet why? Surely at three-and-twenty, life can have shown
nothing but her sunshine and roses, to this curled darling of
fortune.

• A stout, elderly lady, in gray moire and chantilly lace, sits
on a sort of a throne of honor, beside Mrs. Stuart, and a
for„'ij;n gentleman, from Washington, all ribbons and orders.
Tu this stout, elderly lady, as Lady Helena Powyss, his aunt,
Sir V^ictor i)resents Miss Darrell.

The kindly eyes of the Paiglish lady turn upon the dark,
handsome face of tb.e American girl ; the pleasant voice says
a {^iw pleasant words. Miss Darrell bows gracefully, lin-
gers a few moments, is presented to the ribbon-and-starred
foreigner, and learns he is Russian Ambassador at Washing-
ton. Then the music of their dance strikes up, both smil-
ingly make their .adieux, and hasten to the ball-room.

Up and down the long waxed room, in and out with gor-
geous young New York, in all the hues of the rainbow, the air
heavy with perfume, the matchless Goimod waltz music crash-
ing over all, on the arm of a baronet — worth, how much did
Trixy say ? thirty or forty thousand a year ? — around her slim
white muslin waist. Edith is in her dream still — she does
not want to wake — Trixy whirls by, tlushed and breathless,
and nods latighingly as she disappears. Charley, looking
calm and languid even in the dance, Hits past, clas])ing gay
little Mrs. Featherbrain, and gives her a patronizing nod.
.'\nd luiith's thought is — " If this could only go on forever I "
But the golden moments of life tly — the leaden oneis only
lag —we all know Uiat to our cost. The waltz ends.

■'A most delicious waltz," says Sir Victor gayly. "I thought
(Imcing bored me — I find I like it. How well you waltz,
Mi.;s Darrell, like a Parisienne — but all .\inerican young

144

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ladies arc like Frenchwomen. Take this seat, and let me
fetch you a water ice."

He leads her to a chair and departs. As she sits there,
half smiling and llutli-rinn her fan, looking ver)' lovely, Ciiar-
ley saunters up with his late i)artner. " If your royal high-
ness will permit," cries Mrs. Featherbrain, laughing and
panting, "I will take a seat. How cool and comfortable
you look, Miss Darrell. May I ask what you have done
with Sir Victor ? "

" Sir Victor left me here, and told me he would go for a
water ice. If I look cool, it is more than 1 feel — the ther-
mometer of this room must stand at a hundred in the
shade."

" A water ice," repeats Mrs. Featherbrain with a sigh ;
" just what I have been longing for, this past half hour.
C'harley, 1 heard yoii say something about bringing me one,
some time ago, didn't 1 ? But 1 know of old what you're
promises are worth. You know the adage, Miss Darrell —
never more true than in this instance, ' Put not your trust
in princes.' "

Miss Darrell's dark, disdainful eyes look full at the frivo-
lous young matron. Mrs. Featherbrain and Mr. Stuart have
been devoted to each other all the evening.

" I know tlie adage," she answers cooly, " but I confess I
don't see tiie ai)plication."

"What! don't you know Charley's sobriquet of Prince
Charley ? Why he has been the Prince ever since he was
five years old, i)artly on account of his absurd name, partly
because of iiis absurd grand seigneur airs. I think it fits —
don't you ? "

"And if I were Prince," Charley interposes, before Miss
Darrell can answer, " my first royal act would be to order
Featherbrain to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle
moat, and make his charming relict Princess consort, as she
has long, alas ! b'^en cjuecn of my aftcciions ! "

He lays his white-kiddeil hand on the region of his heart,
and bows profoundly. Mrs. Featherbrain's shrill, rather
silly laugh, rings out — she hits hiin a blow with her perfumed
fan.

"You precocious little boy!" she says, "as if children
of your age knew what their affections meant. Miss Darrell,

•' UNDER THE GASLIGHTS

145

ifore Miss
c to order
tl\e castle
ort, as she

his heart,
•ill, rather
r perfumed

you'll not credit it I'm sure, but this juvenile cousin of yours
— Charley, you told me, Miss Darrell, was your cousin —
was my first love — actually — my first ! "

" And she jilted me in cold blood for Featherbrain. Since
then I've been a blighted being — hiding, like the Spartan
cliap in the story, the fox that preys on my vitals, and going
through life with the hollow mockery of a smile on my

lll)S."

Again Mrs. Featherbrain's foolish little laugh peals out.
She leans back, almost against him, looks up, and half whis-
pers something very daring in French.

Edith turns away disgusted, gleams of disdainful scorn in
her shining hazel eyes. What a little painted giggling idiot
the woman is — what fools most young men are ! What busi-
ness have married women llirting, and how much more sensi-
ble and agreeable Englishmen are than Americans.

" Miss Darrell looks sick of our frivolity," Mrs. Feather-
brain gayly exclaims ; " the wickedness of New York and
the falsity of mankind, are new to her as yet. You saved
Charley's life, didn't you, my love ? Trixy told me all about
it, — and remained with him all night in tiie snow, at the risk
of your own life. Quite a romance, upon my word. Now
why not end it, like ail romances of the kind, in a love match
and a marriage ? "

Her eyes glitter maliciously and jealously, even while she
laughs. If it is in the shallow heart of this j^rettily-painted,
prettily-powdered woman, to care for any human being, she
has cared for Charley Stuart.

" Mrs. Featherbrain ! " Edith exclaims, in haughty sur-
prise, half rising.

"My dear, don't be angry — you might do worse, though
iiow, it would be difficult to say. I suggested it, because
it is the usual ending of such things in novels, and on the
stage — that is all."

"And as if I could fall in love with any one now," Mr.
Stuart murmurs, plaintively. " Such a suggestion from
}*ou, Laura, is adding insult to injury."

" Here co;ncs our baronet," Mrs. Featherbrain exclaims,
" bearing a water ice in his own aristocratic hand. Rather
handsome, isn't he? — only I detest very fair men. What a

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pity, for the peace of mind of diir New York girls, he should
be engaged in England."

"Ah! but he isn't engaged — I happen to know," said
Charley; "so you see what comes of marrying in haste,
Mrs. Featherbrain. If you had only waiteil another year
now, instead of throwing me over for old Featherbrain, it
might have been for a baronet — for of course there isn't a
girl in New York could stand the ghost of a chance beside
you"

"A most delicate compliment," Edith says, her scornful
lip curling ; " one hardly knows which to admire most — the
refined tact of Mr. Stuart's flatteries, or the matronly dig-
nity with which Mrs. Featherbrain repels them ! "

She turns her white shoulder deliberately upon them both,
and welcomes Sir Victor with her brightest smile.

"And for a rtstic lassie, fresh from the fields and the dai-
sies, it isn't so bid," is Mrs. Featherbrain's cool criticism.

" And I hope, despite Sir Victor's aristocratic attentions,
Miss Darrell, you'U not forget you're engaged to me for the
redowa," Charley finds a chance to murmur, sotio voce, in
her ear, as he and his flirtee move on :

"You see the poor child's jealous, Charley," is the
Featherbrain's last remark — " a victim to the green-eyed
monster in his most virulent form. You really should be
careful, my dear boy, how you use the charms a beneficent
Providence has showered upon you. As you are strong, be
merciful, and all that sort of thing."

The hours go on. Edith eats her water ice, and talks
very animatedly to her baronet. Balls (he has had a surfeit
of them, poor fellow !) mostly bore him — to-night he is
really interested. The Americans are an interesting people,
he thinks that must be why. Then the redowa begins, and
Charley returns and carries her off. With him she is coldly
silent, her eyes are averted, her words are few. He smiles
to himself, and asks her this pleasant question :

"If she dosen't think Laura P'eatherbrain the prettiest
and best-dressed lady in the room ? "

" I think Mrs. Featherbrain is well-named," Miss Darrell
answers, her dark eyes flashing. "I understand Mr.
Featherbrain is lying sick at home. You introduced me to
her — while I live in thjs house, Mr. Stuart, you will be kind

" UNDER THE GASLIGHT:'

enough to introduce me to no more — Mrs. Feather-
brains ! "

She brings out the obnoxious name with stinging scorn,
and a look toward the lady bearing it sharper than daggers.
There is a curious smile in Charley's eyes — his lips are
grave.

" Are you angry, Edith ? Do you know — of course you
do, though — that it becomes you to be angry ? My charm-
ing cousin, I never knew until to-night how really handsome
yo were."

disengages herself with sudden abruptness from his
<

•• 1 am tired of dancing," she says. *' I detest redowas.
And be kind enough to keep your odious point-blank com-
l)limcnts for the ' prettiest and best-dressed lady in the
room.' /don't a|)preciate them !"

Is it jealousy ? Charley wonders, complarently. He
sits down beside her, and tries to coax her into good hu-
mor, but she is not to be coaxed. In ten minutes another
partner comes up and claims her, and she goes. The
pretty, dark girl in white, is greatly admired, and has no
lack of partners. For Mr. Stuart he dances no more — he
leans against a piller, pulls his mustache, and looks jjlacid
and handsome. He isn't devoted to dancing, as a rule he
objects to it on principle, as so much piiysical exertion for
very little result ; he has only fatigued himself to-night as a
matter of abstract duty. He stands and watches Edith
dance — this country girl has the lithe, willowy grace of a
Bayadere, and she is laughing now, and looking very bright
and animated. It dawns upon him, that she is by all odds
the prettiest girl in the house, and that slowly but surely, for
the hundred and-tiftieth time in his life, he is falling in
love.

"But I might have known it," Mr. Stuart thinks, gravely;
"brown beauties always ^/V/ play the dickens with me. I
thought that at five-and-twenty I had outgrown all that sort
of youthful rubbish, and here I am on the brink of the pit
again. Falling in love in the present, involves matrimony in
the future, and matrimony has been the horror of my life
since I was four years old. And then the governor wouldn't
hear of it. I'm to be handed over to the tirst ' daughter of

148

OLD COPIES OF THE ''COURIERS

a hundred earls ' across in England, who is willing to ex-
change a tarnished British coronet for a Yankee million or
two of dollars,"

It is Trixy who is dancing with the baronet now — Trixy
who descends to supper on the baronet's arm. She dances
with iinn once again after siqiper ; tiien he returns to Edith.

So the hours go on, and tiie April morning is growing
gray. Once, Edith fnuls herself seated beside genial Lady
Helena, who talks to her in a motherly way, that takes all
her heart captive at once. Sir Victor leans over his aunt's
chair, listening with a smile, and not saying much himself.
His aunt's eyes follow him everywhere, iier voice takes a
deeper tenderness when she speaks to him. It is easy to
see she loves him with almost more than a mother':, love.

A little longer and it is all over. Carriage after carriage
rolls away — Sir Victor and Lady Helena shake hands with
this pretty, well-bred Miss Darrell, and go too. She sees
Charley linger to the last moment, by fascinating Mrs.
Featherbrain, whispering the usual inanity, in her pretty
pink ear. He leads her to her carriage, when it stops the
way, and he and the millionnaire's wife vanish in tlie outer
darkness.

*• Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day ;
Low on the sand, and h)ud on the stone,
The last wheel echoes away,"

Edith hums as she toils up to her pretty room. Trixy's
grand ticKl night is over — Edith's hrst ball has come to an
end, and the fust night of her new liie.

CHAPTER V.

OLD COPIES or THE " COUUIKR."

jlWO waltzes," said Trix, counting on her fingers ;
" that's two ; one cracovienne, that's three ; les
lanciers, that's four ; one galo[), that's hve ; and
one polka quadrille, that's six. Six dances, round

and square, with Sir Victor Catheron. Edith," cried Miss

Stuart, triumphantly, '■'do you hear that ? "

OLD COPIES OF THE *' COURIERS

149

" Yes, Trixy, I hear," said Edith, dreamily.

" You don't look as if you did, or if you do hear, you don't
heed. Six dances — two more I am certain, than lie daiicM
with any otiicr girl in the house. That looks ])romising,
now doesn't it ? Edith, the long and short of the matter is
this : I shall break my heart and die if he doesn't make me
Lady Cathoron."

A faint, half-absent smile — no other reply from Miss
Darrell. In the handsome reception-room of the .Sluart
mansion, tiie two girls sat. It was half-past three in the
afternoon, of iho day succeeding the ball. \x\ the luxuriant
depths of a puffy armchair, reclined Edith Darrell, as intich
at home, as though jiuffy chairs and luxuriant reclining, had
ever b(;cn her normal state. The crimson satin cushions,
contrasted brilliantly with her dark eyes, hair and compl'cx-
ion. Her black ^/k dress was new, and fitted well, and she
had lit it up with a knot of scarlet tangled in some whils
lace at the throat. Altogether she made a very efifcciive
picture.

In another iMiffy rocking-chair near, sat Trixy, her
chestnut hair crtpc to her eyel)rows and falling in a crinkJinj;
shower down to her waist. Her voluminous drapeiies bal-
loon over the carpet for the space of a cou])le of yards ori
either side, and she looked from top to toe the " New York-
iest of New York girls." They made a very nice contra'-t if
you had an eye for effect — blonde and brunette, dash and
dignity, style and classic simplicity, gorgeous furniture, rnd
outside the gray, fast-drifting Ajjril afternoon, the raw, east-
erly Ai>ril wind.

"Of course," pursued Miss Stuart, going on with the web
of rose-colored knitting in her lap, "being the daughter of
the house, and considering the occasion, and everytliing. I
suppose a few more dances than usual were expected of him.
Still, I dfltit believe he would have asked me six times if —
Editli ! how often did he dance with you ? "

" How often did — I beg your pardon, Beatrix ; I didn't
catch wiiat jou said."

"I see you didn't. You're half-asleep, arn't you? A
penny for your thoughts, Dithy."

" They're not worth a farthing," lulilh answered, con-
templuously. "I chanced just ihcu lo be lUinking uf Mr&.

150

OLD COPIES OF THE "-COURIER:'

What was it you asked — something about
often "Sir Victor danced with you last
Four times, I think — yes, four times.

FeatherLrain.
Sir Victor ? "

" I asked how
night."

" I really forget.
VViiy ? "

" He danced six with me, and I'm sure he didn't dance
more than half as often with any one else. Mamma tliinks
he means something, and he took me to supjier, and told
me about England. We had quite a long conversation ; in
fact, Edith, 1 fairly grow crazy with delight at the thought
of one day being ' My lady.' "

"Why think of it, then, since it sets you crazy?" Edith
suggested, with cool indifference. " I daresay you've heard
the proverb, Trix, about counting your chickens before
they're hatched. However, in this case I don't really
see why you should desi)air. You're his equal in every
way, and Sir Victor is Ins own master, and can do as he
likes."

" Ah, I don't know ! " Trix answered with a despondent
sigh, " he's a baronet, and these B^nglish people go so much
for birth and blood. Now you know we've neither. It's
all very wel' for pa to name Charley after a jirince. and si)eli
Stuart, with a u instead of an cw, like everybody else, and
say ii descended from the royal family of Scotland —
there's something more wanted than that. He's sent to
London, or somewhere, for the fan)ily coat-ol-arms. You
may laugh, Edith, but he has, and we're to seal our letters
with a griffin rampant, or a catamount couchant, or some
other beast of prey. Still the gritlin rampant, doesn't alter
the fact, that pa began life sweeping out a grocery, or that
he was in the tallow business, until the breaking out of
the rebellion. Lady Helena and Sir Victor are everything
that's nice, and civil, and courteous, but when it comes to
marrying, you know, that's quite another matter. Isn't he
just sweet, though, Edith?"

" \V'ho? Sir Victor? Poor fellow, what has he ever said
or done to you, Trix, to deserve such an epithet as that ? No,
I am glad to say he didn't strike me as being ' sweet' — con-
trariwise, I thought him particularly sensible and pleasant."

" Well, can't a person be sweet and sensible loo ? " Trix

OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIERS

ISI

answered, impatiently. "Did you notice his eyes ? Such
an expression of weariness and sadness, and — now what are
you laughing at. I declare, you're as stupid as Charley. I
can't express a single opinion that he doesn't laugh at. Call
nio sentimental if you like, but I say again he has the most
melancholy expression I ever looked at. Do you know,
Dithy, I love melancholy men."

" Do you ?" said Edith, still laughing. *' My dear lacka-
daisical Trixy ! I nnist confess myself, 1 prefer 'jolly ' people.
Still you're not altogether wrong about our youthful baronet,
ho docs look a prey at times to green and yellow melancholy.
You don't sui)pose he has been crossed in love, do you ?
Are baronets — rich baronets — ever crossed in love I wonder.
I lis large, rather light blue eyes, look at one sometimes as
though to say :

** ' I have a secret sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart,
It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes the 'art ! ' "

Miss Darrell was an actress by nature — she repeated this
lachrymose verse, in a sepulchral tone of voice.

"That's it, you may depend, 'J'rixy. The ])Oor young
gentleman's a prey to unrequited affection. What are you
shaking your head so vehemently at ? "

"it isn't that," said Trix, looking solemn and mysterious,
" it's worse ! "

" Worse I Dear me. I didn't think anything could be
worse. What is it then ? "

" Murder / "

It was Trixy's turn to be sepulchral. Miss Darrell opened
her big brown eyes. Miss Stuarts charnel-house tone was
really bhjod curdling.

"My dearest Trix ! Murder ! Good gracious, you can't
mean to say we've been dancing all night with a murderer?
Who has he killed ? "

" Edith, don't be an idiot I Did I say he killed any one ?
No, it isn't that — it's a murder that was committed when he
was a baby."

" When he was a baby 1 " Miss Darrell repeats, in dense
bewilderment.

152

OLD COPIES OF THE '* COURIER:''

"Yes, his moMier was murdered, poor thing. It was a
most shocking :i(Lvir, and as interesting as any novel you
ever read," said Trixy, with the greatest rcHsli. " Alindercd
in cold blood as she slept, and they don't know to this day
who did it."

Edith's C3'cs v/ere still very wide open.

" His mother — whon he was a baby ! Tell us about
it, Trix, One naturally takes an interest in the family mur-
ders of one's future second cousin-in-law."

"Well," began Miss Stuart, still with the utmost relish,
" you see his father — another Sir Victor — made a low mar-
riage — married the daughter of a common sort of person, in
trade. Now there's a coincidence to begin with. /';« the
daughter of a common sort of person in trade — at least 1
was ! "

" It is to be hoped the coincidence will not be followed out
after the nuptial knot," answered Kdith, gravely, " it wouKl
be unpleasant for you to be murdered, Trix, and i)hmge us
all into the depth of des|)air and bombazine. Proceed,
as they say on the stage, ' Your tale interests me.' "

" He was engaged — the other Sir Victor, I mean — to his
cousin, a Miss Inez Catheron — pretty name, isn't it? — and,
it seems, was afraid of her. She was a brunette, dark and
fierce, with black eyes and a temper to match."

A bow of acknowledgment from Miss Darrell.

"As it turned out, he had good reaM>n to I m afraid of her.
He was a year and a half married, and the b.iliy — this pres-
ent Sir Victor — was two or three months old, when the mar-
riage was niade public, and wife and child brought home.
There must have been an awful row, you know, at Cathe-
ron Royals, and one evening, about a month after her
arrival, they found the poor thing aslee[) in the nursery, and
st.ibbed to the heart."

'• Was she asleep after she was stabbed or before ? "

" Bother. There was an imjuest, and it turned out that
she and Miss Catheron had had a treuv-ndous quarrel, tli t
very evening. Sir Victor was away when it ha|)i)ened, and
he just went stark, staring mad the lirst thing, when he hi- nd
it. Miss CatluMon was arrested on suspicion, 'i'licn it
a|)pearcd that she had a brother, and that this brollu ; was
an awful scamp, and that he claimed to have been married

OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIER:'

153

to I^ady Catheron before she married Sir Victor, and that he
had liad a row with her, that same day too. It was a dread-
fully mixed up affair — all that seemed clear, was that Lady
Catheron had been murdered by somebody, and that Juaii
— yes, Juan Catheron — had run away, and when wanted,
was not to be found."

"It a])|)ears to have been a strictly family affair from first
to last — that, at least, was a consolation. What did they do
to Miss Inez Catheron?"

" Put her in jMison to stand her trial for murder. She
never stood it, however — she made her escape, and never
was heard of, from that day to this. Isn't it tragical, and
isn't it dreadful for Sir Victor — his mother murdered, his
father crazy, or dead, ages ago for wiiat 1 know, and his
relations tried for their lives?"

" Poor Sir Victor ! Dreadful indeed. But where in the
world, Trixy, (['n\ you find all this out? Has he been injur-
ing the family history so soon into yotir sympathetic ear ? "

" Of course not ; that's the curious part of the story.
You know Mrs. I'"eathcrbrain ? "

•' I'm happy to say," retorted Miss Darrell, "I know very
little about her, and intend to know less."

"You do know her, however. Well, Mrs. Featherbrain
has a father."

" Poor old gentleman ! " says Miss Darrell, compassion-
ately.

"Old Hampson — that's his name. Ilampson is an Eng-
lishman, and from Cheshire, and knew the present Sir Vic-
tor's grandfather. He gets the Cheshire papers ever since
he left, and, of course, took an interest in ail tliis. He told
Mrs. Featherbrain — and what do you think ? — Mrs. Feather-
brain actually asked l,a(ly Helena."

"It is precisely the sort of thing Mrs. Featherbrain would
be likely to do. ' Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.'
How copious are my quotations this afternoon. What did
Lady Helena say ? "

" Gave her a look — a lady who was present told n5e —
such a look. She turned dead white for a minute, then she
spoke : ' I never di.scuss family matters with jierfect stran-
gers.' Those were her words — '■perfect strant^ers: ' I
consider your question impertinent, madame, and decline to

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answer it.' Then she turned her back upon Mrs. Feather-
brain ; and shouldn't I Hke to have seen Mrs. Feather-
brain's face. Since then, she just bows frigidly to her, no
more."

" Little imbecile ! Trixy, I should like to see those
papers."

" So you can — I have them. Charley got them from
Laura Featherbrain. What could not Charley get from
Laura Featherbrain I wonder ? " adds Trix, sarcastically.

Edith's color rose, her eyes fell on the tatting between
her fingers.

" Your brother and the lady are old lovers then ? So I
inferred from her conversation last night."

"I don't know about their being lovers exactly. Charley
has that ridiculous flirting manner, young men think it their
duty to cultivate, and it certainly icas a strong case of spoons
— excuse the slang. Pa would never have listened to it,
though — he wants birth and blood too, and old Hampson's
a pork merchant. Then Phineas Featherbrain came along,
sixty years of age, and a |)etroleuni i)rince. Of course,
there was a gorgeous wedding — New York rang with it. I
don't see that the marriage makes much difterence in Char-
ley and Laura's flirtation, though. Just wait a minute
and I'll go and get the papers — I haven't read it all
myself."

Miss Stuart swept, stately and tall, from the room, return-
ing in a few moments with some half-dozen old, yellow
newspapers.

" Here you are, sir," she cries, in shrill newsboy sing-
song ; "the full, true and jiarticular account of the tragedy
at Catheron Royals. Sounds like the title of a sensation
novel, doesn't it? Here's No. i for you — I've got on as
far as No. 4."

Miss Darrell throws aside her work and becomes absorbed
in the Chesholm Courier of twenty-three years back. Silence
fell — the moments wore on — the girls become intensely
interested, so interested that when the door was thrown open
and " Sir Victor Catheron " announced, both sprang to their
feet, conscience-stricken with all their guilt, red in their
faces.

He advanced, hat in hand, a smile on his face. He was

■

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155

beside Trix first. She stood, the paper still clutched in her
hand, her cheeks redder than the crimson velvet carpet.
His astonished eyes fell upon it — he who ran might read — the
Chcsholm Courier in big, black letters, and in staring capi-
tals, the "Tradgedy of Catheron Royals."

The smile faded from Sir Victor Catheron's lips, the faint
color, walking in the chill wind had brought, died out of
his face. He turned of that dead waxen whiteness, fair
peo])le do turn — then he lifted his e) s and looked Miss
Stuart full in the face.

" May I ask where you got this paper ? " he asked, very
quietly.

" Oh, I'm so sorry ! " burst out Trixy. " I'm awfully
sorry, but I — I didn't know — I mean, I didn't mean — oh,
Sir Victor, forgive me if I have hurt your feelings. I never
meant you to see this."

" I am sure of that," he said, gently ; " it is necessarily
very painful to me. Permit me to ask again, how you
chanced to come by these papers ? "

" They were lent us by — by a lady here ; her father is
from Cheshire, and always gets the papers. Indeed I am
very, very sorry. I wouldn't have had it happen for
worlds."

" There is no need to apologize — you are in no way to
blame. I trust I find you and Miss Darrell entirely recov-
ered from the fatigue of last night. The most charming
party of the season — that is the unanimous verdict, and I
for one indorse it."

He took a seat, the color slowly returning to his face.
As he spoke, two eyes met his, dark, sweet, compassionate,
but Kdith Darrell did not speak a word.

The obnoxious papers were swept out of sight — Miss Stu-
art made desperate efforts at ease of maimer, and morning
call chitchat, but every effort foil flat. The spell of the
(Jhesholm Courier wVi^ on them all, and was not to be shaken
off. It was a relief when the baronet rose to go.

" Lady Helena desires best regards to you both — she
has fallen quite in love Avith you, Miss Darrell. As it is a
' Nilsson night ' at the academy, I suppose we will have the
pleasure of seeing you there ?"

" You certainly will," answered Trix. " Edith has never

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OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIER:*

heard Nilsson yet, poor child. Remember us to I^ady
Helena, Sir Victor. Good afternoon."

Then he was gone — and Miss Stuart looked at Miss Dar-
rell, solemnly and long.

" There goes my last hope ! Oh, why, why did I fetch
down those wretched papers. All my ambitious dreams of
being a baro — netle are knocked in the head now. He'll
never be able to bear the sight of me again."

" I don't see that," Edith responded ; " if a murder is
committed, the world is pretty sure to know of it — its some-
thing not to be ignored. How deeply he seems to feel it
too — in spite of his rank and wealth 1 pity him, Trixy."

"Pity him as much as you like, so that it is not the pity
akin to love. I don't want you for a rival, Edie — besides I
have other views for you."

" Indeed ! The post of confidential maid when you are
Lady Catheron ? "

"Something better — the post of confidential sister.
There ! You needn't blush, I saw how the land lay from
the first, and Charley isn't a bad fellow in spile of his lazi-
ness. The door bell again. Nothing but callers now un-
til dark."

All Miss Stuart's masculine friends came dropping in succes-
sively, to institute the necessary inquiries as to the state of lier
health, af'er eight hours' steady dancing the ])receding night.
Edith's unsophisticated head ached with it all, and her
tongue grew paralyzed with the platitudes of society. The
gas was lit, and the dressing-bell ringing, before the last coat-
tail disappeared-

As the young ladies, yawning drearily in each other's
faces, turned to go up to their rooms, a servant entered,
bearing two pasteboard boxes.

" With Sir N'ictor t'atheron's compliments, Miss Beatrix,
and brought by his man."

Each box was labelled with the owner's name. Trix
opened hers widi eager fingers. A lovely l;ouqiiet of white
roses, calla lilies, and jasmine, lay vvitnin. Edith opened
hers — another bouquet: of white and scarlet camellias.

" For the opera," cried Trix, with sparkling eyes. " How
good of hira — how generous — how forgiving! After the
papers and all ! Sir Victor's prince, or ought to be."

OLD COPIES OF THE "COURIER."

157

"Don't gush, Tiixy," Edith said, "it grows tiresome.
Why did he send you all white, I wonder ? As emblematic
of your spotless innocence and that sort of thing? And do
/ bear any affinity to '■ La Dame aiix Camellias V I think
you may still hoi>e, Trix — if there be truth in the language
of flowers."

Three hours later — fashionably late, of course — the Stuart
party swept in state into their box. Mrs. Stuart, JVIiss Stuart
Mr. Stuart, junior, and Miss Darrell. Miss Stuartdressed lor
some after " reception" in silvery blue silk, pearl ornaments
in her hair, and a virginal white bouquet in her hand. Miss
Darrell in the white muslin of last night, a scarlet ojjcra
cloak, and a bouquet of white and scarlet camellias. Char-
ley lounging in the background, looking as usual, handsome
of face, elegant of attire, and calmly and upliftedly uncon-
scious of both.

The sweet singer was on the stage. Fxlith Darrell leaned
forward, forgetting everything in a trance of delight. It
seemed as though her very soul were carried away in the
spell of that enchanting voice. A score of " double barrels "
were turned to their box — Beatrix Stuart was an old story
— but who was the dark beauty ? As she sat, leaning for-
ward, breathless, trance-bound, the singer vanished, the cur-
tain fell.

" Oh !" it was a deep drawn sigh of pure delight. She
drew back, lifted her iiiii)assioned eyes, and met the smiling
ones of Sir Victor Catheron.

" You did not know I was here," he said. " You were so
enraptured I would not speak. Once it would have enrapt-
ured me too, but 1 am afraid my rapturous days are past."

" Sir Victor Catheron speaks as though he were an octo-
genarian. I have heard it is ' good form ' to outlive at
twenty, every earthly emotion. Mr. Stuart yonder prides
himself on having accomplished the feat. 1 may be stupid,
but I confess being blase, doesn't strike me in the light of
an advantage ? "

" But \{ blase be your normal state ? I don't think I ever
tried to cultivate the vavitas Tanitatcm style of thing, but if
it will come ? Our audience are enthusiastic enough — see 1
They have made her come back."

She came back, and held out both hands to the audience,

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OLD COPIES OF THE " COURJER."

and the pretty gesture, and the charming smile, redoubled
the ajiplause. 'Then silence fell, and softly and sweetly over
that silence, floated the tender, pathetic words of " Way
down upon the Swanee River." You might have heard a
pin drop. Even Sir Victor looked moved. For Edith, she
sat scarcely breathing — quivering with ecstasy. As the last
note was sung, as the fair songster kissed hands and van-
ished, as the house arose from its spell, and re-rang with en-
thusiasm, Edith turned again to the young baronet, the
brown eyes luminous with tears, the lips quivering. He
bent above her, saying something, he could hardly have told
what, himself — carried away for once in his life, by the
witchery of two dark eyes.

Mr. Charles Stuart, standing in the background, beheld it
all.

" Hard hit," he murmured to his mustache, but his face,
as he gave his mother his arm, and led her forth, told noth-
ing.

An old adorer escorted Miss Stuart. Miss Darrell and
her camellias, came last, on the arm of the baronet.

That night, two brown eyes, haunted Sir Victor Catheron's
slumbers — two brown eyes sparkling through unshed tears
— two red lips trembling like the lii)s of a child.

For the owner of the eyes and lips, she put the camellias,
carefully in water, and far away in the small hours went to
bed and to sleep. And sleeping she dreamed, that all
dressed in scarlet, and wearing a crown of scarlet camellias,
she was standing up to be married to Sir Victor Catheron
with Mr. Charley Stuart as officiating clergyman, when the
door opened, and the murdered lady of Trixy's story came
stalking in, and whirled her screaming away in her ghostly
arms.

Two much excitement, champagne, and lobster salad had
engendered the vision no doubt, but it certainly spoiled Miss
Darrell's beauty sleep that night.

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

159

CHAPTER VI.

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

HE pleasant days went on — April went out — May
came in. On the tenth of May, the Stuart family,
Sir Victor Catheron, and Lady Helena Powyss were
to sail from New York for Liverpool.

To Edith, fresh from the twilight of her country life, these
days and nights had been one bewildering round of excite-
ment and delight. Opera, theatre, dinner and evening par-
ties, shopping, driving, calling, receiving — all that goes to
make tlie round of that sort of life, had been run. Her slen-
der wardrobe had been replenished, tiie white Swiss had
been reinforced by half-a-dozen ghstening silks ; the corals,
by a set of rubies and fine gold. Mr. Stuart might be pom-
pous and pretentious, but he wasn't stingy, and he had in-
sisted upon it for his own credit. And half a-dozen " spandy
new" silks, fresh from Stewart's counters, with the pristine
glitter of their bloom yet upon them, were very different
from one half-worn amber tissue of Trixy's. Miss Darrell
took the dresses and the rubies, and looked uncommonly
handsome in both.

On the last night but one, of their stay in New York, Mrs.
Featherbrain gave a last " At Home," a sort of " P. P. C."
])arty, Trixy called it. Miss Darrell was invited, and said
nothing at the time, unless tossing the card of invitation
contemptuously out of the window can be called saying some-
thing ; but at the last monient she declined to go.

" My head is whirling now, from a surfeit of parties," she
said to Miss Stuart. "Aunt Chatty is going to stay at
home, and so shall L I don't like your Mrs. Featherbrain
— that's the truth — and I'm not fashionable enough yet to
sham friendship with women I hate. Besides, Trix dear,
you know you were a little — ^just a little — ^jealous of me, the
other night at Roosevelt's. Sir Victor danced with me once
oftener than he did with you. Now, you dear old love, PU
let you have a whole baronet to yourself, for this night, and
who knows what may happen before morning ? "

Miss Edith Darrell was one of those young persons —

i6o

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

happily rare — who, when they take a strong antipathy, are
true to it, even at the sacrifice of their own i)leasure. In her
secret soul, she was jealous of Mrs. Featherbrain. If she
and Charley carried on their imbecile tlirlation, at least it
would not be under her disgusted eyes.

Miss Stuart departed — not tiie lilies of the field — not Solo-
mon in all his glory — not the Queen of Sheba herself, ever
half so niagniticent. Charley went with her, a placid
martyr to brotherly duty. And Edith went down to the
family sitting-room where Aunt Chatty (Aunt Chatty by
request) sat dozing in her after-dinner chair.

"We are going to have an 'At home' all to our two
selves to-night, auntie," Edith said, kissing her thin check ;
*' and I am going to sing you to sleep, by way of begin-
ning."

She was fond of Aunt Chatty — a nieek soul, born to be
tyraniii/.od over, and tyrannized over, from her very cradle.
One of those large women, who obey their small husbands
in fear and trembling, who believe everything they are told,
who "bless the squire and his relations, and live contented
with their stations;" who are bullied by their friends, by
their children, by their servants, and who die meekly somo
day, and go to Heaven.

Edith opened the piano and began to play. She was
looking very handsome to-night, in green silk and black
lace, one half-shattered rose in her hair. She looked hand-
some — at least so the young man who entered unobserved,
and stood looking at her, evidently thought.

She had not heard him enter, but presently some mes-
meric rapport between them, told her he was near. She
turned her head and saw him. Aunt Chatty caught
sight of him, in her semi-sleeping state, at the same mo-
ment.

" Dear me, Charley," his mother said, '■'■ you here ? I
thought you went to Mrs. Featherbrain's?"

" So I did," replied Charley. " I went — I saw — I re-
turned — and here I am, if you and Dithy will have me for
the rest of the evening."

" Edith and I were very well off without you. We
had i)eace, and that is more than we generally have when
you and she come together. You shall be allowed to

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

i6i

stay only on one condition, and that is that you don't
quarrel."

"/ (juirrol ?" Charley said, lifiing his eyebrows to the
middle ol' his forehead. " My dear mother, your mental
blindness on many points, is really deplorable. It's all
Kdilli's fault — all ; one of the few fixed principles of my
life, is never to (\uarrcl with anybody. It upsets a man's
digestion, and is fatij^uing in the extreme. Our fust meet-
ing," continued Mr. Stuart, stretching himself out leisurely
on a sofa, " at wliich, Kdith fell in love with me at sight, .vas
a row. Well, if it wasn't a row, it was an unpleasantness of
some sort. You can't deny. Miss Darrell, there was a cool-
ness bcfwccii us. Didn't we pass the night in a snow-drift?
Since tlr.'i, v. 'cry otl.or meeting has been a succession of
rows. In justice to myself, and the angelic sweetness of my
own disi)osilion, I nnist repeat, tiie beginning, middle, and
ending of each, lies with her. She will bully, and 1 never
coulil bland being bullied — 1 always knock under. I'mt I
warn her — a day of retribution is at hand. In self-defence
I mean to marry her, and then, base miscreant, beware !
The trodden worm will turn, and plunge the iron into her
own soul. May I ask what you are laugiiing at, Miss
Darrell?"

" A slight confusion of metaphor, Charley — nothing more.
What have you done with Trix ? "

"Trix is all right in the matronly charge of Mrs. Feather-
brain, and engaged ten deep to the baronet. By the bye,
the baronet was inquiring for you, with a degree of warmth
and solicitude, as unwelcome as it was uncalled for. A
baronet for a brother-in-law is all very well — a baronet for a
rival is not well at all. Now, my dear child, try to overcome
the general nastiness of your cranky disposition, for once,
and make yourself agreeable. I knew you were ])ining on
the stem for me at home, and so I threw over the last crush
of the season, made Mrs. Featherbrain my enemy for life,
and here I am. Sing us something."

• Miss Darrell turned to the piano with a frown, but her
eyes were smiling, and in her secret heart she was well-con-
tent. Charley was beside her. Charley had given up the
ball and Mrs. Featherbrain for her. It was of no use deny-
ing it, she was fond of Charley. Of late it had dawned

l62

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

dimly and deliciously upon lr.;r that Sir Victor Catheron was
growing very attentive. If so wildly improbable a thing
could occur, as Sir Victor's falling in love witli her, she was
ready at any moment to be Iiis wife ; but for the love which
alone makes marriage sweet and holy, which neither time,
nor trouble, nor absence, can change — that love she felt for
her cousin Charle)', and no other mortal man.

It was a very jileasant evening — ho7u pleasant, Edith did
not care to own, even to herself. Aunt Chatty dozed sweetly
in her arm-chair, she in her place at the ])iano, and Charley
taking comfort on his sofa, and calmly and dis!)assionately
finding fault with her music. That those two could spend
an evening, an hour, together, without disagreeing, was
simply an utter impossibility. Edith invariably lost her
temi)er — nothing earthly ever disturbed Charley's. Pres-
ently, in anger and disgust. Miss Darrell jumped up
from the piano-stool, and protested she would play no
more.

" To be told I sing Kathleen Mavourneen flat, and that
the way I hold my elbows when I play Thalberg's ' Home,'
is frightful to behold, I will twt stand ! Like all critics, you
find it easier to point out one's faults, than to do better-
It's the very last time, sir, I'll ever play a note for
you ! "

But, somehow, after a skirmish at euchre, at which she
was ignobly beaten, and, I must say, shamefully cheated, she
was back at the piano, and it was the clock striking twelve
that made her start at last.

" Twelve ! Goodness me. I didn't think it was half-past
ten ! " Mr. Stuart smiled, and stroked his mustache with
calm complacency. " Aunt Chatty, wake up ! It's mid-
night — time all good little women were in bed."

" You need not hurry yourself on that account, Dithy,"
Charley suggests, "if the rule only applies to good little
women."

Miss Darrell replies with a glance of scorn, and \vakes up
Mrs. Stuart.

"You were sleeping so nicely I thought it a j^ity to wake
you sooner. Come, auntie dear, we'll go upstairs together.
You know we have a hard day's work before us to-morrow.
Good-night, Mr. Stuart."

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

163

" Good-nigbt, my love," Mr. Stuart responded, making no
attempt to stir. Edith linked her strong, young arm i;j that
of her bloepy aunt and led her upstairs. lie lay and
watched the slim green figure, the beautiful bright face, a^ it
disai)i)eared in a mellow flood of gaslight. The clear, sweet
voice came floating saucily back :

" And Charley he's my darling,
My darling^my (larlini^,
And Charley he's my <]arling,
The young Chevalier 1 "

All that was sauciest, and most coquettish in the girl's
nature, came out with Charley. With Sir Victor, as 'lYixy
cxjjlained it, she was "goody" and talked sense.

Mr. Stuart went back to the ball, and, I regret to say,
made himself obnoxious to old Featherbrain, by the uiarked
empressemcnt of his devotion to old Featherbrain's wife.
Edith listened to the narration next day from the li{>5 «>f
Trix with surprise and disgust. Miss Stuart, on lier own
account, was full of trium[ili and happiness. Sir Victor hid
been most devoted, " most devoted" said Trix. in iiahcs,
" that is, for him. He danced with me very often, and he
spoke several times of jw/, Dithy, dear. He couldn't un-
derstand wiiy yon absented yourself from tlie last party of
the season — no more can I for that matter. A person tinay
hate a person like poison — I often do myself — and yet go to
that jierson's parties."

IJiit this was a society maxim Miss Da-rell could by no
means be brought to understand. Wheie shf iiked she
liked, where she hated she hated — there wero no half
measures for her.

The last day came. At noon, with a brilliant Viysiin
shining, the ship fired her flirewell guns, and steamed away
for Merrie England. Edith leaned over the bulwark and
watched the receding shore, with her heart in her eyes.

"Good-by to home," she said, "a smile on her lip, a tear
in her eye." " Who knows when and h(Av 1 may see it again.
Wlu) knows whelher I shall rrw see il?"

Tiie liiiidieon !)i'll rang ; everybody — a wonderful crowd
too — flocked merrily downstairs to the saloon, where two
long tables, bright witii crystal and flowers, were spread.

l64

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

What a delightful thing was an ocean voyage, and sea-sick-
ness — bah ! — merely an illusion of the sonscs.

After lunch, Charley selected the sunniest spot on deck
for his resting-place, and the prettiest girl on board, for his
companion, spread out his railway rug at her feet, -pread
out himself thereon, and jjrepared to be happy and be
made love to. Trix, on the arm of the baronet, paraded the
deck. Mrs. Stuart and Lady Helena buried themselves in
the seclusion of the ladies' cabin, in expectation of the
wradi to come. Pxlith got a cam|)-stool and a book, and liid
herself behind the wheel-iiouse for a little of private enjoy-
ment. But she did not read ; it was delight enough to sit
and watch the old ocean smiling, and smiling like any other
coquette, as though it could never be cruel.

The afternoon wore on ; the sun dropped low, the wind
arose — so did the sea. And jiresenlly — staggering blindly
on Sir Victor's arm, pale as death, with speechless agony im-
printed on every feature — Trixy made her appearance behind
the wheel house.

" O Edith, 1 feel awfully— awfully ! I feel like death—
I feel—"

She wrenched her arm from the baronet's, rushed wildly
to the side, and — Edith's dark, laughing eyes looked up into
the blue ones, that no effort of Sir Victor's could quite con-
trol. The next moment she was by Trixy's side, leading
that l;m[) and pallid heroine to the regions below, whence,
for five mortal days, slie emerged not, nor did the eye of man
rest on Miss IJcatrix Stuart.

The Weather was line, but the wind and sea ran tolerably
high, and of course everybody mostly was tolerably sick.
One day's ordeal siiiHced for lulith's tribute to old Neptune ;
after that, she never felt a (jUcdm. A great deal of her lime
was s|)ent in wailing upon Aunt Chatty and '."rix, both of
whom were very far gone indeed. In the case oi Miss Stuart,
the tortures of jealousy were added to the tortures of sea-
sickness. Did Sir Victor walk with the young ladies on
deck ? Did he walk with her., Edith ? Did he ever inquire
for herself? Oh, it was sh imeful — shameful that she should
be kept prostrate here, unable to lift her head ! At this junc-
ture, generally, in her excitement, Trixy did lift it, and the
consequence was— woe.

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

165

It was full moon before they reached mid-ocean. How
Edith enjoyed it, no words can tell. Perhaps it was out of
merciful compassion to Trix, but she did .lot tell her of the
long, brisk twilight, mid-day, and moonlight walks she and
tlie baronet took on deck. How, leaning over the bulwarks,
diey watched the sun set, round and red, into the sea, and
the silver sickle May moon rise, like another Aphrodite,~out
of the waves. She did not tell her, how they sat side by side
at dinner, how he lay at her feet, and read aloud for her, in
sheltered sunny nooks', how unconunonly fri<,ndly and con-
fidential they became altogether, in these first half-dozen days
out. People grow intimate in two days at sea, as they
would not in two years on land. Was it all gentlemanly
courtesy and politeness on the baronet's side ? the girl some-
times wondered. She could analyze her own feelings pretty
well. Of that fitful, feverish passion called love, described
by the country swain as feeling "hot and dry like — with a
pain in the side like," she felt no particle. There was one,
Mr. Charles Stuart, lying about in jilaces, looking serene and
sunburnt, who saw it all with sleepy, half-closed eyes, and
kept his c(jncliisions to himself. '■'■ Kisi/ui !" bethought;
"the will of Allah be done. What is written is written.
Sea-sickness is bad enough, without the green-eyed monster.
lOven Othello, if he had been crossing in a Cunard ship,
would have put off the pillow performance until they reached
the other side."

One cspeciil afternoon, Edith fell asleep after luncheon,
on a sofa, in her own and 'I'rixy's cabin, and slept through
dinner and dessert, and only woke with the lighting of the
lamps. Trix lay, pale and wretched, gazing out of the jwrt-
liole, at the glory of moonlight on the heaving sea, as one
who sorrows without hope of consolation.

" I hope you enjoyed your f irty winks, Edith," she re-
marked ; " what a Rip Van Winkle you are ! I'or my ixut,
I've never slept at all since I cauie on board this horrid ship 1
Now, where are you going ?"

" To get something to eat from inyfriend the stewardess,"
Edith answered ; " 1 see 1 am too lite for dinner."

Miss Darrell went, and got some tea and toast. Then
wrapping herself in a blanket shawd, and lying a coquettish
red wool hood over her hair, she ascended to the deck.

i66

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

It was pretty well deserted by the ladies — none the worse
for that, Edith thought. Tlie full moon shono with untold
splendor, over the vast expanse of tossing sea, heaving with
that majestic swell, that never quite hills on tlie mighty
Atlantic. The gentlemen filled the smoking-room, the
"Tabak Parliament" was at its iieighi. She took a camj)-
stool, and made for her favorite sheltered s|)ot beliind
the wheel-house. How grand it was — the starry sky, tlic
brilliant white moon, the boundless ocean — that long trail
of silvery radiance stretching miles behind. An icy blast
swept over the deep, but, wiapped in her big shawl, Kditli
could defy even that. She forgot Sir Victor and the daring
ambition of her life. She sat absorbed in the beauty and
splendor of that moonlight on the sea. Very softly, very
sweetly, half unconsciously, she began singing "The Yoimg
May Moon," when a step behind made her turn her head. It
was Sir Victor Catheron. She awoke from her dream — came
back to earth, and was of the world worldly, once more.
The smile that welcomed him was very bright. She would
have blushed if she could ; but it is a disadvantage of pale
brunettes that they don't blush easily.

" I heard singing, sweet and faint, and I give you my word,
Miss Darrell, I thought it migiit be the Lurline, or a str.iy
mermaid combing her sea-green locks. It is all very beauti-
ful, of course, but are you not afiaiil of taking cold ? "

"I never take cold," Miss Darrell answered ; "inlluenza
is an unknown disease. I las the tobacco parliament broken
up, that I behold you here ? "

" It is half past eleven — didn't you know it ? — and all the
lights are out."

" Good Heaven ! " Edith cried, starting up aghast ; " half-
past eleven I What will Trixy say ? Really, moon-gazing
must be absorbing work. I had no idea it was after ten."

"Stay a moment. Miss Darrell," Sir Victor interi)osed,
" there is something I would like to say to you — something
1 have wished to spoak of, since we came on board."

Edith's heart gave one great jump — into her mouth it
seemed. What could such a preface as this portend, save
one thing? The baronet spoke again, and Miss Darrell's
heart sunk down to the very soles of her buttoned boots.

" It is concerning those old papers, the ChcsJwlm Courier.

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

167

You understand, and— and the lamentable tragedy the^
chronicle."

"Yes?" said Miss Darrell, shutting her lips tight.

" It is naturally a deeply painful subject to me. Twenty-
three years have passed ; I was but an infant at tlie time,
yet if it had occurred only a year ago, I think I could hardly
feel it more keenly than I do — hardly suffer more, when 1
speak of it."

"Then why speak of it?" was the young lady's very
sensible question. "/ have no claim to hear it, I am
sure."

" No," the young man responded, and even in the moon-
light she could see his color rise, " perhaps not, and yet I
wanted to speak to you of it ever since. I don't know why,
it is something I can scarcely bear to think of even, and
yet I feel a sort of relief in speaking of it to you. Perhaps
there is 'rapport' between us — that we are affinities — who
knows ? "

Who indeed ! Miss Darrell's heart came up from her
boots, to its proper place, and stayed there.

"It was such a terrible thing," the young man went on,
" such a mysterious thing. To this day it is wrapped in
darkness. She was so young, so fair, so good — it seems too
horrible for belief, that any human being could lift his hand
against so innocent a life. And yet it was done."

"A most terrible thing," Edith said; "but one has
only to read the papers, to learn such deeds of horror are
done every day. Life is a terribly sensational story. You
say it is shrouded in darkness, but the Chesholin Coyrr r
did not pcem at all in the dark."

" You mean Inez Catheron. She was innocent."

" Indeed ! "

"She was not guilty, except in this — she knew who was
guilty, and concealed it. Of that, I have reason to be
sure."

" Her brother, of course — the Juan Catheron of the pap-
ers ? "

" Who is to tell ? Even that is not certain. No," in an-
swer to Iier look of surprise, " it is not certain. I am sure
my aunt believes in his innocence."

" Then who—"

1 68

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

"Ah — who?" the baronet said mournfully, "who was
the murderer? It may be that we will never know."

"You will know," Edith said decidedly. "I am sure of
it. I am a tirm believer in (he truism that ' murder will out.'
Sooner or later you will know."

She spoke with the calm conviction of prophecy. She
looked back to shudder at her own words in tiie after-days.

" Three-and-twenty years is a tolerable time to forget even
the bitterest sorrow, but the thought of that tragedy is as
bitter to my aunt to-day, as it was when it was done. She
cannot bear to speak of it — I believe she cannot bear to
think of it. What I know, therefore, concerning it, I have
learned from others. Until I was eighteen, I knew abso-
lutely nothing. Of my mother, of course I have no remem-
brance, and yet" — his eyes and tone grew dreamy — "as
far back as I can recall, there is in my mind the mem-
ory of a woman, young and handsome, bending above my
bed, kissing and crying over me. l^fy mother was fair, tlie
face I recall is dark. You will think me sentimental — you
will laugh at me, perhaps, " he said, smiling nervously ; "you
will set me down as a dreamer of dreams, and yet it is
there."

Her dark, earnest eyes looked up at him, full of womanly
sympathy.

" Laugh at you ! Think better of me. Sir Victor. In
these days it is rare enough to see men with either memory
or veneration for their moHier — whether dead or alive."

He looked at her ; words seemed struggling to his lips.
Once he half spoke. Then he checked himself suddenly.
When he did speak it was with a total change of tone.

" And T am keeping you sellishly here in the cold. Take
my arm. Miss Darrell ; you must not stop another instant."

She obeyed at once. He led her to her cabin-door —
hesitated — took her hand and held it while he spoke :

"I don't know why, as I said before, I have talked of
this ; I could not have done it with any one else. Let me
thank you for your sympatliy with all my heart."

Then he was gone ; and, wxy grave and thoughtful, Edith
sought Trixy and the up[)er berth. Miss Stuart lay calmly
sleeping the sleep of the just and the sea-sick, blissfully un-
conscious of the traitorous goings on about her. Edith

ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT.

169

looked at her with a sort of twinge. Was it fair, after all ?
was it strictly honorable ? " Poor Trix," she said, kissing
her softly, " 1 don't tliink it will be;w/( / "

Next morning, at breakfast, Miss Darrell noticed that Mr.
Stuart, junior, watched her as lie sii)i)e(l his coffee, with a
portentous countenance that foreboded something. ^Vhat it
foreboded came out presently. He led her on deck — offered
her his arm for a morning constitutionid, and oi)ened fire
thus wise :

" Wiiat were you and the baronet about on deck at ab-
normal hours of the night? What was the matter with you
both?"

"Now, now I" cried Edith, "how do you come to know
anything about it ? What business have small boys like you,
s[)ying on the actions of their elders, when they should be
safely tucked up, and asleep in their little beds?"

" 1 wasn't spying ; I was asleej). 1 have no restless con-
•science to keep me prowling about at unholy iiours."

" How do you come to know, then ?

" A little bird told me."

"I'll twist your little bird's neck! Who was it, sir? I
command you."

" How she queens it already! Don't excite yourself, you
small Amazon. It was the officer of the deck."

" The officer of the deck might be much better employed ;
and you may tell him so, with iii} compliments."

" I will ; but you don't deny it — you were there ! "

"1 never deny my actions," she says with royal disdain;
"yes. 1 was there."

" With Sir Victor — alone ? "

"WithSir Victor— alone!"

"What did you talk about, Miss Darrell?"

" More than I care to repeat for your edification, Mr.
Stuart. Have you any more questions to ask, pray?"

" One or two ; did he ask you to marry him, Edilh ?"

" Ah, no ! " Ktlith answers with a sigh that is genuine ;
" there is no such luck as thai in store for Dithy Darrell. A
baronet's bride — T.ady Catheron ! no, no — the cakes and
ale of life are not for me."

" Would you marry him, if he did ? Will you marry him
when he does ? for that is what it comes to, after all."
8

I70

SHORT .LVD SENTIMENTAL.

"Would I many him ?" She looks at him in real incred-
ulous wonder. '•Would I marry Sir Victor Catheron — I ?
My dear Charley, when you ask rational questions, I sliall
be happy to answer them, to the best of my ability, but not
such absurdiiy xs that."

"Then, you -unlli"

" Charley, don't be a tease — what do young persons of
your juvenile years know about such things? 1 don't like
the turn rhis convers.ition has taken ; let us change it, let us
talk about the weather — that's always a safe subject. Isn't
it a splendid morning ? Isn't it charming to have a perpet-
ual fair wind ? And how are you going to account for it,
that the wind is always fair going to England, and always
ahead coming out ?

" • England, my country— great and free
Heart of the world— I leap to thee I ' "

She sings, with a wicked look in her dark eyes, as she
watches her cavalier.

Charley is not going to be put off, however ; he declines
to talk of either wind or weather.

" Answer my question, Edith, if you please. If Sir Vic-
tor Catheron asks you, will you be his wife ? " •

She looks at him calmly, steadily, the man she loves, and
answers :

" If Sir Motor Catheron asks me, I will be his wife."

CHAPTER VII.

SHORT AND SF.NTIMENTAL.

'VO days later, and Fastnet Rock looms up against
the blue sky; the iron-bound Irisli coast appears.
At noon they will kind in Qncenstown.
"Come back to Erin, mavourneen, mavourneen,"
sings Charle/s voice down the passage, early in the morn-

■>•

SHORT AND SENTIMENTAL.

Vfl

■H

Charley can sing a little still. He is to lose Edith. Sir
Victor Cathcron is to win and wear ; but as she is not Ludy
Catherori yet, Mr. Stuart postpones despair and suicide un-
til she is.

She sprang from her bed with a cry of delight. Ireland !
One, at least, of the lands of her dreams.

" Trixy ! " she cries. " O Trixy, look out ! ' The land
of sweet Krin ' at last ! "

" I see it," Trixy said, rolling sleepily out of the under
berth; "and I don't think much of it. A lot of wicked-
looking rocks, and not a bit greener than at home. I
thought the very sky was green over Ireland."

For the last two days Trixy's bitter trials had ended — her
seasickness a dismal dream of the past. Siic was able, in
ravishing toilet, to appear at the dinner-table, to pace the
deck on the arm of Sir Victor. As one having the right,
she calmly resumed her sway where she had left it off. Since
that moonlight night of which she (Trixy) happily knew
nothing, the bare civilities of life alone had j^assed between
Miss I)arrell and the baronet. Sir Victor might try, and
did, but with the serene superiority of right and power
Miss Stuart countermanded every move. Hers she was de-
termined he should be, and there was all the lost time to be
made \\\> besides. So she redoubled her attentions, aided
and abetted by her pa — and how it came about the per-
jilexed young Englishman never could tell, but somehow he
was constantly at Miss Stuart's side and unable to get away,
lulith saw it all and smiled to herself.

"To-day for me, to-morrow for thee," she hummed. " I
have had niy day; it is Trixy's turn now. She manoeuvres
so well it would be a pity to interfere."

Charley was her cavalier those i)leasant last days ; both
were disposed to take tlie goods their gods provided, and not
fret for to-morrow. It would not last — life's fairy gifts never
do, for to-day they would eat, drink, and be merry together,
and forget the evil to come.

They landed, spent an hour in Queenstown, then the train
whirled them away "to that beautiful city called Cork."
There they remained two days, visited Blarney Castle, of
course, and would have kissed the lUarney Stone but for the

i;:

SHORT AND SENTIMENTAL.

trouble of climl)ing up to it. Then off, aud away, to Kil-
larncy.

And still Sir Motor was 'I'rixy's captive — still Mdith and
Charley njaintaincd their alliance. Lady Helena uatclu'd
her nei)he\v and the American heiress, and her tine woman's
instinct told her he was in no danger Hhiw.

" If it were the other one, now," she thought, glancing at
Edith's dark, Ijiight face ; "but it is quite clear how i iters
stand between her and her cousin. What a liandrioiu pair
they will make."

Another of the ciders — Mr. James Stuart — watched the
progress of matters, through very different spectacles. It
was the one dream of his life, to marry his son and daughter
to I'ritish rank.

" Of wealth, sir, they have enough," said the Wall Street
banker, pulling up his collar pompousl}-. " 1 will leave my
children a cool million ai)iece. 'I'heir descent is equal to
the best — to the best, sir — the royal rank of Scotland is in
their veins. I''ortune I don't look for — blood, sir — liLoon, I
do."

Over his daughter's ])rogress after blood, he smiled com-
placently. Over his son's conduct he frowned.

" Mind what you' re at, young man," he said, on the day
they left Cork, gruffly to Charley. " I have my eye on you.
Ordinary attention to I'Ved Darrell's daughter I don't mind,
but no fooling. You understand me, sir ? No fooling. Wy
Cicorge, sir, if you don't marry to please me, I'll cut you off
with a shilling ! "

Mr. Stuart, junior, looked tranquilly up at Afr. Stuart,
senior, with an expression of countenance the senior by no
means understood.

" Don't lose your temper, governor," he answered calmly.
" I won't many I'Ved Darrell's daughter, if that's what you
mean by ' ftxjling.' She and 1 settled that question two or
three centuries ago."

At the village of Afacroom, they quitted the comfortable
railway carriage, and mounted the conve\ance known in
Ireland, as a public car, a thing like an overgrown jaunting-
car, on which ten people can ride, sitting back to back, iso-
lated by the pile of luggage between. There was bur one
tourist for the Lakes besides themselves, a large, military-

>«1

'"»

SHORT AND SF.NTl MENTAL.

173

««1

looking young man, with muttonchop whibkers and an eye-
glass, a knapsack and knickerbockers.

"ITauiniond, l)y Jove!" exclaimed Sir Victor. " Ilain-
niond, of liie Scotch Clrays. My dear fellow, delighted to
see yoii. Captain llaniuiond, my friend, Mr. Stuart, of
New York."

Cai)tain Hammond [)ut up his eye-glass and bowed. Char-
ley lifted his liat, to this large military swell.

" 1 say, Sir Victor," the Captain of Scotch (Jrays began,
" who'd have thought of si'eing )i)u here, you know ? They
said — aw — you had gone exploring Can ida, or the United
States, or some of those kind of places, you know. Wlio's
your party ? " solto voce ; " Americans — he)' ? "

"American friends, and my aunt, Lady Helena Powyss."

" Now, thin — l(n)k alive yer honors," cried the car-driver,
and a scramble into seats instantly began. In his own
mind, Sir Victor had determined his seat should be by Miss
Darrell's side. 15ul what is man's determination beside
woman's resolve ?

"Oh, p-please. Sir Victor," cries Miss Stuart, in a piteou.s
little voice, " (/<; help me up. It's so dreadfully high, and I
/7/(;?i/ I shall fall otif. And oh, please, do sit here, and point
out the i)laces as we go along— one enjoys i)laces, so nnich
more, when some one points them out, and you've been
along here before."

What could Sir Victor do ? More particularly as Lady
Helena good-humoredly chimed in :

"Yes, Victor, come and point out the places. You shall
sit bodkin, between Miss Beatrix and me. Your friend in
the Tweed suit, can sit next, and you, my dear Mrs. Stuart
— where will yon sit ?"

" As Charley and Edith will have all the other side to
themselves," said meek Mrs. Stuart, " 1 guess I'll sit beside
Iv.lith."

" Ay, ay," chimed in her spouse, " and I'll mount wiih
cabl)y. All serene, there, behind? Then away wego 1 "
I Away they went, clattering over the road, with the whole
tatterdemalion population of Macroom after, shouting for
" ha' pennies."

" Rags enough to set up a paper-mill," suggested Charley,

•^

174

SHORT AND SENTIMENTAL

" and all the noses turn-ups ! Edith, how do you like this
arrangement ?"

" 1 think 'I'rixy's cleverer than I ever gave her credit for,"
laugiied I'klilli ; "it's a pily so much di[)lomacy should be
' love's labor lost.' "

" Poor Trixy ! She means well too. Honor thy fatiior,
that thy days may be long in the land. She's only trying
to fullil the command. And )ou think she has no
chance ? "

" I know it," Edith answers, with the calm serenity of
conviction.

" Sir Victor, who's your friend with the solemn face and
the funny knickerbockers ? " whispers Trixy, under her white
parasol.

" He's the Honorable Angus Hanunond, second son of
Lord Glengary, and captain of Scotch Grays," replies Sir
Victor, and Miss Stuart opens her eyes, and looks with new-
born reverence, at the big, speechless young warrior, who
sits sucking the head of his umbrella, antl who is an honor-
able and the son of a lord.

The day was delightful, the scenery exquisite, his com-
l)anion vivacious in the extreme. Lady Helena in her most
genial mood. But Sir Victor Catheron sat very silent and
^//j'/;'<j'// all the way. Rallied by Miss Stuart on his gloom,
he smiled faintly, and acknowledged he felt a tritle out of
sorts. As he made the confession he paused abruptly
— clear and sweet, rang out the girli.sh laugh of Edith
Darrell.

" Our friends on the other side appear to be in excellent
spirits at least," says Lady Helena, smiling in sympathy
with that merry peal; "what a very charming girl Miss
Uarrell is."

Trixy shoots one swift, sidelong glance at the baronet's
face, and answers demurely :

" Oh it's an understood thing that Ditby and Charloy
are never really hajjpy, except when together. 1 don't
believe Charley would have taken the trouble to come
at all, if Edith, at his solicitation, had not been one of the
party."

"A very old alTair I suppose?" asks her ladyship, still
smiling.

V*'

SIIOR T A XD SEN TIMENTA L.

175

" A very old affair, indeed," Trix answers gayly. " lulith
Avill mnko a charming sister-in-law ; don't you think so, Sir
Victor ? "

She looks up at him artlessly as she iilunges her small
dairger into a vital ijlacc. lie tries to smile, and say some-
thing agreeable in returi' — the smile is a failure ; the words
a greater failure. After that, all Trixy's attention falls harm-
less. He sits moodily listening to the gay voices on the
other side of the luggage, and fmds out for sure and certain
that he is dead in love with Miss Dairell.

They reach Glengariff as the twilight shadows fall — lovely
dlengarift", where they are to dine and pass the night. At
dinner, by some lucky chance, l-^dith is beside him, and
Captain Ilammond falls into the clutches of Trix. And
Miss Darrell turns her graceful shoulder deliberately ujjon
Charley, and bestows her smiles, and glances, and absolute
attention upon his rival.

After dinner they go for a sail by moonlight to an island,
where there are the remains of a martello tower. The
ciders, for whom " moonlight on the lake," long ago lost its
witchery, and falling dews and night airs retain their terrors,
stay at home and rest. Fxlilh and Sir Victor, Trix and the
Honorable Angus Hammond, saunter down arm in arm to
the boat. Charley and the two Irish boatmen bring up the
roar — Mr. Stuart smoking a consolatory cigar.

They all " pile in" together, and fill the little boat. The
baronet follows up his luck, and keeps close to Edith.
How beautiful she is with the soft silver light on her face.
He sits and watches her, and thinks of the laureate's
lines :

" A man h.afl given all other Hiss

And all his worldly worth for this,
To wast his wliole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips."

''Am
cousin ?

I too late ? " he thought ; " does she love her

Is it as his sister hints, or — "

His jealous, anxious eyes never left her. She saw it all.

If she had ever doubted her power over him, she did not

doubt to-night. She smiled, and never once looked toward

Charley.

"No," he thought, with a sigh of relief; "she does not

176

IN TIVO BOATS.

caro for him in that way — let Miss Rtiiait lliiiik as sh>.'
pleases. She likes liini in a sisterly way — nothing nioro.
1 will wait until we reach KuL^IanJ, and speak then. She,
and she alone, shall be inv wife."

CHAPTER VIII.

IN TWO HOATS.

\RLY next morning our tourists remounted the car
and jogged slowly over that lovely stretch of coun-
try which lies between (llengariff and KilLirney.
Their places were as on the day before — Sir
Victor in the i)()ssession of Trix, Charley with Edith. Hut
the baronet's gloom was gone — hope filled his heart. She
did not love her cousin, — of tlut he had convinced himself,
— and one day he might call her wife.

Sir \'ictor Catheron was that rara t77'is, a modest young
man. That this American gi:l, penniless and pedigreeless,
was beneath him, he never thought — of his own rank and
wealth, as motives to influence In-r, he never once dreamed.
Nothing base or mercenary could liud a place in so fair a
creature; so noble antl beautilul a fice must surely be em-
blematic of a still more noble and beautiful soul. Alas 1
for the blindness of people in love.

It was a day of deligiit, a day of cloudless skies, sparkling
sunshine, fresh mountain bree/es, sublime scenery. W'iid,
bleak valleys, frowning Kerry rocks, roaring torrents, baie-
footed, raggcf.l children, i)igs and people beneath the same
thatched roof, such sijualor and uiter poverty as in their
dreams they had never imagined.

" (iood H'.'aven ! " Edith said, with a shudder, " how can
life be worlh living in such horrible poverty as this ?"

"The biigbear of your lite seems to be \)overty, Edith."
Charley answered. " I dare say these people eat and sleep,
fall in love, marry, and are happy even here."

" My dear Mr. Stuart, what a sentimental speech, and
sillier even than it is sentimental. Marry and are ha[)py !

IN TWO BOATS.

177

Tliey many no doubt, aiul the pig lives in ihc • Tr.-.r, and
every cahiii swarms with children, but —/m/'/'v.' Cr.:.'L-y,
I used to tliink you had one or two grains of cuiijui'/.i-ienie,
at least — uou' I begin to doubt it."

" I begiii to doubt it myself, since I have ha.d the j»l*?a5ure
of knowing Juluh Darrcll. J defy mortal man to kcei> com-
mon-sense, or uncommon-sense, long in her cxmijany.
Poverty and misery, in your lexicon, mean the same
thing."

" The same thing. There is no earthly evil Tiiat can
equal poverty."

They reacheil Killarney late in the eveni!^;,^ an! '!rove to
the " Victoria." 'I'he perfect weather still cojjtjrmctj, the
moon that had lit their last night at sea, on the wane now,
lifted its silver liglit over the matchless Lakes of Ktliamey,
lying like sheijts of crystal light Iv.-neath.

"Oh, how lovely!" Trix exclaimed. The rest stood
silent. 'I'here is a beauty so intense as to be beyond words
of i)raise — so sweet, so solemn, as to hu^^h the very L«;aang
of cur hearts. It was such beauty as this they looked upon
now.

They stood on the velvety sward — Sir Victor with Trixy
on hi; arm, Charley and lulith side by side. A g!ovring
mass of soft, scarlet drapery wrapped Miss Djrrcll, a
coquettish hat, with a long, black o:trich j/!jms, set
off her Spanish face and eyes. They had dined — and
when is moonlight half so poetical as after an excellent
dinner ?

"I see two or three boats," remaiked Sir Victor. "I
])r(ii)o-,e a row on tiie lakes."

"()f all thing--," secoiuled 15eatrix, "a s lil 3n the Likes
of Killarney I Edith, do you realize it ? Let us goat once.
Sir \'ictor."

"Will you come with me, I'"dilh?" Charley asked, "'or
would you rather go with then) } "

She looked at him in surprise. How grave his fice — how
quiet his tone ! He had been like this all day, siJent, pre-
occu])ied, grave.

" My very dear Charlev, how pt)litc we grow ! how consider-
ate of others' feelings ! (>aite a new i)hase of yotjr i'ljterest-
ril go with you, cert.tinly — Mr. Charles

ing character.

1/8

IN TWO BOATS.

Stuart, in a state of lamblike meekness, is a study wortli
contemplating."

He smiled slightly, and drew her hand within his arm.

'•Come, then," he s:nd, "let us have this la>t evening
together ; who knows when we shall have another?"

Miss Darrell's brown eyes opened to their widest extent.

"'Thislar^t evening! Wiio knows wiien we shall have
another ! ' Charley, if you're meditating flight or suicitle,
say so at once — anything is better than susi)ense. I once
saw a picture of 'The Knight of the Wotul Countenance '
— the K. of the \V. C. looked exactly as you look now ! If
you're thinking of strychnine, say so — no one shall oppose
you. My only regret is, that I shall have to wear black,
and hideous is a mild word to describe Edith Darrell in
black."

"Hideous!" Charley rejieated, "you ! I wonder if you
could [jossibly look ugly iii anything.-* I wonder if noli
know how pretty you are to-night in that charming hat and
tiiat scarlet drapery?"

" Certainly 1 know, and charming I undoubtedly must
look to wring a word of i)raise from you. It's the iirst time
in all your life, sir, you ever paid me a compliment. Hith-
erto you have done nothing but fmd fault with my looks and
everything else."

" Tliere is a time for everything." he answers, a little
sadly— sadly ! and Charley Stuart! "Tlie time for all
that is past. Here is our boat. You will steer, Edith ? Yes
— then I'll row."

The baronet and Trix were already several yards off. out
upon the shining water. Another party — a large boat con-
taining half-a-dozen, Captain Hammond among them, was
farther off still. In this boat sat a girl with a guitar ; her sweet
voice as she sang came romantically over the lake, and the
mountain echoes, taking it up, sang the refrain enchantingly
over and over again. Ivlith lifted Uj) her face to the starry
sky, the moonlight bathing it in a glory.

"Oh, what a night !" she sighed. "What a brigiit, beau-
tiful world it is, and how perfectly happy one could be,
if—"

"One had thirty thousand a year!" Charl-jy suggested.

"Yes, e-xaclly. Why can't life be all like this — moonlight,

LV Tl'/O BOATS.

179

capital dinners, lot., of friends and new dresses, a nice l)oat,
and — }'es — 1 will say it — somebody one likes very much for
one's comi)aniun."

'•Somchody one likes very much, Edith? I wonder
sometimes if jnu like me at all — if it is in you to like any
one bat yoiuself."

"Thanks! I like myself, certainly, and first best I will
admit. After th U— "

" After that ? " he rei)eats.

" I likejw/. No — keep quiet, Charley, please, you'll up-
set the boat. Of course 1 like you — aren't you my cousin —
haven't you bec;n awfully kind — don't I owe all this to you?
Charl(;y, I bless that nii;ht in the snow — it has been the
luckiest in my life."

" And the unluckiest of nu'ne."

"Sir !"

" O Edith, let us speak for once — let us understand one
another, and then part forever, if we must. Only why need
we part at all?"

She turns pale — she averts her face from him, and looks
out over the radiant water. Sooner or later she has known
this must come — it has come to-nij^iit.

"Why need we part at all?" He is leaning on his oars,
and they are lloatinj; lightly with the stream. "1 don't need
to tell you how I love you ; you know it well enough ; and I
think — 1 hope — you care for me. He true to yourself, Edith
— you belong to me — come to me ; be my wife."

There is passion in his tone, in his eyes, but his voice is
quiet, and he sits with the oars in his hands. Even in this
supreme moment of his life Mr. Stuart is true to his "prin-
ciples," and will make no scene.

" You know I love you," he repeats, " as the man in the
Cork theatre said the other night: Til go down on my
knees if you like, but 1 can love you just as well standing
ui).' ICdith, s])eak to me. How can you ever many any
one but me — but me, whose life yon saved, My darling,
forget your cynicism — it is but lii)-deep — you don't really
mean it — and say you will be my wife."

" Your wife ! " She ! 'ighs, but her heart thrills as she says
it. "Your wife ! It would l)e pleasant, Charley ; but, like
most of the pleasant things of life, it can never be."

fc(?fe;

'Mf,

I So

nv Tivo no. ITS.

" Edith ! "

"Chuirlcy, all this is nonsense, and you know it. We ai-e
cousins— we are good fiicnils and stanch coiinades, and al-
ways will be, I hoi)e; but lovers — no, no, no !"

" And why ? " he asks.

" Have I not told you already — told you over and over
again? If you don't despise uie, and think nie heartless
and base, the fault has not been my want of candor. My cyni-
cisms [ mean, every word, if you had your father's wealth,
the fortune he means to leave you, I would marry you to-
morrow, and be," her lips trembled a little, '' the happiest
girl on earth."

" You don't care for me at all, then ? " he calmly asks.

"Care for you ! O Cnarley ! can't you see? I am not
(?// selfish. I care for you so n)uch that 1 would sooner die
than marry you. For you a marriage with me means ruin
— nothing else."

"My father is fond of me. I am his only son. lie
would relent."

" He never would," she answered firmly, "and you know
it. Charley, the day he spoke to you in Cork, 1 was behind
the window-curtains reading. I heard e\'ery word. My
first impulse was to come out and confront him — to throw
back his favors and patronage, and demand to be sent home.
A horrid bad temper is numbered among the list of my
failings. But I did not. I heard your calm reply — the 'soft
answer that turneth away wrath,' and it fell like oil on my
troubled spirit.

" ' Don't lose your temper,' you said ; ' Fred Darrell's
daughter and I, won't marry, if that's what you mean.'

" I admire your jirudence and truth. 1 took the lesson
home, and — stayed behind the curtains. And we will keep
to that — you and )'"red Darrell's daughter will never marr\ ."

" 15ut, Edith, you know what 1 meant. Good Heavens!
you don't for a second suijpose — "

" I don't for a second suppose anything but what is good
and generous of you, Charley. 1 know you would face j'our
father like a — like a 'griftin rampant,' to ipi ote 'i'rix, and
brave all conse'iuences, if 1 would let you. Hut 1 won't let
you. You can't afford to defy your lather. I can't afford
to marry a poor man."

IN 7'IVO BOATS.

I8l

" I am young — I am strong — [ can work. I have my
hands and my head, a tolerable education, and many friends.
We would iKJt starve."

"We would not starve — jierhaps," Edith says, and laughs
again, rather drearily. " We would only grub along, wanting
everything that makes life endurable, and be miseral)le be-
voiid all telling before the Inst year ended. We don't want
to hate each other — we don't want to marry. You couldn't
work, (JharK'y — you were iievt.T born for drudgery. And I
— I can't forget the training of my life even for you."

"You can't, indeed— you do your training credit," he an-
swered bitterly.

"And so," she goes on, her face drooping, "don't i)e an-
gry; vou'li thank me fur this some day. l,et it be all over
and (lone with to night, and never be spoken of more. Oh,
Charley, my brother, don't yon see we could not be hapi)y
together — don't you see it is better we should part?"

" It shall be exactly as you wish. 1 am but a poor spe-
( ial pleailer, and your worldly wisdom is 'O clear, the dullest
intellect nnght comprehend it. You, throw me over without
a pang, and you mean to marry the baronet. Only — as you
are not yet his excluhive pro|)erty, bought with a price — an-
swer me this : You love me ?"

Her head droo|)ed lower, her eyes were fidi of passionate
tears, her heart full of passionate pain. Throw h.im over
without a p;uig ! In her heart of hearts Edith Darrell knew
what ii c ■•': her to be heartless to-night.

"Auswi.; me!" he said imperiously, his eyes kindling.
" Answer me ! That njuch, at least, 1 claim as my right.
I)') y^'i lov me or do you not ? "

d the answer conu-s very humbly and low.

'• Charlev ! what need to ask ? You know only too well
-I dn."

And thi-n silence fdls. He takes up the oars again —
their s< i;. dip, ami the singing of the girl in the distant boat,
the only sounds. White moonlight and black shadows,
islands overrun with arbutus, that "myrtle of Killarney,"
and frowning mountains on every hand. The words of the
gill's gay song come over thu water :

1 82

/.V TIFO BOATS.

"The time I've lost in wooing,
la watcliiiii^ and puismng,
'J'lic liL;ht that lies
In Moman's eyes
Has been my heart's nndoing.

" Though wisdom oft lias sought me,
I scorned llie lore she brought me ;
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me."

"And folly's all they've taught nic ! " Charley sr.^ at
lencfth. "Come what niav, it is better that 1 should have
spoken and you should have answered. Come what may —
though you marry Sir \'ictor to-morrow — I would not have
the jiast changed if I could."

"And you *vill not blame me too much — you will not
quite despise me?" she pleads, her voice broken, her face
hidden in her hands. "I can't help it, Charley. 1 would
rather die than be jioor."

He knows she is crying ; her tears move htm strangely.
They are in ll\e s.iadow of Tore Mountain. He stops
rowing for a saoment, takes hi r hand, and lifts it to his li[)3.

" I will iuove you all my life," is his u:. .wer.

T . ,"^ ]-,nv wo of the watcr-paity were enjoying them-
- A ter of a mile farther off, another interesting

little siEcuc war- going on in another boat.

Trixy had been rattling on volubly. It was one of Trixy's
fixed ideas tlaat to entertain and fascinate anybody her
tongue must go like a windmill. Sir Victor sat and hstcned
rather absently, replied rather dreamily, and as if his miml
were a hundred miles away. Miss Stuart took no notice,
but kept on all the harder, endeavorii;g to be fascinating.
lUit there is a limit even to the power of a woman's tongue.
That limit was reached ; there came a lull and a pause.

"The time I've lost in wooing," began tin; English girl in
the third boat. The idea was suggestive ; Trix}' drew a deep-
breatli, and made a fresh spurt — this time on the subject of
the late Ttuxnas Moore and his melodies. But the young
baronet suddenly interposed.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Stuart," he began hastily, and

IN 71V0 ZiO.lTS.

183

in a somewnat nervous voice ; '' but there is a subject very
near to my heart on which 1 should Hke to speak to you this
evening."

'J'rix sat straight up in the stern of the boat, as if she had
been galvanized. Her iieart gave one great ecstatic tliuuip.
" Oh," thought iMiss Stuart, " he's going to pop ! '' 1 grieve
to relate it, but that was the identical way the young lady
thought it. " He's goiijg to poj), as sure as I live 1 "

There was a pause — unspeakably painful to Miss Stuart.
'* Yes, Sir Victor," she faltered in her most dulcet and en-
couraging accents.

" I had made up my juind not to speak of it at all," went
on Sir Victor, looking embarrassed and rather at a loss for
words, "until we reached England. 1 don't wish to be
jjrernalure. I — I dread a refusal so unspeakably, that I
almost fear to speak at all."

What was Miss Stuart to say to this ? What could any
well-trained young lady say?

" (iood gracious me !" (this is what she thought,) ''why
don't he speak out, and not go beating about the bush in
this ridiculous manner ! \Vhat's he afraid of ? Refusal,
indeed ! Stuff and nonsense ! "

" It is only of late," ])ursued Sir Victor Catheron, " that I
liave quite realized my own feelings, and then when 1 saw
the attention paid by another, and received with evident
pleasure, it was my jealousy tlrst taught me that I loved."

" He means Captain Hannnond," tiiought Trixy ; "he's
jealous of hun, as sure as a gun. How lucky we met him at
Macroom."

" And yet," again resumed the baronet, with a faint smile,
"I don't quite despair. I am sure, Miss Stuart, I have no
real cause."

" No-o-o, I think not," faltered Miss Stuart.

"And when 1 addre^^ myself to your father and mother —
as I sliall very soon — you think, Miss Stuart, t/uy will also
favor my suit ?"

'■'■They favor his suit?" thought Trix, "good Heaven
above ! was ever earthly modesty like tliis young man's ? "
Hut aloud, still in the trembling tones befitting the occasion,
" I — think so — 1 knoK> so, Sir Vii lor. It will be only too
much honor, I'm sure."

iS4

TN TWO nOATS

"And — oh. Miss Stuart — r.eatrix — if you will allow inc to
call you so — y(Mi tliink that when J. s[)cak — when 1 a.sk — I
will Le accepted ?"

*' He's a tool ! " thought Beatrix, with an inward hurst.
"A bashtul, ridiculous f(jol ! Why, in tiic name of all dial's
naniby-paniby, doesn't he pop the c|uestion, like a man, and
liave ilone with it ? IJashfuluess is all vety well — nobody
like> a little of it better than I do; but there is no use run-
ning M into the ground."

•• Vou are silent," pursued Sir Victor. " Miss Stuart, it is
not i)0S5ibIe that I am too late, that there is a previous en-
gagement ? "

.Mjis Stuart straightened herself up, lifted her head, and
smiled. She smiled in a way that would have driven a lover
straight out of his senses.

•• Cail me Beatrix, Sir Victor ; I like it best from my
friends — tVom — from yoii. No, there is no previous engage-
ment, and" (archly, thi::) " 1 am cjuite sure Sir Victor Cath-
cron need never fear a refusal."

" Thanks." And precisely as another young gentleman
was doing in the shadow of the "Tore," Sir Victor did in the
shadow of the ''Eagle's Nest," Me lifted his fair compan-
ion's hand to his lips, and kissed it.

Aftrr t'n.at of course there was silence. Trixy's heart
was fuki of joy — pure, unadulterated joy, to bursting. Oh,
to be out of this, and able to tell pa and ma, and Charle\-,
and Edith, and everybody ! Lady Catheron ! " IJeatrix —
LaiJy Catheron ! " No — I can't describe Tri.xy's feelings.
There are some joys too intense and too sacred for the
Queen's English. She shut her eyes antl drifted along in
that blessed little boat in a speechless, ecstatic trance.

An hour later, and, as the clocks of Killarney were strik-
ing ten. Sir Victor Catheron helped Miss Stuart out of the
boat, and had led her up — still silently — to the hotel. At
the entrance he paused, and said the only disagreeable thing
he had uttered tonight. "One last favor, I'calrix," taking
her hand and ga/ing at her tenderly, " I must ask. Let what
has jassed between us remain between us for a few days
longer. I hadraliier you did not speak of it even to )()ur
]iarenis. My aunt, who has been more than a mother to me,
is ignorant still of my feelings — it is her right that I inform

IN TWO BOATS.

185

her fust. Only a few days inoic, and then all the world may
know."

"Very well, Sir Victor," IJeatri.x answered demurely ; "as
you please, of course. J slian't speak to [>a or ma. Good-
night, Sir Victor, good night I "

May I tell it, Miss Stuart actually gave the baronet's hand
a little squeeze? Hut were thi.-y not engageil lovers, or as
good ? and isn't if permitted engaged lovers to squeeze each
other's right hands ? So they partetl. Sir Victor strolled
awav to smoke a cigar in the moonlight, and Miss Stuart,
witli a beatified face, swept upstairs, lier high-heeled Now
York gaiters click -clicking over the ground. Lady Cath-
eron, I ,ady Catheron ! Oh, what would all Fifth Avenue say
to this ?

Sleep was out of the question — it was open to debate
whether she would t'-i'cr sleep again. She would go and see
Kdith. Yes, Edith and Charley had got home before her —
she would go and see lulith.

She oi)ened the door and went in with a swish of silk and
patchouli. The candles were unlit. Miss Darrell, still wear-
ing her hat and scarlet wrap, sat at the window contemi)lat-
ing the heavenly bodies.

"All in the dark, Dithy, and thinking by the 'sweet silver
light of the moon?' O lulie ! isn't it just the heavenliest
night?"

" Is that what you came in to say, Miss Stuart ?"

"Don't be impatient, there's a dear! I wanted to tell
you how happy 1 am, and what a delicious — ile li-ci-ous,"
said 'I'ri.K, dragging out the sweet syllables, "sail I've hatl.
O lulie ! how I've enjoyed myself! Did you?"

" hnmensely !" lulith answered, with brief l)itterness, and
sometliing in her tone made Tri\y look at her more closely.

" Why, lulith, I do believe you've been crying '. "

" Clrying ! liosh ! 1 nev(!r cry. I'm stu[)id — I'm sleepy
— my head aches. JvKcuse me, Trix, but I'm going to bed."

"Wait just one moment. O Edith," with a great burst,
" I m,// keep it! I'll die if I don't tell somebody. O
I'ldilh, Ivlilh ! wish me ji)\. Sir Victor has proposal I"

" Trix ! "

She could just say that one word —then she sat dum!).

" O yes, I'Alilh— out in the boat to-night. O I'Aliih I

1 86

IN rikV BO.ITS.

I'm so happy — I want to jump — [ want to dance — I f(.-cl
wild with (loliL;ht ! Just think of it — //li/i/; of it ! Tiixy
Stuart will bo My Lady Cathcron ! "

She turned of a dead white from brow to chin. She sat
speechless with the shock — looking at 'I'rixy — unable to
s[)eak or move.

"lie's most awfully and a^gravatingly modest," pursued
]'>eatrix. " Couldn't say plump, like a man and brother,
* Trixy Stuart, will you marry me ? ' but beat about the bush,
and talked of being refused, and fearing a rival, and si)eak-
ing to ma antl |)a and l^aily I lelena when we got to England.
]3ut perhaps that's the way the iSritish aristocracy make love.
He asked me if there was any previous engagement, and any
fear of a refusal, and that rubbish. I don't see," exclaimed
Trixy, growing suddenly aggrieved, "w/iyhQ couldn't speak
out like a hero, and be ilone with it? He's had encourage-
ment enouofh, toothless knows I "

SomethiuL; ludicrous in the last words struck Edith — she
burst out laughing. IJut somehow the laugh sounded unnat-
ural, and her lips felt stiff and strange.

"You're as hoarse as a raven and as pale as a ghost," said
Trix. "That's what comes of sitting in draughts, and look-
ing at the moonshine. I'm awfully hapi)y, Edith ; and when
I'm Lady Catheron, you shall come and live with me always
--always, you dear old darling, just like a sister. And some
day you'll l.ie my sister in reality, and Charley's wife."

She Hung her arms around luiilh neck, and gave her a
rapturous hug. Edith Darrell unclasped her arms and i)ushed
her away.

" I'm tired, Trix ; I'm cold," She shivered from head to
foot. " 1 want to go to bed."

" But won't you say something, Dithy ? Won't you wish
me joy ? "

" I — wish — you joy."

Her lips kept that strange feeling of stiffness — her focehad
lost every trace of color. Oh, to be alone and free from
Trix !

" You say it as if you didn't mean it," said Trix indig-
nantly, gettmg up ancl moving to the door. " You look half-
fro/en, and as white as a sheet. I should advise you to shut
the window and go to bed."

SIio was gone,
heavy sigli. So !

ALAS FOR TRIX!

Edith drew a long brealli

187

tliat was over — and it

a long, tired,
was 'J'nx, after

Trix, after all ! How strangely it sounded — it stunned
hei-. Trix, after all and she had made sure it was to be her-
self. I le iiad looked at her, he had spoken to her, as he had
never looked or sjjoken to Trix. His color iiad risen like a
girl's at her coming — ^she had felt his heart bound as she
leaned on his arm. And it was 'I'rix, after all !

Slie laid iier arm u|)on the window-sill, and her face down
upon it, feeling sick — sick — that I should have to write it ! —
with anger and envy. She was I'xlith Darrell, the poor rela-
tion, still — ^and Trix was to be Lady Catlieron.

"A i)retty heroine !" cries some "gentle reader," looking
angrily up ; '* a nasty, envious, selfish creature. Not the sort
of a heroine 7*yfV^ used to." Ah! 1 know that — none bet-
ter ; but then pure and i)erfect beings, who are ready to re-
sign their lovers and husbands to make other women happy,
are to be found in — books, and nowhere else. And think-
ing it over and putting yourself in her i)lace — honestly, now !
— wouldn't you have been envious yourself?

CHAPTER IX.

ALAS FOR TRIX !

NI) after to-night we v/ill all have a rest, thank
' -M v4l Heaven ! and my lidgrimage will come to an end.
I A f(jrtnight at Pow;, ■^ i'i. ce before you go uj) to
London, my dear M.s. Si lart — not a day less."
Thus Lady Helena Powyss, eight days later, seated luxu-
riously in the first-class carriage, and Hying along by exjiress
train between Dublin and Kingston, en roietf for Cheshire.

They had "done" the south of Ireland, finished the
Lakes, spent a i)leasant half-week in Dublin, and now, in
the light of the ALiy afternoon, were ilying along to meet
the channel boat.

e>.

V;.'«'.":.'V5-

IMAGE EVALUATION
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^ -C ^ v"

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

33 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SS0

(716) 872-4503

i88

ALAS FOR TKIXI

Captain Hammond was of the party still, and included in
the invitation to Powyss Tlace. Me sat between Lady
Helena and Sir Victor now — "fiss Stuart, in charming trav-
elHng costume^ in the sunny seat next the wintiow. On the
opiJosite seat, at the other extreme end, sat Edith Darrell,
her eyes riveted upon the pages of a book.

Since that night in the boat Miss Stuart had quietly but
resolutely taken entire possession of Sir Victor. He was
hers — she had the right. If a gentleman is modest to a
fault, mayn't a lady overstep, by an inch or two, the line
that Mrs. Grundy draws, and meet him half way ? There is
an adage about heli)ing a lame dog over a stile — that work
of mercy is what Trixy was doing now.

Before she left her room on the ensuing morning follow-
ing that never-to-beforgotten night, Edith had entered and
taken Trix in her arms and kissed her.

" I was stupid and out of sorts last night, Trixy," slie had
sair! " If I seemed churlish, I ask your pardon, dear, with
all my heart. 1 was surprised — I don't mind owning that —
and perhaps a little, just a little, envious. But all that is.
over now, and I do wish you joy and hai)piness from the
bottom of my heart. You're the best and dearest girl in
the world, and deserve your fairy fortune."

And she had meant it. Trix icas one of the best and
dearest girls in tlie world, and if Sir Victor p.*-eferred her to
herself, what riglit had siic to gruilge her her luck. Against
the baronet himself, siie felt anger deep and strong still.
How dared he seek her out as he had done, select her for
his confidante, and look love in fifty dilTerent ways, when he
meant to marry Trix ? What a fool she might have made
of herself had she been a whit less proud tlian she was.
Since then she had avoided him ; in no marked manner,
perhaps, but she /lad avoided him. He should pour no
more family confidences into her ear, that she resolved.
He belonged to Trix — let him talk to Trix, then ; she
wanted no other girl's lover. If he felt this avoidance, he
showed no sign. I'erhaps he thought Miss Sir irt had
dropi)ed some hint — girls, desjjite their promises, have been
known to do such things — and this change was becoming
maidenly reserve. Sir Victor liked maidenly reserve — none
of your Desdemonas, who meet their Othellos half way, for

ALAS FOR TR/XI

189

him. Trixy's unremitting attentions were sisterly, of
course. He felt grateful accordingly, and strove to repay
her in kind. One other thing he obscrvetl, too, and with
great comi)laceney — the frien(lshi|) between Miss D.urell
and her Cousin Cliarley had come to an end. Thai is to
say, they rather kepi aloof froni each oilier — beyond ihe
most ordinary attention, Afr. Stuart seemed to have nothing
whatever to say to his cousin. This was as it should be ;
certainly Beatrix must have dro[)ped that very judicious hint.
He '..'as glad he had spoken to her.

They reached Kingston in the early twilight, and em-
barked. It was rough crossing, of course. Trix was seized
with agonies of mal de mcr once more. I'.dith waited upon
her assiduously. Mrs. Stuart and Lady Helena had a stew-
ardess apiece. Hai)])ily, if severe, it was short ; before
midnight they were at Holyhead, and on the tiain once
more. Then oiT — Hying through Wales — whirling by moun-
tains — illuminated glass stat'ons — the broad sea to their
left, asleep under the stars, the spray at times almost in
their faces. Past villages, ruins, castles, and cottages, and
at two in the morning thundering into the big station at
Chester.

Two carriages awaited them at the Chester station. Into
one entered NFr. and Mrs. Stuart, Sir Victor, and Beatrix ;
into the other. Lady Helena, Edith, Charley, and Cai^tain
Hanunond. They drove away through cpiiet, quaint Ches-
ter, "rare old city of Chester," with its wonderful walls, its
curious old streets — looking like set scenes in a theatre to
American eyes — glimpses of the iJcaceful Dee, glimpses of
Curson Park, with its stately villas ; away for miles over a
country road, then Chesholm at Unee in the morning,
silent and asleep. Presently an endless stretch of ivied
wall appears in view, inclosing a primeval forest, it seems
to Ivh'tli ; and Lady Helena sits up and rubs her eyes, and
says it is Catheron Royals. The girl leans forward and
strains her eyes, but can make out nothing in the darkness
save that long line of wall and waving trees. This is to be
Trixy's home, she thinks — happy 'I'rixy ! Half an hour
more of rapid driving, and they are at Powyss Place, and
their journey is at an end.

They emerge from the chill darkness of dawning day into

IQO

AL.iS FOR 7A'/X.'

a 1)1.17.6 of light — into avast and stately entrance-hall. A'
long tile of servants are drawn up to receive them. And
" Welcome to Powyss Phice," Lady Helena says with kind
courtesy. " I can only wish your visit may be as pleasant
to you as you made mine in New York."

Without changing their dresses, ihey arc ushered into a
lofty and handsomo dining-room. More brilliant lights,
more silent, respcctfid servants, a round table luxuriously
spread. They sit down ; forget they are tired and sleepy ;
eat, drink, and are merry; ami it is five, and ([uite day, be-
fore they were shown up to their rooms. Then, hasty dis-
robing, hasty lying down, and all are at peace in the land
of dreams.

Next day, somewhere about noon, Miss Stuart, clicking
along in her narrow-soled, preposterously high-heeled boots,
over a polished oaken corridor, as black as ebony, and sev-
eral degrees more slippery than ice, lost her footing, as
nnght be imagined, and came down, with an unearthly
screech, on one ankle. Of course the ankle was sprained ;
of course every one flew to the rescue. Sir Victor was first
on the field, and in Sir V^ictor's arms Miss Stuart was lifted,
and borne back to her room. Luckily it was near, or even
Sir Victor's chivalry and muscular development would not
have been equal to it, for Trix was a " fine woman." The
ankle was bathed and bandaged, the invalid's breakfast
brought up — everything done for her comfort that it was
possible to do ; and in the midst of their fussinp, having
cried a great deal. Miss Stuart suf'denly dropped off asleep.
Edith came out of the room looking pale and tired, la
the slippery i)assage she encountered Sir Victor waiting.

" I have waylaicl you on ])urpose. Miss Darrell," he said,
smiling, " lest you should meet with a misha[) too. A car-
pet shall be placed here immediately. You look pale — are
yon ill?"

There was a solicitude in his face, a tremulous, suppressed
tenderness in the commonplace question, a look in his eyes
that had no business in the eyes of another young lady's
betrothed. But Edith felt too fagged and spiritless just at
present to notice.

" 1 feel well enough ; nothing is ever the matter with me ;

ALAS FOR mix I

191

■hall. A ■
in. And
villi kind
pleasant

!d into a
It lights,
xiiriously

sleepy ;

lay, bo-
as ty dis-
ihe land

clicking
id boots,
and sev-
'^ting, as
mearthly
p rained ;
was first
as lifted,
or even
:)uld not
I lie
)reakfast
t it was
, having
" asleep,
•cd. Jn
ing.
he said,

A car-
dc — are

pressed

liis eyes

g lady's

just at

til me ;

but I am rather stupid. Stupidity," she said, with her old
laugh, " is fast becoming my normal state."

"You will come with me for a walk, will you not?" he
asked. "The park is very well worth seeing. To-morrow,
Miss Stuart's s|)rain permitting, we will all visit Catlieron
Royals. Do come, Miss Darrell ; it will do you a world of
good."

She hesitated a moment, then went. What difference did
it make? Trix wouldn't be j'-alous now. What difference
did anything make, for that matter? She was dull and low-
si)irited ; she needed a walk in the fine fresh air. So they
went on that fateful walk, that walk that was to be like no
otiier in all Edith Darrell's life.

It was a jierfect Mayday, an English May day ; the grass,
green beyond all ordinary greenness, the fragrant hawthorn
hedges scenting the air, the thrush and the linnet singing in
the trees, cowslii)s and daisies dotting the sward. A fresh,
cool breeze swept over the uplands, and brought a faint
trace of lil'e and color into Edith's dark pale cheeks.

"This is the Lime Walk — the prettiest at I'owyss Place,
to my mind." This was the young baronet's first common-
place remark. "If you will ascend the eminence yonder.
Miss Darrell, I think I can point out Catheron Royals; that
is, if you t^hink it worth the trouble,"

It was ail the same to Edith — the Lime Walk, the emi-
nence, or any other quarter of the park. She took Sir
Victor's arm, as he seemed to expect it, and went with him
slowly up the elevation. Pale, weary, listless, she might be,
but how charmingly pretty she looked in the sparkling sun-
shine, the soft wind blowing back her loose brown hair,
kindling into deeper light her velvety-brown eyes, bringing
a sea-siiell pink into each creamy cheek. IJeautiful beyond
all ordinavy beauty of womanhood, it seemed to Sir Victor
Catheron.

"It is a wonderfully pretty place," she said. "I should
think you English people, whose ancestors, time out of
mind, liave lived and died here, would grow to love every
ivy-clad stone, every brave old tree. If I were not Alex-
ander 1 would be Diogenes — if I were not an American gu 1,
I would be an English miss."

She laughed and looked up at hinj, her spirits rising in

ALAS FOR TRIXI

the sunshine and the free, fresh air. His eyes were fixed
upon her face— [xissionate admiration, ])assionate hjve,
written in them far too plainly for any i^irl on earth not to
read. And yet — he had proposed to 'I'rix.

"Yon would?" he eagerly exclaimed. "Miss Darrell,
do I understand you to say you coulil live in iMiglaiid all
your life — give up America and your friends, and pass your
iifehere?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

" It would be no great sacrifice. Apart from my father,
there isn't a soul in all wide America I care a farthing for,
and your English homes are very charming."

The last barrier broke down. He had not meant to
speak — he had meant to be very prudent and formal — to
tell Lady Helena first, to refer the nutter to Mr. Stuart
next. Now all prudence and formality were swept away.
Her hands were in his — he was speaking with his whole
heart in every word.

" Then stay and share an English home — share mine
Edith, I love you — I have loved you, 1 think, since I saw
you first. Will you be my wife ? "

Alas for Trix ! — that was Edith's first thought. To burst
out laughing — that was Edith's first impulse. Not in tri-
umph or exultation — just at this moment she felt neither —
but at the awful blunder Trix had made ; for Trix had
made a blunder, that was clear as day, elsk Sir Victor
Catheron had never said those words, y

"I meant to have spoken to Lady Helena and Mr. Stuart
first," Sir Victor went on ; " but that is all over now. I
can't wait longer; I must take my sentence from your lips.
I love you ! What more can I say ? You are the first my
'il)s have ever said it to — the first my heart has ever felt it
for. Edith, tell me, may I hope ? "

She stood silent. They were on the summit of the hill.
Away, far off, she could see the waving trees and tall chim-
neys of a stately mansion — Catheron Royals, no doubt.
It looked a very grand and noble place ; it might be her
home for life — she who, in one sense, was homeless. A
baronet stood beside her, offering her rank and wealth — she,
|)enniless, pedigreeless Edith Darrell I All the dreams of
life were being realized, and in this hour she felt neither

ALAS FOR TRIXl

193

triumph nor elation. She stood and listened, the sunlight on
her gravely beautiful face, with vague wonder at herself for
her apathy.

"Kditli!" he cried out, "don't tell nic I am too late —
that some one has been bef()re me and won your heart. I
couhlii tW.z.\'\\\ Your cousin assured me that when I si)oke
tlie answer would b^; favorable. I spoke to her that niijiit
in Killarney— I did not mention your name, but she innler-
stoud me immediate!). I told her I meant to speak as
soon as we reached Enj^ nd. I asked her if she tliought
there was hope for me, ant. she — "

The ])assionate eagernesh, the jiassionate love and fear
within him checked his words suddenly. He stopped for a
moment, and turned away.

" O Trixy ! Tri.xy ! " was lulith's thought ; and ridicu-
lous and out of place as the emotion was, her only desire
still was an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh outright.
Wliat a horrible — wliat an unheard-of blunder the child had
made !

She stood tracing figures on the grass with the point of
her parasol, feeling strangely apathetic still. If her life had
depended on it, she could hardly have accepted Sir Victor
then, liy and by she might feel half wild with exultation —
not now.

He waited for the answer that did not come. Then he
turned from her, pale with desi)air.

"I see how it is," he said, .ying, not quite successfully,
to steady his voice ; " I am too late. You love your cousin,
and are engaged to him. I feared it all along."

The brown starry eyes, lifted slowly from the grass and
looked at him.

"My cousin? You mistake. Sir Victor ; I am engaged
to no one. I " — she set her lips suddenly and looked away
at the trees and the turrets of Catheron Royals, shining in
the brilliant sun — " I love no one."

" No one, Edith ! Not even me ? "

"Not even you, Sir Victor. How could I? Why should
I ? I never dreamed of tuis."

"Never dreamed of this!" he repeated, in amaze;
" when you must have seen — nmst have known — "

She interrupted him, a faint smile curling her lips.
9

ALAS FOR TRIX!

** I thought it was Trixy," she said.

"Miss Stuart ! Then she has told you nothinfj of that
night at Killaincy — I really iiiKwined she had. Miss Stuart
has been my kind friend, niyone confidante and sympathizer.
No sister could be kinder in her encouragement and com-
fort than she.''

"O i)oor Trix — a sister!" Kdith thought, and in spite
of eveiy effort, the laugh she strove so hard to suppress
(linii)led the corners of her mouth. '* Woiit there be a
scene when you hear all this ! "

" For pity's sake, ICdith, speak to me ! " the young man
exclaimed. " 1 love you — my life will be miserable with-
v)Ut you. If you are free, why may 1 not ho])e ? Sec! \
don't even ask you to love me now. I will wait ; I will be
l)atient. My love is so great that it will win yours in return.

darling ! say you will be my wife."

Her hands were in his. The fervor, the passion within
him almost frightened her.

" Sir Victor, I — I hardly know what to say. I wonder
that you care for me. I wonder you want to marry me.

1 am not your equal ; 1 have neither rank, nor wealth, nor
descent.

" You have the beauty and the grace of a goddess — the
goodness of an angel; I ask nothing more. You are the
mate of a prince ; and I love you. Everything is said in
that."

" Lady Helena will never consent."

"Lady Helena will consent to anything that will make
me happy. The whole happiness or misery of my life lies
in your hands. Don't say no, Edith — don't, for Heaven's
sake. I could not bear it — I cannot lose you ; J. 7oill not ! "
he cried, almost fiercely.

She smiled faintly again, and that lovely rose-pink blush
of hers deepened in her cheeks. It was very nice indeed to
be wooed in this fiery fashion.

" J^or/{:s forf una J urn f,'' she i^3.k], laughing. "I leaned
enough Latin, you see, to know that fortune assists the
brave. People who won't have 'no' for an answer must
have 'yes,' of course."

"And it is 'yes!' Edith—"

" Be quiet, Sir Victor; it is not 'yes' just yet, neither is

ALAS FOR TRTXl

195

it * no.' You must let me think all this over ; my head is
gickly with your vehemence. Give me — let n)e see — until
to-morrow. 1 can't answer now."

" 15ut, Edith—"

♦' That much is due to nie," she interposed, proudly ;
" remember, I have not expected this. You have surprised
me (his morning more than I can say. I am proud and
grateful for your i)reference and tlie honor you liave done
me, but — I am honest with you — I don't love you."

" But you love no one else. Tell me that again, Kdith ! "

She grew pale suddenly. Again she looked "ly from
him over the sunlit slopes befo^-j her.

" I am a very selfish and '.^.-artless sort of girl, I am
afraid," she answered. "I don't know that it is in me to
love any one as I ought — certainly not as you lovo me. If
you take me, you shall take me at my true value. 1 am not
an angel — ah, no ; the farthest in the world from it — the
most selfish of the selfish. 1 like you very nnich ; it is not
hard to do that. To be your wife would be my highest
honor, but still I must have time. Come to me to-morrow.
Sir Victor, any time, and you shall have your answer. Don't
say one word more until then. Now let us go back."

He bowed and offered his arm. She took it, and in pro-
found silence they walked back. The one topic that filled
him, heart and soul, strength and mind, was forbidden — it
was simply impossible for him to speak of any other. For
EdiUi, she walked calmly beside him — her mind a serene
blank.

They reached Powyss Place — they entered the drawing-
room. All were there — Tri.xy lying on a sofli, pale and in-
teresting, Lady Helena beside her, Charley lounging in the
recess of a sunny window. All eyes turned upon the new-
comers, Trix's with suspicious jealousy. If Sir Victor were
in love with herself, was not his fitting place by her side in
this trying hour, iristead of meandering about w.th Ditliy ?
And what business had Dithy monopolizing another girl's
lover ?

" I think I shall ride over to Drexel Court between this
and dinner," Sir Victor said. " I promised Hampton — "

Lady Helena laughed and interrupted :

" And Lady Gwendoline is there — I understand. Go by

196

ALAS FOR TRIXI

all means, Victor, and give Gwendoline my love. Wc shall
exjiect you back to dinner."

The young man colored like a girl. He glanced uneasily
at Edith, but Miss Darrell had taken up a photograph bo(^k
of literary celebrities, and was immersed therein.

Would she understand lyui, he wondered — would siie
know it was because he could not endure the suspense at
home ? How should he drag through all the long, heavy
hours between this and to-morrow ? And when to-morrow
came, if her answer were tiol He set his teeth at the
thought — it could not be no — it should not I She loved no
one else — she must learn to love him.

Captr'n Hammond and Charley betook themselves to the
billiard Trixy turned her suspicious eyes upon her

cousin.

" Wnere were you and Sir Victor all day, Edith ? "

" I and Sir Victor have not been any where all day,
Beatrix. During the last hour we have been walking in the
grounds."

" What were you talking about ? "

" Many things," Miss Darrell responded, promptly.
" The beauty of the prospect — the comfort of English homes,
and the weather, of course. If 1 understood short-hand,
and had been aware of your anxiety on the subject, I miglit
have taken notes of our conversation for your benefit."

" Did you talk of me ? "

" I believe your name was mentioned."

"Dith!" in a whisper, and raising herself on her elbow,
*' did Sir Victor say any thing about — about — you know
what."

" He did not say one word about being in love with you,
or marrying you, if that is what you mean. Now please
stop catechising, and let me look at the pictures."

Twilight fell —dinner hour came ; with it Sir Victor. He
looked i)ale, anxious, tired. He answered all his aunt's in- '
quiries about the Drexel family in the briefest jjossible man-
ner. His over-fond aunt lucked at him a little uneasily —
he was so unlike himself, and presently drew him aside, after
dinner, and spoke.

" Victor what is the matter ? Are you ill ? "

ALAS FOR TRIXt

"111? No. My dear aunt," smiling, "don't wear that
alarmed face — there is nothing the matter with me."

•'Tliere is something the matter with yon. You are pale,
you are silent, you eat nothing. Victor, what is it ?"

" I will tell you to-!norrow," he answered. " Spare me
imtil tlien. 1 am anxious, I admit, but not even to you can
I tell why to-night. You shall know all about it to-
morrow."

No glimmer of the truth dawned upon her as she left him.
She wondered what it could be, but she would not press him
further.

For Iv.liih — she was in that mood of serene recklessness
still, or tomorrow she neither cared to think, nor tried to
think. Tlie liile of her life was at its flood ; whither the
stream might bear iier after this night, just now, she neither
knew nor cued. I'^or the |)resent she was free, to-morrow
she might be a bondwoman. Her fetters would be of gold
and roses ; none the less though woidd they be fetters.

She i)layed chess with Sir Victor — his hand trembled —
hers was steady. Captain Hammond asked her for a Scotch
song. Slie went to the piano and sang, never more clearly
and sweetly in her life.

"Sing ' Charley he's my darling,' " suggested Trix, malic-
iously ; " it's one of yoiir favorites, I know."

Charley was reposing on a sofa near — the wax lights
streaming over his handsome, vl'^t:id face.

" Yes, sing it, Dithy," he said ; " it's ages since you sang
it for me now."

" And 1 may never sing it for you again," she answered,
with a careless laugh ; " one so soon grows tired of these old
songs."

She sang it, her eyes alight, her cheeks flushing, thrilling
spirit and life in the merry words. Sir Victor stood beside
her, drinking in until he was intoxicated by the si)ell of her
subtle witchery,

" And Cliarley he's my darling —
My darling, my darling ! "

Edith's contralto tones rang out. She had never looked
so really beautiful, perhaps, before in her life — suppressed
excitement lent her such sparkle and color. She tlnished
her song and arose. And presently the evening was over,

198

j4las for trix.

and it was half-past cloven, and one by one they were taking
their candles, and strif^j^lin;,' off to bed.

Edith Daircll did noi go to bed. She put the lights away
on the toilct-tabie in the dressii'i^-ronin, wrapped something
around her and sat down by the winilow to tliiiik it out.

Should she many Sir Victor Catheron, or should she
not?

She cared nothing for him- othing whatever — very likely
she never would. She ioven Charley Stuart with all the
power of her heart, and just at present it seemed to her she
always must, i hat was how the problem stood.

If she married Sir Vir:tor, rank and wealth beyond all her
dreams would be hers, a life of luxury, all the joys and de-
lights great wealth can bring. She liked pleasure,' luxury,
beauty, rank. For love — well, Sir Victor loved her, and for
a woman it is always better, safer, to be loved than to
love.

That was one phase of the case. Mere was the other :
She might go to Charley and say. " Look here- -I care
for you so much, that life without you, isn't worth the liv-
ing. I will marry you, Charley, whenever you like." He
would make her his wife. Alone in darkness, her heart
thrilled as she thought of it — and the intensest joy of life
would be hers for a while. For a while. 'I'hey would be
poor — his father would cast him off — he must, for the first
time in his life, begin to work — the old story of pinching and
poverty, of darning and mending, would commence over
again for her, poor food, poor clothes, all the untold ugliness
and misery of penury. Love is a very good and ])leasant
thing, but not when bought at the price of all the glory and
pleasure of the world.

She turned from the life she i)ictured with a shudder of
abhorrence. And Charley w.is not of the stuff the toilers of
the earth are made. She would never spoil his life for him
as well as her own — not if iier heart broke in giving him \\\).
]}ut it would not break — wlio breaks her heart in these days ?
She would say " Yes" to-morrow to Sir Victor Calheron.

Then for a moment the tiiread of thought broke, and she
sat looking blankly out al the soft s[)ring night.

On the day she pledged herself to Sir Victor she must
say good-by forever to Charley- so it began again. One

ALAS FOR riUX!

199

house must not contain them hotli ; Iicr word, her plight
must be kept brif^ht ami untainisliod— * Iharlcy must go.

She tried to think wiiat her life would be like widiout him.
It seemed to her, slie ccnild think of 110 time, in which he had
not belonged to her ; all llie year-^ before that night in the
snow were blank and void. Ami now, for all lime, she
must give him up.

She rose, feeling cold and cramped — she undressed with
stiffened fmgers, and went to bed. .Slie would think no
more, her head ached — sIk would sleep and forget.

She did sleep, deeply, dreamlesuly. Tin; sunlight was
l^ouring into her room, flooding it with golden radiance,
when she awoke.

She sprang uj) ; her heart gave one bound of recollection
and rapture. Sir Victor Catheron had asked her to be his
wife.

Doubt was at an end— hesitation was at an end.

" Colors seen by candlelight
Do not looU the same by day."

Last night a hair might have turned the scale and made
her say " No," reckless of consequences — to-day a thousand
Charleys would not have intUienced her. .She would be
I-ady Catheron.

She sang as she dressed. Not the May sunshine itself
was brigluer than her face. She left her room, she walked
down the corridor, down the stairs, and out upon the emer-
ald green lawn.

A well-known figure, in a gray suit, stood a few yards off,
pacing restlessly about and smoking, lie flung away his
cigar and hurried upto her. One glance at lier smiling face,
was enough, his own flushed deep with rapture.

" I have come for my answer," he crieci. " Edith,
my darling, don't let it be ' No.' "

She laughed aloud at his vehemence — it was the sort of
wooing she liked.

" I should like to please you, Sir Victor — what, then, shall
it be ? "

"Yes! a thousand times, yes! Edith, my love — my
love — yes ! "

She was s- liling still — she looked him frankly in the eyes

200

HOW TRIX TOOK IT.

as no woman on earth, in such an hour, ever looked at the
man she loved. She laid in liis one slim, brown, ringless
hand.

" Since you wish it so much, Sir Victor, let it be as you
please. Yes ! "

CHAPTER X.

HOW TRIX TOOK IT.

[IT was half-past twelve, by all the clocks and watches
of Powyss Place. Miss Stuart sat alone, in the
pleasant boudoir or sitting-room, assigned her, her
foot on an ottoman, a novel in her hand, a frown
on her brow, and most beautifully dressed. In solitary state,
at half-past ten, she had breakfasted, waited upon by the
trimmest of English handmaidens in smiles and lace cap.
The breakfast had been removed for over an hour, and still
Miss Stuart sat alone.

Her mamma had called to see her, so had Lady Helena,
but they did not count. She wanted somebody else, and
that somebody did not come. Her novel was interesting
and new, but she could not read ; her troubles were too
many and great.

First, there was her ankle that pained her, and Trixy did
not like pain. Secondly, it was quite impossible she could
ve\iture to stand upon it for the next three days, and who
was to watch Sir Victor during those three days ? Thirdly,
next week Lady Helena gave a large party, and at that party
it was morally and physically impossible she could play any
other part than that of wall-flower ; she who was one of the
best waltzers, and loved waltzing letter than any other girl
in New York. Is it any wonder, then, that an absorbing
novel failed to absorb her ?

The door opened and Edith came in. At all times and
in all array. Miss Darrell must of necessity look handsome.
This morning in crisp muslin and rosc-colored ribbons, a
tlush on her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. Miss Darrell
was something more than handsome — she was beautiful.

HO IV TRIX TOOK IT.

201

Something, that v/as more the memory of a smile, than a smile
itself, lingered on her lips — she was so brightly pretty, so
fresh, so fair, that it was a pleasure only to look at her.

"Good morning, Trixy," she said. " How is our poor
dear ankle? It doesn't hurt nnich, I hope?"

She came up behind Miss Stuart's chair, put her arms
around her neck, stooped down and kissed her forehead.
The frown on Trixy's face deepened — it was tlie last straw
that broke the camel's back, to see Edith Darrell looking so
brightly handsome, privileged to go where she pleased, while
she was chained to this horri' chair.

"It docs hurt," Trixy responded crossly. "I wish I had
never had an ankle, sooner than go spraining it this way.
The idea of horrid floors, like black looking-glasses, and slip-
perier than a skating-rink. Edith, how long is it since you
got up?"

" Now for it ! " thought Edith, and the smile she strove to
repress, dim])led her sunny face. Luckily, standing behind
Trix's chair, Trix did not see it.

" How long? Oh, since nine o'clock. You know I'm not
a very early riser."

" Did you go straight down to breakfast ? "

"The breakfast hour was ten. It doesn't take me all
that time to dress."

" Where did you go then ? "

" I walked in the grounds."

"Edith!" with sudden sharpness, "did you see Sir
Victor?"

" Yes, I saw Sir Victor."

" Where ? In the grounds too ? "

" In the grounds too — smoking a cigar."

" Edith !" the sharr>nes,-i changing to suspicion and alarm.
" You w(.'re with Sir Victor ! "

" I was with Sir Victor. That is to say. Sir Victor was
with 7«c."

" liothcr ! What did you talk about? Did he ask after
'me?"

" Ye-e-es," Edith answered doubtfully — the fact being Sir
Victor had utterly forgotten Miss Stuart's existence in the
dizzy rapture of his acceptance — ^"he asked for you, of
course."

202

HOW TRIX TOOK IT.

"Was that all? IR^s a pretty attentive host, I don't
think," cried Trixy, wilh bitterness, "having a young lady
laid np by the Ic — the ankle in Iiis house, and never so much
as calling to see if she is dead or alive ! "

" My dearest Tiix," said Kdith, struggling with a laugh,
"gentlemen don't call upon young ladies in their chambers
at break of day, even though they have a sprained ankle.
It isn't de rigair"

" De rigger be blowed ! It isn't my chamber; it's my
private jiailor ; and aristocratic as we Iiavegot lately, I don't
think half-past twelve is the break of day. luiith, upon your
word, did !ie say anything al)out — about — you know what ? "

" Marrying you? No, Trixy, not a word."

She put her arms closer around poor Trixy's neck, and
hid her face in Trixy's clicstnut hair.

"Trix, pet, don't you think tliere may have been a
little — just a little, misunderstanding that night at Kil-
larney ? "

" Misunderstanding ! I don't understand iw/, Editli," Miss
Stuart exclaimed, in increasing alarm. " For goodness' sake
come round where I can see you, and don't stand there like
a sort of ' Get thee behind mc, Satan.' I like to look peo-
ple in the face when I talk to them."

"In one moment, dear ; ])k'ase don't be cross. I have
something that is not pleasiint to say that jw^ won't like. I
am afraid to tell you. Trix, there 7Ckis a misunderstanding
that night."

" I don't see how ; I don't believe tliere was. Edith Dar-
rell, wl it do you mean ? He asked ine to marry him — at
least he told me he was in love with me in a stupid, round-
about way, and asked me if he might hope, ami if there was
any danger of a refusal, or a rival, when he spoke out, and
that balderdash. He said he nieant to sjjeak to jki and mn,
as plain as print. Now how coukl there be a misunderstand-
ing in all that ? "

" It was, as yon say, awfully stupid of him, but tka-se Eng-
lishmen have such tliffcront ways from what we are acciis-
tomed to. There was a misunderstanding, I repeat. He
means to speak to your fatlier and mother to-day, but — not
about you."

*' Edith ! " Trix half sprung up, i)ale as death and with

HO IV TRIX TOOK IT.

20$

flashing eyes. " VVliat do you mean ? Speak out, I tell

you 1 "' _

" O Trix." She twined her arms otill closer around her
nock, and laid her check coaxinyly alongside of Miss Stu-
art's. " There has been a horrid mistake. All the time in
that boat on Killarney lake he was talking of — me !"

" Of — you ! " The two words drop from Trixy 's ashen
lips.

"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you un-
derstood him so. Trixy — don't be angry with me — how
could I help it — he proposed to me yesterday afternoon."

" Projioscd to you yesterday afternoon ! " Trix repeats
tlie words like one who has been stunned by a blow, in a
dazed sort of tone. " And you — refused him, Edith ?"

" Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron
this morning in the grounds."

Then there was a pause. Tlie ticking of the little Swiss
clock, the joyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of
the trees sounding preternaturally loud. Ikatrix Stuart sat
white to tlie lips, with anger, n)ortification, amaze, disap-
l)oiiitment. Then she covered iier face with lier hands, and
bur>t into a vehement flood of tears.

"Trix! dear Trix!" lulith exclaimed, shocked and
pained ; " gootl Heaven, don't cry ! I'rix, dearest, 1 never
knew you were in love with him."

" [n love with him !" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes
flashing through her tears, " the odious little wishy-washy,
drawling coxcomb ! No, I'm not in love with him — not
likely — but what business had he to go talking like that, and
hemming and hawing, and hinting, and — (jji I " cried Trix,
with a sort of vicious screech, " 1 should like to tear his eyes
out I"

" I dare say you would — the desire is both natural and
l^ropcr," answered J''dith, smothering a second desire to
laugh; "but, under the circumstances, not admissible. It
was a stupid proceeiling, no doubt, his speaking to you at
all, but you see the poor fellow thinks you understood him,
and meant it for the best."

" Thought I understood him I " retorted Miss Stuart, with
a vengeful glare. "Oh, shouldn't 1 like to make him under-
stand me ! Tlie way he went on that night, kissing my

204

now TRIX TOOK IT.

hand, and calling me Beatrix, and talking of speaking to
pa, and meaning you all the time, is enough — enough to
drive a person stark, staving mad. All Englishmen are
fools — there !" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying
up lier tears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of
the lot!"

" What, Trix ! for wanting to marry me?"

" Yes, for wanting to marry you. You, who don't care a
bad cent for him ! "

" How many bad cents did you care. Miss Stuart, when
you were so willing to be his wife?"

" More than yon. Miss Darrell, for at least I was not in
love with any one else."'

"And who may Miss Darrell be in love with, pray?"

"With Charley," answered Trix, her face still afire.
" Deny it if you dare ! in love with Charley, and he with
you."

She was looking u|) at her rival, her angry gray eyes so
like Cha. ley's as she spoke, in everything but expression,
that for an instant Edith was disconcerted. Slie could not
meet them. For once in her life her own eyes fjU.

'■ Are we going to (juarrel, Trix ? Is it worth while, for
a man you have decided we neither of us care for — we who
have bi'eii like sisters so long ?"

" Like sisters ! " Trix repeated bitterly. " Edith, I won-
der if you are not scheming and deceitful ! "

" Beatrix ! "

"Oh, you needn't 'Beatrix' me! I mean it. I believe
there has been double dealing in this. He paid attention
to me before you ever came to New York. I l)elieve if I
hadn't been sea- sick he wou d have proposed to me on the
ship. But I was sea-sick, — t's always my luck to be every-
thing that's miserable, — and you were with him night and
day."

" Night and day ! Good gracious, Trixy, this is awful ! "

" You know what I mean," pursued Trix loftily. "You
got him in love with you. Then, all the way to Killarney
you flirted with Charley — poor Cliarley — and made him
jealous, and jealousy finished him. You're a very clever
girl, Edith, and I wish you a great deal of joy."

" Thank you ; you say it as if you did. I don't take the

NOW TRIX TOOK IT.

205

trouble to deny your charges ; they're not worth it — they are
false, and you know them to be so. I never souglit out Sir
Victor Catheron, either in New York, on board shii>, or
elsewhere. If he had been a prince, instead of a baronet, I
would not have done it. I have borne a great deal, but
even you may go too far, Trixy. Sir Victor has done me
the honor of falling in love with nie — for he does love me,
and he has asked me to be his wife. I have accepted him,
of course ; it was quite impossible I could do otherwise.
If, at Killarney, he was stupid, and you made a blunder, am
I to be held accountable ? He does not dream for a mo-
ment of the misunderstanding between you. He thinks he
made his meaning as clear as day. And now I will leave
you ; if I stay longer we may quarrel, and I — 1 don't want
to quarrel with you, Trixy."

Her voice broke suddenly. She turned to the door, and
all the smallness of her own conduct dawned upon Trix.
Her generous heart — it was generous in spite of all this —
smote her with remorse.

" Oh, come back, Edith ! " she said ; " don't go. I
won't quarrel with you. I'm a wretch. It's dreadfully
mean and contemptible of me, to make such a howling about
a man that does not care a straw for me. When I told you,
you wished me joy. Just come back and give me time to
catch my breath, and I'll wish you joy too. But it's so sud-
den, so unexpected. O Dithy, 1 thought you liked Char-
ley all this while ! "

How like Charley's the handsome dark gray eyes were !
lulith Darrell cv/uld not meet them ; she turned and looked
out of the window.

" 1 like him, certainly ; I would be very ungrateful if I did
not. He is like a brother to me."

" A brother 1 Oh, bother," retorted Trix, with immeas-
urable scorn and dignity. " Edith, honor bright ' Haven't
you and Charley been in love with each other these two
years ? "

Edith laughed.

" A very loading question, and a very absurd one. I
don't think it is in either your brother or me to be very
deeply in love. He would find it feverish and fatiguing —
you know how he objects to fatigue ; and I — well, ' f love be

206

HO IV TRIX TOOK IT.

anything like what one reads of in books, an all-absorbing,
all consuniing i)assion tiiat won't let i)coi)le cat or sleep, I
have never felt it, and 1 don't want to. 1 think that sort of
love went out of fashion with Amanda Fitzallen. You're a
sentimental goose, IMiss Stuart, and havu taken Byron and
Miss J.andon in too huge doses,"

" I>ut you like him," persisted his sister, "don't you,
Dithy?"

'•Like him — like him!" Her whole face lit up for a
second with a light that made it lovely, "Well, yes, 'i'rix,
I don't mind owiiing that mucli — I do like Charley — like
liim so well that I won't marry and ruin him, For it means
just that, IVixy — ruin. The day we become anytliing more
than friends and cousins your father woulil disinherit him,
and your father isn't tlie heavy father of the comedy, to
rage through four acts, and come round in die lift!), v.-ith his
fortune and blessing. Charley and 1 'lave common-sense,
and we have shaken hands and agreed to be good friends and
cousins, nothing more."

"What an admirable thing is common-sense! Does Sir
Victor know about tlie hand-shaking and the cousinly agree-
ment ?"

" Don't be sarcastic, ]>ealrix ; it isn't your forte ! I have
nothing to confess to Sir Victor when I am married to him ;
neither your brother nor any other man will hold tiie i)lace
in my heart (such as it is) tliat he will, lie very sure of
that."

"Ah ! such as it is," puts in Trix cynically ; "and wlum
is it to be, Dithy — the wetiding ? "

" My dear Trix, I only said yes this morning. Gentlemen
don't propose and fix the wedding-ilay all in a breaih. It
will be ages from now, no doubt. Of course J.aily Helena
will c!)ject."

" You don't mind that ?"

" Not a whit. A grand-aunt is— a grand-amit, notliing
more. She is his only living relative, he is of age, able to
speak antl act for iiimsclf, 'I'he true love of any good man »
honors the woman who receives il. In that way Sir Victor
Calheron honors me, and in nootLjr. I have neither wealth
nor lineage ; in all other things, a.i Cod made us, 1 am his
equal ! "

I/O IV LADY HELENA TOOK IT.

207

She moved to the door, her dark eyes shining, her head
erect, looking in her beauty and her i)iide a mate for a king,

"There is to be a chiving-party to l'".asllake Abbey, after
luncheon," slie said; "you are to be carried down to the
barouclie and ride wilii your father and niodier, and Lady
Helena — Charley and Captain Hammond for your cava-
liers."

" And you ? "

"Sir Victor drives me."

"Alone, of course?" Trixy says, with a last little bitter
sneer.

"Alone, of course," Edith answers coldly. Then she
opens the door and disappears.

CHAPTICR XI.

now LADY nr.r,i:NA took it.

UT the driving-i)arty did not come off. The ruins
of Kastlake Abbey were unvisited that day, at
least. I'Vjr while I'ldith and Trixy's somewhat un-
pleasant interview was taking place in one part of
the house, an equally unpleasant, anil nuich more mysteri-
ous, interview was taking place in another, and on the same
subject.

l.ady Helena had left the guests for awhile and gone to
her own rooms. The morning post had come in, bringing
her several letters. One in particular she seized, and read
with nioie eagerness than the others, dated London, begin-
r.ing "My Dear Aunt," and signed. "Inez." While she sat
absorbed over it, in deep and painful thought evidently,
iIk re caine a tap at the door ; then it opened, and her
nephew came in.

She crumpleil her letter hurriedly in her hand, and put it
out of sight. She lookeil up with a smile of welcome; he
was the " api)le of her eye," the darling of her life, the
Henjamin of her childless old age — the fair-haired, pleasaut-
fciced young baronet.

208

HOW LADY HELENA TOOK IT.

" Do I intrude ? " he asked. " Are you busy ? Are your
letters very important this morning? If so — "

"Not important at all. Come in, Victor. I have been
wishing to speak to you of the invitations for next week's
ball. Is it concerning the driving-party this afternoon you
want to speak ? "

" No, my dear aunt ; something very much jileasanter
than all the driving-parties in the world ; something much
more important to me."

She looked at him more closely. His face was flushed,
his eyes bright, a happy smile was on his lips. He had the
look of a man to whom some great good fortune had sud-
denly come.

" Agreeal ly important, then, I am sure, judging by your
looks. What a radiant face the lad has ! "

" I have reason to look radiant. Congratulate me, Aunt
Helena ; I am the happiest man the wide earth holds."

" My dear Victor ! "

" Cannot you guess ? " he said, still smiling ; " I always
thought female relatives were particularly sharp-sighted in
these matters. Must I really tell you ? Have you no sus-
picions of my errand here ? "

" I have not, indeed ; " but she sat erect, and her fresh-
colored, handsome old face grew pale. " Victor, what is it ?
Pray speak out."

" Very well. Congratulate me once more ; I am going to
be married."

He stopped short, for with a low cry that was like a cry
of fear. Lady Helena rose uj). If he had said " I am going
to be hanged," the consternation of her face could not have
been greater. She put out her hand as though to ward otf a
blow.

" No, no ! " she said, in that frightened voice ; " not mar-
ried. For God's sake, Victor, don't say that 1"

" Lady Helena ! "
, He sat looking at her, utterly confounded.

*' It can't be true," she panted. " You don't mean that.
You don't want to be married. You are too young — you
are. I tell you I won't hear of it ! What do boys like you
want of wives ! — only three-and-twenty I "

He laughed good-humoredly.

ffOW LADY I/ELENA TOOK IT.

209

" My dear aunt, boys of tiiree-and-twenty are tolerably
well-grown ; it isn't a bad age to marry. Why, according
to Dc'brett, my father was only three-and-twenty when he
brought home a wife and son to Catheron Royals."

She sat down suddenly, her head against the back of a
chair, her fice quite white.

" Aunt Helena," the young man said anxiously, approach-
ing lier, " I have startled you ; I have been too sudden with
this. You look quite faint ; what shall 1 get you ? "

He seized a carafe of water, but she waved it away.

" Wait," she said, with trembling lips ; " wait. Give me
time — let nie think. It was sudden ; I will be better in a
monient."

He sat down feeling uncommonly uncomfortable. He
was a practical sort of young man, with a man's strong dis-
like of scenes of all kinds, and this interview didn't begin as
l>r()misingly as he had hoped.

Slie remained pale and silent for upward of five very long
minutes ; only once her lips whisi>ered, as if unconsciously :

" The time has come — the time has come."

It was Sir Victor himself who broke tlie embarrassing
pause.

" Aunt Helena," he said pettishly, for he was not accus-
touied to have his sovereign will disputed, " I don't under-
stand this, and you will pardon me if 1 say I don't like it. It
must have entered your mind that sooner or later I would
fall in love and marry a wife, like other men. That time
has come, as you say yourself. There is nothing I can see
to be shocked at."

" But not so soon," she answered brokenly. " O Victor,
not so soon."

" I don't consider twenty-three years too soon. I am old-
fashioned, very likely, but I do believe in the almost obsolete
doctrine of early marriage. I love her with all my heart."
His kindling eyes and softened voice l>etrayed it. "Thank
Heaven she has accepted me. Without her my life would
not be wortii the having."

" Who is she ? " she asked, without looking up. " Lady
Cweniloline, of coiu-se."

"Lady Gwendoline?" He smiled and lifted his eye-
brows.

210

HOW LADY I/ELENA TOOK IT.

" No, my dear aunt ; a very different person from Lady
Gwendoline. Miss Darrcll."

She sat erect and gazed at liiin — stunned.

" Miss Darrell ! Edith Darrell — the American girl, the
— Victor, if this is a jest — "

" Lady Helena, am 1 likely to jest on such a subject ?
It is the truth. This morning Miss Darrell — Edith — has
made me the liai:)i)iest man in England by promising to be
my wife. Surely, aunt, you must have suspected — must have
seen that I loved her."

"I have seen nothing," she answered blankly, looking
straight before her — " nothing. I am only an old woman
— I am growing blind and stupid, I sup[)ose. I have seen
nothing."

There was a pause. At no time was Sir Victor Catheron
a fluent or ready speaker — ^just at i)resent, jierhaps, it was
natural he should be rather at a loss for words. And her
ladyship's manner was the reverse of reassuring.

"I have loved her from the first," he said, breaking once morQ
the silence — "from the very first night of the party, witiiout
knowing it. In all the world, she is tlie only one I can ever
marry. With her my life will be supremely happy, superbly
blessed ; without her — but no! 1 do not choose to think
what my life would be like without her. You, who have
been as a mother to me all my life, will not mar my perfect
happiness on this day of days by saying you object."

" But I do object ! " Lady Helena exclaimed, with sud-
den energy and anger. "More — I absolutely refuse. I say
again, you are too young to want to niarry at all. Why, even
your favorite Shakespeare says : ' A young man married, is
a man that's marred.' When you are thirty it will be quite
time enough to talk of this. Go abroad again — see the world
— go to the East, as you have often talked of doing — to
Africa — anywhere ! No man knows himself or his own
heart at the ridiculous age of twenty-three ! "

Sir Victor Catheron smiled, a very quiet and terribly ob-
stinate smile.

" My extreme youth, then, is your only objection ? "

" No, it is not — I have a hundred objections — it is objec-
tionable from every point. I object to her most decidedly
and absolutely. You shall not marry this American girl

ffOW LADY IIELEA'A TOOK IT.

211

without family or station, and of whom yon know absolutely
nothing — with whom you have r\o\. been acciuainted four
weeks. Ol), it is al)sui(l-it is ridiculous — it is the most
l)rei>ostcrons folly I ever heard of in my life."

His smile left his face — a frown came instead. His lips
set, he looked at h -r with a face of invincible determination.

" Is t/iis all ? " he demanded. " 1 will answer your ob-
jections when I have thoroughly iieard them. 1 am !ny own
master — but — that nnich is due to you."

" 1 tell you she is beneath you — beneath you ! " Lady
Helena said vehemently. "The Catlierons have always
married well — into ducal families. Your granchnolher — my
sister — was, as I am, the daughter of a marcjuis."

"And 7iiy mother was the daughicr of a soaj) boiler," he
said with bitterness. " Don't let us forget i/iaty

"Why do you speak to me of her? 1 can't bear it.
You know I cannot. You do well to taunt me with the ple-
beian blood in your veins — you, of all men alive. Oh ! why
did you ever see this designing girl? Why did slie ever
come between us ? "

She was working herself iipto a pitch of jiassionate excite-
ment, quite incomprehensible to her nephew, and as displeas-
ing as it was incomprehensible.

" When you call her designing, Lady Helena," he said, in
slow, angry tones, "you go a little too far. In no way
has Miss Darrell tried to win me — 'lis the one drawback to
my perfect ha|)piness now that she docs not love me as I
love her. She has told me so frankly and bravely. Dut it
will come. I feel that such love as mine must win a return.
For the rest, I deny that she is beneath me : in all things —
beauty, intellect, goodness — she is my sui)erior. She is the
(l.uigliter of a scholar and a gentleman ; lier affection would
iionor the best man on earth. I deny that I am too young
— I deny that she is my inferior — 1 deii) even your right,
Lady Helena, to speak disparagingly of her. And, in con-
clusion, I say, that it is my unalterable determination to
niarry Ldiih Darrell at the earliest possible hour that I can
prevail upon her to fix our wedding-day."

She looked at him ; the unalterable determination he
spoke of was printed in every line of his set face.

!'l might have known it," she said, with suppressed bitter-

ax3

HOW LADY HELENA TOOK IT.

ness ; " he is his father's son. The same obstinacy — the
same refusal to Hstcn to all warning. Sooner or later 1 knew
it must come, but not so soon as this."

The tears coursed slowly over her cheeks, and moved him
as nothing she ever could have said would have done.

"For Heaven's sake, aunt, don't cry," he said hurriedly.
" You distress me — you make me feel like a brute, and I —
really now, I don't think you ought to blame me in this way.
Miss Darrell is not a Lady Gwendoline, certainly — she has
neither rank nor wealth, but in my sight their absence is no
objection whatever. And I love her ; everything is said in
that."

'■ You love her," she repeated mournfully. ** O my
poor boy, my poor boy ! "

" I don't think 1 deserve pity," Sir Victor said, smiling
again. " I don't feci as though I did. And now tell me the
real reason of all this,"

" The real reason ? "

" Certainly ; you don't suppose I do not see it is some-
thing besides those you have given. There is something
else under all this. Now let us hear it, and Iiave done with it."

He took both her hands in his and looked at her — a reso-
lute smile on his fair blonde face.

'• Troubles are like certain wild animals," he said ; " look
them straight in the eye and they turn and take to flight.
Why should I not marry at twenty-three ? If I were marry-
ing any one else — Lady Gwendoline for instance — would my
extreme juvenility still be an obstacle ? "

" You had much better not marry at all."

" What ! live a crusty old bachelor ! Now, now, my good
aunt, this is a little too much, and not at all what 1 expected
from -^ lady of your excellent common-sense."

" There is nothing to make a jest of, Victor. It is better
you should not marry — better the name of Catheron should
die out and be blotted from the face of the earth."

" Lady Helena ! "

" I know wliat I am saying, Victor. You would say it too,
perhaps, if you knew all."

" You will tell me all. Oh yes, you will. You have said
too much or too little, now. 1 must hear ' all,' then I shall
judge for myself. I may be in love — still I am amenable to

ffOI'y LADY I/ELENA TOOK IT.

213

reason. If you can show nie any just cause or impediment
to my maiTia{i;i: — if you can convince mc it will be wrong in
tile sijj;iu of IIlmvcu or man, tlicn, (Icarly as I love her, 1 will
give her up. Hut your proof must l)e strong indeeil."

Slie lookeil at him doubtfully — wistfully.

" Would yo'i do lliis, Victor? Would you have strength
to give lip the girl you love ? My boy, my son, I don't want
to be haril on you. 1 want to see you hai)i)y, Heaven
knows, and yet — "

" 1 will be happy — only tell me the truth and let mc judge
for myself."

Me was smiling — he was incredulous. Lady Helena's
mountain, seen by his eyes, no doubt, would turn out the
veriest molehill.

" I don't know what to do," she answered, in agitated
tones. " I promised her to tell you if this day ever came,
ai.d now it is here and 1 — oh ! " she cried out i)assionately,
*• i cant tell you ! "

He grew pale himself, with fear of he knew not what.

" You can, you will — you must ! " he said resolutely.
" I am not a child to be frightened of a bcgy. What terrible
secret is there hidden behind all this ?"

" Terrible secret — yes, that is it. Terrible secret — you
have .said it ! "

" Do you, by any chance, refer to my mother's death ?
Is it that you knew all these years her nmrderer and have
kept it secret ? "

There was no reply. She covered her face with her
hands and turned away.

" Am 1 right ? " he persisted.

She rose to her feet, goaded, it seemed, by his persistent
questioning into a sort of frenzy.

"Let me alone, Victor Catheron," she cried. "I have
kept my secret for twenty-three years — do you think you

will wring it from me all in a moment now?

What right

have you to question me — to say I shall tell, or shall not ?
If you knew all you would know you have 110 rights what-
ever — none — no right to ask any woman to share your life —
no right, if it comes to that, even to the title you bear! "

He rose up too — white to the lips. Was Lady Helena
going mad ? Had the announcement of his marriage turned

214

'HO IV LADY I/ELENA TOOK IT.

her brain ? In that pause, before either could sjjcak again,
a knock that had been twice given unheard, was repeated a
third time. It brought botli back instantly from tlie tragic,
to tlie decorum of cvcry-day Hfe. Lady Helena sat down ;
Sir Victor opened the door. It was a servant with a note
on a salver.

" Well, sir," the baronet demanded abruptly. "What do
you want?"

" It's her ladyship, Sir Victor. A lady to see yoi.r lady-
ship on very imiwrlant business."

" I can see no one this morning," Lady Helena responded ;
"tell her so."

" My lady, excuse me ; this lady said your ladyship would
be sure to sec her, if your ladyship would look at this note.
It's the lady in mourning, my lady, who has been here to see
your ladysliii) before. Wliich this is the note, my lady."

Lady Helena's face lit up eagerly now. Slu tore open
the note at once.

" You may go, Nixon," she said. " Show the lady up
inunediately."

She ran over the few brief lines the note contained, with
a look of unutterable relief. Like the letter, it was signed
" Inez."

" Victor," she said, turning to her nep'hcw and holding
out her hand, " forgive me, if in my excitement and haste I
have said what I should not. Give me a little time, and
everything will be explained. The coming of In — this lady
— is the most o[)i)ortune thing in the world. You shall be
told all soon."

" 1 am to understand then," Sir Victor said coldly, " tliat
this stranger, this mysterious lady, is in your confidence ;
that she is to be received into mine — that siie is to be con-
sulted before you can tell me this secret which involves the
hai)i)iness of my life ? "

" Precisely ! You look angry and incredulous, but later
you will understand. Slie is one of our family — more at
present 1 cannot say. (lo, Victor; tru^il me, believe me,
neither your honor nor your love shall suffer at our hands.
Postpone tlie driving-party, or make my excuses ; I shall not
leave my rooms to-day. To-morrow, if it be possible, the
truth shall be yours as well as mine."

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

215

He bowed coldly — annoyed, amazed, and went. What
did all this mean ? U]) to the jM-escnt, Jiis life had flowed
])cacefully, almost shujjjishly, without family secrets or mys-
tifications of any kintl. And now all at once here were
secrets and mysteries cropping np. //■V/i?/ was this wonder-
ful secret — who was this mysterious lady ? He' nuist wait
until to-morrow, it ajipeared, for the answer to both.

" One thing is fixed as fixte," he said to himself as he left
the room, " I won't give uj) Edith, for ten thousand family
secrets — for all the mysterious ladies on earth ! Wiiat-
ever others may have done, 1 at least have done notliing
to forfeit my darling's hand. The doctrine that would make
us suffer for the sins of others, is a mistaken doctrine. I-et
to-moirow bring forth what it may, I'Mith Darrell shall be
my wife."

CHAPTER XH.

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

S he descended the stairJie encountered Nixon and
a veiled lady in black as(xuiding. He looked at
her keenly — she was tall and slender ; bej'ond that,
through the heavy crape veil, he ( ould make out
nothing. " Mysterious, certainly !" he thought. " I wonder
who she is ? " He bowed as he passed her ; she bent her
head in return ; then he hastened to seek out Ivlith, and tell
her an important visitor had arriv-.-d for Lady Helena, and
that the excursion to Eastlake Abbey would be ])ostj)oned.
He was but a poor dissembler, and llie gill's bright brown
eyes were sharp. She smiled as she looked and listened

" Did you know I could tell fortunes, Sir Victor? Hold
out your hand and let me tell ) ou tlie p.ist. You have been
upstairs with Lady Helena; you have told her that Julith
Darrell has consenteil to be your wife. You have asked her
sanction to the iiuion, and have been naturally, indignantly,
and peremptorily refused."

He smiled, but rhe conscious color rose.

"I always suspected you of being an enchantress — now I

2l6

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

know it. Can you tell me the future as truthfully as the
past ? "

" In this instance I think so. * You sluvU never marry a
penniless nobody, sir.' (.And il is exactly Lady Helena's
voice that s[)ealc.s.) ' Voin- fiiiiily is not to be disgraced by
a low marriage. 'I'his girl, who is but a sort of upper servant,
hired and paid, in the family of these common rich Americaii
people, is no mate for a Calhcron of C'aUieron. I refu^e to
listen to a word, sir — I insist upon this preposterous affair
being given up.' You expostulate — in vain. And as con-
stant dropping wears the most obstinate stone, so at last will
her ladyship conquer. You will come to mc one day and
say : ' Look here. Miss Darrell, I'm awfully sorry, you know,
but we've made a mistake — Fve made a mistake. 1 return
you your freedom — will you kindly give me back mine ?
And Miss Darrell will make Sir Victor Catheron her best
curtsey and retire into the outer darkness from whence she
came."

He laughed. Her imitation of his own slow, accented
manner of speaking was so perfect. Only for an instant ;
then he was grave, almost reproachful.

" And you know me no better than this ! " he said. " I
take back my words; you are no seeress. I love my aunt
very dearly, but not all the aunts on earth could part mo
from you. I would indeed be a dastard if a few words of
objection would make me resign the girl I love."

"I don't know," Miss Darrell answered coolly ; " it might
be better for both of us. Oh, don't get angry, please — you
know whuL I mean. I am a nobody, as your somebodies go
on this side. My Grandfather Stuart w;:s a peddler once, I
believe ; my Grandfather Darrell, a schoolmaster. Not a
very distinguished descent. My fath:r by education and re-
finement is a gentleman, but he keeps a boarding-house.
And I am Miss Stuart's paid companion and poor relation.
r»e wise, Sir Victor, while; there is time ; be warned before it
is too late. I pr(Mi)ise not to be angry — to even admi.e
your common-sense. Lady Helena has been as a nu)th,:r
to you; it isn't worth while (jftonding her U',x me— I'm not
worth it. There are dozens of girls in England, high-born,
high-bred, and twice as handsome as I am, who will love you

ON sr. PARTRIDGE DAY,

217

and marry you to-morrow. Sir Victor Cathcron, let us
shake hands and part."

She held it out to him with a smile, supremely careless
and nphfri'd. He caught it passionately, his blue eyes afire,
and covered it with kisses.

'' Not for ten thousand worlds ! O Editli, how lightly
you tilk of parting, of giving me up. Am 1 then so utterly
indifferent to you ? No ; I will never resign you ; to call
you wife is the one hope of my life. My darling, if you
knew how I love you, how empty and worthless the whole
world seems without you ! But one day you will, you must
— one day you will be able no more to live without, me than
I without you. Don't talk like this any more, Edith ; if you
knew how it hurts me you would be more merciful, 1 am
sure. Life can hold nothing half so bitter for me as the loss
of you."

She listened in a sort of wonder at Iiis impassioned ear-
nestness, looking at him shyly, wistfully.

"You love me like this ?" she said.

" A hundred times more than this. I would die for you,
Edith. How empty and theatrical it sounds, but, Heaven
knows, 1 would."

She jiassed her hand through his arm and clasped the
other round it, her bright smile back.

" Don't die," she said, with that smile, and her own rare,
lovely blush ; " do belter — live for me. Ah, Sir Victor, I don't
think it will be such a very hard thing to learn to — like you ! "

"My darling I And you will talk no more of jjarting —
no more of giving me up? You don't really wish it, Edith,
do you ? "

" iNfost certainly not. ^VouId I have accepted you, if I
ditl ? I'll never give you up diile you care for me like this.
If we ever part, the parting shall be your doing, not mine."

" y]/l' doing — mine l^' he laughed aloud in his incredulity
and liLippiness. " The days of miracles are over, belle an:ie,
but a sunnncr breeze could more easily uproot these oaks
than that. And lest ycu shoukl think yourself fetterless and
free, I will bind you at once." He ihew from his pocket a
liny MKjrocco box. "See this ring, Va\\\.\\ : it has been worn
by women of our house for the past two centuries — the be-
trothal ring of the Catherons. Let me place it on your finger,
10

2l8

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DA V.

never to be taken off until I bind you with a golden circlet
stronger still."

Her dark ej-es sparkled as she looked at it. It was a
solitaire diamond of wonderful size and brilliance, like a
great drop of limpid water, set in dull red gold.

"There is some queer old tradition extant about it," he
said, " to the effect IJiat the bride of a Catheron who does
not wear it will lead a most unhapj/y life and die a most un-
liajipy death. So, my dearest, you see how incumbent upon
you it is for your own sake to wear it religiously."

Me laughed, but she lifted to his, two deep, thoughtful,
dark eyes.

" Did your mother wear it, Sir Victor ? "

He started, the smile died from his face, his color faded.

"My mother?" he answered ; ^' f/o. My father married
her recretly and hastily after six weeks' courtship, and of
course never thought of the ring. ' Lead an unhappy life,
die an unhappy death, ' " he said, repeating his own words ;
" she did both, and, to the best of my belief, she never
wore it."

" An odd coincidence, at least," said Edith, her eyes fixed
on the diamond blazing in the sunshine on her hand.

A ])riceless diamond on the hand of Edith Darrell, the
brown hand that two months ago IkuI swept, and dusted, and
worked unwillingly in the shabby old house at home.

" Don't let us talk about my mother," Sir Victor said ;
" there is always something so terrible to me in the memory
of her death. Your life will be very different from hers — my
poor mother."

" I hope so," was the grave reply ; " and in my case there
will be no jealous rival, will there ? Sir Victor, do you know
I should like to visit Catheron Royals. If we have had love-
making enough fur one day, suppose we walk over?"

" I shall never have love-making enough," he laughed.
"I shall bore you awfully sometimes, I have no doubt ; but
when the heart is full the lips must, speak. And as to walk-
ing — it is a long walk — do you think you can ?"

"As I am to become a naturalized luigli>h woman, the
sooner I take to English habits the belter. 1 shall at least
make the attempt."

"And we can drive back in lime for dinner. I shall

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

219

be delighted to show you the old place — your future home,
where we are to spend together so many happy years."

They set off. It was a delightful walk, that sunny day,
across fields, down fragrant green lanes, where the hedges
in bloom made the air odorous, and the birds sang in the
arching branches overhead. A long, lovely walk over that
quiet high-road, where three-and-twenty years ago, another
Sir Victor Catheron had ridden away forever from the
wife he loved.

With the yellow splendor of the afternoon sunlight gild-
ing it, its tall trees waving, its gray turrets and toivurs pierc-
ing the amber air, its ivied walls, and tall stacks of chim-
neys, Catheron Royals came in view at last. The fallow
deer browsed undisturbed, gaudy peacocks strutted in the
sun, a fawn lifted its shy wild eyes and fled away at their
approach. Over p,ll, solemn Sabbath stillness.

" Welcome to Catheron Royals — welcome as its mistress,
my bride, my love," Sir Victor Catheron said.

She lifted her eyes — they were full of tears. How good he
was — how tenderly he loved her, and what a happy, grateful
girl she had reason to be. They entered the house, admit-
ted by a very old woman, who bobbed a curtsey and looked
at them with curious eyes. Two or three old retainers
took care of the place and showed it to strangers.

Leaning on her lover's arm, Edith Darrell walked through
scores of stately rooms, immense, chill halls, picture-gal-
leries, drawing-rooms, and chambers. What a stupendous
place it was — bigger and more imposing by far than Pow-
yss Place, and over twice as old. She looked at the polished
suits of armor, at battle-axes, antlers, pikes, halberds, until
her eyes ached. She paced in awe and wonder down the
vast portrait-gallery, where half a hundred dead and gone
Catherons looked at her sombrely out of their heavy
frames. And one day her picture — hers — would hang in
solemn slate here. The women who looked at her from
these walls lay stark and stiff in the vaults beneath Ches-
holm Church, and sooner or later they would lay her stark
and stiff with them, and put up a marble tablet recording
her age and virtues. She shivered a little and drew a long
breath of relief as they emerged into the bright outer day
and fresh air once more.

220

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

"It's a wonderful place," she said; "a place to dream,
of — a place such as I have only met before in EngHsh
books. But there is one room among all these rooms
which you have not sliown me, and whidi I have a moibid
craving to see. You will not be angry if I ask ? "

" Angry with you ? " Sir Victor lifted his eyebrows in
laughing surprise. " Speak, Editli, though it were half my
kingdom."

"It is — " a pause — "to see the room where your mother
— Ah ! " as he shrank a little, " I beg your pardon. I
should not have asked."

" Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit at once. I am
a coward about some things, I confess — this among others.
Come."

They went. He took from a huge bunch he carried the
key of that long-locked room. He flung it wide, and they
stood toi^ether on the threshold.

It was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtams drawn,
dark and deserted, as it had been since that fiital night.
Nothing iiad been changed, absolutely nothing. There
stood the baby bassinet, there the little table on wliich the
knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in
which Ethel, Lady Catheron, had slept her last long sleep.
A hush that seemed like the hush of death lay over all.

Edith stood silent and grave — not speaking. She mo-
tioned him iiastily to come away. He obeyed. Another
moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.

"Oh !" Edith said, under her breath, "who did it? "

" Who indeed ? And yet Lady Helena knows."

His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let
her lie in her unavenged grave ? A Catheron had done it
beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honor
the .derer had been let go.

" Lady Helena knows ! " repeated Edith ; " it ivas that
wicked brother and sister, then ? How cruel — how cruel ! "

"It was not the sister — I believe that. That it must
have been the brother no doubt can exist."

" Is he living or dead ? "

" Living, I believe. By Heaven ! I have half a mind
yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman
for the deed he has done ! "

ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

22 I

"An ancient name and family honor are wonderful things
on this side of the Atlantic, a couple of million dollars on
ours. They can save the murderer from the gallows. We
won't talk about it, Sir Victor — it makes you nnhapi)y I
see; only if ever I — if ever J," laughing and blushing a lit-
tle, "come to be mistress of that big, romantic old house,
I shall wall that room up. It will always be a haunted
chauijer — a DIuebeard closet for me."

*' If ever you are mistress," he repeated. " Edith, my
dearest, when will you Ik- ?"

"Who knows? Never, perhaps."

" Edith — again I "

" VV^cll, who can tell. I may die — you may die — some-
thing may happen. 1 can't realize that I ever will be. I
can't think of myself as Lady Catheron,"

" Edith, I connnand you ! Name the day."

" Now, my dear Sir Victor — "

" Dear Victor, without the i)refix ; let all formality end
between us. Why need we wait ? You are your own mis-
tress, 1 my own master ; I am desperately in love — I want
to be married. I 7vill be married. Tliere is nothing to
wait for — I icon't wait. Edith shall it be — this is the last
of May — shall it be the first week of July ? "

"No, sir; it shall not, nor the fust week of August. We
don't do things in this desperate sort of hot haste."

" lUit why should we delay ? WHiat is there to delay for?
I shall have a brain-fever if I am compelled to wait longer
than Augu-t. Be reasonable, Edith; don't let it be later
than August."

" Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to
be thought of. I shall not marry you for ages to come — •
not until Lady Helena Powyss gives her full and free con-
sent."

" Lady Helena shall give her full and free consent in a
week ; she could not refuse me anything lonejr if she tried.
Little tyrant ! if you cared for me one straw, you would
not object like this."

" Yes I would. Nobody marries in this imi)etuous fash-
ion. 1 won't hear of August. Besides, there is my en-
gagement with Mrs. Stuart. I have promised to talk

222

ffOlV CHARLEY TOOK IT.

French and German all through the Continent for them
this summer."

" I will furnish Mrs. Stuart a substitute with every Eu-
ropean language at her finger-ends. Seriously, Edith, you
must consider that contract at an end — my promised wife
can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you
must see this, Edith."

" I see it," she answered gravely. She had her own
reasons for not wishing to accompany the Stuart family
now. And after all, why should she insist on postponing
the marriage ?

" You are relenting — I see it in your face," he exclaimed
imploringly. " Edith I Edith 1 shall it be the first week
of September?"

She smiled and looked at him as she had done early
this eventful morning, when she had said " Yes ! "

"As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you
must have your way. But talk of the wilfulness of women
after this ! "

*' Then it shall be the first of September — St. Partridge
Day ? "

♦• It shall be St. Partridge Day."

CHAPTER XIII.

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.

EANTIME the long sunny hours, that passed so

WSVJi ti pleasantly for these plighted lovers, lagged drearily

l^w.B enough for one young lady at Powyss Place — Miss

Beatrix Stuart.

She had sent for her mother and told her the news.

Placid Aunt Chatty lifted her meek eyebrows and opened

her dim eyes as she listened.

" Sir Victor Catheron going to marry our Edith ! Dear
me ! I am sure I thought it was you, Trixy, all the time.
And Edith will be a great lady after all. Dear me ! "
That was all Mrs. Stuart had to say about it. She went

now CHARLEY TOOK IT.

223

back to her tatting with a serene quietude that exasperated
her only daughter beyond bounds,

" I wonder if an eartliqiiake would upset ma's equa-
nimity ! " thought Trix savagely. "Well, wait until
Charley conies ! We'll see how he takes it."

Misery loves company. If she wa" to suffer the pangs
of disappointment herself, it would be some comfort to see
Charley suffer also. And Trix was not a bad-iicarted girl
either, mind — it was simply human nature.

Charley and the captain had gone off exploring the won-
ders and antiquities of Chester. Edith and Sir Victor
were nobody knew where. Lady Helena had a visitor,
and was shut up with her. Trix had nothing but her novel,
and what were ail the novels in Mudie's library to her this
bitter day ?

The long, red spears of the sunset were piercing the green
de]Hhs of fern and brake, when the two young men rode
home. A servant waylaid Mr. Stuart and delivered his
sister's message. She wanted to see him at once on impor-
tant business,

" lmi)ortant business ! " murmured Charley, opening his
eyes.

ViWi he went promptly without waiting to change his
dress.

"Mow do, Trix?" he said, sauntering in. " Captaiu
Hammond's com])liments, and how's the ankle ? "

He threw himself — no, Charley never threw himself — he
slowly extended his five-feet-eleven of manhood on a sofa,
and awaited his sister's rejily.

" Oh, the ankle's just the same — getting better, I sup-
pose," Trix answered, rather crossly. " 1 didn't send for
you to talk about my ankle. Much you, or Captain Ham-
mond, or any one else cares whether I have an ankle at all
or not."

" My dear Trix, a young lady's ankle is always a matter
of profound interest and aJaiiration to every well-regulated
masculine mind."

" ]]ah ! Charley, you'll never guess what I have to tell ! "

*' My child, I don't intend to try. I have been sight-see-
ing all the afternoon, interviewing cathedrals, and walls, and
rows, and places, until I give you my word you might knock

224

now CHARLEY TOOK TT.

nie down with a feather. If you have anything preying on
your mind — and I see you have — out with it. Suspense is
painfuh"

He closed his eyes, and cahnly awaited the news. It
came — hke a bolt from a bow.

" Charley, Sir Victor Catlieron has proposed to lidith,
and Edith has acce])tcd him ! "

Charley opened his eyes, and fixed them upon her — not
the faintest trace of surprise or any other earthly emotion
upon his fatigued face.

"Ah — and thats your news! Poor child! After all
your efforts, it's rather hard upon you. I'nt if you cxpL-ct
me to be surprised, you do your only brother's \)enetralion
something less than justice. It has been an evident case of
spoons — apparent to the dullest intellect from liie first. I
have long outlived the tender passion myself, but in others I
always regard it with a fatherly — nay — let me say, even grand-
fatherly interest. And so they are going to ' live and love
together through many changing years,' as the i)oet says.
Bless you," said Charley, lifting his hand over an imaginary
pair of lovers at his feet — "bless you, my children, and be
haj^py ! "

And this was all ! And she had thought he was in love with
Edith himself! This was all — closing his eyes again as
though sinking sweetly to sleep. It was too much for Trix.

" O Charley ! " she burst forth, " you are such a fool ! "

Mr. Stuart rose to his feet.

" Overpowered by the involuntary homage of this assem-
bly, I rise to — "

" You're an idiot — there !" went on Trix; "a In v, stu-
l)id idiot ! You're in love witii Edith yourself, and you could
have had her if you wished, for she likes you better than Sir
Victor, and then Sir Victor might have ijrojiosed to me.
IJut no — you must go dawdling about, jirowling, and pranc-
ing, and let her slip through your fingers !"

" Prowling and prancing ! Good Heaven, Trix ! I ask
you soberly, as man to man, did you ever see me prowl or
prance in the whole course of my life ? "

"Bah-h-h !" said Trix, with a perfect shake of scorn in
the interjection. " I've no patience with you ! Get out of
my room — do ! " »

IIOIV CHARLEY TOOK IT.

225

Mr. Stuart, senior, was the only one who did not take it
quietly. His bile rose at once.

" Kdith ! Ivlith Darrell ! Fred. Darrell's penniless
daughter! IVatrix Stuart, have you let this young baronet
sii|) tluough your fuigiMs in this ridiculous way after all ?"

" I never let him slip — he never was in my lingers," re-
torted Trix, nearly crying. "It's just my usual hick. I
don't want him — he's a stupid noodle — that's what he is.
Edith's better-looking than 1 am. Any one can see that
with half an eye, anil when 1 was sick on that horrid ship,
she had everything her own way. I did my best — yes I did,
pa — and I think it's a little too hard to be scolded in this
way, with my poor sprained ankle and everything !"

" Weil, tliere, there, child ! " exclaimed Mr. Stuart, test-
ily, for he was fond of Trix ; " don't cry. There's as good lish
in the sea as ever were caught. As to being better-looking
than you, I don't believe a word of it. 1 never liked your
dark complected women myself. You're the biggest and
the best-looking young woman of the two, by CJeorge ! "
(iVfr. Stuart's grammar was hardly up to the standard.)
" There's this young fellow, Hammond — his father's a lord
— rich, too, if his grandfather did make it cotton-spinning.
Now, why can't you set your cap iox Jiimi When the old
rooster dies, this young chaj) will be a lord himself, and a
lord's better than a baronet, by Oeorge ! Come downstairs,
Trixy, and put on your stunningest gown, and see if you
can't hook the uiilitary swell."

Following these pious parental counsels. Miss Trix did
assume her "stunningest" gown, and with the aid of her
brother and a crutch, managed to reach the dining-room.
There Lady Helena, pale and ])reoccupied, joined them.
No allusion was made at dinner to the to[)ic — a visible re-
straint was upon all.

" Old lady don't half like it," chuckled Stuart pere.
" And no wonder, by George ! If it was Charley I shouldn't
like it myself. I must speak to Charley after dinner —
there's this Lady Gwendoline. He's got to marry the
upper-crust too. Lady Gwendoline Stuart wouldn't sound
bad, by George ! I'm glad there's to be a baronet in the
family, even if it isn't Trixy. A cousin's daughter's better
than nothing."
10*

226

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.

So in the first opportunity after dinner Mr. Stuart pre-
sented his congratulations as blandly as possible to the fu-
ture Lady Catheroi\. In the next opportunity he attacked
his son on the subject of Lady Gwendoline.

"Take example by your Cousin Edith, my boy," said Mr.
Stuart in a large voice, standing with his hands under his
coat-tails. " That girl's a credit to her father and family,
by (Jeorge ! Look at the match shf^s making without a raj)
to bless herself with. Now you've a fortune in prospective,
young man, that would buy and sell half a dozen of these
beggarly lordlings. You've youth and good looks, and good
manners, or if you haven't you ought to have, and I say you
shall marry a title, by George ! There's this Lady Gwendo-
line — she ain't rich, but she's an earl's daughter. Now
what's to hinder your going for her i "

Charley looked up meekly from the depths of his chair.

"As you like it, governor. In all matters matrimonial I
simply consider myself as non-existent. Only this, I will
premise — I am ready to marry her, but not to court her.
As you truthfully observe, I have youth, good looks, and
good manners, but in all things api)c'rtaining to love and
courtship, I'm as ignorant as the child unborn. Matrimony
is an ill no man can liope to escape — love-making is.. As a
prince in my own right, I claim that the wooing shall be
done by deputy. There is her most gracious majesty, she
popped the question to the late lamentt-il Prince Consort.
Could Lady Gwendoline have any more illustrious example
to follow ? You settle the preliminaries. Let Lady Gwen-
doline do the proi)osing, and you may lead me any-day you
please as a lamb to the slaughter."

With this reply, Mr. Stuart, senior, was forced for the
present to be content and go on his way. Trix, overhear-
ing, looked up with interest :

" Would you marry her, Charley ? "

" Certainly, Beatrix ; haven't I said so ? If a man must
marry, as well a Lady Gwendoline as any one else. As
Dundreary says, ' One woman is as good as another, and a
good deal better.' "

"But you've never seen her."

" What difference does that make ? I suppose the Prince
of Wales never saw Alexnnd.M. until the matter was cut and

now CHARLEY TOOK IT.

227

dry. You see I love to quote lofty examples. Hammond
has described her, ami I should say from his description she
is wiuU Darry Cornwall would call 'a golden girl' in every-
thipf; except fortune. Hammond speaks of her as though
si e u'cie made of precious metals and gems. She has
^olden hair, alabaster brow, sapphire eyes, pearly teeth, and
ruby nose. Or, stay — perhaps it was ruby lips and chiselled
nose. Chiselled, sounds as though her olfactory organ was
of marble or granite, doesn't it? And she's thrce-and-
thirty years of age. I found that out for myself from the
Peerage. It's rather an advantage, however, than other-
wise, for a man's wife to be ten or twelve years the elder.
You see she combines all the qualities of wife and mother
in one."

And then Charley sauntered away to the whist-table to
join his father and mother and Lady Helena. He had as
yet found no opportunity of speaking to Edith, and at dinner
she had studiously avoided meeting his eye. Captain Ham-
mond took his post beside Miss Stuart's invalid couch, and
made himself agreeable and entertaining to that young lady.

Trixy's eyes gradually brightened, and her color came
back ; she held him a willing cai)tive by her side all the
evening through. Papa Stuart from his place at the whist
table beamed paternal approval down the long room.

A silken-hung arch separated this drawing-room from
another smaller, where the i)iano stood. Except for two
waxlights on the piano, this second drawing-room was in
twilight. Edith sat at the piano. Sir Victor stood beside
her. Her hands wandered over the keys in soft, dreamy
melodies ; they talked in whispers when they talked at all.
The sj^ell of a silence, more delicious than words, held the
young baronet ; he was nearing the speechless phase of the
grandc passion. That there is a speechless phase, I have
been credibly assured again and again, by parties who
have had experience in the matter, and certainly ought to
know.

At half-past ten Eady Helena, pleading headache, rose
from the whist-table, said good-night, and went away to her
room. She looked ill and worn, and strangely anxious.
Her nephew, awaking from his trance of bliss, and seeing
her pale face, gave her his arm and assisted lier up the long

228

HOW CHARLEY TOOK IT.

staiiway to her room. Mrs. Stuart, yawning very much,
followed her example. Mr. Stuart went out tluougli the
open French window to smoke a last cigar. Captain Ham-
mond and Trix were fathoms deep in their conversation.
Miss Darrell, in the inner room, stood alone, her elbow rest-
ing on the low marble mantel, her eyes fixed thouniitfiilly on
the wall before her. The twinkle of liie tai)ers lighted up
the diamond on her hand, glowing like a miniature sun.

"You have been so completely monopolized all evening,
Dithy," said a familiar voice beside her, " that there has
been no such thing as sjieaking a word to you. Belter late
than never, though, I hope."

She lifted her eyes to Charley's face, Charley looking as
he ever looked to her, " a man of men," handsome and gal-
lant, as though he were indeed the prince they called him.
He took in his, the hand hanging so loosely by her side, the
hand that wore the ring.

" What a pretty hand you have, Edic, and how well dia-
monds become it. I think you were born to wear diamonds,
my handsome cousin, and walk in silk attire. A magnifi-
cent ring, truly — an heirloom, no doubt, in the Catiieron
family. My dear cousin, Trix has been telling me the news.
Is it necessary to say I congratulate you with all my
heart ? "

His face, his voice, his pleasant smile held no emotion
whatever, save that of kindly, cousinly regard. His bright
gray eyes looked at her with brotherly frankness, nothing
more.

The color that came so seldom, and made her so lovolv,
rose deej:) to Edith's cheeks— this lime the llush of anger.
Her dark eyes gleamed scornfully ; she drew her hand sud-
denly and contemptuously away.

"It is not necessary at all, Cousin Charley. Pray don't
trouble yourself — I know how you hate trouble — to turn
fine phrases. I doa't want congratulations ; I arn too liap[)y
to need them."

"Yet being the correct thing to do, and knowing what a
stickler you arc for Ics convc'iia/wrs, Edith, yon will still per-
mit me humbly to oft'er them. It is a most suitable m ilch ;
I congratulate Sir Victor on his excellent taste and judg«
ment. He is the best fellow alive, and you — I will say it,

HO IV CHARLEY TOOK IT.

229

though you are my cousin— will be a bride even a baronet
may be proud of. I wish you both, all the happiness so
suitable a nurtch deserves."

Was this sarcasm — was it real ? She could not tell, well
as she understood him. Mis placid face, his serene eyes
were as cloudless as a summer sky. Yes, he meant it, and
only the other day he had told her he loved her. She could
have laughed aloud — Charley Stuart's love !

On the instant Sir Victor returned. In his secret heart
the baronet was mortally jealous of Charley. The love that
Ivdith could not give him, he felt instinctively, had long ago
been given to her handsome cousin. There was latent jeal-
ousy in his face now, as he drew near.

"Am I ])remature, Sir Victor, in offering my congratula-
tions?" Charley said, with pleasant cordiality; "if so, the
fact of Edith's being my cousin, almost my sister, nuist ex-
cuse it. You- are a fortunate man, baronet. It would be
superfluous to wish you joy — you have an overplus of that
article already."

Sir Victor's brow cleared. Charley's frankness, Charley's
perfect good-humor staggered him. 1 hul he then l)een mis-
taken after all? He stretched forth his hand and grasped
that of Edith's cousin.

She turned sutldenly and walked away, a passion of anger
within her, flashing as she went a look of hatied — yes, ab-
solute hatred — upon Charley. She had brought it ui)on
herself, she had deserved it all, but how dared he mock her
with his smiles, his good wishes, when he knew, he knew
that her wiiole heart was in his keeping ?

" It shall not be in his keeping long," she said savagely,
between her set teeth. " Ingrate ! More unstable than wa-
ter ! And I was fool enough to cry for him and myself that
night at Killavney."

It was half-past eleven when she went up to her room.
She had studiously avoided Charley all the remainder of the
eviMiiug. She had demeaned herself to her alhanrcd wilh
a smiling devotion that had nearly turned his brain. Hut
the smiles and the brightness all faded away as slie said good-
night. She toiled wearily up the stairs, pate, tiieii, spirit-
less, half her youth and beauty gone. Earther down the

230

HOW CHARLEY TOOK' IT.

passage she could hear Charley's mellow voice trolling

carelessly a song :

'* Did yon ever have a cousin, Tom ?
And could that coiuin sing ?
Sisters we have by the dozen, Tom,
But a cousin's a different thing."

Every one went to bed, and to sleep pcrhai)s, but Sir
Victor Catheron. He was too hajipy to sleep. He lit a
cigar and paced to and fro in the soft darkness, thinking of
the groat bliss this day had brought him, thinking over her
every word and smile, thinking that the fust of Sejjtembcr
would give him his darling forever. He walked beneath her
window of course. She caught a glimpse of him, and with
intolerant impatience extinguished her lights and shrouded
herself and her wicked rebellion in darkness. His eyes
strayed from hers to his aunt's, farther along the same side.
Yes, in her room lights still burned. Lady Helena usually
kept early hours, as befitted her years and infirmities. What
did she mean by "burning the midnight oil " to-night. Was
that black lady from London with her still ? and in wiiat way
was she ini.xed up with his aunt ? Wliat would they tell him
to-morrow? What secret did his aunt hold? They could
tell him nothing that could in the slightest influence his mar-
riage with Edith, that be knew , but still he wondered a little
what it all could be. At one the lights were still burning.
He was surprised, but he would wait no longer. He waved
his hand towards Miss Darrell's room, this very far-gone
young man. " Good-night, my love, my own," he nnir-
nnired Byronically, and went to bed to sleep and dream of
her. And no warning voice came in those dreams to tell
Sir Victor Catheron it was the last perfectly happy night he
would ever know.

TO-MORROW.

CHAPTER XIV.

TO-MORROW.

^^^0-MORROW came, gray and overcast.
'v^^F^ weather which had lasted ahnost since th

The fine
their leaving
New York showed signs of breaking up. Miss
Stuart's ankle was so much better that she was able
to limp downstairs at eleven, A, M., to breakfast, and re-
sume her flirtation with Captain Hammond where it had
broken off last night. MissDarrell had a headache and did
not ajjpear. And, in the absence of his idol and day star,
Sir Victor collapsed and ate his morning inc ; in sileiice
and sadness.

Break fist over, lie walked to one of the windows, looking
out at tin; rain, which was beginning to drift against the glass,
and wondering, dieaiily, iunv he was to drag through the
long hours widiout Kdiili. He might go and play billiards
with the other fellows ; but no, lie was too restless even for
that. VV!;at was he to do to kill lime? It was a relief when
a servirt came with a message from his aunt.

" .i> \'.dy's compliments. Sir Victor, and will you please
stci ■" '...iirs at once."

' ■ ■'•■ fc the grand secret," lieMiought ; *' the skeleton in
the tan ''v .loset — the discovery of the mysterious woman in
black."

Tiie woman in black was nowhere visible when he entered
his aunt's apartments. Lady Helena sat alone, her face
pale, her eyes h' 'vy and red as thoug!) with weeping, but all
the anger, all the excitement of yesterday gone.

" My dear aunt," the you.ng man said, really concerned,
"I am sorry to see you looking so ill. And — surely you
have not been crying ? "

" Sit down," his aimt replied. "Yes, I have been crying.
I ii^ive had good reason to cry for many years ])ast. 1 have
;";i 'or vou, Victor, to tell you all — at least all it is advisa-
ble to tell you at present. And, before I begin, let me apol-
ogize if anything I may have said yesterday on the subject
of your engagement has wounded you."

" Dear Lady Helena, between you and me there can be

232

TO-MORROW.

no talk of pardon. It was your right to object if you saw
cause, and no doubt it is natural that Edith's want of birtli
and fortune woulJ wcigli with you. JUit they do not vveigii
with nie, and I k >' ;'' ' happiness of my hfe to be vtry
near your heart. J only to say again that that happi-

ness lies entirely with — that without her 1 i;hould be the
most miserable fellow alive — to hear you withdraw every ob-
jection and take my darling to your arms as your daughter."

She sighed heavily as she listened.

" A wilful man must have his way. You are, as you told
me yesterday, your own master, free to do as you jjlease. To
Miss Darrell personally I have no objection ; she is beautiful,
well-bred, and, I believe, a noble girl. Her poverty and ob-
scure birth are drawbacks in my eyes, but, since they are not
so in yours, I will allude to them no more. The objections I
made yesterday to your marriage I would have made had
your bride been a duke's daughter. I had ho|)ed — it was an
absurd hope — that you would not think of marriage for many
years to come, perhaps not at all."

" But, Aunt Helena—"

" Do I not say it was an absurd hope? The fact is, Vic-
tor, I have been a coward —a nervous, wretched coward from
first to last. I shut my eyes to tiie truth. I feared you
might fall in love with this girl, but 1 put the fear away from
me. The time has come when the truth must be spoken,
when my love for you can shield you no longer. Before you
marry you must know all. Do you reniember, in the heat of
my excitement yesterday, telling you you had no right to
the title you bear? In one sense I si)oke the truth. Your
father — " she gas)ied and paused.

"My father?" he breathlessly repeated.

" Your father is alive."

He sat and looked at her — stunned. AVhat was she say-
ing ? His fiither alive, after all those years ! and he not Sir
Victor Catheron ! He half rose — ashen [lale.

" Lady Helena, what is this ? My father alive — my fa-
ther, whom for twenty years — since 1 could think at all — I
have thought dead ! What vile deception is here? "

"Sit down, Victor ; you shall hear all. There is no vile
deception — the deception, such as it is, has been by his own
desire. Your father lives, but he is hopelessly insane."

TO-MORROW.

233

He sat looking at her, pale, stern, almost confounclecl.
" He — he never recovered fioin the shock of his wife's
dreadful death," went on her ladyship, her voice trembling.
" Heahh returned after that terrible brain fever, but not rea-
son. We took him away — the best medical aid everywhere
was tried — all in vain. For years he was hopelessly, ntterly
insane, never violent, but mind and memory a total blank.
He was incurable — he would never reclaim his title, but his
bodily health was good, and he might live for many years.
Why then deprive you of your rights, since in noway you de-
frauded him? The world was given to iniderstand he was
dead, and you, as you grew up, took his place as though the
grave had indeed closed over him. But legally, as you see
for yourself, you liave no claim to it."

Still he sat gazing at her — still he sat silent, his lips com-
pressed, waiting for the end.

" Of late years, gleams of reason have returned, fitfully and
at imcertain times. On these rare occasions he has spoken
of you, has expressed the desire that you should still be kept
in ignorance, that he shall ever be to the world dead. You
perceive, therefore, though it is my duty to tell you this, it
need in no way alarm 5'ou, as he will nev> r interfere with
your claims."

Still he sat silent — a strange, intent listening expression on
his face.

" Vou recollect the lady who came here yesterday," she
continued. " Victor, looking fixr back into the j^ast, have
you no recollection of some one, fair and young, who used
to bend over you at night, hear you say your baby prayers,
and sing you to sleep ? Try and think,"

He bent his head in assent,

" 1 remember," he answered.

" Do >'ou recall how she looked — has h'er face remained in
your memory?"

" She had dark eyes and hair, and was handsome. I re-
member no more."

She looked at him wistfully.

" Victor, have you no idea who that woman was — none?"

"None,'' he rejjlied coldly. " How could I, since she was
not mv jiiother. 1 never heard her name. Who was she ? "

234

TO-MORROW.

"She was the lady yon saw yesterday."

"Who was the lady I saw yesterday ? "

She paused a moment, then replied, still with that wistful
glance on his face :

"Inez Calheron."

"What?" Again he half-started to his feet. "The
woman who was my mother's rival and enemy, who made her
life wretched, who was concerned in her murder ! Whom
you aided to escajje from Chesholm jail ! The woman who,
directly or indirectly, is guilty of her death ! "

" Sir Victor Catheron, how dare you ! " Lady Helena also
started to her feet, her face Hushing with haughty anger. " I
tell you Inez Catheron has been a martyr — not a murderess.
She was your mother's rival, as she had a right to be — was
she not your father's plighted wife, long before he ever saw
Ethel Dobb? Slie was your mother's rival. It was her
only fxult, and her whole life has been spent in expiating it.
Was it not atonement s-fBcient, that for the crime of another,
she should be branded with life-long infamy, and banished
forever from home and friends ? "

"If the guilt was not hers it was her brother's, and
she was privy to it," the young man retorted, with sullen
coldness.

" Who are you, that you should say whether it was or
not ? The assassin is known to Heaven, and Heaven has
dealt with him. Accuse no one — neither Juan Catheron
nor his sister — all human judgment is liable to err. Of your
mother's death Inez Catheron is innocent — by if her whole
life has been blighted. To your father, that lifj has been
consecrated. She has been his nurse, his companion,
his more than sister or mother all those years. / loved
him, and I could not have done what she has done.
He used her brutally — brutally I say — and her revenge has
h^nn life -long devotion and sacrifice. All those years she
has never left him. She will never leave him until he dies."

She sank back in her seat, trembling, exhausted. He
listened in growing wonder.

"You believe me? " she demanded imperiously.

"I believe you," he replied sadly. " My dear aunt, for-
give me. I believe all you have said. Can I not see her
and thank her too ? "

TO-MORROW.

235

" You shall see her. It is for that she has remained.
Stay here ; I will send her to you. She deserves your
thanks, though all thanks are but empty and vain for such a
life-long martyrdom as hers."

She left him hastily. Profound silence fell. He turned
and looked out at the fast-falling rain, at the trees swaying
in the fitful wind, at the dull, leaden sky. Was he asleep
and dreaming? His father alive! He sat half dazed,
unable to realize it.

" Victor ! "

He had not heard the door open, he had not heard her
approach, but she stood beside hiin. All in black, soft,
noiseless black, a face devoid of all color ; large, sad, soft
eyes, and hair white as winter snow — that was the wonian
Sir Victor Catheron saw as he turned round. The face,
with all its settled sadness and pallor, was still the face of a
beautiful woman, and in weird contradiction to its youth
and beauty, were the smooth bands of abundant hair —
white as the hair of eighty. The deep, dusk eyes, once so
full of pride and fire, looked at him with the tender,
saddened light, long, patient suffering had wrought ; the
lips, once curved in haughtiest disdain, had taken the
sweetness of years of hopeless pain. And so, after ihree-
and-twenty years, Victor Catheron saw the woman, whose
life his father's falsity and fickleness had wrecked.

" Victor ! "

She held out her hand to him shyly, wistfully. Tiio ban
of murder had been upon her all these years. Who was to
tell that in his inmost heart he too might not brand her as
a murderess ? But she need not have doubted. If any
suspicion yet lingered in his mind, it vanished as he looked
at her.

" Miss Catheron !" He grasped her hand, and held it
between both his own. " I have but just heard all, for the
first time, as you know. That my father lives — that to him
you have nobly consecrated your life. He has not deserved
it at your hands ; let my father's son thank you with all his
soul ! "

" Ah, hush," she said softly. " I want no thanks.
Your poor father I Aunt Helena has told you how inisera-

236

TO-MORROW.

bly all his life has been wrecked — a life once so full of
promise."

" She has told me all, Miss Catheron."

*' Not Miss Catheron," she interposed, with a smile that
lit her worn face into youth and beauty; "not Miss
Catheron, surely — Inez, Cousin Inez, if you will. It is
twenty-three years — do you know it ? — since any one has
called me Miss Catheron before. You can't fancy how
oddly it sounds."

He looked at her in surprise.

" You do not bear your own name ? And yet I miglit
have known it, lying as you still do — "

" Under the ban of murder." She shuddered sli.:;htly as
she said it. " Yes, when I fled that dreadful night from
Chesholm prison, and made my way to London, I left my
name behind me. I took at fust the name of Miss JSlack.
I lived in dingy lodgings in that crowded part of London,
Ivambeth ; and for tlie look of the thing, took in sewing.
It was of all those years the most dreary, the most miserable
and lonely time of my probation. I lived there four
months ; then came the time of your father's complete
restoration to bodily health, and confirmation of the fear
that his mind was entirely gone. What was to be done with
him ? Lady Helena was at a loss to know. There were
private asylums, but she disliked the idea of shutting him
up in one. He was perfectly gentle, perfectly harmless,
perfectly insane. Lady Helena came to see me, and I,
Joining for the sight of a familiar face, sick and weary to
death of the wretched neighborhood in which I lived, pro-
jiosed the i)lan that has ever since been the plan of my life.
Let Lady Helena take a house, retired enough to be safe,
sufficiently suburban to be healthy ; let her place Victor
there with me ; let Mrs. Marsh, my old friend and house-
keeper at Catheron Royals, become my housekeeper once
more ; let Hooper the butler take charge of us, and let us
all live together. I thought then, and I think still, it was
the best thing for him and for me that could have been sug-
gested. Aunt Helena acted upon it at once ; she found a
house, on the outskirts of St. John's Wood — a large house,
set in spacious grounds, and inclosed by a high wall,
called ' Poplar Lodge.' It suited us in every way ; it com-

TO-MORROW.

237

bined all the advantages of town and country. She leased
it from the agent for a long term of years, for a ' Mr.

and Mrs. Victor,' Mr. Victor being in very poor health.
Secretly and by night we removed your father there, and
since the night of his entrance he has never passed the
gates. From the fust — in the days of my youtii and my
happiness — my life belonged to him ; it will belong to him
to the end. Hooper and Marsh are with me still, old
and feeble now ; and of late years 1 don't think I have been
unhappy."

She sighed and looked out at the dull, rain-beaten day.
The young man listened in profound pity and admiration.
Not unhappy ! Branded with the deadliest crime man can
■commit or the law punish — an exile, a recluse, the life-long
companion of an insane man and two old servants ! No
wonder that at forty her hair was gray — no wonder all life
and color had died out of that hopeless fa( e years ago.
Perhajjs his eyes told her what was passing in his mind ; she
smiled and answered that look.

"I have not been unhappy, Victor ; I want you to believe
it. Your father was always more to me than all the world
beside — he is so still. He is but the wreck of the Victor I
loved, and yet I would rather spend my life by his side
than elsewhere on earth. And 1 was not quite forsaken.
Aunt Helena often came and brought you. It seems but
yesterday since 1 had you in my arms rocking you asleep,
and now — and now they tell me you are going to be
married."

The sensitive color rose over his face for a second, then
faded, leaving him very pale.

" 1 was going to be married," he answered slowly, " but
she does not know this. My father lives— the title and
inheritance are his, not mine. Who is to tell what she may
say now ? "

The dark, thoughtful eyes looked at him earnestly.

" Does she love you ? " she asked; "this Miss Darrell?
I need hardly inquire whether iw/ love her."

" I love her so dearly that if 1 lose iier — " He paused
and turned his face away from her in the gray light. " I
wish 1 had known this from the first ; I ought to have
known. It may have been meant in kindness, but I

238

TO-MORROW.

believe it was a mistake. Heaven knows how it will end
now."

"You mean to say, then, that in the hour )'oii lose your
title and inheritance vou also lose Miss Darrell ? Is that
it ? "

" I have said nothing of the kind. Edith is one of the
noblest, the truest of women ; but can't you see — it looks
as though she had been deceived, imposed upon. The loss
of title and wealth would make a difference to any woman
on earth."

" Very little to a woman who loves, Victor. I hope — I
hope — this young girl loves you ? "

Again the color rose over his face — again he turned
impatiently away.

" She will love me," he answered ; " she has promised it,
aiid Edith Darrell is a girl to keep her word."

" So," Miss Catheron said, softly and sadly, " it is the old
French proverb over again, ' There is always one who loves,
and one who is loved.' She has owned to you that she is
not in love with you, then ? Pardon me, Victor, but your
happiness is very near to me."

" She has owned it," he answered, " with the rare no-
bility and candor that belongs to her. Such affection as
mine will win its return — 'love begets love,' they say. It
must"

" Not always, Victor — ah, not always, else what a happy
woman / had been ! But surely she cares for no one
else?"

" She cares for no one else," he answered, doggedly
enough, but in his inmost heart that never-dying jealousy
of Charley Stuart rankled. " She cares for no one else — she
has told me so, and she is pride, and truth, and purity itself.
If I lose her through this, then this secret of insanity will
have wrecked forever still another life."

"If she is what you picture her," Inez said, steadily, "no
loss of rank or fortune would ever make her give you u]).
But you are not to lose either — you need not even tell her,
if you choose."

" I can have no secrets from my plighted wife — Edith
must know all. But the secret will be as safe with her as
with me."

TO-MORROW.

239

no
lip.
her,

idith
er as

"Very well," she said quietly; "you know what the re-
sult will be if by any chance ' Mrs. Victor ' and Inez Cath-
eron are discovered to be one. IJiit it shall be exactly as
you please. Your father is as dead to you, to all the woild,
as thuugli he lay in the vaults of Oheshohn church, by your
mother's side."

" My poor mother ! my poor, murdered, unavenged
mother ! Inez Catheron, you are a noble woman — a brave
woman ; was it well to aid your brother to escape ? — was it
well, for tlie sake of saving tlie Catheron honor and the
Catheron name, to permit a most cruel and cowardly mur-
der to go unavenged ? "

What was it that looked up at him out of her eyes? In-
finite i)ity, infinite sorrow, infinite pain.

" My brother," she repeated softly, as if to herself ; "poor
Juan ! he was the scapegoat of the family always. Yes, Sir
Victor, it was a cruel and cowardly murder, and yet I l)e-
lieve in my soul we did right to screen the murderer from
the world. It is in the hands of the Almighty — there let it
rest."

There was a pause — then :

"I shall return with you to London and see my father,"
he said, as one who claims a right.

" No," she answered firmly ; " it is impossible. Stay !
Hear me out — it is your father's own wish."

" My father's wish I But—"

"He cannot express a wish, you would say. Of late
years, Victor, at wide intervals, his reason has returned for
a brief space — all the worse for him."

"The worse for him !" The young man looked at her
blankly. " Miss Catheron, do you mean to say it is better
for him to be mad ?"

" Much better — such madness as his. He does not think
— he docs not suffer. Memory to him is torture ; he loved
your mother, Victor — and he lost her — terribly lost her.
With memory returns the anguish and despair of that loss
as though it were but yesterday. If you saw him as I see ,
him, you would pray as I do, that his mind might be blotted'
out forever."

" Good Heaven 1 this is terrible."

" Life is full of terrible things — tragedies, secrets — this is

240

TO-MORROIV.

one of fhem. In these rare intervals of sanity he speaks of
you — it is he wlio directcJ, in case of your marriage, that
you should be told this much — that you are not to be brought
to see him, until — "

Sh.o i)aused.

"Until—"

" Until he lies upon his death-bed. That day will be
soon, Victor — soon, soon. Those brief glimpses of reason
and memory have shortened life. What he suffers in these
intervals no words of mine can tell. jOn his death-bed you
are to see him — not before ; and then you shall be told the
story of your mother's death. No, Victor, spare me now —
all I can tell you I have told. I return home by the noon-
day train ; and, before I go, I should like to see this girl
who is to be your wife. See, I will remain by this window,
screened by the curtain. Can you not fetch her by some
pretence or other beneath it, that I may look and judge for
myself?"

" 1 can try," he said, turning to go. " I have your con-
sent to tell her my father is alive ? I will tell her no more
— it is not necessary che should know^w/ are his keeper."

" That much you may tell her — it is her right. When I
have seen her, come to me and say good-by."

" I shall not say good-by until 1 say it at Chester Station.
Of course, I shall see you off. Wait here ; if Edith is able
to come out you shall see her. She ke[)t her room this
morning with headache."

He left her, half-dazed with what he had heard. He
went to the drawing-room — the Stuarts and Captain Ham-
mond were there — not Edith.

" Has Edith come down ? " he asked. " I wish to speak
to her for a moment."

" Edith is prowling about in the rain, somewhere, like an
uneasy ghost," answered Trixy ; " no doubt wet feet, and
discomfort, and dampness generally are cures for headaciie ;
or, perhaps, she's looking for jiw/."

He hardly waited to hear her out before he started in
pursuit. As if favored by fortune, he caught a glimpse of
Edith's purple dress among the trees in the distance. She
had no umbrella, and was wandering about pale and listless
in the rain.

TO-MORROIV.

241

un-

peak

e an
and
.die ;

d in

■)se of

She

stless

*• Kuith," Sir Victor exclaimed, " out in all this downpour
without an umbrella ? You will get your death of cold."

" I never take cold," she answered indifferentlv. *' I al-
ways liked to run out in the rain ever since I was a child.
I must be an amphibious sort of animal, I think. Besides,
the damp air helps my headache."

He drew her hand witliin his arm and led her slowly in
the direction of the window where the watcher stood.

" Edith," he began abruptly, " I have news for you. To
call it bad news would sound inhuman, and yet it has half-
stunned me. It is this — my father is alive."

" Sir Victor ! "

" Alive, Edith — hopelessly insane, but alive. That is
the news Lady Helena and one other, have told me this
morning It has stunned me ; I rejieat — is it any wonder ?
All those years I have thought him dead, and to-day I dis-
cover that from first to last 1 have been deceived."

She stood mute with surprise. His father alive — madness
in the family. Truly it would have been difficult for Sir
Victor or any one else to call this good news. They were
directly beneath the window. He glanced up — yes, a pale
face gleamed from behind the curtain, gazing down at that
other pale face by Sir Victor's side. Very pale, very set
just now.

" Then if your father is alive, he is Sir Victor and not
you ? "

Those were the first words she spoke ; her tone cold, her
glance unsympathetic.

His heart contracted.

'* He will never interfere with my claim — they assure me
of that. Alive in reality, he is dead to the world. Edith,
would it make any difference — if 1 lost title and estate,
would I also lose you i "

The beseeching love in his eyes might have moved her,
but just at present she felt as though a stone lay in her
bosom instead of a heart.

" I am not a sentimental sort of girl. Sir Victor," she an-
swered steadily. " I am almost too practical and worldly,
perhajis. And I must own it would make a difference. I
have told you I am not in love with you— as yet — you have
elected to take me and wait for that. I tell you now truth-
11

242

TO-MORROW.

fully, if you were not Sir Victor Catheron, I would not
marry yon. It is best I should be honest, best I should not
deceive you. You are a thousand times too good for so
mercenary a creature as 1 am, and if you leave me it will
only be serving me right. I don't w.mt to break my prom-
ise, to draw back, but 1 feel in the mood for plain speaking
this morning. If you feel that you can't marry me on those
terms — and I don't deserve that you should — now is the
time to speak. No one will be readier than I to own that
it serves me right."

He looked and listened, pale to the lips.

" Edith, in Heaven's name, do you wish me to give you
up?"

" No, I wish nothing of the sort. I have promised to
marry you, and I am ready to keep that jiruniise ; but if
you expect love or devotion from me, I tell you frankly I
have neither to give. If you are willing still to take me,
and" — smiling — "I see you are — I am still ready to be
your wife — your true and faithful wife from the first — ^your
loving wife, I hope, in the end."

They said no more. He led her back to the house, then
left her. He hastened to Miss Catheron, more sombre
even than when he had quitted her.

" Well," he said briefly, "you saw her?"

" I saw her. It is a beautiful face, a proud face, a truth-
ful face, and yet — "

" Go on," he said impatiently. " Don't try to spare me.
I am growing ;'CCustomed to unpleasant truths."

" 1 may be wrong, but something in her face tells me she
docs not love you, and," under her breath. " never will."

" It will come in time. With or without love, she is will-
ing to be my wife — that is happiness enough for the pres-

"You told her all?"

" I told her my father was alive and insane — no more.
It will make no ditference in our plans — none. We are to
be married the first of September. The secret is safe with
her."

The door opened, and Lady Helena came hastily in.

" If you wish to catch the 12.50 train, Inez," she said,
"you must go at once. It is a long drive from this to the

s;
ti

I
t

c:i
ca
lai

TO-MORROIV.

243

station. The brougham is waiting — shall I accompany
you ? "

" I will accompany her," said Sir Victor. " You had
better return to our guests. They will begin to feel them-
selves neglected."

Miss Catheron left the room. In five minutes she roap-
l^earcd, closely veiled, as when he had met her on the stairs.
The adieux were hastily made. He gave her his arm and
led her down to the close brougham. As they passed be-
fore the drawing-room windows, Miss Stuart uttered an ex-
clamation :

" Oh ! 1 say ! wliere is Sir Victor going in the rain, and
who is the dismal-looking lady in black. ? Edith, who is it ?
You ought V I know."

"I don't Icnow," Edith answered briefly, not looking up
from her book.

" Hasn't Sir Victor told you ?"

"I haven't asked Sir Victor."

" Oh, you haven't, and he hasn't told ? Well, all I have to
say is, that when Vm engaged I hope the object of my affec-
tions will keep no secrets from me."

" As if he could ! " murmurs CaiUain Hammond.

" I declare, he is going off with her. Edith, do come and
look. There ! they are driving away together, as fast as
they can go."

Hut Edith never stirred. If she felt the slightest curiosity
on the subject, her face did not show it.

They drove rapidly through the rain, and barely caugiit
the train at that. He placed her hurriedly in an eirnty
carriage, a moment before it started. As it flew by he
caught one last glimpse of a veiled face, and a hand waving
farewell. Then the train and the woman were out of sight.

Like a man who walks in his sleep, Sir Victor Catheron
turned, re-entered the brougham, and was driven home.

said,
the

244

LADV //ELENA'S BALL.

CHAPTER XV.

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

HREE days after, on Thursday, the fifth of June,
Lady Helena Powyss gave a very large dinner-
party, followed by a ball in honor of her American
guests. When it is your good fortune to number
half a county among your friends, relatives, and acquaint-
ances, it is possible to be at once numerous and select.
The creme de la creme of Cheshire assembled in Lady Hel-
ena's halls of dazzling light, to do honor to Sir Victor Calh-
eron's bride-elect.

For the engagement had been formally announced, and
was the choice bit of gossip, with which the shire regaled itself.
Sir Victor Catheron was following in the footsteps of his
father, and was about to bring to Catheron Royals one of
the lower orders as its mistress. It was the Dobl) blood no
doubt cropping up — these sort of mesalliances w/// tell. An
American, too — a governess, a poor relation of some com-
mon rich people from the States. The best county Himili'S,
with daugiuers to marry, shook their heads. It was very sad
— "rry sad, to see a good old name and a good old family
degenerate in this way. But there was always a taint of
madness in the Catheron blood — that accounted for a good
deal. Poor Sir Victor — and poor Lady Helena ►

But everybody came. They might be dee])ly sliocked and
sorry, but still Sir Victor Catheron icas Sir Victor Catheron,
the richest baronet in the county, and Catheron Royals al-
ways a pleasant house to visit — the reigning Lady Catheron
always a desi.able acquaintance on one's visiting-list. No-
body acknowledged, of course, they went from i)ure, down-
right curiosity, to see this manoeuvring American girl, who
had taken Sir Victor Catheron captive under the aristocratic
noses of the best-born, best-bred, best-blooded young ladies
in a circuit of twenty miles.

The eventful night came — the night of Edith's ordeal.
Even Trix was a little nervous — only a little — is not perfect
self-possession the normal slute of American young lady-
dom ? Lady Helena was quite pale in her anxiety. The

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

245

girl was handsome beyond dispute, thoroughbred as a young
countess, despite iier birth and bringing up in a New Englantl
town antl Yankee boarding house, with pride enough for a
])riucess of forty quarteriugs, /;/// how would she come forth
from the fiery furuacc of all those i)itilesi eyes, sharjjened to
points to watch for gauchories and solecisms of good breed-
iiig — from the merciless tongues that would hang, draw, and
quarter her, the instant their owners were out of the house.

" Don't you feel nervous, Dithy ? " asked Trix, almost
out of patience at last with Edith's serene calm. " I do —
horribly. And Lady Helena has got a fit of the fidgets that
will bring her gray hairs to an early grave, if this day lasts
much longer. Ain't you afraid — honor bright ? "

Edith Darrell lifted her dark, disdainful eyes. She sat
reading, while the afternoon wore on, and Trixy fussed and
iluttcretl about the room.

"Afraid of the pec^ple who are coming here to-ni;:ht — is
that what you mean ? Not a whit ! I know as well \ uii
do, they are coming to insjiect and find fault with Sir v i tor
Catheron's choice, to pity him, and call me an adventuiess.
J know also that any one of these young ladies would have
married him, and said 'Thank you for asking,' if he had seen
fit to choose them. I have my own pride and Sir Victor's
good taste to uphold to-night, and 1 will uphold them. 1
think " — she lifted her haughty, dark head, and glanced, with a
half-conscious smile, in the pier-glass ojjposite — "I think I
can bear comparison by lamplight with any of these
'daughters of a hundred earls,' such as — Lady Gwendoline
Drexel for instance."

"By lamplight," Trix said, ignoring the rest of her speech.
"Ah, yes, that's the worst of it, Edith ; you dark people al-
ways light up well. And Lady Gwendoline Drexel — I wonder
what Lady Gwendoline will wear to-night ? 1 should like to
be the best-dressed young lady rt the ball. Do you know,
Dith," spitefiilly this, " 1 think Charley is quite struck with
Lady (iwendoline. You noticed, 1 suppose, the attention
he paid her the evening we met, and then he has been to
Drexel Court by invitation. Pa is most anxious, 1 know.
Money will be no object, you know, with Charley, and really
it would be nice to have a tilled sister-in-law. ' My sister.
Lady Gwendoline Stuart,' will sound very well in New

246

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

York, won't it? It would be a very suitable match for
Charley."

" A most suitable match," Miss DarrcU repeated; "age
included. She is ten years his senior if a day ; but wliere
true love exists, what docs a trille of years on either side
signify ? He has money — she has rank. He has youth and
good looks — she has higli iiii lii and a handle to her name.
As you say, Trixy, n n)ost suitable match ! "

And then Miss Darrell went back to her book, but the
slender, black brows were meeting in a steady frown, that
quite spoiled her beauty — no doubt at something displeas-
ing in the pages.

" But you mustn't sit here all day," broke in Trix again;
" it's high time you were up in your dressing-room. VVhat
are you going to wear, Dith ?"

■ 1 have not decided yet. I don't much care ; it doesn't
much matter. I have decided to look my best in any-
tliing."

She arose and sauntered out of the room, and was seen no
more, until the waxlights blazed from end to end of tlie
great mansion and the June dusk liad deepened into dewy
night. Then, as the roll of carriages came without ceasing
along the drive, she descended, arrayed for battle, to fmd
her impatient slave and adorer awaiting her at the foot of
the grand stairway. Siie smihxl ui)on him her brightest,
most beaming smile, a smile that into\.i;ated him at sight.

"Will I do. Sir Victor?" she asked.

Would she do? He looked at her as a man may look
half dazzled, at the sun. He could not have told you what she
wore, pink and white ck)uds it seemed to him — he only
knew two brown, luminous, laughing eyes were looking
straiglU into his, and turning his brain with llieir spell.

" You are sure 1 will do i* You are sure you will not be
ashamed of me to-night?" her laughing voice asked again.

Ashamed of her — ashamed! lie laughetl aloud at the
stupendous joke, as he drew Iier arm witiiin his, and led her
into the thronged rooms, as some favored subject may once
in his life lead in a (lueen.

Perhaps there was excuse for him. " I shall look my best
in anything," she had said, in her disdain, and : he had kept
her word. She wore a dress that seemed alternately com-

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

247

posed of white tulle and bliish-roses ; she had roses in lier
rich, dark liair, hair always beautifully worn ; Sir Victor's
diamond betrothal ring shone on herfuiger ; round her arch-
ing throat she wore a slender line of yellow gold, a locket
set with brilliants attaciied. The locket had been Lady
Helena's gift, and held Sir Victor's portrait. That was her
ball array, and she looked as though she were floating in her
fleecy white dra])eries, her perfumery, roses, and sparkling
diamonds. The dark eyes outshone the diamonds, a soft
flush warmed either cheek. Yes, she was beautiful ; so
beautiful that saner men than her accepted lover, might have
been iiardoned if for a moment they lost their heads.

I-ady Helena Powyss, in sweeping moire and jev/els, re-
ceiving her guests, looked at her and drew one long breath
of great relief She might have spared herself all her anx,-
ious doubts and fears — low-born and penniless as she was,
Sir Victor Catheron's bride would do Sir Victor Catheron
honor to-night.

Trix was there — Tiix resplendent in pearl silk with a train
half the length of the room, pearl silk, point lace, white-
camelias, and Neapolitan corals and cameos, incrusted with
diamonds — Trix, in all the fmery six thousand dollars can
buy, drew a long breath of great and bitter envy.

" If one wore the Koh-i-noor and Coronation Robes,"
thought Miss Stuart sadly, '* she would shine one down.
She is dazzling to-night. Cajitain Hammond," tajiping that
young warrior with her point-lace fan, "don't you think Edith
is without exception the most beautiful and elegant girl in
the rooms ? "

And the gallant captain bows profoundly, and answers
with a look that jjoints the speech :

"With one exception. Miss J5eatri.x, only one."

Charely is there, and perhaps there can be no doubt about
it, that Charley is, without exception, far and away, the best
looking man. Charley gazes at his cousin for an instant on
the arm of her proud and hapjjy lover, radiant and smiling,
the centre of all that is best in the room. Siie lifts her dark,
laughing eyes as it chances, and brown and gray meet full.
Then he turns away to a tall, languid rather passive lady,
who is talking slowly by his side.

" Is Miss Darrell really his cousin ? Really ? How ex-

248

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

tremely handsome she is, and how perfectly infatnati-d Sir
Victor seems. Poor Sir Victor ! What a pity there is in-
sanity in tlie family — insanity is such a very shocking thing.
How pretty AFiss Stuart is looking this evening. She has
heard — is it true — can Mr. Stuart inform her — are «// Amer-
ican girls handsome ? "

And Charley — as Captain Hammond has done — bows, and
looks, and replies :

" I used to think so, I.ady Gwendohne. I have seen
English girls since, and think differently."

Oh, the imbecile falsehoods of society ! He is thinking,
as he says it, how ])allid and faded poor Lady Gwendoline is
looking, in her dingy green satin and white Brussels lace
overdress, her emeralds and bright golden hair — most beau-
tiful and most expensive shade to be had in I^ndon. He
is thinking how the Blanc de Ferle and rouge vegetal is show-
ing on her three-and-thirty-year-old face, and what his life
would be like if he listened to his father and married her. He
shudders inwardly and gives it up — "that way madnesslies,"
and while there is a |)istol left, wherewith to blow his brains
out, he can still hope to escape a worse fate.

But Lady Gwendoline, freighted with eleven seasons' ex-
perience, and growing seedy and desperate, clings to him as
the drowning cling to straws. She is the daughter of a i)eer,
but there are five younger sisters, all plain and all portion-
less. Her elder sister, who chaperones her to-night, is the
wife of a rich and retired manufacturer, Lady Portia Hamp-
ton. The rich and retired manufacturer has purchased
Drexel Court, and it is Lady Portia's painful duty to try and
marry her sisters off.

The ball is a great success for Miss Edith Darrell. The
men rave about her ; the women may sneer, but they must
do it covertly ; her beauty and her grace, her elegance and
high breeding, not the most envious dare dispute. Music
swells and floats deliciously — scores are suitors for her hand
in the dance. The Hush deepens on her dusk cheeks, the
streaming light in her starry eyes — she is dangerously bril-
liant to-night. Sir Victor follows in her train whenever his
duties allow him ; when he dances with others his eyes
follow his heart, and go after her. There is but one in all

LADY HELENA'S BALL.

249

those thronged rooms for him — one who is his idol — his dar-
ling—the piide, the joy, the desire of his life.

" i\Ty dear, I am proud of you to-night," Lady Helena
wliispers once. " You surpass yourself — you are lovely be-«
yond compare. You do us all credit."

And Edith Darrell's haughty eyes look up for a moment
and they are Hashing through tears. She lifts the lady's hand
-with exquisite grace, and kisses it. Then smiles chase the
tears, and she is gone on the arm of some devoted cavalier.
Once — only once, she dances with Charley. She has striven
to avoid him — no, not that either — it is lie who has avoided
her. She has seen him — let her be surrounded by scores, she
has seen him whispering with Lady Gwendoline, dancing with
Lady Gwendoline, fanning Lady Gwendoline, flirting with
Lady Gwendoline. It is Lady Gwendoline he leads to sup-
per, and it is after supper, with the enchanting strains of a
Strauss waltz filling the air, that he comes up and asks her
for that dance.

" I am sure I deserve it for my humility," he says plain-
tively. " I have stood in the background, humbly and afar
off, and given you ui^ to my betters. Surely, after all the
bitter pills I have. been swallowing, I deserve (?«^ sugar-
l)lum."

She laughs — glances at Sir Victor, making his way toward
her, takes his arm rather hurriedly, and moves off".

" Is Lady Gwendoline a pill, or a sugar-plum ? " she asks.
" You certainly seem to have had an overdose of her."

" I owe Lady Gwendoline my deepest thanks," he an-
swered gravely. " Her efforts to keep me amused this even-
ing, have been worthy of a better cause. If the deepest
gratitude of a too-trusting heart," says Charley, laying his
hand on the left side of his white waistcoat, " be any reward
for such service, it is hers."

They float away. To lulith it is the one dance of the
night. She hardly knows whether she whirls in air or on the
waxed floor ; she only knows that it is like heaven, that the
music is celestial, and that it is Charley's arm that is clasp-
ing her close. Will she ever wait/, with him again she won-
ders, and she feels, feels in her inmost heart, that she is sin-
ning against her afllianced husband in waltzing with him now.
But it is so delicious — what a pity most of the delicious things
11*

250

"O A/y COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED."

of earth sboiild be wrong. If it could only last forever — for-
ever ! And while she thinks it, it stops.

" O Charley ! that 7vas a waltz ! " she says, leaning on
.him heavily, and panting ; '* no one else has my step as you
have it."

" Let us trust that Sir Victor will learn it," he responds
coolly ; " here he comes now. It was a charming waltz,
Dithy, but charming thmgs must end. Your lawful propri-
etor approaches ; to your lawful proprietor I resign you. "

He was perfectly uuflushcd, perfectly unoxcitcd. He
bows, smile-s, yields her to Sir Victor, and saunters away.
Five seconds later he is bending over Lady Gwendoline's
chair, whispering 'u\ the pink, patrician ear resting against
the glistening, golden chignon. Edith looks once — in her
heart she hates Lady Gwendoline — looks once, and looks no
more.

And as the serene June morning dawns, and larks and
thrushes pipe in the trees. Lady Helena's dear five hundred
' friends, sleepy and pallid, get into their carriages and go
home.

CHAPTER XVI.

" O MV COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED ! "

HE middle of the day is past before one by one
they straggle down. Breakfast awaits eacli new-
comer, hot and tempting. Trix eats hers with a
relish. Trix possesses one of the chief elements of
perpetual human hapjnness — an appetite that never fails, a
digestion that, in her own metapiiorical American language,
*' never goes back on her." But Edith looks fagged and
si)iritless. If people are to be supernaturally brilliant and
bright, dashing and fascinating all nv'^ht long, people must
expect to pay the penalty next day, when lassitude and reac-
tion set in.

" My poor Edie ! " Mr. Charles Stuart remarks, compas-
sionately, glancing at the wan cheeks and lustreless eyes, as
he lights his after-breakfast cigar, " you do look most aw-

"0 MY COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED »

251

fully used up. What a pity for their peace of mind, some of
your frantic adorers of last night can't see you now. Let
me reconinicnd you to go back to bed and try an S. and B."

"An 'S. and H.' ? " Edith repeats vaguely.

"Soda and Ikandy. It's the thing, depend upon it, for
such a case as yours. I've been seedy myself before now,
and know what I'm talking about. I'll mix it for you, if you
like."

There is a copy of Tennyson, in blue and gold, beside
Miss Darrell, and Miss Darrell's reply is to fling it at Mr.
Stuart's head. It is a last effort of expiring nature ; she sinks
back exhausted among her cushions. Charley departs to
enjoy his Manila put under the waving trees, and Sir Victor,
looking fresh and recuperated, strolls in and bends over her.

" My dear Edith," he says, " how pale you are this morn-
ing — how tired you look. If one ball is going to exhaust
j'ou like this, how will you stand the wear and tear of Lon-
don seasons in the blissful time to come ?"

She does not blush — she turns a trifle impatiently away
from him and looks out. She can see Charley and Ham-
mond smoking sociably together in the sunny distance.

" I will grow used to it, I dare say. ' Sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof "

" Have you had breakfast ? "

" I made an effort and failed. I watched Trix eat hers,
however, and that refreshed me quite as well. It was invig-
orating only to look at her."

He smiles and bends lower, drawing one long brown
silken tress of hair fondly through his fingers, feeling as
though he would like to stoop and kiss the pale, weary face.
But Trix is over yonder, pretending to read, and kissing is
not to be thought of.

" I am going over to Catheron Royals," he whispered ,
" supi^ose you come — the walk will do you good. I am giv-
ing orders about the fitting up of the old place. Did I tell
you the workmen came yesterday ? "

" Yes ; you told me."

" Shall I ring for your hat and parasol ? Do come,
Edith."

" Excuse me, Sir Victor," Edith answers, with an im[)a-
tient motion. " I feel too tired — too lazy, which ever you

2:2 "0 MY COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED."

like — fo stir. Some other day I will go with pleasure— just
now I feel like lying here and doing the dolce Jar iiiciite.
IJon't let me detain you, however."

He turns to leave her with a disappointed face. Edith
closes her eyes and takes an easier position among the pil-
lows. The door closes behind him ; Trix flings down her
book and bursts forth :

" Of all the heartless, cold-blooded animals it has ever
been my good fortune to meet, commend me to Edith Dar-
rell ! "

The dark eyes unclose and look up at her.

" My dear Trix ! what's the matter with you now? What
new enormity have I committed ? "

" Oh, nothing new — nothing new at all," is Trixy's scorn-
ful response ; " it is quite in keeping with the rest of your
conduct. To be purely and entirely scll"ish is the normal
state of the future Lady Catheron ! Poor Sir Victor ! who
has won you. Poor Charley 1 who has lost you. I hardly
know which I pity most."

"I don't see that you need waste your precious pity on
either," answered Edith, perfectly unmoved by Miss Stuart's
vituperation ; " keep it for me. 1 shall make Sir Victor a
very good wife as wives go, and for Charley — well. Lady
Gwendoline is left to console him."

"Yes, of course, there is Lady Gv/endoline. O Edith!
Edith ! what are you made of? Flesh and blood like other
people, or waxwork, with a stone for a heart ? How can
you sell yourself, as you are going to do ? Sir Victor Cath-
eron is no i*iore to you than his hall-porter, and yet you per-
sist in marrying him. You love my brother and yet you
hand him over to Lady Gwendoline. Come, Edith, be hon-
est for once ; you love Charley, don't you?"

"It is rather late in the day for such tender confessions as
that," Edith replies, with a reckless sort of laugh ; "but yes
— if the declaration does you any good, Trix — X love Char-
ley."

" And you give him up ! Miss Darrell, I give you up as
a conundrum I can't solve. Rank and title are all very well
— nobody thinks more of them than I do; but if/ loved a
man," cried Trix, with kindling eyes and glowing cheeks,
" I'd marry hiini ! Yes; I would, though he were a beggar."

*«0 MV COUSIN SHALLOW-HEARTED."

253

Edith looked up at her kindly, with a smothered sigh.

" I believe you, Ti ix ; but then you are different from nie."
She half-raised herself, looking dreamily out on the sunlit
prospect of lawn, and coppice, and woodland. " Here it is :
I love Charley, but I love myself better. O Trix, child,
don't let us talk about it ; I am tired, and my head aches."
She pushed back the heavy, dark hair wearily oft her temples
with both hands. I am what you call me, a selfish wretch —
a heartless little brute — and I am going to marry Sir Victor
Catiieron. Pity him, if you like, poor fellow ! for he loves
me with his whole heart, and he is a brave and loyal gentle-
man. But don't pity your brother, my dear ; believe me, he
doesn't need it. He's a good fellow, Charley, and he likes
me, but he won't break his heart or commit suicide while he
has a ci^rar left."

" Here he comes I " exclaimed Trix, " and I believe he
has heard us."

"Let him come," Edith returns, lying listlessly back among
her cushions once more. " It doesn't matter if he has. It
will be no news to ///;//."

"It is a pity you should miss each other, though," Trix
says sarcastically, as she turns to go ; " such thorough phi-
losophers both ; I believe you were made for each other, and,
as far as easy-going selfishness is concerned, there is little to
choose between you. It's a thousand pities Sir Victor can't
hear all this."

" He might if he liked," is Edith's answer. "I shouldn't
care. Charley!" as Charley comes in and Trix goes out,
*' have you been eavesdropping ? Don't deny it, sir, if you
have!"

Charley takes a jiosition in an easy-chair some yards dis-
tant, and looks at her lying there, languid and lovely.

" I have been eavesdropping — I never deny my small
vices. Hanunond left me to go to the stables, ami, strolling
under the window, I overheard you and Trix. 0|)en confes-
sion is beneficial, no doubt ; but, my dear cousin, you really
shouldn't make it in so audiblG a tone. It might have been
Sir Victor instead of me."

She says nothing. The sombre look he has learned to
know is in her dusk eyes, on her dark, colorless face.

" Poor Sir Victor ! " he goes on ; *' he loves you — not a

254

" iVY COUSIN shallow-hearted:'

doubt of tliat, Dithy — to the deptlis of idiocy, where you
know so well how to cast your vicliins ; but hard hit as he
is, I wonder what he would say if he heard all this ! "

"You might tell him, Charley," Mdith says. " I shouldn't
mind much, and he mi;^IU jilt me— who can tell ? I think
it would do us both good. You could say, ' Look here : don't
marry Edith Darrcll, Sir Victor; she isn't worthy of you or
any good man. She is full of jiride, vanity, ambition, sel-
fishness, ill-temper, cynicism, and all uncharitableness. She
is blase at nineteen — think what she will be at nine-and-
twenly. She doesn't love you — 1 know her well enough to
be sure she never will, partly because a heart was left out in
her hard anatomy, ])artly because — because all the liking she
ever had to give, went long ago to somebody else.' Charley,
I think he would give me up, and I'd respect him for it, if
he knew that. Tell him, if you have the courage, and when
he casts me off, come to me and make me marry you. You
can do it, you know ; and when the honeymoon is over —
when poverty stalks in at the door and love flics out of the
window — when we hate each other as only ill-assorted wives
and husbands ever hate — let the thought that we have done
the ' All for love, and the world well lost ' business, to the
bitter end, console us."

She laughs recklessly ; she feels reckless enough to say
anything, do anything, this morning. Love, ambition, rank,
wealth — what empty baubles they all look, seen through
tired eyes the day after a ball !

He sits silent, watching her thoughtfully.

" I don't understand you, Ixlith," he says. "I feel like
asking you the same question Trix did. IVliy do you marry
Sir Victor? "

" Why do I marry him ? " she repeated. " Well — a little
because of his handsome face and stately bearing, and the
triumph of carrying off a jirizc, for which your Lady Gwen-
doline and half a score more have battled. A little because
he pleads so elo(iuently, and loves me as no other mortal
man did, or ever will ; and oh ! Charley, a great deal because
he is Sir Victor Catheron of Catheron Royals, with a rent-
roll of twenty thousand a year, and more, and a name that
is older than Magna Charta. If there be any virtue in truth,
there — you have it, plain, unvarnished. I like him — who

"0 JlfV COUSIN SI/ALLOIV-IIEARTED."

255

could lielp it ; but love him — no ! " Slie clasped her hands
above lier head, and gazed dreamily out at the sparkling
sunlit scene. "I shall be very fond of him, very proud of
him, when I am his wife — that I know. He will enter Par-
liament, and make sjieeches, and write political pamphlets,
and redress the wrongs of the people. He's the sort of
man politicians are made of — the sort of man a wife can be
proud of. And on my-wedding day, or perhaps a day or two
before, you and I shall shake hands, sir, and see each other
no more."

" No more ? " he repeats.

"W'^U, for a year or two at least, until all the folly of the
pa; "^ ca" be remembered only as a thing to be laughed at.
Or ui.til there is a tall, handsonie Mrs. Stuart, or, more
likely, a Lady Gwendoline Stuart. And Charley," speak-
ing hurriedly now, and not meeting the deep gray eyes she
knows are fixed upon her, " the locket with my picture and
the letters — you won't want them t/icti — suppose you let me
have them back."

"I won't want them then, certai.ily," Charley responds,
" if by ' then ' you mean when I am the husband of the tall,
fascinating Mrs. Stuart or Lady Gwendoline. But as I
have not that happiness yet, suppose you allow me to retain
them until I have. Sir Victor will never know, and he would
not mind much if he did. We are cousins, are we not ? and
what more natural than that cousins once removed should
keep each other's pictures ? IJy the bye, 1 see you still wear
that little trumpery pearl and turquoise brooch 1 gave you,
with my photo at the back. Give it to me, Kdie ; turquoise
does not become your brown skin, my dear, and I'll give
you a ruby pin with Sir Victor's instead. I'erhaps, as tur-
quois does become her, Lady Gwendoline will accept this
as love's first timid oflfering. The rubies will do twice as
well for you."

He stretched out his hand to unfasten it. She sprang
back, her checks flushing at his touch.

" You shall not have it ! Neither Lady Gwendoline nor
any one else shall wear it, and, married or single, /shall keep
it to my dying day if 1 choose. Charley — what do you
mean, sir ! How dare you ? Let me go ! "

For he had risen suddenly and caught her in his arms,

255

"0 MY COUSIX SIIALLOlV-HEARTEDr

looking steadily down into her dark eyes, with a gaze she
could not meet. Whilst he held her, whiist he looked at
her, he was her master, and he knew it.

" Charley, let me go ! " she ]ileaded. " If any one came
in ; the servants, or — or — Sir Victor."

He laughed conlemptnouslv. and held her still.

" Yes, Edith ; suppose Sir Victor came in and saw his bride-
elect with a sacrilegious arm about her waist? Su|)pose 1
told him the truth — that you are mine, not his: mine by tlie
love that alone makes marriage holy ; his for his title and
his rent-roll — bouglit and sold. By Heaven ! I half wish he
would ! "

Was this Charley — Charley Stuart ?

She caught her breath — her pride and her insolence drop-
ping from her— only a girl in the grasp of the man she loves.
In that moment, if he had willed it, he could have made her
forego her plight, and pledge herself to be his wholly, and he
knew it.

"Edith," he said, "as I stand and look at yo i, in your
beauty and your seltishness, 1 hardly know whether I love or
despise you most. I could make yon marry me — make you,
mind — but you are not worth it. Go!" He opened his
arms contemptuously and released her. "Vf)u'll not be a
bad wife for Sir Victor, I dare say, as fashionable wives go.
You'll be that ornauient of society, a married ilirt, but you'll
never run away with his dvarest friend, and make a case for
the D. C. ' All for love and the world well lost,' is no
motto of yours, my handsonie cousin. .\ week ago I en-
vied Sir Victor with all my heart — to-day 1 pity him with all
my soul 1 "

He turned to go, for once in his life, thoroughly aroused,
passionate love, passionate rage at war within him. She
had sunk back upon the soft, her face hidden in her hands,
humbled, as in all her proud life she iiad never been hum-
bled before. Her silence, her huniility touched him. He
heard a stifled sob, and all his hot anger died out in pained
remorse.

"Oh, forgive me, Edith !" he said, "forgive riie. It may
be cruel, but 1 had to speak. It is the first, it will be the last
time. I am selli>h, too, or I would never have i)ained you
— better never hear the truth than that the hearing should

"FOREVER AND EVER:'

257

make you miserable. Don't cry, Edith ; I can't bear it. For-
give nio, my cousin — they arc the last tears I will ever make
you shed."

The words he meant to soothe her, hurt more deeply
than the words he meant to wound. "They are the last
tears I will ever make you shed ! " An eternal farewell was
in the words. She heard the door open, heanl it close, and
knew that her love and her lite had parted in that instant
forever.

CHAPTER XVII.

FOREVER AND EVER.

WO weeks later, as Jime's golden days were draw-
ing to a close, t"ive of Eady Helena's guests de-
l)arted from I'owyss I'lace. One remained behind.
The Stuart family, with the devoted Captain Ham-
mond in Trixy's train, went up to London ; Miss Edith
Darrell stayed behind.

Since the memorable day following the ball, the bride-
elect of Sir Victor Catheron had dwelt in a sort of earthly
purgatory, had lived stretched on a sort of daily rack.
" How blessings brighten as they take their tliL^it." She had
given up Charley — had cast him otf, h. d bartered herself in
cold blood — for a title and an income. as.\A now that he
held her at her true value, that his love had d-ed a natiuul
death in contemi)t and scorn, her whcjle heart, hci whole soul
craved him widi a sick longing that was like de, th. It was
her daily torture and penance to see him, to s[)eak to him,
and note the cold scorn of his gray, tramiuil eyes, jealousy
had been adiled to her other torments ; he w.is ever by Lady
(iwendoline's side of late — ever at Drexel Court. His
father had set his heart upon the match ; she was graeeiul
and high-bred ; it would end in a marriage, no doubt. There
were limes when she woke from her jealous anger to rage at
herself.

" What a dog in the manger I grow," she s iid, with a bit-

258

''FOREVER AND EVER:*

tor laugh. " I won't have him myself, and I cannot bear
that any one else should have him. If he would only go
away — if he only would — I cannot endure this much
longer."

'I'ruly she could not. She was losing flesh and color, wax-
ing wan as a shadow. Sir Victor was full of concern, full of
wonder and alarm. Lady Helena said little, but (being a
woman) her sharp old eyes saw all.

" The sooner my guests go, the better," she thought ; " the
sooner she sees the last of this young man, the sooner health
and strength will return."

Perhaps Charley saw too — the gray, tranquil eyes were
ver}' penetrating. It was he, at all events, who urged the
exodus to London.

" Let us see a little London life in the season, governor,"
he said. '' l,ady Portia Hampton, and thai lot, are going.
They'll introduce us to some nice people — so will Hammond.
Rustic lanes and hawthorn ledges are all very jiretty, but
there's a possibility of their palling on depraved New York
minds. 1 pine for stone and mortar, and the fog and smoke
of London."

\Miatever he may have felt, he bore it easily to all out-
ward seeming, as the men who feel deepest mostly do.
He could not l)e said to actually avoid her, but certainly since
that afternoon in the drawing-room, they had never been for
five seconds alone.

Mr. Stuart, senior, had agreed, with almost feverish eager-
ness, to the proposed change. Life had been very pleasant
in Cheshire, with picnics, water-parties down the Dee, drives
to show-places, lawn billiards, and croquet, but a month
of it was enough. Sir Victor was immeised in his building
projects and his lady-love ; Lady Helena, ever since the
coming and going of the lady in bla( . had not been the
same. Powyss phice was a pleasant house, but enough was
enough. 'J'lujy were ready to say goodby and be off to
"fresh fields and pastures new."

"And, my dear child," said Lady Helena to Edith, when
the de|)arture was fixed, " I think )ou had much better re-
main behind."

There was an emphasis in her tone, a meaning glance in
her eye, that brought the conscious blood to the girl's check.

''FOREVER AND EVER.""

259

;ant

ivcs

mill

ling

the

was

ff to

Her eyes fell — her lips quivered for an instant — she made
no re])]}'.

" Certainly Kdith will remain," Sir Victor interposed im-
petuously. " As if we couul survive down here without
her ! And, of course, just ai present it is impossible for me
to leave. I'hey don't need her half as much as we do —
Miss Stuart has Hannnond, Prince Charley has Gwendoline
Drexel ; Edith would only be in the way ! "

" It is settled, then ?" said Lady Ihdena again, watching
Edith with a curiously intent look. " Vou remain ? "

'■ 1 will remain,'' Edith answered, very lowly and without
lifting her eyes.

" My own idea is," went on the young baronet confiden-
tially, to his lady love, " that they are glad to be gone.
Something seems to be the matter with Stuart pcrc — under
a cloud, rather, just at present. Has it struck you, Dithy ? "

He had caught the way of calling her by the jv't name
Trix and Charley used. She lifted her eyes abstractedly
now, as he asked the question.

"Mr. Stuart? What did you say, Sir Victor? Oh — un-
der a cloud. Well, yes, 1 have noticed it. 1 think it is
something connected with his business in New York. In
papa's last letter he alluded to it."

"In [)apa's last letter," Mr. Frederick Darrell had said
this :

"One of their great financial crises, they tell me, is ap-
proaching in New York, involving many tailures and im-
mense loss. One of the most dee|)ly involved, it is whispered,
will be James Stuart. 1 hare heard he is threatened with
ruin. Let us ho[)e, however, this maybe exaggerateil. Once
I fancied it would be a fine thing, a brilliant match, if my
Edith married James Stuart's son. How nnich better Provi-
dence has arranged it ! Once more, my dearest dauglUei, I
congratulate you on the brilliant vista opening before you.
Your step-mother, who desires her best love, never wearies
of sineadmg the wonderfid news that our little Edie is so
soon to be the bride of a great English baronet."

Miss Darrell's straight black brows met in one frowning
line as she jjerused this parental ami pious e[)istle. The
next instant it was torn into minute atoms, and scattered to
the four winds of heaven.

26o

*' FOREVER AND EVER:'

There seemed to be some foundation for the news. Let-
ters wiihout end kept coming for Mr. Sinart; little boys
bearing the ominous orange envelopes of the telegrapli
company, came almost daily to Powv-ss Place. After these
letters and cable messages the gloom on Mr. Stuart's fice
deepened and darkened. He lost sleep, he lost api)etitc ;
some great and secret fear seemed preying upon him. - \Vhat
was it ? His family noticed it, and inquired about his
health. He rebuffed them impatiently ; he was quite well
— he wanted to be let alone — why the unmentionable-to-
ears-polite need they Ladger him with questions ? They held
their i)cace and let him alone. That it in any way con-
cerned commercial fiilure they never dreamed ; to them the
wealth of the husband and filher was something illimitable
— a golden river flowing from a golden ocean. That ruin
could approach them never entered their wildest dreams.

He had gone to Edith one day and offered her a thou-
sand-dollar check.

" For your trousseau, my dear," he had said. " It isn't
what I cxi)ected to give you — what I would give you, if — "
He gulped and paused. "Things have changed with me
lately. You will accept this, Edie — it will at least buy your
wedding-dress."

She had shrunk back, and refused — not ]iroudly, or an-
grily — very humbly, but very firmly. From Charley's father
she could never take a farthing now.

"No," she said, "I can't take it. Dear Mr. Stuart, I
thank you all the same ; you have given nie more already
than I deserve or can ever rcjiay. 1 cannot take this. Sir
Victor Catheron takes me as I am — poor, i)enniless. Lady
Helena will give me a white silk dress and veil to be mar-
ried in. For the rest, after my wedding-day, whatever my
life may lack, it will not lack dresses."

He had replaced the check in his jiocket-book, inwardly
thankful, perhaps, that it had not been accepted. The day
was past when a thousand dollars would have been but as a
drop in the ocean to him.

'I'he tin)e of departure was fixed at length ; and the mo-
ment it was fixed, Trix flew upstairs, and into Edith's
room, with the news.

" Oh, let us be joyful," sang Miss Stuart, waltzing in

''FOREVER AND EVER."

261

psalm time up and down the room ; " we're oflf at last, the
day after to-morrow, Dithy ; so go pack up at once. It's
been very jolly, and all that, down here, for the past f(nir
weeks, and j'<?//7r had a good time, 1 know ; butl, for one,
will be glad to hear li;e bustle and din of city life once more.
One grows tired doing the pastoral and tooral-ooral — I mean
truly rural — and craves for shops, and gaslight, and glitter,
and crowds of human beings once mote. Our rooms are
taken at Langham's, Edie, and that blessed darling, Captain
Hammond, goes with us. Lady Portia, l^ady (]wendoline,
and Lady Laura are coming also, and 1 mean to plunge
headlong into the giddy whirl of dissi[)ation, and mingle with
the bloated aristocracy. Why don't you laugh ? What are
you looking so sulky about ? "

"Am I looking sulky?" Edith said, with a faint smile.
" I don't feel sulky. I sincerely hope you may enjoy your-
self even more than you anticipate."

" Oh — you do ! " said Trix, opening her eyes ; " and how
about yourself — don't you expect to enjoy yourself at all ? "

" I would, no doubt, only — I am not going."

" Not going ! " Thunderstruck, Trix repeats the words.

" No ; it has been decided that I remain here. You won't
r. iss me, Trix — you will have Cai)tain Hammond."

"Captain Hammond may go hang himself. I want you,
and you I mean to have. Let's sit down and reason this
thing out. Now what new crotchet has got into your head ?
May 1 ask what your latlyship-elect means to do ? "

"To remain quietly here until — until — you know."

"Oh, I know ! " with indescribable scorn ; " until you are
raised to the sublime dignity of a baronet's wife. And you
mean to mope away your existence down here for the next
two uionths listening to love-making you don't care thai
about. Oh, no need to fire up ; I know how much you
care about it. And I say you shan't. Why, you are fading
away to a shadow now under it. You shall come up to
London with us and recuperate. Charley shall take you
everywhere."

She saw her wince — yes, that was where the vital place
lay. Miss Stuart ran on :

"The idea of living under the same roof for two mortal
months wilii the young man you are going to marry !

262

''FOREVER AND EVER."

You're a great stickler for etiquette — I hope you don't call
that etiquette ? Nobody ever heard of sucli a thing. I'm
not sure hut tliat it would be immoral. Of course, there's
Lady Helena to play propriety, and there's the improve-
ments at Catheron Royals to amuse you, and there's Sir
Victor's endless 'lovering' to edify you, but still 1 say you
shall come. You started with us, and you shall stay with us
— you belong to us, not to him, until the nuptial knot is
tied. I wouldn't give a lig for London without you. I
should die of the dismals in a week."

"What, Trix — with Captain Hammond?"

*' Bother Captain Hammond ! I want you. O Edie, do
come ! "

" I can't, Trix." She turned away with an impatient sigh.
" I have promised. Sir Victor wishes it. Lady Helena
wishes it. It is impossible."

"And Edith Darrell wishes it. Oh, say it out, Edith,"
Trix retorted bitterly. " Your faults are many, but fear of the
truth used not to be among them. You have promised. Is
it that they are afraid to trust you out of their sight?"

" Let me alone, Trix. I am tired and sick — ^I can't bear
it."

She laid her face down upon her arm — tired, as she said- -
sick, soul and body. Every fibre of her heart was longing
to go with them — to be with him while she might, treason or
no to Sir Victor ; but it could not be.

Trix stood and looked at her, pale with anger.

" I will let you alone. Miss Darrell. More — I will let you
alone for the remainder of your life. All the past has been
bad enough. Your deceit to me, your heavtlessness to
Charley — this is the last drop in the cup. You throw us
over when we have served your turn for newer, grander
friends — it is only the way of the world, and what one might
expect from Miss Edith Darrell. But I didn't expect it — I
didn't think ingratitude was one among your failings. I was
a fool I " cried Trix, with a burst. " I always was a fool and
always will be. But I'll be fooled by you no longer. Stay
here, Miss Darrell, and when we say good-by day after to-
morrow, it shall be good-by forever."

And then Miss Stuart, very red in the face, very flashing

*' FOREVER AND EVER."

263

in the eyes, bounced out of the room, and Edith was left
alone.

Only another friend lost forever. Well, she had Sir Victor
Cathcron left — he must suffice for all now.

All that (lay and most of the next she kept her room. It
was no falsehood to say she was ill — she was. She lay upon
her bed, her dark eyes open, her hands clasped over her
head, looking blankly before her. To-morrow they must
part, and after to-morrow — but her mind gave it up ; she
could not look b'^yond.

She came downstairs when to-morrow came to say fare-
well. The white wrapper she wore was not whiter than her
face. Mr. Stuart shook hands in a nervous, hurried sort
of way that had grown iiabitual to him of late. Mrs. Stuart
kissed her fondly, Miss Stuart just touched her lii)s formally
to her cheek, and Mr. Charles Stuart held her cold fmgers
for two seconds in his warm clasp, looked, with his own easy,
pleasant smile, straight into her eyes, and said good-by pre-
cisely as he said it to Lady Helena. Then it was all over ;
they were gone ; the wheels that bore them away crashed
over the gravel. Edith Darrell felt as though they were
crashing over her heart.

That night the Stuarts were established in elegant apart-
ments at Langham's Hotel.

But alas for the frailty of hum ,n hopes ! " The splendid
time " Trixy so confidently looked forward to never came.
The very morning after their arrival came one of the boys in
uniform with another sinister orange envelope for the head
of the family. The head of the family chanced to be alone
in his dressing-room. He took it with trembling hand and
bloodshot eyes, and tore it oi)en. A moment after there was
a horrible cry like nothing human, then a heavy fall. Mrs.
Stuart rushed in with a scream, and found her husband lying
on the floor, the message in his hand, in a fit.

^fi "JC S|s 5(1 ^fi »i» •(• *!• Sp 5|C

Captain Hammond had made an appointment with Char-
ley to dine at St. James Street that evening. Calling upon
old friends kept the gallant captain of Scotch Grays occupied
all day ; and as the shades of evening began to gather over
the VVest End, he stood impatiently awaiting his arrival.
Mr. Stuart was ten minutes late, and if there was one thing

264

"FOREVER AND EVER."

in this mortal life that upset the young warrior's equanimity,
it was being ke])t ten minutes waiting for his dinner. Five
minutes more ! Confound the fellow — would he never
come ? As the impatient adjuration i)assed the captain's
lips, Charley came in. lie was rather pale. Except for that,
there was no change in him. Death itself could hardly have
wrought much chansre in Charlev. He had not come to
apologize ; he had not come to dine. He had come to tell
the captain some very bad news. There had been terrible
commercial disasters of late in New York ; they had involved
his father. His father had embarked almost every dollar of
his fortune in some bubble speculations that had gone up
like a rocket and come down like a stick. He had been
losing immensely for the i)ast month. This morning he
had received a cable message, telling him the crash had
come. He was irretrievably, past all hope of redemption,
ruined.

All this Charley told in his quietest voice, looking out
through the great bay window at the bustle and whirl of
fashionable London life, at the hour of seven in the evening.
Captain Hammond, smoking a cigar, hstened in gloomy si-
lence, feeling particularly uncomfortable, and not knowing
in the least what to say. He took out his cheroot and spoke
at last. ■

"It's a deuced bad state of affairs, Charley. Have you
thought of anything ? "

"I've thought of suicide," Charley answered, "and made
all the preliminary arrangements. I took out my razor-
case, examined the edges, found the sharpest, and — put it
carefully away again. I loaded all the chambers of my re-
volver, and locked it up. I sauntered by the classic banks
of the Serpentine, sleeping tranquilly in the rays of the sun-
set (that sounds like poetry, but I don't mean poetry).
Of the three I think I prefer it, and if the worst comes to
the worst, it's there still, and it's pleasant and cool."

"How do your mother and sister take it?" Captain
Hammond gloomily asked.

" My mother is one of those happy-go-lucky, apathetic
sort of people who never break their hearts over anything.
She said 'O dear nie!' several times, I believe, and cried
a little. Trix hasn't time to 'take it' at all. She is ab-

her

Victcl

will

"FOREVER AND EVER."

265

si-

ham

ketic

[ing.

Iried

ab-

sorbed all day in attending her f.itlier. The fit turns out
not to be dangerous at present, but he lies in a sort of stu-

can rouse hiin. Of

por,

a letharuv from wliicli

notlnng

course our first step will be to return to Xew York immedi-
ately. Beggars — and I take it that's about what we are at
present — have no business at Langham's."

Captain llamniond opened his bearded li|)s as though to
speak, thouglit better of it, replaced his cigar again be-
tween tlieni in nioody silence, and stared hard at nothing
out of the window.

" I called this afternoon upon the London agent of the
Cunard ships," resumed Charley, "and found that one
sails in four days. Providentially two cabins remained
im taken ; I secured them at once. In four days, then, we
sail. Meantime, old fellow, if you'll drop in and speak a
word to mother and Trix, you will be doing a friendly deed.
Poor souls ! they are awfully cut up."

Captain Hammond started to his feet. He seized Char-
ley's hand in a grip of iron. "Old boy!" he began — he
never got further. The torrent of eloquence dried up sud-
denly, and a shake of the hand that made Charley wince
finished the sentence.

" 1 shall be fully occupied in the meantime," Charley
said, taking his hat and turning to go, " and they'll be a
great deal alone. If I can find time PU run down to
Cheshire, and tell my cousin. As we may not meet again,
I should like to say 'good-by.' " He dejiarted.

There was no sleep that night in the Stuart apartments.
Mr. Stuart was pronounced out of danger and able to
travel, but he still lay in that lethargic trance — not speak-
ing at all, and seemingly not suflfering. Next day Charley
started for Cheshire.

" She doesn't deserve it," his sister said bitterly ; *' I
wouldn't go if I were you. She has her lover — her fortune.
\Vhat are we or our misfortunes to her? She has neither
heart, nor gratitude, nor affection. She isn't worth a
thought, and never was — there ! "

" 1 wouldn't be too hard upon her, Trix, if I were you,"
her brother answered coolly. " You would have taken Sir
Victor yourself, you know, if you could have got him. I
will go."

13 •

266

"FOREVER AND .EVER.'*

He went. The long, bright summer day passed ; at six
he was ill Chester. Tlicrc was some delay in procuring a
conveyance to I'owyss I'lace, and tlie drive was a lengthy
one. Twilight had entirely fallen, and lanii)s glimmered
in the windows of the old stone mansion as he ahglited.

The servant stared, as he ushered him in, at his pale face
and dusty garments.

" You will tell Miss Darrell I wish to '^ • her at once,
and alone," he said, slipping a shilling . .10 the man's
hand.

He took a seat in the familiar reception-room, and waited.
Woidd she keep liim long, he wondered — would she come
to him — ZiW/A/ she come at all.-* Yes, he knew she would,
let him send for her, married or single, when and how he
might, he knew she would come.

She entered as the thought crossed his mind, hastily,
with a soft silken rustle, a waft of perfume. He rose up
and looked at her ; so for the space of live seconds they
stood silently, face to face.

To the last hour of his life Ciiarlcy Stuart remembered
her, as he saw her then, and always with a sharp pang of
the same pain.

She was dressed for a dinner party. Slie wore violet
silk, trailing ixx behind her, violet shot with red. Her
graceful shoulders rose up excpiisitely out of the p<;int lace
trimmings, her arms sparkled in the lights. A necklace of
amethysts set in clusters, with diamonds between, shone
upon her neck ; amethysts and diamonds were in her ears,
and clasping the arms above the elbows. Her waving,
dark hair was drawn l>ack off her face, and crowned with
an ivy wreath. The soft, abundant wax lights showered
down upon her. So she stood, resplendent as a queen,
radiant as a goddess. There was a look on Charley Stuart's
face, a light in his gray eyes, very rare to see. He only
bowed and stood aloof.

" I have surprised you, I am sure — interrupted you, I
greatly fear. You will pardon both 1 know, when i tell you
wluit has brought me here."

\\\ very few words he told her — the great tragedies of
life are always easily told. They were ruined — he had
engaged their passage by the next steamer — he had merely

lacl

her

Ceil

be;

kin I

woil

thof

real!
Sl

shef

passl

"■* FOREVER AND EVER."

267

rOU, I
:U you

lllcs of
le IiaJ
Incrcly

run down as they were never likely tp meet again — for the
sake of old times, to. say good-by.

Old times ! Something rose in the girl's throat, and
seemed to choke her. Oh, of all the i),iso, heartless, mer-
cenary, ungrateful wretches on earth, was there another so
heartless, so ungrateful as she ! Poor — Charley i)oor ! For
one moment — one — the impulse came upon her to give up
all — to go with iiim to brggary if need be. Only tor one
moment — I will do Miss Darrell's excellent worldly wisdom
this justice — only one.

" I see you are dressed for a party — I will not detain you
a second longer. I could not depart comfortably, consider-
ing that you came over in our care, without informing you
why we leave so abruptly. You are safe. Your destiny is
happily settled. I can give to your father a good account
of my stewardship. You have my sincerest wishes for your
health and happiness, and 1 am sure you will never (iiiite
forget us. Good-by, Miss Darrell." He held out his hand.
" My congratulations are i)remature, but let me offer them
now to the future Lady Catheron."

"Miss Darrell !" When, in all the years that were gone,
had he ever called her that before ? She arose and gave
him her hand — j^roud, pale.

" I thank you," she said coldly. " I will send Lady
Helena and Sir Victor to you at once. They will wish to
see you, of course. Good-by, Mr. Stuart. Let us hope
things may turn out better than you think. Give my dear-
est love to Trix, if she will accept it. Once more, good-

She swept to the door in her brilliant dress, her i^erfunied
laces, her shining jewels — the glittering fripperies for which
her womanhood was to be sold. He stood quite still in the
centre of the room, as she had left him, watching her. So
beautiful, so cold-blooded, he was thinking ; were all her
kind like this ? And poets sing and novelists rave of
woman's love ! A half smile came over his lijjs as he
thought of it. It was very pretty to read of in books ; in
real life it was — like this !

She laid her hand on the silver handle of the door — then
she paused — looked back, all the womanliness, all tlie
passion of her life stirred to its depths. It was good-by

268

THE SUMMOI^S.

forever to Charley. There was a great sob, and pride
bowed and fell. She rushed b.ick — two im[)ctiioiis arms
went round his neck ; she drew his face down, and kissed
him passionately — once — twice.

" Good-by, Charley — my darling — forever and ever ! "
She threw him from her almost violently, and rushed
out of the room. Whether she went to tell Lady Helena
and Sir Victor of his i)resen(;e he neither knew nor cared.
He was in little mood to meet either of them just then.

Five minutes later, and, under the blue silvery summer
night, he was whirling away back to Chester. When the
midnight stars shone in the sky he was half way up to Lon-
don, with Edith's farewell words in his ears, Edith's first,
last kiss on his lips.

CHAPTER XVHL

THE SUMMONS.

HE sun was just rising over the million roofs and
spires of the great city, as Charley's hansom dashed
np to the door of Langham's hotel. He ran up to
his father's room, and on the threshold encountered
Trix, pale and worn with her night's watc;Iiing, l)ut wearing
a peculiarly happy and contented little look despite it all.
Charley did not stop to notice the look, he asked after his
father.

"Pa's asleep," Trix replied, "so's ma. It's of no use
your disturbing either of them. Pa's pretty well ; §tupid
as you left him ; doesn't care to talk, but able to cat
and sleep. The doctor says there is nothing at all to hinder
his travelling to Liverpool to-day. And now, Ciiarley,"
Trix concluded, looking comi)assionately at her brother's
pale, tired face, "as you look used up after your day and
night's travelling, supi)ose you go to bed ; I'll wake you in
time for breakfast, and yon needn't worry about anything.
Captain Hammond has been here," says Trix, blushing in
the wan, morning light, "and he will attend to every-
thing."

Edl

thai

SI ail

.«|)e[

Siicl

rooj

THE SUMMONS.

269

use
[tu\Mtl
cat
finder

|r\cy,"
>ihor's
Ly antl
,'ou iu
fthing.
juvj; in
kvciy-

Charlcy nodded and turned to go, but his sister detained
hiiu.

*' You — you saw her, I sui)[)ose ? " she said hesita-
tingly.

" iuHth do you mean ? " Charley looks at her full. " Yes,
I saw her. As 1 went down for the purpose, I was hardly
likely to fail."

"And what has she to say for herself?" Trix asks bit-
terly.

'♦ Very little ; we were not together ten minutes in all.
She was dressed for a [larty of some kind, and 1 did not de-
tain her."

"A [)arty?" Trix. repeats ; " and we like this ! Did she
send no message at all?"

" Slie sent you her dearest love."

" She may keep it — let her give it to Sir Victor Catheron.
I don't want her love, or anytliing else belonging to her! "
Trix cries, explosively. " Of all the heartless, ungrateful
girls-"

Her brother stops her willi a look. Those handsome
gray eyes of Charley's can be very stern eyes when he
hkes.

" As I said before, that will do, Trix. Edith is one of
the wise virgins we read of — she has chosen by long odds
the better part. What could we do with her now? take
her back and return her to her father and step-mother, and
the dull life she hated? As for gratitude, 1 confess I don't
see where the gratitude is to come in. We engaged her at
a fixed salary : so mucli cleverness, French, German, and
general usefulness o\\ her part ; on ours, so many hundred
dollars per annum. Let me say this, Trix, once and for
good : as you don't seem able to say anything pleasant of
Edith, suppose you don't speak of her at all?"

And then Charley, with tiiat resolute light in his eyes,
that resolute compression of his lips, turned and walked up-
stairs. It was an unusually lengthy, aud unusually grave
gl)eech for him, and his volatile sister was duly impressed.
She shrugged her shoulders, and went back to her pa's
room.

" The amount of it is," she thought, " he is as fond of her
as ever, and can't bear, as he has lost her, to hear her

270

THE SUMMONS.

spoken of. The idea of his scampering down into Chester

Ridi

culous

She is lieartless, and

to see \yc\ once more !
I hate her ! "

And then Trixy took out her lace pocket-handkercliief,
and suddenl)' burst out crying. O dear, it was bad enough
to lose one's fortune, to iiave one's Euro|jean tour nipped
in tlie bud, without losing Kdith. just as Edith had wound
her way most closely round Trixy's warm little heart. Tiiere
was but one drop of honey in all the bitter cup — a drop
six feet high and stout in proportion — Cajitain Angus Ihun-
niond,

I'or Captain Angus Hammond, as though to ])rove that
all the world was not base and mercenary, had come nobly
to the front, and proposed to Trixy. And Tiixy, surprised
and grateful, and liking him very much, Iiad hesitatecl, and
smiled, and dimpled, and blushed, and objc-ctcd, and fin-
ally begun to cry, and sobbed oat "yes" through her
tears.

Charley slept until twelve — they were to depart for Liv-
eri)ool by the two o'clock exjiress. Then his sister, attired
for travelling, awoke him, and they all breakfasted together ;
J\lr. Stuart, too, looking very li;np and miserable, and Cap-
tain Hammond, whose slate would have been one of idiotic
hapi)iness, had not the thought that the ocean to-mi>rrow
would roll between him and the obji^ct of his young atTec-
tions, thrown a damper \\\)c\\ him. He was going to Liv-
erpool with them, however ; it would be a mournful conso-
lation to see them off. They travelled second-class. As
Chai ley said, "they must let themselves down easily — the
sooner they began the better — and third-class to start with
might be coming it a little too strong. Let them have a
few cushions and comforts still."

Mr. Stuart kept close to his wife. He seemed to cling
to her, and dep'-nd upon her. like a child, it was wonder-
ful, it was pitiful how utterly shattered he had become.
His son looked after him widi a solicitous tenderness quite
new in all their experience of Charley. Ca|)tain Hammv)nd
and 'I'rixy kept in a corner togedier, and talked in sacchar-
ine undertones, looking foolir^li, and guilty, and ha|)py.

Tliey reached Liverpool late in t!ie evening, and drove
to the Adeli)hi. At twelve next day they were to get on

th<

wii
hi.
'J'i
Ch

[

THE SUMMONS.

271

board the tender, and be conveyed down the Mersey to
their ship.

Lale ihat evening, after dinner, and over their cigars,
Cai)tain Hammond opened Iiis niascnUnu iieart, and, with
vast hesitation and nuich embarrassment, poured into Char-
ley's ear the tale of his love.

" I ought to lell the governor, you know," the young
officer said, " but he's so deucedly ciit up as it is, you know,
that I couldn't think of it. And it's no use fidgeting your
mother — Trixy will tell her. I love your sister, Charley,
and 1 believe I've been in love with iier ever since that day
in Ireland. 1 ain't a lady's man, and I never cared a fig
t'or a girl before in my life ; but, by Ceorge ! I'm awfully
fond of Trixy. I ain't an elder son, and I ain't clever, I
know," cried the poor, young gentleman sadly; "but if
Trix will coiisent, by (ieoige ! I'll go with her to church to-
morrow. There's my pay — my habits ain't expensive, like
some t'ellows — we could get along on that for a while, and
then I have expectations from my grandniother. I've had
expectations from my grandmother for the last twelve
years, sir, and every day of those twelve years she's been
dying ; and, by (ieorge I she ain't d'wd yet, you know. It's
wonderful — I give you my word — it's wonderful, the way
grandmothers and maiden aunls with money do hold out.
As Dundreary says, 'It's something no fellow can under-
stand.' r.ut tiiat ain't what I wanted to say — it's this : if
you're willing, and Trix is willing, I'll get leave of absence
and come overlay the next sliii>, and we'll be married. I —
I'll be the liapi)iest fellow alive, Stuart, the day your sister
becomes my wife."

You are not to su])i)ose that Captain Il.immnnd made
this speech tluently and eloiiuently, as I have reported it.
The words are his, but the long pauses, the stammerings,
the rejjetitions, the hesitations I have mercifully withheld.
Mis cigar was (piite smoked out by the time he had finished,
and with nervous haste he set about lighting another. I'Or
Mr. .Stuart, tilted back in his chair, his shining boots on the
window sill of the drawing-iKom, ga/ing out at the gas-lit
highways of Liverpool, he listened in abstracted silence.
Tliere was a long ]niuse after the captain concluded— then
Charley opened his lips and spoke :

272

THE SUMMONS.

"This is all nonsense, you know, Hammond," he said
gravely, " folly — madness, on your i^art. A week ago,
when we thought 'I'rixy an heiress, the case looked very
different, you see ; then I would have shaken hands with
you, and bestowed my blessiuLr u[)on your virtuous endeav-
ors. But all that is changed now. As far as 1 can see, we
are beggars— literally beggus — wuhout a dollar ; and when
we get to New York noihmg will remain for 'I'ri.xy and me
but to roll U[) our sleeves and go to work. What we are to
work at. Heaven knows; we have come ui) like the lilies
of the field, who toil not, neither do they spin. It is rather
late in the day to take lessons in spinning now, but you see
there is no help for it. 1 don't say mucii, Hanunond, but I
feel this. I hold a man to be something less than a man
who will go through life h.owHng over a loss of this kind.
There nre V orse losses than that of fortune in thewoild."
He paused a moment, and his dreamy eyes looked far out
over the crowded city street. " 1 cUways thought my father

was as rich as Crow — Cia3 — the rich tellow, you know,

always (pu3ie in print. It S(.;cme<l an invpossibility that we

could

ever be jraor.

:our

family

are wea

J kit

Ithy, y

we are, am

1 there is an end of it.

ur lather has a title

think lie would listen to this tor a moment ?'

i\o y

oil

My family may go hang I" burst fcMth the capt

im.

"What till,' deuce have they got to do with it. If Trixy is
willing — "

" Trixy will not be willing to enter any family on those
terms," 'I'rixy's brother said, in that quiet way of his, which
could yet be siuh an obstinate way ; " and what I mean to
say is tiiis : A marriage for the jnesent is totally and abso-
lutely out of the (juestion. You and she may make love to

by th

letters across the ocean

and remain con-

I "

your heart s coiiient— wiiti

bushel, be engagetl as fa^' as )ou i)leasi.

stant at long as you like. Hut maniage— no, no, no

That was the end of it. Charley was not to be moved —
neither, indeed, on the marriage (luestion, waL-> Trix. " Did
Angus think iier a wretcii — a monster — to ilesert her poor
pa and ma, juil now, when they wanted her most, and go
off with him i* Not likely. 1 le might take back his ring if
he liked — she wouhl not jiold him to his engagement — she
was ready and willing to set him I'ree — "

tht
JJi

plit
"I>

fron
ben

THE SUMMOyS.

273

IM)

it"

•• So Jamie, an' ye dinna wait
Yc t'.iina marry mc,"

sang Charley, as Trix broke down here ami sobbed. Then
with a half smile on his face he went out of tlie room, and
Trixy's tears were dried on Angus Jianwnond's faithful
breast.

Next day, a gray ovcrcas*. ^^looniy day, the shij) sailed.
Captain Hatninond went with tlicin on board, returning in
the tender. Tri.c, leaning on her father's arm, crying beliind
her veil ; Charley, by his mother's sitle, stood on deck wlule
the tender steamed back to tlie clock. And there under the
gray sky, with the bleak wind blowing, and the ship tossing
on the ugly short ciiop of the river, they took their i)arling
look at the English shore, with but one friendly face to
watch them away, and that the ginger-whiskered face of
Captain Hannnoiul.

Fxlith Darrell left CharK^y Stuart, and returned to the
brilliantly-lit drawing rouin, wiiere her lover and Lady
Helena and their friends sat waiting the announcement of
dimier. Sir Victor's watchful eyes saw her enter. Sir \'ic-
tor's loving glance saw the |)allnr, like the pallor of death,
upon her face. She walked sieatlily over to a chair in the
curtained recess of a wimlow, He was held captive by
Lady Portia Hampton, and could not join her. A second
after there was a sort of sobbing gasp — a lieavy tall. lOvery-
body started, and arose in consternation. Miss Darrell
had fallen from her chair, and lay on the iloor in a de.id
faint.

Her lover, as p.ilc almost as herself, lifted her in his arms,
the cold, beautiful face lying, like death on his shoulder.
]5ut it WIS not death.

They carried her up to her room — restoratives were ap-
])lied, and presently the great dark eyes oi)ened, and looked
u[) into her lo\t'r's face.

She covered her own with her hands, and turned away
from him, as though the sight was distasteful to her. He
bi'ul above her, ahno^^t agoni/ed ih.it anylinng should ail his
id..l.

"My darling," he saiil tremulously. "What was it?
What can 1 do lor you ? Tell me."

mmmm.

274

7V/£ SUMMONS.

" Go away," was the dull answer ; " only that — go away
everylMjcly, and leave n)e alone."

They strove to reason with lier — some one sought to stay
with Iier. Lady Helena, Sir Victor — either would give \\\)
their place at dinner and remain at the bedside.

" No, no, no ! " was her answering cry, " they must not.
She was better again — she needed no one, she wanted nodi-
ing, only to be left alone."

They left her alone — she was trembling with nervous ex-
citenient, a little more and hysterics would set in--they
dared not disobey. They left lier alone, with a watchful at-
tendant on the alert in the dressiiiir room.

She lay u])on the dainty I''rench bed, her dark hair, from
which the tlowers had been taken, tossed over the white
pillows, her hands clasjjed above her iiead, her dark, large
eyes fi.\ed on the opjxjsite wall. So she lay motionless,
neither, si)eaking nor stirring for hours, with a sort of dull,
numb aciiing at her heart. They stole in softly to her bed-
side many limes througii the night, always to find her like
that, lying with blank, wide-open eyes, never noticing nor
speaking to them. W'iien morning broke she awoke from a
dull sort of sleep, her head burning, her lii)s parched, her
eyes glittering with fever.

They sent for the doctor. He felt her iiulse, looked at
her tongue, asked (juestions, and shook his head. Over-
wrought nerves tiie whole of it. Her mind must have been
over-excited for some time, and this was the result. No
danger was to be ajiprehended ; careful nursing would re-
store her in a week or two, combined with i)erfect quiet.
Then a change of air and scene would be beneficial — say a
trip to Scarborough or Torquay now. They would give her
this saline draught just at present and not worry about her.
The young lady would be all right, on his word and honor,
my dear Sir Victor, in a week or two.

Sir Victor listened very gloomily. He hid heard from the
hall porter of Mr. Stuart's flying visit, and of his brief inter-
view with Miss D.vrrell. It was very strange— his luisly
coming, his hasty going, without seeing any of them, his in-
terview with lulith, and her fainting-fit immediately after.
Why had he come? What had transpired at that inter-
view? The green-eyed monster look the baronet's heart

br
an

fou
Csc

THE SUMMONS.

275

notiimg.

between his finger and thumb, and gave it a most terrible
twiiit^fe. ,

lie watched over her when tliey let him into that darken-
ed chamber, as a mother may over an only and darling
child. If he lost her !

" O Heaven ! " he cried passionately, rcbelliously,
"rather let me die than that ! "

He asked her no fiuestions — lie was afraid. His heart
sank within liiiii, she lay so cold, so while, so utterly indif-
ferent whether he came or went. He was nothing to her —
Would lie ever be ?

Lady 1. lena, less in love, and consequently less a
coward, asked the question her nephew dared not ask :
" What had brought Mr. Charles Stuart to Powyss I'lace ?
What had made iicr, Edith, faint ?"

The dark sombre eyes turned from the twilight i)rospect,
seen through the oi)en window, and met her Lidysliip's
susi)icious eyes steadily. "Mr. Stuart had come down to
tell her some very bad news. His father had failed — they
were ruined. They had to leave iMigland in two days for
home — he had only come to l)id her a last farewell."

Then the sombre brown eyes went back to the blue-gray
sky, the crystal July moon, the velvet, green grass, the dark
murmuring trees, the birds twittering in the leafy branches,
and she was still again.

Lady 'Helena was shocked, surprised, grieved. I'ut— why
had Edi'.. fainted ?

" 1 don't know," Edith answered. " I never fliinted be-
fore in my "fe, I think 1 have not been very strong lately.
; *" It well enough when I returned to the drawing-room —
.; minute after 1 grew giddy and fell. I remember no
more."

" W(j will fake you away, my dear," her ladyship said
cheerfi'uy. " We will take you to Torquay. Changes of
air and scene, as the doctor says, are the tonics you need to
brace your nerves. Ah ! old or young, all we i)oor women
are martyrs to nerves."

They took her to Torquav in the second week of July.
.■\ pretty litile villa near ilesketh Crescrnt had been hired ;
four servants froni Powyss I'lace ])recetled them ; Sir Victor
escorted them, and saw them duly installed. He returned

276

THE SUMMONS.

. again — partly because the work going on at Catheron
Koyals needed his presence, partly because Lady Helena
gravely and earnestly urged it.

"My dear Victor," she said, "don't force too much of
your society upon Edith. 1 know girls. Even if she were
in love with you" — the young man winced — "she would grow
tired of a lover who never left her sight. All women do.
If you want iier to grow fond of you, go away, write to her
every day — not too lover-like love-letters ; one may have a
surfeit of sweets; just cheerful, jjleasant, sensible letters —
as a young man in love can write. Come down this day
three weeks, and, if we are ready, take us home."

The young man made a wry face — much as he used to do
when his good aunt urged him to swallow a dose of nauseous
medicine.

" In three weeks ! My dear Lady Helena, what are you
thinking of? We are to be married the fu sL week of
September."

" October, Victor — October — not a day sooner. Yon
must wail uuiil lAlith is completely restored. There is no
suclii de»^";'.ae haste. You .iri- not likclv to lose her."

" I ajDQ not so sure of that," he b.iid, half sulleni}- under
his breath ; " and a postponed marri,.ge is the must uuhicky
tttsmz^ in tliv world."

**•£ don't believe in lack \ I do in common-sense." his
arnint letorteil, rather shu.ri)ly. " You are like a spoileil < hild.
Victor, crying fior the moon. It is Edith's own reciuest, if
you will hare it — this postponement. And Edith is right.
You don't want a limp, pallid, half-dying bridi., I supiioso.
Give her time to get strong — give her time to learn to like
you — your ])atient waiting will go far towards it. Tid-ie my
word, it will be the wiser course."

There was nothing for it but obedience. He took his
leave and went back to Cheshire. It was his- first i)arting
from Edith. How he felt it, no words can tell. I!ut llie fact
remained — he went.

She drew a long, dee]} breath aa she said good-by, and
watched him away. All ! what a ditferent farewell to that
oilier only two short weeks ago. She tried not to think of
that — honestly and earnestly ; she tried to forget the face
that haunted her, the voice tiiat rang in her ears, the warm

ni
al
h.

THE SUMMONS.

277

iml
\^\

mil

hand-clasj), the kisses tint sealed their jiarting. Her love,
her duty, her allegiance, her thoughts — all were due to Sir
Victor now. \x\ the quiet days that were tu be there, she
would try to forget the love of her life — try to reuieniber
that of all men on earth Sir X'ictor Catheron was the only
man she had any right to think of

And she succeeded i)arlly. Wandering along the tawny
sands, with the l)lue bright sea spreading away before her,
drinking in the soft salt air, lulith grew strong in body and
mind once more. Charley Stuart had passed forever out of
her life — driven hence by her own acts ; she would be the
most drivelling of uliots, the bas''st of traitors, to ])ine for
hini now. Her step grew elastic, her eye grew bright, her
beauty and bloom returned. She met hosts of i)leasant
])eople, and her laugh came sweetly t<j Lady Helena's ears.
Since her nephew must marry — since his heart was set »-'n
this girl — Lady Helena wished to see hi r a healthy and
haj'ijy wife.

Sir Victor's letters came daily ; the girl smiled as she
glanced carelessly over them, tore them up, and answen-d
— about half Love him she dii.1 not ; but she was learning
to think very kindly of him. It is quite in the sco|)e of a
woman's complex nature to love one man jiassionateiv, and
like another very much. It was Ldith's case — she liked Sir
Victor ; and when, at the end of three werks, he came to
join them, she could ajjproach and give him her hand with
a fiank, gl id smile of welcome. The throe weeks had been
as three centuries to this ardent young lover. His delight
to see his darling l)looming, and well, and wholly restored,
almost rei)aid hini. .Xnd three days after the tiiul returned
together to Powyss I'lace, to part, as he whispered, no
more.

It was the nnddle of August now. In spite of Ivlith's
protest, grand preparations were being made for the wi;d-
ding — a magnificent trousseau having l)een ordered.

"SiniplicUy is all very well," Lulv Helena answered .Miss
Darrell, "but Sir Victor Catheron's bride nnist dress as be-
conii.'s Sir Victor Catheron's station. In three years fio::i
now, if you prefer white muslin and si:iiplii:ity. prefer it by
all means. About the wedding-dress, you will kinilly let me
have my own way."

2/8

THE SUMMONS,

Edith desisted ; she appealed no more ; passive to all
changes, she let herself drift along, 'i'lie third of Oetoher
was to be the wedding-day ; my ladies (iwendoline and
Laura Drexel, the two chief liridesmaids — th.en three others,
all daughters of old friends of I.ady Helena. The pretty,
picturesciue town of Carnarvon, in North Wales, was to be
the nest of the turtledoves during the honeymoon — then
away to the Continent, then back for the Christmas festivi-
ties at Catheron Royals.

Catheron Royals was fast Ijecoming a jialace for a jiriii-
cess — its grounds a sort of enchantetl fairy-land. Edith walked
through its lofty, echoing halls, its long suites of suini)tuons
drawing-rooms, libraries, billiard and ball rooms. The suite
fitted up for herself was gorgeous in purple and gold — velvet
and bullion fringe — in i^ictures that were wonders of loveli-
ness — in mirror-lined walls, in all that boundless wealth and
love could lavish on its idol. Leaning on her proud and
haj^py bridegroom's arm, she walked through them all. half
dazed with all the wealth of color and splendor, and wonder-
ing if " 1 be 1." Was it a fairy tale, or was all this for Edith
Darrell ? — Edith Darrell, who such a brief while gone, used
to sweep and dust, sew and darn, in dull, imlovely Sandy-
point, and get a new meiino dress twice a year? No, it
could not be — such transformation scenes never look place
out of a Christmas jiantomime or a burlesque Arabian
Night — it was all a dream — a fairy fortune that, like fairy
gold, would change to dull slate stones at light of day. She
would never be Lady (Catheron, never be mi>tress of this
glittering Aladdin's l^alace. It grew u|)on her day after
day, this feeling of vagueness, of unreality. She was just
adrift upon a shining river, and one of these days she would
go stranded ashore on hidilcn quicksands and foul ground.
Something would happen. The days went by like drer-n —
it was the middle oi September. In little more than a fort-
night would come the third of Octobt'r and the wedding-day.
Hut somt.'thing would iiappen. As surely as she lived and
saw it all, she felt that somediing would h;ippen.

Something did. On the eighteenth of September there
came from London, late in the evening, a trlegrani for Lady
Helena. Sir Victor was with Edith at the piano in the
drawing-room. In hut haste his aunt sent for him ; he went

AT POPLAR LODGE.

at once. He found Iicr pale, terrified, excited ; she held out
the telegram to him without a word. He read it slowly:
" Come at once. Vetch Victor. lie is dyiny. — iNiiZ."

ch.\pti:r xix.

AT POPLAR LODGE.

y
le
nt

ALT an hour had passed and Sir Victor did not re-
turn. Edith still remained at the piano, the gleam
of the candles falling upon her thoughtful face,
jilaying the weird '* Moonlight Sonata." She
played so softly that the shrill whistling of the wind around
the gables, the heavy soughing of the trees, was jihiinly
audible above it. Ten minutes more, and her lover did not
return. Wondering a little what the telegram could contain,
she arose and walked to the window, drew the curtains and
looked out. There was no moon, but the stars were nuivi-
berless, and lit dimly the jiark. As she stootl watching the
trees, writhing in the autumnal gale, she heard a step behind
her. She glanced over her shoulder with a half smile — a
smile that died on her lips as she saw the grave pallor of
Sir Victor's face.

"What has happened?" she asked quickly. "Lady
Helena's dispatch contained bad news ? It is nothing" —
she caught her breatli — " nothing concerning the Stuarts ?"

" Nothing concerning the Stuarts. It is from London —
from Inez Catheron. Jt is — that my father is dying."

She said nothing. She stood looking at him, antl waiting
for more.

" It seems a strange thing to say," he went on, "that one
does not know whether to call one's father's death ill news
or not. I)Ut considering the living death he has led for
twenty-three years, one can hardiv call death and release a
misfortune. The strange diing. the alarming tiling about it,
is the way Lady Helena takes it. One would think siie
niiijht be preiiared, that considering his life and siift'erings,

280

AT POPLAR LODGE.

she would rather rejoice than grieve : but, I give j'ou my
word, the way in which she lakes it honestly frightens
me."

Still Edith made no reply — still her thoughtful eyes were
fixed upon his face.

" Siie seems stunned, paralyzed — actually paralyzed with
a sort of terror. And that tenor seems to be, not for liiiii
or herself, but for mc. She will e.\i)lain nothing ; she seems
unable; all presence of mintl seems to have left her. No
time is to be loi^t ; there is a train in two hours ; we go by
that. By dayliglit we will be in London ; how long before
we return I cannot say. I hale the thought of a death cast-
ing its gloom over our marriage. I dread horribly the
thought of a second postponement- -I hate the idea of leav-
ing you here alone."

Sonu'thirii^ -will happen. All along her heart had whis-
pered it, and here it was. And yet the long tense breath
she drew was very like a breath of relief

" Vou are not to think of me." she said quietl\', after a
pause. *' Your duty is to the dying. Nothing will befall
me in your absence — don't let the thought of me in anyway
trouble you. I shall do very well with my books and nnisic ;
and Lady (Iwendoline, I dare say. will drive over occasion-
ally and sec me. Of course u<liy yon go to London is for
the i)resent a secret ? "

" Of course. What horrible ex])Ianatii)ns and gossij) the
fact of his death at this late date will involve. l'",veiy one has
thought him dead for over twenty years. I can't understand
this secrecy, this mystery — the world should iiave been told
the truth from the Inst. If there was any motive I suppose
they will tell me to-night, and I confess 1 shrink from hear-
ing any more than I hive already heard."

His face was very dark, very gloomy, as he gazed out at
the starlit night. A present im>:iit that something evil was in
store for him weighed upon him, engendered, perhaps, by the
incomprehensible alarm of Lady Helena.

The prejiarations for the journey were hurried and few.
Lady Helena descendetl to the carriage, leaning on her
maid's arm. She seemed to have forgotten Kdiih completely,

until l-'.dith advanced to sav "ood-bv.

"hen

m a con-

strained, mechanical sort of way she gave her her hand

AT POPLAR LODGE.

281

|\v.

spoke a few brief words of farewell, and drew back into a
corner of the carriage, a darker shadow in the gloom.

In the drawingrooin, in travelling-cap and overcoat, Sir
Victor held Editli's hand, lingering strangely over the i)art-
ing — strangely reluclant to say farewell.

" Do yoa believe in jiresentinient s Edith ? " he asked.
" I have a presenlinient dial we will never meet again like
this — that something will have come between us before we
meet again. 1 cannot defme it. 1 cannot explain it. 1
only know it is there."

" 1 don't believe in presentiments," i'"(lith answered cheer-
fully. " 1 never had one in my life. J believe they are only
another name for dyspepsia ; and telegrams and hurried night
journeys are mostly contluclive to gloom. When the sun
shines to-morrow morning, and you have had a strong cup
of coffee, you will be ready to laugh at your presentiments.
Nothing is likely to come between us."

"Nothing shall — nothing, 1 swear it ! " lie caught her
in his arms with a straining clasp, and kissed her passion-
ately for the lirst time. " Nothing in this lower woild shall
ever separate us. 1 have no life now ajjart from you. And
nothing, not death itself, shall po.-.tpone our mariiage. Jt
vas posti)oned once ; 1 wish it never had been. It shall
never be postponed again."

"CJo, go I " Kdith cried; "some one is coming — you will
be late."

There was not a minute to spare. He dashed down the
stairs, down the i>ortico steps, anil sjjrang into the carriage
beside his aunt. 'I'iie d'iver cracked his whip, the horses
started, the carriage rolli il nw.xy into the gloom and the nigiit.
Ldith Darrell stood at tiie win' low until the last sound of the

\vueels (

heil

away,

and

ir 10

ig aiter.

A St

range silence

seemed to have fallen upon tlie great house with the going
of its mistress. In the embrasure of the window, in the dim
blue starlight, the girl sat tlown to think. There was son)e
mystery, involving the murder of the late Lady Catheron, at
work here, she felt. (Irief for the loss of his wife might
have driven Sir Victor Catheron mad, but why u'lake
such a profound secret of it ? Why give out that he was
dead? Why allow his son to step into the tule before his
tiiiie ? Jf Juan Cadieron were the murderer, Juan Cath-

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282

AT POPLAR LODGE.

eron the outlaw and Pariah of his family, why screen him as
though he had been the idol anil treasure of all, and let the
dead go unavenged ? Why this strange terror of Lady
Helena's ? why her insufferable aversion to her nephew mar-
rying at all ?

Yes, there was something hidden, something on the cards
not yet brought to light ; and to th" death-bed of Sir Victor
Catheron the elder. Sir Victor Catheron the younger had
been summoned to hear the whole truth.

Would he tell it to her upon his return, she wondered.
Well, if he did not, she had no right to complain — she had
her secret from him. There was .iiadness in the family —
she shrank a little at the thought for the first time. Who
knew, whether latent and unsuspected, the taint might not
be in the blood and brains of the man to whom she was
about to bind herself for life? Who was to tell when it
might break forth, in what horrible shape it UMght show
itself? To be the widowed wife of a madman — what wealth
and title on earth could com|)ensate for that? She shivered
as she sat, i)arlly with the chill night air, partly with the
horror of the thought. In her youth, and health, and
beauty, her predecessor had been struck down, the bride of
another Sir Victor. So long she sat there that a clock up
in the lofty turret struck, heavily and solemnly, twelve.
The house was still as the grave — all shut up except this
room where she sat, all retired except her maid and the
butler. They yawned sleejjily, and waited for her to retire.
Chilled and white, the girl arose at last, took her night-light,
and went slowly up to bed.

" Is the game worth the candle after all?" she thought.
" Ah me ! what a miserable, vacill:iling creature I am.
\Vhate''er comes — the worst or the best
for it now but to go on to the end."

Meantime, through the warm, starry night, the train was
speeding on to London, bearing Sir Victor Catheron to the
turning point of his life. He and his aunt had their car-
riage all to themselves. Still in dead silence, still with that
pale, terrified look on her face. Lady Helena lay back in a
corner ai.iong the cushions. Once or twice her nephew
spoke to her — the voice in which she answered him hardly
Bounded like her own. He gave it up at last ; there was

there is nothing

AT POPLAR LODGE.

283

I was
the
Icar-
llhat
liii a

lidly

was

notliing for it but to wait and let the end come. He drevv
his cap over his eyes, lay back in the opposite seat, and
dozed and dreamed of lulith.

In the chill, gray ligiu of an overcast morning they
reached Easton station. A sky like brown pajjer lay over
the million roofs of the great liabylon ; a dull, dim fog, that
stifled you, filled the air. The fog and raw cold were more
like November than the last month of summer. Uluc and
shivering in the cliill light, Sir Victor buttoned up his light
overcoat, assisted his aunt into a eab, and gave the order —
" St. John's Wood. Drive for your life ! "

Lady Helena knew I'oplar Lodge, of course; once in the
vicinity there would be no trouble in finding it. Was he
still alive, the young man wondered. How strange seemed
the thought that he was about to see his father at last. It
was like seeing the dead return. Was he sane, and would
he know him when they met ?

The overcast morning threatened rain ; it began to fall
slowly and dismally as they drove along. The London
streets looked unutterably draggled and dreary, seen at this
early hour of the wet morning. The cab driver urged his
horse to its utmost sjjeed, and presently the broad green
exi)anse and tall trees of Regent's Park came in view.
L.idy Helena gave the man his direction, and in ten mi'uites
they stopped before the tall, closed iron gates of a solitary
villa. It was Poplar Lodge.

The baronet paid the man's fare and dismissed him. He
seized the gate-bell and rang a peal that seemed to tinkle
half a mile away. While he waited, holding an umbrella
over his aunt, he surveyed the premises.

It was a greuaome, prison-like place enough at this forlorn
hour. The stone walls were as high as his head, the view
between the lofty iron gates was completely obstructed by
trees. Of the house itself, except the chimney pots antl tlie
cmling smoke, not a glimpse was to be had. And for
three-and-twenty years Inez Catheron had buried herself
alive here with a madman and two old servants ! He shud-
dered internally as he thought of it — suiely, never devotion
ar atonement equalled hers.

They w.'^ited nearly ten minutes in the rain ; then a
shantbling footstep shambled down the path, and an old

284

AT POPLAR LODGE.

face peered out between the trelliscd iron work. " Who is
it ? " an old voice asked.

"It is I, Hooper. Sir Victor and I. For pity's sake
don't keep us standing here in the rain."

"My lady ! Praise be ! " A key turned in ihe lock, the
gntc swung wide, and an aged, white-haired man stood bow-
ing before Lady Helena.

"Are we in time?" was her first breathless question.
" Is your master still — "

"Still alive, my lady — praise and thanks be I Just in
time, and no more."

The dim old eyes of Hooper were fixed upon the young
man's face.

" Like his father," the old lips said, and the old head
shook ominously ; " more's the pity — like his father."

Lady Helena took her nephew's arm and hurried him,
under the dri|)ping trees, up the avenue to the house. Five
minutes brought them to it — a red brick villa, its shutters all
closed. The house-door stood ajar ; without ceremony her
ladyship entered. As she did so, another door suddenly
opened, and Inez Catheron came out.

The fixedly pale face, could by no possibility grow paler
— could by no |)Ohsil)ility cliange its marble calm. IJut the
deep, dusk eyes looked at the young man, it seenicd to him,
with an infinite compassion.

"We are in time?" his aunt spoke.

"You are in time, in one moment you will see him.
There is not a second to lose, and he knows it. He has
begged you to be brought to him the moment you arrive."

" He knows, then. Oh, thank God ! Reason has re-
turned at last."

" Reason has returned. Since yesterday he has been per-
fectly sane. His first words were that his son should be
sent for, that the truth should be told."

There was a half-suppressed sob. Lady Helena covered
her face with both hands. Her nephew looked at her, then
back to Miss Catheron. The white face kept its cahn,
the pitying eyes looked at him with a gentle compassion
no words can tell.

" Wait one moment," she said ; " I must tell him you are
here."

AT POPLAR LODGE.

285

re-

1 ihon
Ission
III are

She hurried upstairs and disappeared. Neither of the
two spoke. Lady Helena's face was still hidden. He
knew that she was crying — silent, miserable tears — tears
that were for him. He stood pale, composed, expectant —
waiting for the end.

"Come up," Miss Catheron's soft voice at the head of
the stairs called. Once more he gave his aunt his arm,
once more in silence they went in togetlier.

A breathless hush seemed to lie upon the house and all
within it. Not a sound was to be heard except the soft
rustle of the trees, the soft, ceaseless patter of the summer
rain. In that silence they entered the chamber where the
dying man lay. To the hour of his own death, that moment
and all he saw was photographed indelibly upon Victor
Catheron's mind. The dim gray light of the room, the
great white bed in the centre, and the awfully corpse-like
face of the man lying among the pillows, and gazing at him
with hollow, spectral eyes. His father — at last!

He advanced to the bedside as though under a spell.
The spectral blue eyes were fixed upon him steadfastly, the
pallid lips slowly opened and spoke.

" Like me — as k was — like me. Ethel's son."

" My father ! "

He was on his knees — a great awe upon him. It was
the first time in his young life he had ever been in the pres-
ence of death. And the dying was his father, and his father
whom he had never seen before.

" Like me," the faint lips repeated ; " my face, my height,
n)y name, my age. Like me. O God ! will his end be
like mine ?"

A thrill of horror ran through all his hearers. His son
strove to take his hand ; it was withdrawn. A frown
wrinkled the pallid brow.

"Wait," he said painfully; "don't touch me; don't
speak to me. VV^ait. Sit down ; don't kneel there. V 1
don't know what you are about to hear. Inez, tell him now."

She closed the door — still with that changeless face — ■
and locked it. It seemed as though, having suffered so
nuich, nothing had power to move her outwardly now.
She placed a chair for Lady Helena away from the bed —
Lady Helena, who had stood aloof and not spoken to the

286

AT POPLAR LODGE.

dying man yet. She placed a chair for Sir Victor, and

motioned him to seat liimsclf, tlicn drew another close to
the bedside, stooped, and kissed tlie dying man. Then in a
voice that never faltered, never failed, she began the story
she had to tell.

* * « * iK « «

Half an hour had passed. The story was told, and silence
reigned in the darkened room. Lady Helena still sat, with
averted face, in her distant seat, not moving, not looking '-'
up. The dying man still lay gazing weirdly upon his soir,
death every second drawing nearer and more near. Inc
sat holding his hand, her pale, sad face, her dark, pit}-ing
eyes turned also upon his son.

That son had risen. He stood up in the centre of the
room, with a white, stunned face. What was this he had
heard ? Was he asleei) and dreaming ? — was it all a horri-
ble, ghastly delusion ? — were they mocking him ? or — O
gracious God ! was it true i

" Let me out ! " They were his first words. " I can't
breathe — I am choking in this room I 1 shall go mad if you
keej> me here ! "

He staggered forward, as a drunken man or a blind man
miglit stagger, to the door. He unlocked it, opene<' it,
passed out into the passage, anci down the stairs. His aunt
followed him, her eyes streaming, her hands outstretched.

" Victor — my boy — my son — my darling ! Victor — for
the love of Heaven, speak to me ! "

But he only made a gesture for her to stand back, and
went on,

" Keep away from me ! " he said, in a stifled voice ;
"let me think! Leave me alone! — I can't speak to you
yet!"

He went forward out into the wet daylight His head
was bare; his overcoat was off; the rain beat unheetk-d
upon him. What was this — what was this he had heard ?

He paced up and down under the trees. The moments
passed. An hour went ; he neither knew nor cared. He was
stunned — stunned body and soul— too stunned even to think.
His mind was in chaos, an awuil horror had fallen upon him ;
he must wait before thought would come. Whilst he still
paced there, as a stricken animal might, a great cry reached

IIOIV THE WEDDING-DAY BEGAN.

287

him. Then a woman's flying figure came down the path.
It was his aunt.

" Come — come — come ! " slie cried ; " he is dying ! "
She drew him with her l)y main force into the house — up
the stairs — into tiie chamber of death. Ikit Death had been
there before them. A dead man lay upon the bed now,
rigid and white. A second cry arose — a cry of ahiiost more
than woman's woe. And with it Inez Calheron clasped the
dead man in lier arms, and covered iiis face with her raining
tears.

The son stood beside her like a figure of stone, gazing
down at that marble face. For the first time in his life be
was Sir Victor Catheron.

CHAPTER XX.

HOW THE WliDDING-DAV BEGAN.

ink.
lini ;
still
iied

|IX days later, Sir Victor Catheron and his aunt
came home. These six days had passed very
quietly, very pleasantly, to Edith. She was not in the
least lonely ; the same sense of relief in her lover's
absence was upon he as she had felt at Torcjuay. It seemed
to her she breathed freer when a few score miles lay between
them. She had her pet books and music, and she read and
played a great deal ; she had her long, solitary rambles
through the leafy lai^s and quiet roads, her long drives in
the little pony phaeton her future husband had given her.
Sometimes Lady Owendoline was her companion ; oftener
she was quite alone. She was not at all unhappy now ; siie
was just drifting passively on to the end. She had tliosen,
and was (juietly abiding by her choice ; that was all. She
caught herself thinking, sometimes, that since she felt sonuuh
hapi)ier and freer in Sir Victor's brief absences, how was she
going to endure all the years that must be passed at his side ?
No doubt she would grow used to him after a while, as we
grow used and reconciled to everything earthly.

One circumstance rather surprised her : during those six

288

HOiV THE WEDDING-DA Y BEGAN.

clays of absence she had received but one note from her

lover. She had coniitcd at least upon the post fetching her
one or two per day, as v.lien at Torquay, but tliis time he
wrote her but once. An odd, incoherent, luiriicd sort of
note, too— very brief and unsatisfactory, if she had had
much curiosity on the subject of what was going on at St.
Joiin's Wood. But she iuul not. Whether his fither hved
or died, so that he nevi:r interfered with her claim to die
title of Lady Cafheron in the future. Miss Darrell cared very
little. This hurried note briefly told her his father had died
on the day of their arrival ; that by his own request the bur-
ial place was to be Kensal Green, not the Catheron vaults ;
that the secret of his life and death was still to be kei)t in-
violate ; and that (in this part of the note he grew inipassion-
edly earnest) their marriage was not to be postponed. On
the third of October, as all had been arranged, it was still to
take place. No other note followed. If Miss Darrell had
been in love with her-future husband, this profound silence
must have wounded, surprised, grieved her. IJut she was
not in love. He must be very much occupied, she care-
lessly thought, since he could not find time to drop her a
daily bulletin — then dismissed the matter indifferently from
her mind.

Late in the evening of the sixth day Sir Victor and Lady
Helena refirned home.

Edith stood alone awaiting them, dressed in black silk,
and with soft white lace and ruby ornaments, and looking
very handsome.

Her lover rushed in and caught her in his arms with a sort
of rapturous, breathless delight.

*' My love ! my life ! " he cried, "every hour has been an
age since I said good-by ! "

She drew herself from him. Sir Victor, in the calm, cour-
teous character of a perfectly undemonstrative suitor she tol-
erated. Sir Victor in the role of Romeo was excessively
distasteful to her. She drew herself out of his arms coldly
and decisively.

" I am glad to see you back, Sir Victor." But the ster-
eotyped words of welcome fell cliill on his ear. " You are
not looking well. I am afraid you have been very much
harassed since you left."

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY BEGAN.

289

)ur-
Itol-

|ldly

tter-

are

Lich

Surely he was not looking well. In those six days he had
grown more than six years older. He had lost llesh and
color ; there was an indescribable something in his face and
expression she had ni'vcr seen before. More \\\(\ iKijjpened
than the dealii of the Luiicr lie had never known, to alter iii;n
like this. She looked at liin) curiously. Would he tell her?

He did not. Not looking at her, with his eyes fixed mood-
ily on the wood-fire si^oldering on the hearth, he repeated
what his letter had already said. His father had died the
morning of their arrival in London ; ihey had buried him
quietly and unobtrusively, by his own request, in Kensal
Green Cemetery ; no one was to be told, and the wedding
w„.3 not to be postponed. All this he said as a man repeats
a lesson learned by rote— his eyes never once meeting hers.

She stood silently by, looking at him, listening to him.

Something lay behind, then, that she was not to know.
Well, it made them quits — she didn't care for the Catheron
family secrets ; if it were someUiing unpleasant, as well not
know. If Sir Victor told her, very well ; if not, very well
also. She cared little either way.

" Miss Catheron remains at St. John's Wood, I suppose?"
she inquired indifferently, feeling in the pause that ensued
she must say something.

"She remains — yes — with her two old servants for the
present. I believe her ultimate intention is to go abroad."

"She will not return to Cheshire?"

A spasm of pain crossed his face ; there was a momentary
contraction of the muscles of his mouth,

" She will not return to Cheshire. All her life she will lie
under the ban of murder."

"And she is innocent?"

He looked up at her — a strange, hunted, tortured sort of
look.

"She is innocent."

As he made the answer he turned abruptly away, Edith
asked no more questions. The secret of hi.^ mother's mur-
der was a secret she was not to hear.

Lady Helena did not make her appearance at all in the

lower rooms, that night. Next day at luncheon she came

down, and Edith was honestly shocked at the change in her.

From a hale, nandsonie, stately, upright, elderly lady, she

■

290

HOiy THE WEDDING-DAY BEGAN.

had become a foeble old woman in the past week. Her
step had grown uncertain ; her luuids trembled ; deep lines of
trouble were S':ored on her pale fiice ; her eyes rarely wan-
dered long from Iier nephew's face. Her voice took a softer,
tenderer tone when she addressed him — she had always
loved him dearly, but never so dearly, it would seem, as
now.

The change in Sir Victor was more in manner than in look.
,\ feverish impatience and restlessness appeared to have
taken possession of him ; he wandered about the house and
in and out like some restless gliost. From Powyss Place to
Catheron Royals, from Catheron Royals to Powyss Place,
he vibrated like a hunian pendtihmi. It set Kdith's nerves
on edge only to watch him. At other periods a moody
gloom would fall upon him, then for hours he sat brooding,
brooding, with knitted brows and downcast eyes, hjst in his
own dark, secret thoughts. Anon his si)irits would rise to
fever height, and he would laugh and talk in a wild, excited
way that fixed Kdith's dark, wondering eyes solemnly on
his Hushed face.

With it all, in whatever mood, he could not bear her out
of his sight. He haunted her like her shadow, until it grew
almost intolerable. He sat for hours, while she worked, or
played, or read, not speaking, not stirring — his eyes fixed
upon her, and she, who had never been nervous, grew hor-
ribly nervous under this ordeal. Was Sir Victor losing his
wits? Now that his insane father was dead and buried, did
he feel it incumbent upon him to keep up the family reputa-
tion and follow in that father's footsteps?

And the days wore on, and the first of October came

The change in the young baronet grew more marked v, ith
each day. He lost the power to eat or sleep ; far into the
night he walked his room, as though some horrible Nemesis
were pursuing him. He failed to the very shadow of him-
self, yet when Lady Helena, in fear and trembling, laid her
hand upon his arm, and falteringly begged him to see a jMiy-
sician, he shook her off with an angry irritability quite for-
eign to his usual gentle temper, and bade her, imperiously,
to leave him alone.

The second of October came ; to-morrow would be the
wedding-day.

aOW THE WEDDIrTG-DA Y BEGAN.

291

The old feeling of vagueness and unreality Had conic back
to Edith. Something would hajjpen — that was the burden
of her thoughts. To-morrow was the wecUhng-day, but the
wedding would never take place. She walked through the
glowing, beautiful roonis of Cathcron Royals, through the
grounds and gardens, bright with gay autumnal flowers — a
home luxurious enough for a young duchess — and still that
feeling of luircality was there. A grand place, a noble home,
but she would never reign its mistress. The cottage at Car-
narvon had been weeks ago engaged, Sir Victor's confiden-
tial servant already established there, awaiting the coming of
the bridal pair ; but she felt she would never see it. Up-
stairs, in all their snowy, shining splendor, the bridal robe
and veil lay ; when to-morrow came would she ever put
them on, she vaguely wondered. And still she was not un-
happy. A sort of apathy had taken possession of her ; she
drifted on calmly to the end. What was written, was wi itten ;
what would be, would be. Time enough to wake from her
dream when the time of waking came.

The hour fixed for the ceremony was eleven o'clock ; the
place, Chesholm church. The bridemaids would arrive at
ten — the Earl of Wroatmore, the father of the Ladies Gwen-
doline and Laura Drexel, was to give the bride away. They
would return to Powyss Place and eat the sunii)tuous break-
fast — then off and away to the pretty town in North Wales.
That was the })rogrannne. " When to-morrow comes,"
Edith thinks, as she wanders about the house, " will it be
carried out?"

It chanced that on the bridal eve Miss Darrell was at-
tacked with headache and sore throat. She had lingered
heedlessly out in the rain the day beftjre (one of her old bad
habits to escape from Sir Victor, if the truth must be told),
and paid the natural penalty next day. It would never do
to be hoarse as a raven on one's wedding-day, so Lady
Helena insisted on a wet napkin round the throat, a warm
bath, gruel, and early bed. Willingly enough the girl obeyed
— too glad to have this last evening alone. Innnediately
after dinner she bade her adieux to her bridegroom-elect, and
went away to her own rooms.

The short October day had long ago darkened down, the
curtains were drawn, a fire burned, the candles were lit.

292

HOIV THE WEDDING-DA Y BEGAN.

ohc took the- bath, the gruel, the wet napkin, and let herself
be tucked uj) in bed.

"Romantic," she thought, with a laugh at herself, "for a
bride."

I<ady Helena — was it a i)resentimcnt of what was so near ?
— lingered by her side long that evening, ifnd, at parting, for
the fust time took her in her arms and kiss(.;d her,

"Good night, my child," the tender, tremulous tones said.
" I pray you make him happy — I pray that he may nsake
you."

She lingered yet a little longer — her heart seemed full, her
eyes were shining through tears. Words seemed trembling
on her lips — words she had not courage to say. Vox l^iith,
surprised and moved, she put her arms round the kind old
neck, and laid her face for a moment on the genial old
bosom.

" I will try," she whispered, " dear, kind T-ady Helena —
indeed 1 will try to be a good and flvithful wife."

One last kiss, tlien they parted ; the door closed behind
her, and Edith was alone.

She lay as usual, high up among the billowy pillows, her
hands clasped above her head, .her dark, dreanung eyes
fixed on the fire. She looked as though she were thinking,
but she was not. Her mind was simply a blank. She was
vaguely and idly watching the llickcring shadows cast by the
firelight on the wall, the gleam of yellow moonlight shimmer-
ing through the curtains ; listening to the faint sighing of the
night wind, the ticking of the little fanciful clock, to the
pretty plaintive tunes it played before it struck the hours.
Nine, ten, eleven — she heard them all, as she lay there, broad
awake, neitiier thinking nor stirring.

Her maid came in for her last orders ; she bade the girl
good-night, and told her to go to bed — she wanted nothing
more. Then again she was alone. JUit now a restlessness,
as little to be understood as her former listless ajjathy, took
hold of her. .She could not lie there and sleej) ; she could
not lie there awake. As the clock chimed twelve, she
started up in bed in a sudden panic. Twelve ! A new day
— her wedding-day I

Impossible to lie there quiet any longer. She sprang up,
locked her door, and began, in her long, white night-robe,

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY BEGAN.

293

pacing lip and clown. So another hour passed. One I
One from the little Swiss musical clock ; one, solemn and
sombre, from the big clock up in the tower. Then she
stopped — stoi)ped in thou^'ht ; then she walked to one of
her boxes, and took out a wrilingcase, always kept locked.
With a key attacl ■ ,' to her neck she opened it, seated her-
self before a table, i 1 drew forth a package of letters and,
a picture. The picUire was the handsome i)hotographed
face of Charley Siuartj the letters the letters he had written/
her to San(ly"i)int.

She begin with the first, and read it slowly through — then
the next, and so on to the end. There were over a doi,en
in all, and tolerably lengtiiy. As she finished and Iblded up
the last, she took up the picture and gazed at it long and
earneslly, with a strangely dark, intent look. How Innd-
some he wis ! how well ho photographed ! that was her
thought. She had seen him so often, with just this cxpr *s-
sion, looking at her. His pleasant, lazy, half-sarcastic voice
was in her ear, saying something coolly impertinent — his
gray, lulf-smiling, half-cynical eyes were looking life-like up
at her. What was he doing now? Sleeping cahnly, no
doubt — she forgotten as she deserved to be. When to-
morrow came, would he by any chance remember it was her
wedding-day, and would the remembrance cost him a pang?
She laughed at herself for the sentimental question — Charley
Stuart feel a pang for her, or any other earthly woman ? No,
he was immerse ' in business, no doubt, head and ears, soul
and body ; absorbed in dollars and cents, and retrieving in
some way his fallen fortunes — Edith Darrell dismissed con-
temptuously, as a cold-blooded jilt, from his memory. Well,
so she had willed it — she had no right to complain. With,
a stt.-ady hand she tied up the letters and replaced them in
the desk. The picture followed. " Good-by, Charley," she
said, with a sort of smile. She could no more have de-
stroyed those souvenirs of the past than she could have cut
o(f her right hand. Wrong, you say, and shake your head.
Wrong, of course ; but when has Edith Darrell done right —
when have 1 ])ictured her to you in any very favorable light ?
As long as she lived, and was Sir Victor's wife, she would
never look at them again, but destroy them — no, she could
not do that.

294

ffOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED.

Six ! As she closed and locked the writing-case the hour
struck ; a broad, bright sunburst flashed in and filled the
room with yellow glory. The sun had risen cloudless and
brilliant at last on her wedding-day.

CHAPTER XX r.

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED.

I HE replaced the desk in the trunk, and, walking to
the window, drew back the curtain and looked out.
Over emerald lawn and coppice, tall trees and bril-
liant flowers, the October sun shone gloriously. No
fairer day ever smiled upon old earth. She stood for an in-
stant — then turned slowly away and walked over to a mirror
— had her night's vigil nnde her lock wan and sallow? she
wondered. No — she looked much as usual — a thought
paler, perhaps, but it is ai)propriate for brides to look pale.
No use thinking of a morning nap under the circumstances
— she would sit down by the window and wait for them to
come. She could hear the household astir already — she
could even see Sir Victor, away in the distance, taking his
morning walk. How singularly haggard and wan he looked,
like anything you please except a happy bridegroom about
to marry the lady he loves above all on earth. She watched
him with a gravely thoughtful face, until at last he disap-
peared from view among the trees.

Seven o'clock ! ICight o'clock ! Edith's respite was ended,
her solitude invaded at last. There was a tap at the door,
and Lady Helena, followed by Miss Darrell's maid, entered.

Had they all kept vigil ? Her ladyship, in the pitiless,
searching glare of the morning sun, certainly looked much
more like it than the quiet bride. She was pale, nervous,
agitated beyond anything the girl had ever seen.

" How had Edith slept ? How was her cold ? How did
she feel ? "

"Never better," Miss Darrell responded smilingly.
" The sore throat and headache arc quite gone, and I am

BBaan

HOW THE WEDDING-DA Y ENDED.

295

. \

ready to do justice to the nice breakfast which I see Emily
has brought."

She sat down to it — chocolate, rolls, an omelette, and a
savory little bird, with excellent and unromantic appetite.
Then the service was cleared away, and the real business of
the day began. She was under the hands of her maid, deep
in the mysteries of tiie wedding-toilette.

At ten cauie the bridemaids, a brilliant bevy, in sweep-
ing trains, walking visions of silk, tulle, laces, perfume, and
flowers. At half-past ten Miss Darrell, "queen rose of tlie
rose-bud garden of girls," stood in their midst, ready for the
altar.

She looked beautiful. It is an understood thing that all
brides, whatever their appearance on the ordinary occasions
of life, look beautiful on this day of days. Kdilh Darrell
had never looked so stately, so queenly, so handsome in her
life. Just a thouglit pale, but not unbecomingly so — the
rich, glistening white silk sweeping far l)chind her, set off
well the fme figure, which it fitted without flaw. The dark,
proud face shone like a star from the misty folds of the
bridal veil ; the legendary orange blossoms crowned the
rich, dark hair ; on neck, ears, and arms glimmered a price-
less parure of pearls, the gift, like the dress and veil, of
Lady Helena. A fragrant bouquet of s|)Otless white had
been sent up by the bridegroom. At a quarter of eleven
she entered the carriage and was driven away to the church.

As she lay back, and looked dreamily out, the mellow
October sunshine lighting the scene, the joy-bells clashing,
the listles"- "'>athy of the i)ast few days took her again. She
took note of the trifles about her — her mind rejected all
else. How yellow were the fields of stubble, how pictur-
esque, gilded in the sunshine, the village of Chcsholm
looked. How glowing and rosy tlie faces of the ])eople who
flocked out in t!. v..:- holiday best to gaze at tlie bridal pageant.
Was it health and hai)piness, or soaj) and water only ? won-
dered the bride. These were her wandering thoughts — these
alone.

They reached the little chiuch. All tbe way from the
carriage to the stone porch the charity children strewed her
path with flowers, and sung (out of tune) a bridal anthem.
She smiled down upon their vulgar, admiring little faces as

296

HOW THE WEDDING-DA V ENDED.

she went by on the Earl of VVroaiinore's arm. The church
was filled. Was seeing her married worth al! tliis trouble to
these good people, she wondered, as slie walked up the
aisle, still on the arm of the Right Honorable the £)arl of
Wroatmore.

There was, of course, a large tlirong of invited guests.
Lady Helena was there in jjale, llowing silks, the bride-
maids, a billowy crowd of wliite-plumaged birds, and the
bridegroom, with a face whiter than the white waistcoat,
standing waiting for his bride. And there, in surplice, book
in hand, stood the rector of Chesholm and his curate, ready
to tie the untieable knot.

A low, hushed murmur ran through tlic cliurch at sight of
the silver-shining figure of the bride. How handsome, how
stately, how perfectly self-possessed and calm. Truly, if
beauty and high-bred repose of manner be any palliation of
low birth and obscurity, this American young lady had it.

An instant passes — she is kneeling by Sir Victor Cathe-
ron's side. " Who giveth this woman to be married to this
man ? " say the urbane tones of the rector of Chesholm, and
the Right Honorable the Earl of Wroatmore comes forward
•on two rickety old legs and gives her. "If any one here
present knows any just cause or impediment why this man
should not be married to this woman, I charge him," etc., but
no one knows. The solemn words go on. " Wilt thou take
Edith Darrell to be thy wedded wife ? " "I will," Sir Vic-
tor Catheron responds, but in broken, inarticulate tones. It
is the bride's turn. "I will!" the clear,*firm voice is per-
fectly audible in the almost painfully intense stillness. The
ring slips over her finger ; she watches it curiously. " I pro-
nounce ye man and wife," says the rector. " What God
hath joined together, let no man put asunder."

It is all over ; she is I^ady Catheron, and nothing has
hapi)ened.

They enter the vestry, they sign their names in the regis-
ter, their friends flock round to shake hands, and kiss, and
congratulate. And Edith smiles through it all, and Sir Vic-
tor keeps that white, haggard, unsmiling face. It is a curi-
ous fancy, but, if it were not so utterly absurd, Edith would
think he looked at her as though he were afraid of her.

On her husband's arm — her husband's I — she walks down

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED.

297

■

the aisle and out of the church. Tliey enter the carriages,
and are driven liack to Powyss Place. They sit down to
breakfast — every fcxcc looks happy and bright, except the
face that should look happiest and brightest of all — the
bridegroom's. He seems to mike a great effort to be cheer-
ful and at ease ; it is a failure. He tries to return thanks
in a speech ; it is a greater failure still. An awkward silence
and constraint creep over tiie' party. What is the matter
with Sir Victor? All eyes are fixed curiously upon him.
Surely not repenting his mesalliance so speedily. It is a
r(;lief to everybody wlien the breakfast ends, and the bride
goes upstairs to change her dress.

The young baronet has engagc^'i a special train to take
them into Wales. The new-made T-ady Catheron changes
her shining bridal robes for a charming travelling costume of
l)alest gray, with a gossamer veil of the same shade. She
looks as handsome in it as in the other, and her cool calm
is a marvel to all beholders. She shakes hands gayly with
their friends and guests ; a smile is on her face as she takes

Old
ladies wave theif
handkerchiefs, gentlemen call good-by. She leans forward
and waves her gray-gloved hand in return — the cloudless
smile on the beautiful face to the last. So they see her —
as not one of all wlio stand there will ever see her on earth

her bridegroom's arm and enters the waiting carriage,
shoes in a shower are Hung after them ;

The house, the wedding-guests are out of sight — the car-
liage rolls through the gates of Powyss Place. She falls
back and looks out. Tiiey are ilying along Chesholm high
street; the tenantry shout lustily; the joy-bells still clash
forth. Now they are at the station — ten minutes nnie, and,
as fast as steam can convey them, they are whirling into
Wales. And all this time bride and bridegroom have not
exchanged a word !

That curious Hincy of Editii's has come back — surely Sir
Victor is afraid of her. How strangely he looks — how
strangely he keeps aloof — how strangely he is silent — how
fixedly he gazes out of the railway carriage window — any-
where but at her ! Has his brain turned ? she wonders ;
is Sir Victor going mad ?

She makes no attempt to arouse him ; let him be silent
13*

298

JlOfV THE WEDDING-DA V ENDED.

if he will ; she rather prefers it, indeed. She sits and looks
sociably out of the opposite window at tlie bright, flying
landscape, steeped in the amber glitter of the October
afternoon sun.

She looks across at the man she has married — did ever
mortal man before on his wedding-day wear such a stony
face as that ? And yet he has married her for love — for love
alone. Was ever another bridal journey performed like this ^
— in profound gravity and silence on both sides ? she won-
ders, half-inclined to laugh. She looks down at her shining
wedding-ring — is it a circlet that means nothing ? How is
her life to go on after tiiis grewsome wedding-day?

They reach Wales. Tlie sun is setting redly over
mountains and sea. The carriage is awaiting them ; she
enters, and lies back wearily with closed eyes. She is
dead tired and depressed ; she is beginning to feel the want
of last night's sleep, and in a weary way is glad when the
Carnarvon cottage is reached. Sir Victor's man, my lady's
maid, and two Welch servants came forth to meet them ;
and on Sir Victor's arm she enters the house.

She goes at once to her dressing room, to rest, to bathe
her f^xce, and remove her wraps, performing those duties
herself, and dismissing her maid.. As she and Sir Victor
separate, he mutters some half-incoherent words— he will
take a walk and smoke a cigar before dinner, while she is
resting. He is gone even while he says it, and she is
alone.

She removes her gloves, hat, and jacket, bathes her face,
and descends to the little cottage drawing-room. It is quite
deserted — sleepy silence everywhere reigns. Sh- .irows
herself into an easy-chair beside the open window, and looks
listlessly out. Ruby, and purple, and golden, the sun is
setting in a radiant sky — the yellow sea creeps up on silver
sands — old Carnarvon Castle gleams and glows in the
rainbow light like a fairy palace. It is unutterably beauti-
ful, unutterably drowsy and dull. And, while she thinks it,
her heavy eyelids sway and fall, htr head sinks back, and
Edith falls fi.ist asleep.

Fast asleep ; and a mile away. Sir Victor Catheron paces
up and down a strip of tawny sand, the sea lapping softly at
his feet, the birds singing in the branches, not a human soul

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED.

299

far or near. He is not smoking that before-dinner cigar —
he is striding up and down more like an escaped Bedlamite
than anything else. His hat is drawn over his eyes, his
brows are knit, his lijjs set tigiit, his hands are clenclTed.
Presently he pauses, leans against a tree, and looks, with
eyes full of some haggard, horrible despair, out over the red
light on sea and sky. And, as lie looks, he falls down sud-
denly, as though some inspiration had seized him, upon his
knees, and lifts his clasped hands to that radiant sk)". A
prayer, that seems fren/icd in its agonized intensity, bursts
from his lips — the sleeping sea, tiie twittering birds, the
rustling leaves, and He v.'ho has made them, alone are to
hear. Then he falls forward on his face, and lies like a
stone.

Is he mad? Surely no sane man ever acted, or looked,
or spoke like this. He lies so — [)rostrate, motionless — for*
upward of an hour, then slowly and heavily he rises. His
face is calmer now ; it is the face of a man who has fought
some desperate hght, ana gained some desperate victory —
one of those victories more cruel than death.

He turns and goes hence. He crashes through the tall,
dewy grass, his white fiice set in a look of iron resolution.
He is ghastly beyond all telling; dead and in his coffin he
will hardly look more death like. He reache;; the cottage,
and tlie hist sight upon which his eyes rest is his bride,
peacefully asleep in the chair by the still open window. She
looks lovely in her slumber, and peaceful as a litde child —
no very terrible sight surely. lUit as his eyes fall upon her,
he recoils in some great horror, as a man may who has re-
ceived a blinding blow.

" Asleep ! " his pale lips whisper ; " asleep — as she was ! "

He stands spell-bound for a moment — then he breaks
away headlong. He makes his way to the dining-room.
The table, all bright with damask, silver, crystal, and cut
flowers, stands spread for dinner. He takes from his
pocket a note-book and pencil, and, still standing, writes
rapidly down one page. Without reading, he folds and
seals the sheet, and slowly and with dragging steps returns
to the room where Edith sleeps. On the threshold he lin-
gers — he seems afraid — afraid to approach. But he does
approach at last. He places the note he has written on a

3CO

HOW THE WEDDING-DAY ENDED.

table, he draws near his sleeping bride, lie kneels down
and kisses her hands, her dress, her hair. His haggard
eyes burn on her face, their mesmeric light disturbs lier.
She murmurs and itiovcs restlessly in lier sleep. In an in-
stant he is on his feet ; in another, he is out of the room and
the house; in another, the deei)ening twilight takes hitii, and
he is gone.

A train an hour later passes through Carnarvon on its
way to London. One passenger alone awaits it at the
station — one passenger who enters an emi)ty first-clasr. com-
partment and disappears. Then it goes shrieking on its way,
bearing witli it to London the bridegroom, Sir Victor Cath-
eron.

CHAPTER XXn.

THE DAY AFTER.

i|HE last red ray of the sunsrt had faded, the silver
stars were out, tlie yellow moon shone serenely
over land and sea, before Kdith awoke — awoke
with a suiile on her lips from a Jream o^ Chirley.

"Do go away — don't tease," she was munnunng half
smilingly, half petulantly — the words she had spoken lo ham
a hundred times. She was back in Sandypoint, he besiiifii
her, living over the old days, gone forever. She awoke lo
see the tawny moonshine streauiing in, to iiear the soft
whispers of the night wind, the soft, sleepy lap of the sea oa
the sands, and to realize, with a thrill and a shock, she was
Sir Victor Cathcron's wife.

His wife ! This was her wedding-day. Even in dreams
Charley must come to her no more.

She rose up, slightly chilled from sleeping in the evening
air, and shivering, partly with that chill, partly with a fet:!-
ing she did not care to defme. The drearn of her life's am-
bition was realized in its fullest ; she, Edith Darrell, was
"my lady — a baronet's bride ;" the vista of her life spread
before her in glittering splendor ; and yet her heart lay like

THE DA Y AFTER.

301

lead in her bosom. In this hour she was afraid of herself,
afraid of him.

But where was he ?

She looked round the room, half in shadow, half in bril-
liant moonlight. No, he was not there. Had he returned
from his stroll ? She took out her watch, A quarter of
seven — of course he had. He was awaiting her, no doubt,
impatient for his dinner, in the dining-room. She would
make some change in her dress and join him there. She
went up to her dressing room and lit the candles herself.
Slie smoothed her ruffled hair, added a ribbon and a jewel
or two, and then went back to the drawing-room. All un-
noticed, in th(? shad> vs, the letter for her lay on the table.
She sat down and rang the bell. Jamison, the confidential
servant, appeared.

"Has Sir Victor returned from his walk, Jamison? Is
he in the dining-room ? "

ivii. Jamison's well-bred eyes looked in astonishment at
the speaker, then around the room. Mr. Jamison's wooden
countenance looked stolid surprise.

"Sir Victor, my lady — I — thought Sir Victor was here,
my lady."

" Sir Victor has not been here since half an hour after
our arrival. He went out for a walk, as you very well
know. I ask you if ho has returned."

" Sir Victor returned more than an hour ago, my lady.
I saw him myself. You were aslee[), my lady, by ihe win-
dow as he came up. He went into the dining-room and
wrote a letter ; I saw it in his hand. And then, my lady,
he came in here."

The man paused, and again peered around the room.
Edith listened in growing surprise.

" I thought he was here still, my lady, so did Hemily, or
we would have taken the liberty of hentering and closing
the window. We was sure he was here. He suttingly
hentered with the letter in his 'and. It's very hodd."

Again there was a pause. Again Mr Jamison —

"If your ladyship will hallow, I will light the candles here,
and then go and hascertain wiiether Sir Victor is in hany of
the bother rooms."

She made an affirmative gesture, and returned to the

302

THE DA Y AFTER.

window. The man lit the candles ; a second after an ex-
clamation startled her.

"The note, my lady ! Here it is."

It lay upon the table ; she walked over and took it iip.
In Sir Victor's hand, and addressed to herself! What did
this mean ? She stood looking at it a moment — then she
turned to Jamison.

" That will do," she said brieily ; *' if I want you I will
ring."

The man bowed and left the room. She stood still, hold-
ing the unopened note, strangely reluctant to break the
seal. What did Sir Victor mean by absenting himself and
writing her a note? With an effort she aroused herself at
last, and tore it open. It was strangely scrdwled, the writ-
ing half illegible ; slowly and with difficulty she made it out.
This was what she read :

y •

" For Heaven's sake, pity me — for Heaven's sake, par-
don me. We shall never meet more ! O beloved !
believe that I love you, believe that I never loved you half
so well as now, when I leave you forever. If I loved you
less I might dare to stay. But I dare not. I can tell you
no more — a promise to the living and the dead binds me.
A dreadful secret of sin, and shame, and guilt, is involved.
Go to Lady Helena. My love— my bride — my heart is
breaking as I write the word — the cruel word that must be
written — farewell. I have but one prayer in my heart — but
one wish in my soul — that my life may be a short one.

" Victor."

No more. So, in short, incoherent, disconnected sen-
tences, this incomprehensible letter began and ended. She
stood stunned, bewildered, dazed, holding it, gazing at it
blankly. Was she asleep ? Was this a dream ? Was Sir
Victor playing some ghastly kind of practical joke, or —
had Sir Victor all of a sudden gone wholly and entirely
mad? I

She shrank from the last thought. — but the dim possibility
that it might be true calmed her. She sat down, hardly
knowing what she was doing, and read the letter again.
Yes, surely, surely she was right. Sir Victor had gone mad I

THE DAY AFTER.

303

Madness was hereditary in his family — had it come to him
on his wedding-day of all days ? On his wedding-day the
last renimant of reason had deserted him, and he had de-
serted her. She sat quite still, — the light of the candles fall-
ing ii])on her, upon the fatal letter,— tr)ing to steady herself,
trying to think. She read it again and again ; surely no
sane man ever wrote such a lettor as this. "A dreadful
secret of sin, and shame, and guilt, is involved." Did that •
dreadful secret mean the secret of his niotiier's death ? I'.ut
why should that cause him to leave her ? She knew all
about it already. What frightful revelation had been made
to him on his father's dying bed ? He had never been the
same man since. An idea (lashed across her brain — dread-
ful and unnatural enough in all conscience — but why should
even that, supposing her suspicions to be true, cause him to
leave her? " If I loved y ui less, I might dare to stay with
you." What rhodomontade was this? Men prove their
love by living with the >vomen they niarr)', not by deserting
them. Oh, he was mad, mad, mad — not a doubt of that
could remain.

Her thoughts went back over the past two weeks — to the
change in him ever since his father's death. There had been
times when he had visibly shrunk from her, when he had
seemed absolutely afraid of her. Slie had doubted it then —
she knew it now. It was the dawning of his insanity — the
family taint breaking forth. His father's delusion had been
to shut hiriiself up, to give out that he was dead — the son's
was to desert his bride on their bridal day forever. For-
ever I the letter said so. Again, and still again, she read it.
Very strangely she looked, the waxlights flickering on her
pale, rigid young fixce, her compressed lips set in ouv, 'i^ht
line — on her soft pearl gray silk, with its point lace collar
and diamond star. A bride, alone, forsaken, on her wed-
ding-day !

How strange it all was ! The thought came to her : was
it retributive justice pursuing her for having bartered herself
for rank ? And yet girls as good and better than she, did it
every day. She rose and began jiacing up and down the
lloor. What should she do ? "Go back to Lady Helena,"
said the letter. Go back ! cast off, deserted — she, who only
at noon to-day had left them a radiant bride ! As she

304

THE DA Y AFTER.

thought it, a feeling of absolute hatred for the man she had
married came into her heart. Sane or mad she would hate
him now, all the rest of her life.

The hours were creeping on — two had j)asscd since she
had sent Jamison out of her room. What were they think-
ing of her, those keen-sighted, gossiping servants? what
would they think and say when she told them '■' ■ Victor
would return no more? — that she was going bacK to Che-
shire alone to-moriow morning? There was no help for it.
There was resolute blood in the girl's veins ; she walked
over to the bell, rang it, her head erect, her eyes bright,
only her lips still set in that tight, unpleasant line.

Mr. Jamison, grave and respectful, his burning curiosity
diplomatically hidden, answered.

"Jamison," the young lady said, her tones clear and calm,
looking the man straight in the eyes, "your master has been
obliged to leave Wales suddenly, and will not return. Yoii
may spend the night in i)acking up. To-morrow, by the
earliest train, I return to Cheshire."

" Yes, me lady."

Not a muscle of Jamison's face moved — not a vestige of
surprise or any other earthly emotion was visible in his
smooth-shaven face. If she had said, " To-morrow by the
earliest train I shall take a trip to the moon," Mr. Jamison
would have bowed and said, "Yes, me lady," in precisely the
same tone.

" Is dinner served?" his young mistress asked, looking at
her watch. "If not, serve immediately. I shall be there
in two minutes."

She kept her word. With that light in her eyes, that pale
composure on her face, she swept into the dining-room, and
took her place at the glittering table. Jamison waited upon
her — watching her, of course, as a cat a mouse.

"She took her soup and fish, her slice of pheasant and
her jelly, I do assure you, just the same as hever, Hemily,"
he related afterward to ihe lady's maid ; " but her face was
whiter than the tablecloth, and her eyes had a look in them
I'd rather master would face than me. She's one of the 'igh-
stepping sort, depend upon it, and quiet as she takes it now,
there'll be the deuce and all to pay one of these days."

She rose at last and went back to the drawing-room.

M...

THG DA Y AFTER.

30s

How brilliantly the moon shone on the sleeping sea ; how
fantastic tlie town anil castle looked in the loinantic lii^lit.
She stood hy the window lung, looking out. No thought of
synipatliy for him — of trying to iuid him out on the morrow
— entered her mind, lie had deserted her; sane or mad,
that was enough for the present to know.

She took out a [jurse, that f.iiries and gold dollars alone
MiiglU have entered, and looked at its contents. By sheer
good luck and chance, it contained three or four sovereigns
— more than sufficient for the return journey. To-morrow
morning she would go back to Powyss Place and tell Lady
Helena ; after that —

Her thoughts broke — to-night she could not look beyond.
The ntisery, the shame, the horrible scandal, the lonehness,
the whole wreck of life that v/as to come, she could not feel
as yet. She knew what she would do to-morrow — after that
all was a blank.

What a lovely night it was ! What were they doing at
home? What was Trixy about just now? What was —
Charley? She had made up her mind never to think of
Charley more. His face rose vividly before her now in the
moonrays, pale, stern, contemptuous. " Oh I " she pas-
sionately thought, "how he must scorn, how he must des-
pise me!" "Whatever comes," he had said to her that
rainy morning at Sandypoint ; " whatever the new life brings,
you are never to blame me I" How long ago that rainy
morning seemed now. What an eternity since that other
night in the snow. If she had only died beside him that
night — the clear, white, painless death — unspotted from the
world I If she had only died that night !

Her arms were on the wiudow-sill — her face fell upon
them. One hour, two, three passed ; she never moved.
She was not crying, she was suffering, but dully, with a
numb, torpid, miserable sense of pain. All her life since
that rainy spring day, when Charley Stuart had come to
Sandypoint with his mother's letter, returned to her. She
' had striven and cocjuctted to bring about the result she
wanted— it had seemed such a dazzling thing to be a baro-
net's wife, with an income that would llow in to her like a
ceaseless golden river. She had jilted the man slie loved in
cold blood, and accepted the man to whom her heart was

3o6

THE DA Y AFTER.

If you only saw yourself!
A glass of wine from the

I have sat up too long in

as stone. In the hour when fortune was deserting hei" best
friends, she had deserted them too. And the end was — this.

It was close upon twelve wlien Kmily, the maid, sleepy
and cross, tapped at the door. She had to tap many times
before her mistress heard her. When she did iiear and open,
and the girl came in, she recoiled from the ghastly pallor of
her lady's face.

" I shall not want you to-night," Julith said briefly.
" You may go to bed."

" But you are ill, my lady.
Can't I fetch you something?
dining-room ?"

" Nothing, Emily, thank you.
the night air — that is all. Go to bed ; I shall do very well.

The girl went, full of pity and wonder, shaking her head.
" Only this morning I thought what a fine thing it was to be
the bride of so fine a gentleman, and look at her now."

Left alone, she closed and fastened the window herself
An unsupportable sense of pain and wearine. s ojipressed
her. She did not undress. She loosened her clothes,
wrapped a heavy, soft railway rug about her, and lay down
upon the bed. In five minutes the tired eyes had closed.
There is no surer narcotic than trouble sometimes ; hers
•was forgotten — deeply, dreamlessly, she slei)t until morning.

The sun was high in the sky when she awoke. .She raised
herself upon her elbow and looked around, bewildered. In
a second yesterday flashed upon her, and her journey of to-
day. She arose, made her morning toilet, and rang for her
maid. Breakfast was waiting — it was past nine o'clock, and
she could leave Carnarvon in three quarters of an hour.
She made an effort to eat and drink ; but it was little better
than an effort. She gave Jamison his parting instructions —
he was to remain here untd to-morrow ; by that time orders
would come from Powyss Place. Then, in the dress she
had travelled in yesterday, she entered the railway carriage
and started upon her return journey.

How speedily her honeymoon had ended ! A curious
sort of smile passed over her face as she thought it. She
had not anticipated Elysium — quite — but she certainly had
anticipated something very different from this.

She kept back thought resolutely — she would not think —

THE DAY AFTER.

307

•py

she sat and looked at the genial October landscape flitting
by. Sooner or later the tloodgates would opc;n, but not yet.

It was about three in the afternoon wlien the tly from the
railway drove up to the stately portico entrance of Powyss
Place. She paid and dismissed the man, and knocked un-
thinkingly. The servant wiio opened the door fell back,
staring at her, as though she had been a ghost.

•' Js Lady Helena at home ? "

Lady Helena was at home — and still the man stari-d
blankly as lie made tiie reply. She swept past him, and
made her way, unannounced, to her ladyshii^s private rooms.
She tapped at the door.

" Come in," said the familiar voice, and she obeyed.
Then a startled cry rang out. Lady Helena arose and
stood spellbound, gazing in mute consternation at the pale
girl before her.

"Edith!" she could but just gasp. " Wiiat is this?
Where is Victor?"

Edith came in, closed the door, and quietly faced her
ladyship.

" I have not the faintest idea where Sir Victor Catheron
may be at this present moment. Wherever he is, it is
to be hoped he is able to take care of himself. 1 know I
have not seen him since four o'clock yesterday afternoon."

The lips of Lady Helena moved, but no sound came
from them. Some great and nameless terror seemed to
have fallen upon her.

" It was rather an unusual thing to do," the clear, steady
tones of the bride went on, "but being very tired after the
journey, I fell asleep in the cottage parlor at Carnarvon,
half ail hour after our arrival. Sir Victor had left me to
take a walk and a smoke, he said. It was nearly seven
when I awoke. I was still alone. Your nephew had come
and gone."

" Gone ! "

" (ione — and loft this for me. Read it. Lady Helena,
and you will see that in returning here, I am only obeying
my lord and master's command."

She took the note froiU her pocket, and presented it.
Her ladyship took it, read it, her face growing a dreadful
ashen gray.

3o8

THE DAY AFTER.

" So soon ! " she said, in a sort of whisper ; " that it
should have fallen upon him so soon ! Oh ! I feared it ! I
feared it ! I feared it ! "

" You feared it!" Edith reiieated, watching her intently.
" Does that mean your ladyship understands this letter ? "

" Heaven help me I I am afraid 1 do."

" It means, then, what I have thought it meant : that when
I married Sir Victor yesterday I married a madman ! "

There was a sort of moan from Lady Helena — no other
reply.

" Insanity is in the Catheron blood — I knew that from
the first. His father lived and died a maniac. The father's
fate is the son's. It has lain dormant for three-and-twenty
years, to break out on his wedding-day. Lady Helena, am
I right ? "

But Lady Helena was sobbing convulsively now. Her
sobs were her only reply.

" It is hard on you" Edith said, with a dreary sort of pity.
"You loved him."

" And you did not," the elder woman retorted, looking up.
"You loved your cousin, and you married my poor, un-
happy boy for his title and his wealth. It would h.i.ve been
better for hiin he had died than ever set eyes on your face."

" Much better," Edith answered steadily. " Better for
him — better for me. You are right, Lady Helena Powyss,
I loved my cousin, and I married your nephew for his title
and his wealth. I deserve all you can say of me. The
worst will not be half bad enough."

Her ladyshii)'s face drooped again ; her suppressed sobbing
was the only sound to be heard.

" I have come to you," Edith went on, " to tell yow the
truth. I don't ask what his secret is he speaks of; I don't
wish to know. I think he should be looked after. If he is
insane he siiould not be allowed to go at large."

" If he is insane ! " Lady Helena cried, looking up again
angrily. " You do well to say//. He is no more insane
thin you are ! "

lulith stood still looking at her. The last trace of color
fadetl from her face.

'^^ Not insane," she whispered, as if to herself; '■^ not in-
sane, and — he deserts mc !"

THE DA Y AFTER.

t it
I I

itly.

309

oni

r's

-'11 (y

" Oh, what have I said ! " Lady Helena cried ; " forgive
nie, Edith — I don't know what I am saying — I don't know
wliat to think. Leave me alone, and let me try to under-
stand it, if I can. Your old rooms are ready for you. You
have come to remain with me, of course."

" For the preserit— yes. Of the future I have not yet
thought. I will leave you alone, Lady Helena, as you de-
sire. I will not trouble you again until to-morrow." ,

She was quitting the room. Lady Helena arose and took
her in her arms, her face all blotted with a rain of tears.

" My child ! my child!" jhe said, "it is hard on you —
so young, so pretty, and only married yesterday ! Edith,
you frighten mc ! What are you made of? You look like
a stone ! "

The girl sighed — a long, weary, heart-sick sigh.

" I feel like a stone. I can't cry. I think I have no
heart, no soul, no teeling, no conscience — that i am scarcely
a human being. I am a hardened, callous wretch, for whom
any fate is too good. Don't pity me, dear Lady Helena;
don't waste one tear on me. I am not worth it."

She touched her li[)s to the wet cheek, and went slowly on
her way. No heart — no soid ! if she had, both felt be-
numbed, dead. She seemed to herself a century old, as she
toiled on to her familiar rooms. They mi,t no more that
day — each kept to her own apartments.

The afternoon set in wet and wild ; the rain fell cease-
lessly and dismally ; an evening to depress the happiest
closed down.

It was long after dark when there came a ring at the bell,
and the footman, opening the door, saw the figure of a man
nuifilod and disguised in slouch hat and great coat. He
held Iw uu)l)reila over his head, anil a scarf was twisted
about the lower i)art of his face. In a husky voice, stilled
in his scarf, he asked for Lady Helena.

" H<;r ladyship's at home," the footman answered, rather
superciliously, "but she don't see strangers at this hour."

"Ciive her this," the stranger said ; "she will see ///f."

In spite of hat, scarf, and umbrella, there was something
familiar in the air of the visitor, something familiar in his
tone. The man took the note suspiciously and passed it to
another, who passed it to her ladyship's maiil. The maid

310 THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

passed it to her ladyship, and her ladyshi|) read it with a
supi)ressed cry.

"Show him into the Hbrary at once. I will go down."

The nnifflcd man was shown in, still wearing hat and
scarf. The library was but dimly lit. He stood like a dark
shadow amid the other shadows. An instant later the door
opened and Lady Helena, pale and wild, appeared on the
threshold.

"It is," she fcdtcred, "it is— you ! "

She ai^proached slowly, her terrified eyes riveted on the
hidden face.

" It is I. Lock the door."

She obeyed, she came nearer. He drew away the scarf,
lifted the hat, and showed her the face of Sir Victor Cath-
eron.

CHAPTER XXin.

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

HE morning dawned over Powyss Place — dawned
in wild wind and driving rain still — dawned upon
Edith, deserted more strangely than surely bride
was ever deserted before.
She had darkened her chamber ; she had forced herself
resolutely to sleep. But the small hours had come before
she had succeeded, and it was close upon ten when the dark
eyes opened from dreamland to life. Strange mockery ! it
was ever of Charley and the days that were forever gone she
dreamed now.

For hours and hours she had jiaced her room the evening
and night before, all the desolation, all the emptiness and
loss of her life si)read out before her. She had sold herself
deliberately and with her eyes open, and this was her reward.
Deserted in the hour of her triumph — humiliated as never
bride was humiliated before — the talk, the ridicule of the
country, an object of contemptuous pity to the whole world.
And Charley and l'ri.xy, what wOuld they say when they
heard of her downfall? She was very proud— no young

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

ii a

princess had ever hnugliticr blood coursing through her royal
veins than tliis ;;oitionless American girl. For wealth snd
rank she had bartered Hfe and love, and veriiy she had her
reward.

She suffered horribly. As she paced up and down, her
whole face was distorted wilii the torture witiiin. She flung
herself into a seat and tried to still the ceaseless, gnawing,
maddening pain. In vain ! She could neither sit still, nor
think, nor deaden her torment. And when at last she
threw herself face downward on her betl it was only to sleep
the spent sleep of utter exhaustion. But she was " pluck "
to the backbone. Next day, when she had bathed and made
her toilet, and descended to tiie breakfast-room, the closest
observer could have read nothing of last night in the fixed
calm uf her face. The worst that could ever happen had
happened ; she was ready now to live and die game.

Lady Helena, very pale, very tremulous, very frightened
and helpless-looking, awaited her. A large, red fire burned
on the hearth. Her ladyship was wrapped in a fluffy white
shawl, but she shivered in spite of both. The lips that
touched Edith's cheek were almost as cold as that cold
cheek itself Tears started to her eyes as she spoke to her.

"My child," she said, "how white you are ; how cold and
ill you look. I am afraid you did not sleep at all."

"Yes, I slept," answered Edith; "for a few hours, at
least. The weather has something to do with it, perhaps ;
1 always fall a prey to horrors in wet and windy weather."

Then they sat down to the fragrant and tempting
breakfast, and ate with what a[)pelite they might. For Edith,
she hardly made a pretence of eating — she drank a large
cup of strong coffee, and arose.

"Lady Helena," she began abrui)tly, "as I came out of
my room, two of the servants were whisi)ering in the corridor.
1 merely caugiit a word or two in passing. They stopped
i;n:ne(liately upon seeing me. IJut from that word or two, I
infer this — Sir Victor Catheron was here to see you last
nigiit."

Lady Helena was trilling nervously with her spoon — it
fell with a clash now into her cup, and her terrified eyes
looked piteously at her companion.

" if you desire to keep this a secret too," Edith said, her

312

THE SECON'D ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

lips curling scornfully, " of course you are at liberty to do
so — of course I presume to ar,k no questions. But if not, I
would like to know — it may in some measure influence my
own movemenls."

" What do you intend to do ? " her ladyship brokenly
asked.

" That you shall hear presently. Just now the question
is : Was your nephew here last night or not? "

" He was."

She said it with a sort of sob, hiding her face in her
hands, "May Heaven help nie," she cried ;" it is grow-
ing more than I can bear. O my child, what can I say to
you ? how can I comfort you in this great trouble that has
come upon you ? "

" You are very good, but I would rather not be com-
forted. I have been utterly base and mercenary from first
to last — a wretch who has richly earned her (lite. Whatever
has befallen me I deserve. I married your nephew witli-
out one spark of affection for him ; he was no more to Ine
than any laborer on his estate — I doubt whether he ever could
have been. I meant to try — who knows how it would have
ended? I married Sir Victor Calheron for his rank and
riches, his title and rent-roll — I married the baronet, not the
man. And it has ended thus. I am widowed on n;y
wedding-day, cast off, forsaken. Have I not earned my
fate ? "

Siie laughed drearily — a short, mirthless, bitter laugh.

" I don't venture to ask too many questions — I don't bat-
tle with my fate ; I throw up my arms and yield at once.
13ut this I would like to know. Madness is hereditary in his
family. Unworthy of all love as I am, I think — I think
Sir Victor loved me. and, unless he be mad, I can't under-
stand 7i'//v lie deseitnl me. Lady Helena, annver me tli.s,
as you will one. d;iv answer to your IVTaker — Is Sir Victor
Catheron sane or mad ? "

Tiiere was a pause as she asked tlie dreadful question — a
pause in which the bciting of tlie autumnal rain upon tin;
glass, tlie sougliing of the autumnal gale sounded preternat-
urally loud. Then, hrolcenly, in trembling tones, and not
looking up, came Lady Helena's answer :

" God pity him and you — he is not mad."

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

313

Then there was silence again. The elder woman, her
face buried in her hands and resting on the table, was cry-
ing silently and miserably. At the window, the tall, slim
figure of the girl stood motionless, her hands clasped loosely
before her, her deep bright eyes looking out at the slanting
rain, the low-lying, lead colored sky, the black trees blown
aslant in the high October gale.

"Not mad?" she repeated, after that long pause ; "you
are quite certain of this, my lady? Not mad — and he has
left me ? "

" He has left you. O my child ! if I dared only tell you
all- ii I dared only tell you how it is ^^<r«^j-<7 of his great and
passionate love for you, he leaves you. If ever there was a
martyr on this earth, it is my poor boy. If you had seen
him as I saw him last night — worn to a shadow in one day,
suffering for the loss of you until death would be a relief —
even yott would have pitied him."

" Would I ? Well, perhaps so, though my heart is rather a
hard one. Of course I don't understand a word of all this —
of course, as he said in his letter, some secret of guilt and
shame lies behind it all. And yet, perhaps, I could come
nearer to the ' Secret' than either you or he think."

Lady Helena looked suddenly up, that terrified, hunted
look in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" she gasped.

"This," the firm, cold voice of Edith said, as Edith's
bright, dark eyes fixed themselves pitilessly upon her, " this,
Lady Helena Powyss : That the secret which takes him from
me is the secret of his mother's nuirder — the secret which he
learned at his father's deathbed. Shall I tell you who com-
mitted that murder?"

Her ladyship's li|>s moved, but no sound came ; she sat
spellbouhd, watching that pale, fixed face before her.

"Not Inez Catheron, who was imprisoned for it; not
Juan Catheron, who was suspected of it. I am a Yankee,
Lady Helena, and consequently clever at guessing. I be-
lieve that Sir Victor Catheron, in cold blood, murdered his
own wife ! "

There was a sobbing cry — whether at the shock of the
terrible words, or at their truth, who was to tell ?

" I believe the late Sir Victor Catheron to have been a

314

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

deliberate and cowardly murderer," Edith went on ; " so
cowardly that his weak, brain turned when he saw what he
had done and thought of the consenuences ; and tiiat he
paid the penalty of his crime in a life of insanity. The mo-
tive I don't jiretend to fathom — jealousy of Juan Catheron
perhaps ; and on his dying bed he confessed all to his son."

With flxce blanched and eyes still full of terror, her lady-
ship looked at the dark, contemptuous, resolute speaker.

" And if this be true — your horrible surmise ; mind, I don't
admit that it is — would that be any excuse for Victor's con-
duct in leaving you?"

" No !" Edith answered, her eyes flashing, "none ! Hav-
ing married me, not ten thousand family secrets should be
strong enough to make him desert me. If he had come to
me, if he had told me, as he was bound to do before our
wedding-day, I would have. pitied him with all tny soul ; if
anything could ever have made me care for him as a wife
should care for a husband, it would have been that pity. But
if he came to me now, and knelt before ine, imploring uie to
return, I would not. I would die sooner!"

She was walking up and ilown now, gleams of passionate
scorn and rage in her dark eyes.

" It is all folly and balderdash, this talk of his love for mc
making him leave me. Don't let us have any more of it.
No secret on earth siiould make a bridegroom quit his bride
— no power on earth could ever convince me of it \"

"And yet," the sad, patient voice of poor Lady Helena
sighed, " it is true."

Edith stoi)ped in her walk, and looked at her incredu-
1 )usly.

" Lady Helena," she said, " you are my kind friend — you
know the woikl — you are a woman of sense, not likely to
have your brain turned with va|)ors. Answer rue this — Do
you think that, acting as he has done, Sir Victor Catheron
has done right ? "

Lady Helena's sad eyes met hers full. Lady Helena's
voice was full of pathos and earnestness, as she replied :

" Ediih, I am your friend ; I am in my sober senses, and,
1 believe in my soul Victor has done ri^^ht."

"Well," Edith said after a long pause, during wHtkh she
resumed her walk, " I give it up ! I don't understand, and

THE SECOND ENDING OF ThZ TRAGEDY.

315

I never shall. I am hopelessly in the dark. I can conceive
no motive — none strong enough to make his conduct right.
I thought him mad ; you say he is sane. I thought he did
me a shameful, irreparable wrong ; you say he has done
riglit. I will think no more about it, since, if I thought to
my dying day, I could come no nearer the truth."

" You will know one day," answered Lady Helena ; " on
his death-bed ; and, poor fellow, the sooner that day comes
the better for him."

Editii made an impatient gesture.

•' Let us talk about it no more. Wliat is done is done.
Whether Sir Victor Cathcron lives or dies can in no way
concern me now. I think, with your permission, I will go
back to my room and try to slee]) away this dismal day."

" Wait one moment, Edith. It was on your account Vic-
tor came here last night to talk over the arrangements he
was making for your future."

A curious smile came over Edith's lips. She was once
more back at the window, looking out at the rain-beaten day,

" My future ! " she slowly repeated ; " in what possible way
can my future concern Sir Victor Catheron ? "

" My child, what a question I In every way. You are
honest enough to confess that you married him — poor boy,
poor boy — for his rank and rent-roll. There, at least, you
need not be disappointed. The settlements made ui)on you
before your marriage were, as you know, liberal in the ex-
treme. In addition to that, every farthing tliat it is in his
power to dispose of he intends settling upon you besides.
His grandmother's fortune, which descends to him, is to be
yours. You may spend money like water if it pleases you —
tlie title and the wealth for which you wedded are slill yours.
]'or himself, he intends to go abroad — to the East, I believe.
He retains nothing but what will sui)ply his travelling ex-
jienses. He cannot meet you — if he did, he might never be
able to leave you. O Edith, you blame him, you hate
him ; but if you had only seen him, only heard him last niglit,
only knew how inevitable it is, how he suffered, how bitterer
than death this parting is to him, you wnild pity, you would
forgive him."

" You think so," the girl said, with a wistful, weary sigh.
"Ah, well, perhaps so. I don't know. Just now I can

3x6

THE SECOND ENDING OF T//E TRAGEDY.

realize notliiiig except that I am a lost, forsaken wretch;
that I do hate him ; that if I were dyin<^, or that if he were
dying, I could not say ' I forgive you.' As to his liberality, I
never doubted that ; I have owned that I married him for
his wealth and station. I own it still ; but there are some
things not the wealth of a king could compensate for. To
desert a bride on her wedding-day is one of them. I repeat,
Lady Helena, with your permission, I will go to my room ;
we won't talk of my future plans and prospects just now.
To-morrow you shall know my decision."

She turned to go. The elder woman looked after her
with yearning, sorrowful eyes.

" If I knew what to do — if I knew what to say," she mur-
mured helplessly, "Edith, I loved him more dearly than
any son. I think my heart is breaking. O child, don't
judge him — be merciful to him who loves you while he leaves
you — be merciful to me whose life has been so full of
trouble."

Her voice broke down in a passion of tears. Edith turned
from the door, put her arms around her neck and kissed
her.

" Dear friend," she said ; " dear Lady Helena, I pity you
from the bottom of my heart. I wish — I wish I could only
comfort you."

" You can," was the eager answer. *' Stay with me,
Edith ; don't leave me alone. Be a daughter to me ; take
the place of the son I have lost."

But Edith's pale, resolute face did not soften.
" To-morrow we will settle all this," was her reply. " Wait
until to-morrow."

Then she was gone — shut up and locked in her own
room. She did not descend to either luncheon or dinner —
one of the housemaids served her in her dressing-room. And
Lady Helena, alone and miserable, wandered uneasily about
the lower rooms, and wondered how she spent that long rainy
day.

She spent it busily enough. The plain black box she had
brought from New York, containing all her earthly belong-
ings, she drew out and packed. It was not hard to do, since
nothing went into it but what had belonged to her then. All
the dresses, all the jewels, all the costly gifts that, had been

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

317

given her by Ihc man she had married, and his friends, she
left as they were. She kept nothinf;, not even her wedding-
ring : she placed it among the rest, in the jewel casket, closed
and locked it. Tiien she wrote a letter to Lady Helena,
and placed the key inside. Tliis is what she said :

" Dear Friend : When you open this I shall have left
Powyss Place forever. It will be quite useless to follow or
endeavor to bring me back. My mind is made up. I rec-
ognize no authority — nothing will induce me to revoke my
decision. I go out into the world to make my own way.
^Vith youth, and health, and ordinary intelligence, it ought
not to be impossible. Tiie things belonging to me when I
first came here 1 have packed in the black box ; in a week
you will have the kindness to forward it to the Euston sta-
tion. The rest I leave behind — retaining one or two books
as souvenirs o{ yon. 1 take nothing of Sir Victor Catheron's
— not even his name. You must see that it is utterly im-
possible ; that I must lose the last shred of pride and self-re-
spect before I could assume his name or take a penny be-
longing to him. Dear, kind Lady Helena, good-by. If we
never meet again in the world, remember there is no thought
in my heart of you that is not one of affection and grati-
tude. Edith."

Her hand never trembled as she wrote this letter. She
placed the key in it, folded, sealed, and addressed it. It
was dark by this time. As she knelt to cord and lock her
trunk, she espied the writing case within it. She hesitated
a moment, then took it out, opened it, and drew forth the
packet of Charley Stuart's letters. She took out the
photograph and looked at it with a half-tender, half-sad
smile.

" I never thought to look at you again," she said softly.
" You are all I have left now."

She put the picture in her bosom, replaced the rest, and
locked the trunk, and put the key in her purse. She sat
down and counted her money. She was the possessor of
twelve sovereigns — left over from Mr. Stuart, senior's,
bounty. It was her whole stock of wealth with which to
face and begin the world. Then she sat down resolutely to

3i8

Tim SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

think it out. And the question rose grim before her, " What
am I to do ? "

" Go out into the world and work for your daily bread.
Face the poverty you have feared so much, through fear of
which, two days ago, you sold yourself. Go to London —
it is the centre of the world ; lose yourself, hide from all who
ever knew you. Go to London. Work of some kind can
surely be had by the willing in that mighty city. Go to
London,"

That was the answer that came clearly. She slirank for
a moment — the thought of facing life single-handed, poor
and alone in that great, terrible, pitiless city, was overwhelm-
ing. But she did not flinch from her resolve ; her mind was
made up. Come woe, come weal, she would go to London.

An " A. B. C." railway guide lay on the table — she con-
sulted it. A train left Chester for London at eight o'clock,
A. M. Neither Lady Helena nor any of her household was
slirring at that hour. She could walk to Chesholm in the
early morning, get a fly there and drive to the Chester station
in time. By four in the afternoon she would be in London.

No thought of returning home ever recurred to her.
Home ! What home had she ? Her step-mother was master
and mistress in her father's house, and to return, to go back
to Sandypoint, and the life she had left, was as utter an im-
possibility almost as though she should take a rope and hang
herself She had not the means to go if she had desired,
but that made no difference. She could never go back, never
see her father, or Charley, or Trixy more. Alone she must
live, alone she must die.

The flood-gates were opened ; she suffered this last night
as women of her strong, self-contained temperament only
suffer.

" Save me, O God ! for the waters are come into my soul ! "
That was the wild, wordless prayer of her heart. Her life
was wrecked, her heart was desolate ; she must go forth a
beggar and an outcast, and fight the bitter battle of life alone.
And love, and home, and Charley might have been hers.
" It might have been !'' Is there any anguish in this world
of anguish like that we work with our own hands ? — any sor-
row like that which we bring ujwn ourselves? In the dark-
ness she sank down upon her knees, her face covered with

THE SECOND ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY. 319

her hands, tears, that were as (headful as tears of blood, fall-
in'' from her eyes. Lost— lost ! all that made life worL
havinfv. To live and die alone, that was her fate 1 _

So the black, wiUl night passed, hiding her, as luiscrable
a woman as the wide earth held.

The gray dawn of the dull October morning was creepmg
over the far-off Welsli hills as Edith in shawl and hat, closely
veiled, and carryins? a hand-bag, came softly down the stairs,
and out of a side door, chielly used by the servants, bhe
met no one. Noiselessly she drew the bolt, opened the door,
and looked out. . .

It was raw and cold, a dreary wind still blowing, but it
had ceased to rain. As she stood there, seven struck froni
the turret clock. "One long, last, lingering look behind
—one last upward glance at Lady Helena's windows.

" Good-by ! " the pale lips whispered ; then she passed re-
solutely out into the melancholy autumn morning and was
gone.

PART in

CHAPTER I.

AT MADAME MIREBEAU's, OXFORD STREET.

lALF-PAST four of a delightful June afternoon, and
two young ladies sit at two large, lace-draped win-
dows, overlooking a fashionable Ma) fair street, al-
ternately glancing over the books they hold, and
listlessly watching the i)assers-by. The house was one of
those big black VV'est-Eiul houses, whose outward darkness
and disnialness is in direct ratio to their inward brilliance
and splendor. This particular room is lofty and long, luxu-
rious with softest cari)et, satin upholstery, pictures, llowers,
and lace drajK'ries. The two young ladies are, with the ex-
ception of their bonnets, in elegant carriage costume.

Youtifi ladies, 1 have said ; and being unmarried, they are
young ladies, of course. One of them, however, isthree-and-
thirty, counting by actual years — the iK-erage gives it in cold
blood. It is the Lady Gwendoline Drexel. Her compan-
ion is the Honorable Mary Howard, just nineteen, and just
"out."

I.ady Gwendoline yawns drearily over her book — Alger-
non Swineburne's latest — and pulls out her watch impa-
tiently every few minutes.

" What can keep Portia ? " she exclaims, with irritation.
"We should have been gone the last half-hour."

The Honorable Mary looks up from her Parisian fashion-
book, and glances from the window with a smile.

"Restrain your impatience, Gwendoline," she answers.
•' Here comes Lady Portia now."

AT MADAME MIREDEAU'S.

321

A minute later the door is flung wide by a tall gentleman
in ijliish, and Lady Portia Hampton sweeps in. She is a tall,
slender lady, very like her sister: the SLime dully fair com-
plexion, the same coiffure of copper-gold, the same light,
inane blue eyes. The dull complexion wears at this mo-
ment an absolute flush ; the light, lack-lustre eyes an absolute
sparkle. I'here is something in her look as she sails forward,
that makes them both look up expectantly from their book.v

"Well?" Lady Gwendoline says.

" Gwen ! " her sister exclaims — absolutely exclaims —
^'■whom do you suppose I have met ? "

"The Czarina of all the Russias, Pio Nino, Her Majesty
back from Osborne, or the Man in the Moon, perhaps," re-
torts Lady Gwendoline.

" Neither," laughs Lady Portia. " Somebody a great deal
more mysterious and interesting than any of them. You
never will guess whom."

" Being five o'clock of a sultry summer day, I don'tintend
to try. Tell us at once, Portia, and let us go."

" Then — prepare to be surprised ! Sir Victor Catheron ! "

" Portia 1 "

" Ah ! I thought the name would interest you. Sir Victor
Catheron, my dear, alive and in the flesh, though, upon my
word, at first sight I almost took him to be his own ghost.
Look at her, Mary," laughs her sister derisively. " 1 have
managed to interest her alter all, have I not ?"

I'or Lady Gwendoline sat erect, her turquoise eyes open
to their widest extent, a look akin to excitement in her apa-
thetic face.

" But, Portia — Sir Victor ! I thought it was an understood
thing he did not come to England? "

" He does, it appears. 1 certainly had the honor and
happiness of shaking hands with him not fifteen minutes ago.
I was driving up St. James Street, and caught a glimpse of
him on the steps of Fenton's Hotel. At iirst sight 1 could
not credit «iy eyes. 1 had to look again to '>?x^ whether it
were a wraith or a mortal man. Such a pallid shadow of
his former self. You used to think him rather handsome,
Gwen — you should see him now ! He has grown ten years
older in as many months — his hair is absolutely streaked
with gray, his eyes arc sunken, his cheeks are hollow. He
14*

322

AT MADAME MIPEBEACTS.

looks miserably, wretchedly out of Iicallh. If men ever do
break their hearts," said Lady Portia, going over to a large
mirror and surveying herself, " then that misguided young
man broke his on his wedding-day."

" It serves him right," said Lady Gwendoline, her pale
eyes kindling. "I am almost glad to hear it."

Her faded face wore a strangely sombre and vindictive
look. Lady Portia, with her head on one side, set her bon-
net-strings geometrically straight, u.nd smiled maliciously.

"Ah, no doubt — perfectly natural, all things considered.
And yet, even you might pity the poor fellow to-day, Gwen-
doline, if you saw him. Mary, dear, is all this Greek and
Hebrew to you ? You were in your Parisian pensionnat, I
remember, when it all happened. You don't know the ro-
mantic and mysterious story of Sir Victor Catheron, JJart."

" I never heard the name before, that I recall," answered
Miss Howard.

"Then pine in ignorance no longer. This young hero,
Sir Victor Catheron of Catheron Royals, Cheshire, is our
next-door neighbor, down at home, and one year ago the
handsome, happy, honored representative of one of the
oldest families in the county. His income was large, his es-
tates unincumbered, his manners charming, his morals un-
exceptionable, and half the young ladies in Cheshire" — with
another malicious glance at her sister — " at daggers-drawn
for him. There was the slight drawback of insanity in the
family — his father died insane, and in his infancy his mother
was murdered. But these were only trilling spots on the
sun, not worth a second thought. Our young suUan had
but to throw the handkerchief, and his obedient Circassians
would have flown on the wings of love and joy to pick it u|«.
I grow quite eloquent, don't 1 ? In an evil hour, however,
poor young Sir Victor — he was but twenty-three — went over
to America. There, in New York, he fell in with a family
named Stuart, common rich people, of course, as they all
are over there. In the Stuart family there was a young i)tr-
son, a sort of cousin, a Miss Edith Darrell, very poor, kept
by them out of charity ; and, lamentable to relate, widi this
young person i)oor Sir Victor fell in love. I'cU in love, my
dear, in the most approved oKl-fashioned style — absurdly
and insanely in love — brought the whole family over to Che-

AT MADAME MIREDEAITS.

323

shire, proposed to litlle missy, and, as a matter of course,
was eagerly accepted. Slie was an extremely pretty girl,
that I will say for her" — with a third sidelong glance of mal-
ice at \\Qx passve si^^Ler — " and her manners, considering her
station, or, rather, her entire lack of station, her poverty, and
her nationality, were someUiing quite extraordinary. I de-
clare to you, she positively held her own with the best of us
— excei)t for a certain bnisqucrie and outspoken wajj about
her, you might have thought her an English girl of our own
class. He 7V0uld mairy her, and the wedding-day was fixed,
and Gwendoline named as chief of the bridemaids."

" It is fifteen minutes past five, Portia," the cold voice
of Gwendoline broke in. " If we are to drive at all to-
day—"

" Patience, Gwen ! patience one moment longer ! Mary
must hear the whole story now. In tiie Stuart family, I for-
got to mention, there was a young man, a cousin of the
bride-elect, with whom —it was patent to the dullest appre-
hension — this young person was in love. She accepted Sir
Victor, you understand, while this Mr. Stuart was her lover ;
a common case enoi.gh, and not worthy of mention except
for what came after. His manners were rarely perfect too.
He was, I think, without excei)tion, the very handsomest and
most fascinating man I ever met. You would never dream
— never ! — that he was an American. Gwendoline will tell
you the same. The sister was thoroughly trans-Atlantic,
talked slang, said * I guess,' spoke with an accent, and looked
you through and tiirough with an Auieican girl's broad
stare. The father and mother were conimon, to a degree ;
but the son — well, Gwen and I both came very near losing
our hearts to him — didn't we, dear ?"

"Speak for youiself," was Gwen's ungracious answer.
"And, oh ! for pity's sake, Portia, cut it short !"

" Pray go on. Lady Portia ! " said Miss Howard, looking
interested.

'' I am going on," said Lady Portia. " The nice part is
to come. The Stuart family, a month or more befoio the
wedding, left Cheshire anil came up a London — why, we
can only surmise — to keej) the lovers ai)art. lunnediately
after their departure, tlie brido-elect was taken ill, and had
to be carried off to Torquay for change of air and all that.

324

AT MADAME MIREDEAUS.

The wedding-day was postponed until some time in October ;
but at last it came. She looked very beautiful, I must say,
that morning, and perfectly self-possessed ; but i)00r Sir Vic-
tor ! He was ghastl)'. Whether even then he suspected
something I do not know ; he looked a picture of abject
misery at the altar and the br ■ -Kfast Something was wrong ;
we all saw that; but no ^p . ''on took place there. The
happy pair started on thv. w ouuig-journey down into Wales,
and tliTlt was the last we ever saw of (hem. What followed,
we know ; but until to-day I have never set eyes on the
bridegroom. The bride, I suppose, none of us will ever set
eyes on more."

" Why ? " the Honorable Mary asked.

"This, my dear: An hour after their arrival in Carnar-
von, Sir Victor deserted his bride forever ! What passed be-
tween them, what scene ensued, nobody knows, only this —
he positively left her forever. That the handsome and fas-
cinating American cousin had something to do with it, there
can be no doubt. Sir Victor took the next train from Wales
to London ; she remained overnight. Next day she had
the audacity to return to Powyss Place and present herself

The

lained there one
nuffled and dis-
h'd an interview
;• : tod again with-
' .d'^ next day had
-and next raorn-

to his aunt. Lady Helena Powyss,
day and two nights. On the first
^uised. Sir Victor came down fron
with his aunt, no doubt told her all,
out seeing the girl he had married,
an interview with Lady Helena — her last
ing, before any one was stirring, stole out of the house like
the guilty creature she was, and never was heard of more.
The story, though they tried to hush it uji, got in .lU the pa-
pers — ' Romance in High Life,' they called it. Everybody
talked of it — it was the nine-days' wonder of town and coun-
try. The actors in it, one by one, disappeared. Lady Hel-
ena shut up Powyss Place and we' ' abroad ; Sir Victor van-
ished from the world's ken; th-^ •; .roine of the piece no
doubt went back to her native kit> 1, That, In brief, is the
story, my dear, of the interesting spccjt.c I met to-day on the
steps of Fenton's. Now, young ladies, i)u'. on your bonnets
and come. I wish to call at Madame Mirebeau's, Oxford
Str;;et, before going to the park, and personally inspect my
dress for the duclu "' ball to-night,"

AT MADAME MIREBEAV'S.

Ten minutes later and the elegant barouche of Lady Por-
tia Hampton was bowling along to Oxford Street.

" What did you say to Sir Victor, Portia ? " her sister
deigned to ask. " What did he say to you ? "

" He said very little to me — the answers he gave were
the most vague. I naturally inquired concerning his health
first, he really looked so wretchedly broken down ; and he
said there was nothing the matter that he had been a little
out of sorts lately, that was all. My conviction is," said
Lady Portia, who, like the rest of her sex, and the world,
put the worst possible construction on everything, " that
he has become dis£i[)atcd. Purple circles and hollow eyes
always tell of late hours and hard drinking, I asked him
next where he had been all those ages, and lie answered
briefly and gloomily, in one word, ' Abroad.' I asked him
thirdly, where, and how was Lady Helena ; he replied that
Lady Helena was tolerably well, and at ])resent in London.
' In London ! ' I exclaimed, in a shocked tone, 'my dear Sir
Victor, and /not know it ! ' He explained that his aunt was
living in the closest retirement, at the house of a friend in
the neighborhood of St. John's Wood, and went nowhere.
Then he lifted his hat, smiled horribly a ghastly smile, turned
his back upon me, and walked away. Never asked for you,
Crwendoline, or Colonel Hampton, or my health, or any-
thing."

Lady (Jwendoline did not reply. They had just entered
Oxford Street, and amid the moving throng of well-dressed
people on the i)avement, her eye had singled out one figure
— the figure of a tall, slender, fair-haired man,

"Portia!" she exclaimed, in a sn])pressed voice, "look
there ! Is not that Sir Victor Catheron now? "

" Where ? Oh, I see. Positively it is, and — yes — he sees
us. Tell John to draw up, Gwendoline. Now, Mary, you
shall see a hvc hero of romance for once in your life. He
shall take a seat, whether he likes it or not — My dcar'>\x
Victor, what a happy second rencontre, and Gwendoline
dying to see you. Pray let us take you up — oh, we will have
no refusal. We have an unoccupied seat here, )ou see, and
we all insist upon your occupying it. Miss Howard, let me
present our nearest neighbor at home, and particular friend

326

AT MADAME MIREBEAIPS.

everywhere, Sir Victor Catheron. The Honorable Miss
Howard, Sir Victor."

They had drawn up close to the curbstone. The gentle-
man had doffed his hat, and would have passed on, had he
not been taken possession of in this summary manner.
Lady Gwendoline's primrose-kidded hand was extended to
him, Lady Gwendoline's smiling face beamed upon him from
the most exquisite oi Parisian bonnets. Miss Howard
bowed and scanned him curiously. Lady Portia was not to
be refused — he knew that of old. Of two bores, it was the
lesser bore to yield than resist. Another instant, and the
barouche was rolling away to Madame Mirebeau's, and Sir
Victor Catheron was within it. He sat by Lady Gwendo-
line's side, and under the shadow of her rose-silk and point-
lace parasol she could sec for herself how shockingly he was
changed. Her sister had not exaggerated. He was worn
to a shadow ; his fair hair was streaked with gray ; his lips
were set in a tense expression of suffering — either physical
or mental — perha[)s both. His blue eyes looked sunken
and lustreless. It was scarcely to be believed that ten short
months could have wrought such wreck. He talked little —
his resi)onses to their questions were monosyllabic. His
eyes constantly wandered away from their faces to the pass-
ers-by. He had the look of a man ever on the alert, ever
on the watch — waiting and watching for some one he could
not see. Miss Howard had never seen him before, but
from the depths of her heart she pitied him. Sorrow, such as
rarely falls to the lot of man, had fallen to this man, she knew.

He was discouragingly absent and disirait. It came out
by chance that the chief part of the past ten months had
been spent by him in America.

In America ! The sisters exchanged glances. She was
there, no doubt. Had they met ? was the thought of both.
They reached the fashionable modiste's.

" You will come in with us, Sir Victor,'' Lady Portia
commanded gayly. " We all have business here, but we
will only detain you a moment."

He gave her his arm to the shop. It was large and ele-
gant, and three or four deferential shop-women came forward
to wait uj^on fheiii and place seats. The victimized baro-
net, still listless and bored, sat down to wait and escort them

AT MADAME MIREBEAiPS.

3i27

back to the carriage before taking his departure. To be
exhibited in the park was the farthest possible from his in-
tention.

Lady Portia's dress was displayed — a rose velvet, with
point-lace trimmings — and found fault with, of course.
Lady Gwendoline and the Hon. Mary transacted their aft'airs
at a little distance. For her elder ladyship the train did not
suit her, the bodice did not please her; she gave her orders
for altering sharply and concisely. The deferential shop-
girl listened and wrote the directions down on a card.
When her patroness had finished she carried robe and card
down the long room and called :

" Miss Stuart I "

A voice answered — only one word, " Yes," softly spoken,
but Sir Victor Catheron started as if he had been shot. The
long show-room lay in semi-twilight — the gas not yet lit. In
this twilight another girl advanced, took the rose-velvet
robe and written card. The light flashed upon her figure
and hair for one instant — then she disappeared.

And Sir Victor ?

He sat like a man suddenly aroused from a deep, long
sleep. He had not seen the face ; he had caught but a
glimpse of the figure and head ; he had heard the voice
speak but one little word, " Yes ; " but —

Was he asleep or awake ? Was it only a delusion, as so
mary other fancied resemblances had been, or was it after
all — after all —

He rose to his feet, that dazed look of a sleep-walker,
suddenly aroused, on his face.

" Now, then. Sir Victor," the sharp, clear voice of Lady
Portia said, at his side, "your martyrdom is ended. We
are ready to go."

He led her to the carriage, assisted her and the young
ladies in. How he excused himself — what incoherent words
he said — he never knew. He was only conscious after a
minute that the carriage had rolled away, and that he was
still standing, hat in hand, on the sidewalk in front of
Madame Mirebeau's; that the passers-by were staring at
him, and that he was alone.

" Mad ! " Lady Portia said, shrugging her shoulders and
touching her forehead. "J\Iad as a March hare ! "

328

AT MADAME MIREBEAVS.

"Mad?" Miss Floward repeated softly. " Xo, I don't
think so. Not mad, only very — very niisi;rable.*'

He replaced his liat and walked back to the shop-door.
There reason, memory returned. What was he going in
for ? What should he say ? He stood still suddenly, as
though gazing at the wax women in elegant ball costume,
swinging slowly and sniirkingly round and round. He had
heard a voice — he had seen a shapely head croimed with
dark, silken hair — a tall, slender girl's figure— that was all.
He had seen and heard such a hundred limes since that fatal
wedding evening, and when he had hunted them down, the
illusion had vanished, and his lost love was a«; lost as ever.
His lost Edith — his bride, his darling, the wife he had
loved and left — for whom all those weary, endless months
he had been searching and searching in vain. Was she liv-
ing or dead ? Was she in London — in England — where i
He did not know — no one knew. Since tl-iat dark, cold
autumn morning when she had fled from Powysa Place she
had never been seen or heard of. She had kept her word —
she had taken nothing that was his — not a farlbing. Wher-
ever she was, she might be starving to-day. He clenched his
hands and teeth as he thought of it.

"Oh!" his passionate, despairing heart cried, "let me
find her — let me save her, and — let me die ] "

He had searched for her everywhere, by night and by day.
Money flowed like water — all in vain. He went to New
York — he found the people there he had once known, but
none of them could tell him anything of her or the Stuarts.
The Stuarts had failed, were utterly ruined — it %vas under-
stood that Mr. Stuart was dead — of the others they knew
nothing. He went to Sandypoint in search of her father.
Mr. Darrell and his family had months ago sold out and
gone West. He could fine none of them ; he gave it up at
length and returned to England. Ten montiis had [massed ;
many resemblances had beguiled him, but to-day Ekiith was
as far off, as lost as ever.

The voice he had heard, the likeness he had seen, would
they prove false and empty too, and leave his heart more
bitter than ever ? What he would do 7i'hc:i he fouiui her he
dill not consider. He only wanted to find her. His whole
heart, and life, and soul were bound up in liiaL

AT MADAME MIREBEAVS.

329

He paced up and down in front of the sho]) ; the day's
work would be over presently and the work-women woiikl
come forth. Then he would see again this particular work-
woman who had set his heart beating with a hope that
turned him dizzy and sick. Six o'clock ! seven o'clock !
AVould they never come ? Yes ; even as he thought it, half
mad with impatience, the door opened, and nearly a dozen
girls filed forth. He drew his hat over his eyes, he kept a
little in the shadow and watched them one by one with
wildly eager eyes as they appeared. Four, five, six, seven —
she came at last, the eighth. The tall, slender figure, the
waving, dark hair, he knew them at once. The gaslight
fell full upon her as she drew her veil over her face and
walked rapidly away. Not before he had seen it, not before
he had recognized it — no shadow, no myth, no illusion this
time. His wife — Edith.

He caught the wall for support. For a moment the pave-
ment beneath his feet heaved, the starry sky spun round.
Then he started up, steadied himself by a mighty effort, and
lunried in pursuit.

She had gained upon him over thirty yards. She was al-
ways a rapid walker, and he was ailing and weak. His
heart throbbed now, so thick and fast, that every breath was
a pain. He did not gain upon her, he only kept her in
sight. He would have known that quick, deci(led walk,
the poise of the head and shoulders, anywhere. He followed
her as fast as his strength and the throng of jmssers-by
would let him, yet doing no more than keeping her well in
sight.

WHiere Oxford Street nears Tottenham Court Road she
suddenly diverged and crossed over, turning into the latter
crowded thoroughfare. Still he followed. The throng was
even more dense here than in Oxford Street, to keep her in
sight more difficult. For nearly ten minutes he did it, then
suddenly all strength left him. For a minute or two be felt
as though he must fall. There was a spasm of the heart
that was like a knife-thrust. He caught at a lanip-jiost.
He beckoned a passing hansom by a sort of expiring eifoit.
The cab whirled up beside him ; he got in somehow, and
fell back, blinded and di^zy, in the seat.

" Where to, sir ? " Cabby called twice before he received

330

EDITH.

an answer; then "Kenton's Hotel" came faintly to him
from his ghostly looking fare. The little aperture at the top
was slammed clown, and the hansom rattled off.

"Blessed if I don't think the young swell's drunk, or 'av-
ing a fit," thought the Cad, as he speeded his horse down
Tottenham Court Road.

To look for her further in his present state, Sir Victor felt
would be useless. He must get to his lodgings, get some
brandy, and half-an-hour's time to think what to do next.
He had found her ; she was alive, she was well, thank
Heaven ! thank Heaven for that ! To-morrow would find
her again at Madame Mirebeau's at work with the rest.

At work — her daily toil ! He covered his wasted face
with his wasted hands, and tears that were like a woman's
fell from him. He had been weak and worn out for a long
time — he gave way utterly, body and mind, now.

" My darling," he sobbed ; " my darling whom I would
die to make happy — whose life I have so utterly ruined.
To tliink that while I spend wealth like water, you should
toil for a crust of bread — alone, poor, friendless, in this great
city. How will I answer to God and man for what I have
done ? "

CHAPTER II.

EDITH.

HE last night of the July day had faded out, and a

hot, murky night settled down over London. The

air was stilling in the city ; out in the suburbs you

still caught a breath, fresh and sweet scented, from

the fragrant fields

At Poplar Lodge, St. John's Wood, this murky, summer
night all the windows stood wide. In the drawing-room
two women sat together. The elder reading aloud, tlic
younger busy over some feminine handicraft. A cluster of
waxlights burned above them, shining full on two pale, worn
faces — the faces of women to whom suffering and sorrow

EDITH.

331

have long been household words. Both wore deepest
mourning — the elder a widow's weeds, the hair of the younger
thickly streaked with gray. Now and then both raised their
eyes from a book and needlework, and glanced expectantly
at the clock on the mantel. Evidently they waited for
some one who did not come. They were Lady Helena
Powyss and Inez Catheron, of course.

" Eight," the elder woman said, laying down her book with
a sigh as the clock struck. " If lie were coming to-night he
would be here before now."

" I don't give him up even yet," Inez answered cheerfully.
*' Young .nen are not to be depended on, and he has often
come out much later than this. We are but dull company
for him, poor boy — all the world are but dull company for
him at present, since she is not of them. Poor boy ! poor
Victor ! it is very hard on him."

" 1 begin to think Edith will never be found," said Lady
Helena with a sigh.

" My dear aunt, I don't. No one is ever lost, utterly, in
these days. She will be found, believe me, unless — "

"Well?"

" Unless she is dead."

" She is not dead," affirmed Lady Helena ; " of that I am
sure. You didn't know her, Inez, or you wouldn't think it ;
the most superb specimen of youth and strength and hand-
some health I ever saw in my life. She told me once she
never remembered a sick day since she was born — you had
but to look into her bright eyes and clear complexion to be
sure of it. She is not dead, in the natural course of things,
and she isn't one of the kind that ever take their lives in their
own hands. She had too much courage and too much com-
mon-sense."

" Perhaps so, and yet suffering tells — look at poor Victor."

•' Ah, poor Victor indeed ! But the case is different — it
was only her pride, not her heart, that bled. He loved her
— he loves her with a blind, unreasoning passion that it is a
^misfortune for any human creature to feel for another. And
she never cared for him — not as nnich as you do for the sew-
ing in your hand. That is what breaks my heart — to see
him dying before my eyes for love of a girl who has no feel-
ing for him but hatred and contempt."

333

EDITH.

Inez sighed.

" It is natural," she said. "Think how she was left — in
her very bridal hour, without one word of explanation. Who
could forgive it ? "

" No one, perhaps ; it is not for that I feel indignant with
her. It is for her ever accepting him at all. She loved her
cousin — he would have married her ; and for title and wealth
she threw him over and accepted Victor. In that way she
deserved her fate. She acted heartlessly ; and yet, one can't
help pitying her too. I believe she would have done her
best to make him a good wife, after all. I wish — I wish he
could find her."

" She might be found readily enough," Inez answered,
*' if Victor would but employ the usual means — I allude, of
course, to the detective police. But he won't set a detective
on her track if she is never found — he persists in looking for
her himself. He is wearing his life out in the search. If
ever I saw death pictured on any face, I saw it in his when
he was here last. If he would but consult that German
doctor who is now in London, and who is so skilful in all
diseases of the heart — hark ! " she broke off suddenly,
" here he is at last."

Far off a gate had opened and shut — no one had a key to
that ever-locked outer gate but Sir Victor, and the next
moment the roll of his night-cab up the drive was heard.
The house-door opened, his familiar step ascended the
stairs, not heavy and dragging as usual, but swift and light,
almost as it used to be. Something had happened ! They
saw it in his face at the first glance. There was but one
thing that could happ jn. Lady Helena dropped her book,
Inez started to her feet ; neither spoke, both waited breathless.

"Aunt! cousin!" the young man cried, breathless and
hoarse, " she is found I "

There was a cry from his aunt. As he spoke he dropped,
panting and exhausted with his speed, into a chair and laid
his hand upon his breast to still its heavy, suffocating throbs.

" Found ! " exclaimed Lady Helena ; " where — when —
how ? "

" Wait, aunt," the voice of Inez said gently ; " give him
time. Don't you see he can scarcely pant? Not a word
yet Victor — let me fetch you a glass of wine."

EDITH.

333

She brought it and he drank it. His Hxco was quite
ghastly, HvicT, bhiish rings encirding his mouth and eyes,
lie certainly looked desperately ill, and more fitted for a
sick-bed than a breathless night ride from St. James Street
to St. John's Wood. He lay back in his chair, closL-d iiis
eyes, struggled with his panting breath. Tliey sat and waited
in silence, far more coricerned for him than for the news he
bore.

He told them at last, slowly, painfully, of his chance
meeting with Lady Portia Hampton, of liis enforced visit to
the Oxford Street dress-maker — of his glimi)se of the tall girl
with the dark hair — of his waiting, of his seeing, and recog-
nizing Edith, his following her, and of his sudden gid.Iy faint-
ness that obliged him to give up the chase.

" You'll think me an awful muff," he said ; " I haven't an
idea how I came to be such a moUicoddle, but 1 give you
my word I fainted dead away like a school-girl when I got
to my room. I suppose it was partly this confounded pal-
pitation of the heart, and partly the shock of the great sur-
prise and joy. Jamison brought me all right somehow, after
awhile, and then I came here. I had to do something, or I
believe T should have gone clear out cf my senses."

Then there was a pause. The two women looked at each
other, then at him, his eager eyes, his excited, wild-looking,
haggard face.

" Well," he cried impatiently, "have you nothing to say ?
Is it nothing to you that after all these months — months —
great Heavens I it seems centu^es. But I have found her
at last — toiling for her living, wiiile we — oh ! 1 can't think
of it — I dare not ; it drives me mad ! "

He sprang up and began pacing to and fro, looking quite
as much like a madman as a sane one.

" Be quiet, Victor," his aunt said. " It is madness in-
deed for you to excite yourself in this way. Of course we
rejoice in all that makes you happy. She is found — Heaven
be praised for it ! — she is alive and well — thank Heaven also
for that. And now — what next?"

" What next?" He paused and looked at her in aston-
ishment. " You ask what next ? What next can there be,
except to go the first thing to-morrow morning and take her
away."

334

EDITH.

"Take her away!" Lady Helena repeated, setting her
lips ; " take her ivhere, Victor ? To you ? "

His ghastly face turned a shade ghastlier. He caught his
breath and grasped the back of the chair as though a spasm
of unendurable agony had pierced his heart. In an instant
his aunt's arms were about him, tears streaming down her
cheeks, her imploring eyes lifted to his :

" Forgive me, Victor, forgive me ! I ought not to have
asked you that. But 1 did not mean — 1 know that can
never be, my poor boy I will do whatever you say. I
will go to her, of cou*- -I will fetch her here if she will
come."

" If she will come i i»e repeated hoarsely, disengaging
himself from her ; " what do you mean by iff There can be
no ' if in the matter. She is my wife — she is I.ady Cather-
on — do you think she is to be left penniless and alone drudg-
ing for the bread she eats ? I tell you, you must bring her ;
she must come ! "

His passionate, suppressed excitement terrified her. In
pain and fear and helplessness she looked at her niece.
Inez, with that steady self-possession that is born of long
and great endurance, came to the rescue at once.

" Sit down, Victor I " her full, firm tones said, " and
don't work yourself up to this pitch of nervous excitement.
It's folly — useless folly, and its end will be jirostration and
a sick-bed. About your wife. Aunt Helena will do what she
can, but — what can she do ? You have no authority over
her now ; in leaving her you resigned it. It is unutterably
painful to speak of this, but under the circumstances we must.
She refused with scorn everything you offered her before ;
unless these ten past months have greatly altered her, she
will refuse again. She seems to have been a very proud,
high-spirited girl, but her hard struggle with the world may
have beaten down that — and — "

" Don't I " he cried passionately ; " I can't bear it. O
my Ciod ! to think what I have done — what I have been
forced to do ! what I have made her suffer — what she must
think of me — and that I live to bear it ! To think I have
endured it all, when a pistol-ball would have ended my tor-
ments any day ! "

" When you talk such wicked folly as that," said Inez

EDITH.

335

Cathcron, her strong, steady eyes fixed upon his face, " I
have no more to say. You did your duty once : you acted
hke a hero, Hke a martyr — it seems .1 pity to spoil it all by
such cowardly rant as this."

" My duty ! " he exclaimed, huskily. "Was it my duty ?
Sometimes 1 doubt it ; sometimes I think if I had never left
her, all might have been well. Was it my duty to make my
life a hell on earth, to tear my heart from my bosom, as I
did in the hour I left her, to spoil her life for her, to bring
shame, reproach, ,ind poverty upon her ? If I had not left
her, could tlie worst that might have happened been any
worse than that ? "

" Much worse — infinitely worse. You are the sufferer,
believe me, not she. Wiiat is all she has undergone in com-
parison witli wh'iX.you have endured ? And one day she will
know all, and love and honor you as you deserve."

He hid his face in his hands, and turned away from the
light.

"One day," they heard him murmur; "one day — the day
of my death. Pray Heaven it may be soon."

" I think," Inez said after a pause, "you had better let me
go and speak instead of Aunt Helena. She has undergone
so much — she isn't able, believe me, Victor, to undergo more.
Let me go to your wife ; all Aunt Helena can say, all she
can urge, I will. If it be in human i)Ower to bring her back,
I will bring her. All I dare tell her, I will tell. But, after
all, it is so little, and she is so proud. Don't hope too
nuich."

" It is so little," he murmured again, his face still hidden ;
" so little, and there is so much to tell. Oh ! " he broke
forth, with a jiassionate cry, " I can't bear this much longer.
If she will come for nothing else, she will come for the
truth, and the truth shall be told. What are a thousand
l)romises to the living or the dead to the knowledge that she
hates and scorns me ! "

They said nothing to him — they knew it was useless —
they knew his paroxysm would pass, as so many others had
passed, and that by to-morrow he would be the last to wish
to tell.

" You will surely not think of returning to St. James Street

336

EDITH.

to-night?" said Inez by way of diversion, "You will re-
main here, and at the earliest possible hour to-morrow you
will drive nie to Oxford Street. I will do all I can — you
believe that, my cousin, 1 know. And if — if I am success-
ful, will " — she paused and looked at him — " will you meet
her, Victor ? "

"I don't know yet; my head is in a wliirl. To-night I
feel as though I could do anything, brave anything — to-
morrow I suppose I will feel differently. Don't ask me
what 1 will do to-morrow until to-morrow comes. I will re-
main all night, and I will go to my room at once ; I feel
dazed and half sick. Good-night."

He left them abruptly. They heard him toil wearily up
to his room and lock the door. I>ong a er, the two women
sat together talking with pale, apprehensive faces.

" She won't come — I am as sure of it as that I sit here,"
were Lady Helena's parting words as they separated for the
night. " I know her better than he does, and I am not
carried away by his wild hopes. She will not come."

Sir Victor descended to breakfast, looking unutterably
pallid And haggard in the morning light. Well he might ;
he had not slept for one moment.

But he was more composed, calm, and quiet, and there
was almost as litde hoi)e in his heart as in I^ady Helena's.
Inmiediately after breakfast. Miss Catheron, closely veiled,
entered the cab with him, and was driven to Oxford Street.
]t was a very silent drive; she was glad* when it was
over, and he set her down near the shop of Madame Mire-
beau.

" I will wait here," he said. "If she will come with you,
you will take -a cab and drive back to Poplar Lodge. If she
does not — " he had to pause a monunit — " then return to
me, and I will take you home."

She bent her head in assent, and entered the *hop. Her
own heart was beating at the thoiiglit of the coming inter-
view and its probable ending. She advanced to the counter,
and, without raising her veil, inquired if Miss Stuart were
come.

The girl looked inquisitively at the hidden face, and an-
swered : ;

" Yes, Miss Stuart had come."

EDITH.

337

" I wish to see her particularly, and in private, for a few
mom nts. Can you manage it for me?"

She slipped a sovereign into the shopwoman's hand.
There was a second curious look at the tall, veiled lady, but
the sovereign was accepted. A side door opened, and she
was shown into an empiy room.

" You can wait here, ma'am," the girl said. " I'll send
her to you."

Miss Cutheron walked over to the window ; that nervous
heart beat quicker than ever. When had she been nervous
b'ifore ? The window overlooked busy, bright Oxford .Street,
and in the distance she saw the waiting cab and her cousin's
solitary figure. The sight gave her courage. For his sake,
poor fellow, she would do all human i)ower could do.

" You wish to see me, madame ? "

A clear, soft voice spoke. The door had quietly opened
and a y^ung girl entered.

Inez Catlieron turned round, and for the second time ir»
her life looked in the face of her cousin's wife.

Yes, it was his wife. The face she had seen under the
trees of Povvyss Place she saw again to day in the I.ondon
milliner's parlor. The same darkly handsome, quietly reso-
lute young ficc, the same gravely beautiful eyes, the same
slender, graceful figure, the same silky waves of blackish-
brown hair. To her eyes there was no cliange ; she had
grown neither thinner nor paler ; she had lost none of the
beauty and fj;iace that had won away Sir Victor Catheron's
heart. She 'vas very plainly dressed in dark gray of some
cheaj) mr-'erial, but fitting perfectly; lin«n bands at neck
and throat, and a knot of cherry ribbon. And the slim
finger wore no wedding-ring. Siie took it all in, in three
seconds ; then she advanced.

" I wished to see you. We are not likely to be dis-
turbed ? "

'• W^e are likely to be disturbed at any moment. It is
the room where Madame Mirebeau tries on the dresses of
her customers ; and my time is very limited."

'I'he dark, grave eyes were fixed upon the close veil ex-
pectantly. Inez Catheron threw it back.

"Edith!" she said — and at the sound of her name lh«
15

338

EDITH.

girl recoiled — "you don't know me, but I think yoii will
know my name. I am Inez Catheion."

She recoiled a step farther, her dark face paHng and grow-
ing set — her large eyes seeming to darken and dilate — her
lips setting themselves in a tense line. " WellV^ was all
she said.

Inez stretched out her hands with an imploring gesture,
drawing near as the other retreated.

" Oh, Edith, you know why I have come ! you know who
has sent me. You know what I have come for."

The dark, deep eyes met hers, full, cold, hard, and bright
as diamonds.

" I don't in the least know what you have come for. I
haven't an idea who can liave sent you. I know who you
are. You are Sir Victor Catheron's cousin."

Without falter or flinch she spoke his name — with a face
of stone she waited for the answer. If any hojie had lin-
gered in the breast of Inez it died out as she looked at her
now.

" Yes," she said sadly ; " I am Victor Catheron's cousin,
and there could be but one to send me here — Victor Cath-
eron himself."

"And why ha^ Sir Victor Catheron given you that
trouble?"

" Oh, Edith ! " again that imploring gesture, " let me call
you so — need you ask? All these months he has been
searching for you, losing health and rest in the fruiUcss
quest — wearing himself to a very shadow looking for you.
He; has been to New York, he has hunted London — it has
brought him almost to the verge of death, this long, vain,
miserajjle search."

Her (perfect lips curled scornfully, her eyes shot forth
gleams of contempt, but her voice was very quiet.

•' And again 1 ask why — why has Sir Victor Catheron
given himself all this unnecessary trouble?"

" Unnecessary ! You call it that ! A husband's search
for a lost wife."

"Stop, Miss Catheron!" she lifted her hand, and her
eyes flashed. " You make a mistake. Sir Victor Cather-
on's wife I am not — never will be. The ceremony we went
through, ten months ago, down in Cheshire, means nothing,

EDITH.

339

since a bridegroom who deserts his bride on her wedding-
day, resigns all right to the name and authority of husband.
Mind, I don't regret it now ; I would not have it otherwise
if I could. And this is not bravado, Miss Catheron ; I
mean it. In the hour I married your cousin he was no
more to me than one of his own footmen — I say it to my own
shame and lasting dishonor; and I thank Heaven most sin-
cerely now, that whether he were mad or sane, that he de-
serted me as he did. At last I am free — not bound for life
to a man that by this time I might have grown to loathe.
For I think my indifference then would have grown to hate.
Now I simply scorn him in a degree less than i scorn my-
self. I never wish to hear his name — but I also would not
go an inch out of my way to avoid him. He is simj^ly
nothing to mc -nothing. If I were dead and in n)y grave, I
could not be one whit more lost to him than I am. Why he
has presumed to search fur me is beyond my comprehension.
How ' las had the audacity to hunt me down, and send
you here, surpasses belief. I wonder \ou came. Miss
Catheron ! As yon have come, let mo give you this word
of advice : make _>inir first visit your last. Don't come
again to see me — don'^ let Sir Vi( )r Catheron dog my steps
or in any way interfere witli me. 1 never was a very good
or patient sort of person — I have not 'ocoiiie more so of
late. I am only a girl, alone and poor, but," her eyes
flashed tire — literally fire — and her hands clenched, " I warn
him — it will not be safe ! "

Inez drew back. What she had expected she hardly
kne\*— certainly not this.

"As I said before," Edith went n, "my time is limited.
Madame does not allow her W' ig-girls to receive visitors
in working hours. Miss Catheron, I have the honor to
wish you good-morning."

" Stay ! " Inez cried, " for the love of Heaven. Oh,
what shall I say, how shall I soften her ? Edith, you don't
understand. I wish — I wish 1 dared tell yoti the secret
that took Victor from your side that day ! He loves you—
no, that is too poor a word to express what he feels ; his
life is paying the penalty of his loss. He is dying, Edith,
dying of heart disease, brought on by what he has suffered
in losing you. In his dying hour he will tell you all ; and

340

EDITH.

his one prayer is for death, that he may tell you, that you
may cease to wrong and hate him as you do. O Edith,
hsten to me — pity me— i)ity him who is dying for you!
Don't be so hard. See, I kneel to you ! — as you hope for
mercy in your own dying hour, Edith Cathcron, have mercy
on him ! "

She flung herself on her knees, tears pouring over her
face, and held uj) her clasped hands.

"For pity's sake, Edith — for your own sake. Don't
harden your heart ; try and believe, though you may not
understand. I tell you he loves you — that he is a dying
man. We are all sinners ; as you hope for pity and mercy,
have pity and mercy on him now." With her hand on the
door, with Inez Catheron clinging to her dress, she paused,
moved, distressed, softened in spite of herself

"Get up, Miss Catheron," she said, "you must not kneel
tome. VVhat is it you want? what is it you ask me to
do?"

"I ask you to give up this life of toil — to come home
with n)e. Lady Helena awaits you. Make your home with
her and with me — take the name and wealth that are yours,
and wait — try to wait patiently to the end. For yiclor —
poor, heart-broken boy ! — you will not have long to
wait."

Her voice broke — her sobs filled the room. The dis-
tressed look was still on Edith's face, but it was as resolute
as ever.

" What you ask is impossible," she said ; " utterly and
absolutely impossible. What you say about your cousin
may be true. I don't understand — I never could read rid-
dles — but it does not alter my determination in the least.
What ! live on the bounty of a nsan who deserts me on my
wedding-day — who makes me an outcast — an object of
scorn and disgrace ! I would die first ! I would face star-
\ation and death in this great city. I know what I am say-
ing. I would sweep a crossing like that beggar in rags
yonder ; I would lie down and die in a ditch sooner. Let
me go, Miss Catheron, I beg of you ; you only distress me
unnecessarily. If you pleaded forever it could not avail.
Give my love to Lady Helena ; but I will never go back —
I will never accept a farthing from Sir Victor Catheron,

HO IV THEY MET.

341

Don't come here more — don't let ///'/« come."* Again her
eyes gleamed. " There is neither sorrow nor pity for him
in my heart. It is Uke a stone where he is concerned, and
always will be — always, though he lay dying before me.
Now, farewell."

Tiien tlie door opened and closed, and she was gone.

CHAPTER III.

HOW THEy MET.

jtTSS STUART went back to the workroom, and to
the dozen or more young women lliere assembled.
Ij If she was a shade paler than her wont they were
not likely to notice it — if she was more silent even
than usual, why silence was always Miss Stuart's forte.
Only the young person to whom Aliss Catheron had given
tlie sovereign looked at her curiously, and sa'd point blank :

" I say. Miss Stuart, who was thati* what did she want ? "
And the dark, haughty eyes of Miss Stuart had lifted from
tlie peach satin on which she worked, and fixed themselves
icily upon her interrogator :

" It was a lady I never saw before," she answered frig-
idly. " What she wanted is certainly no business of yours,
Miss Hatton."

Miss Hatton flounced off with a muttered reply; but
there was that about Edith that saved her from open insult
• — a dignity and distance they none of them could over-
reach, ik'sides, she was a favorite with madame and the
forewoman. So silently industrious, so tastefully neat, so
ivjrfeclly trustworthy in her work. Her companions dis-
liked and distrusted her ; she held herself aloof from them
all; she had something on her mind — there was an air of
mystery about her; they doubted her being an English girl
at all. She would have none of their companionbhip ; if
siie had a secret she kept it well ; in their noisy, busy midst
she was as much alone as though she were on Robinson
Crusoe's desert island. Outwardly those ten months had

342

JIOIV THEY MET.

changed her little — her brilliant, dusk beantr was scarcely
dimmed — inwardly it had changed her greatly, and hardly
for the better.

There had been a long and bitter struggle before she
found herself in this safe haven. For nionlhs she had drifted
about without rudder, or compass, or psSoit, on the dark,
turbid sea of London. She had come to the great city
friendless and alone, with very little money, and very little
knowledge of city life. She had found lodgings easily
enough, cheap and clean, and had at once set about search-
ing for work. On the way up she had decided what siie
must do — she would become a nurserj' governess or com-
panion to some elderly lady, or she would teach music.
But it was one thing to resolve, another to do. There were
dozens of nursery governesses and comjxinions to old
ladies wanting in the columns of the Tim^s, but they were
not for her. "Where are your references?" was the terri-
ble question that met her at every turn. She had no refer-
ences, and the doors of the genteel second and third-rate
houses shut quietly in her face.

Young and pretty, without references,, money or friends,
how was she ever to succeed? If she had been thirty and
pock-marked she might have triumphed even over the ref-
erence business : as it was, her case seemed hopeless.
It was long, however, before her indoroitaMe spirit would
yield. Her money ran low, she pawned several articles of
jewelry and dress to pay for food and lodging. She grew
wan and hollow-eyed in this terrible time — ^aU her life long
she could never recall it without a shudder.

Five months passed ; despair, black and awful, filled her
soul at last. The choice seemed to lie between going out
as an ordinary servant and starving. Even as a house-
maid she would want this not-to-be-got-OTer reference. In
this darkest-hour before the dawn she saw Madame Mire-
beau's advertisement for sewing girls, and in sheer dosjjair
applied. Tall, handsome girls of good address, were just
what madame required, and somehow — it was the mercy
of liie good God no doubt — she was taken. F(5r weeks
after she was ke|)t under close surveiJJartce, she was so
very unlike the young women who filled such situations —
then the conviction became certainty that W\s& Stuart had

HOW THEY MET.

343

no sinister designs on the ruby velvets, the snowy satins,
«iul i)iicelcss laces of her aristocratic customers — that she
really wanted work and was thoroughly capable of doing it.
Nature had made Edith an artist in dressmaking ; her taste
was excellent ; niadame became convinced she had found
a treasure. Only one thing Miss Stuart steadfastly refused
to do — that was to wait in the shoi). " I have reasons of
rny own for keeping perfectly quiet," she saiil, looking
niadamc unilinchingly in tiie eyes. " If I stay in the shop
I may — though it is not likely — be recognized ; and then 1
should be under the necessity of leaving you immediately."

Madame had no wish to lose her very best seamstress,
so Miss Stuart had her way. The sentimental French-
woman's own idea was that Aliss Stuart was a young per-
son of rank and jjosition, who owing to some ill-starred
love affair had been obliged to run away and hide herself
from her friends. However as her hopeless passion in no
way interfered with her dressmaking ability, madame kej)t
her suspicions to herself and retained her in the work-
room.

And so after weary months of pain, and shame, and des-
pair, Edith had come safely to land at last. For the past
five months her life had flowed along smoothly, dully, un-
eventfully — going to her work in the morning, returning to
her lodgings at night — sometimes indulging ' i a short walk
in the summer twilight after her tea ; at other times too
wearied out in body and mind to do otlier than lie down on
the little hard bed, and sleep the spent sleej) of exhaustion.
That was iier outer life ; of her inner life what shall I say ?
She could hardly have told in the after-days herself. Some-
how strength is given us to bear ail things and live on. Of
the man she had married she could not, dare not think— her
heart and soul filled with such dark and deadly hatred.
Slie abhorred him, — it is not too much to say that. 'J'lic
packet of treasured letters written in New York so long
— oil, so long ago ! it seemed — became" the one spot of
sunshine in liar sunless life. She read them until the
words lost all meaning — until she knew every one by iieart.
She looked at the picture until the half-smiling eyes and
lips seemed to mock her as she gazed. The little turquoise
broach with the likeness, she wore in her bosom night and

344

HOW THEY MET.

day — the first thing to be kissed in the morning, the last at
night. Wrong, wrong, wrong, you say ; but the girl was
desperate and reckless — she did not care. Right and
wrong were all confounded in her warped mind ; only tliis
was clear — she loved Charley as she had never loved him
before she became Sir Victor Catheron's bride. He
scorned and despised her ; she would never look upon his
face again — it did not matter ; she would go to iier grave
loving him, his pictured face over her heart, his name the
last upon her lips.

Sometimes, sitting alone in the dingy London twilight,
there rose before her a vision of what might have been :
Charley, poor as he was now, f nd she Charley's wife, lie
working for her, somewhere and somehow, as she knew he
gladly would, she keeping their two or three tiny rooms in
order, and waiting, with her best dress on, as evening came,
to hear his step at the door. She would think until thought
became torture, until thought became actual physical puin.
His words, spoken to her that last night she had ever si)ent
at Sandyi)oint, came back to her full of bitter meaning
now: " Whatever the future brings, don't blame me." Tlie
future had brought loneliness, and poverty, and despair —
all her own fault — her own fault. That was the bitterest
stina: of all — it was her own work from first to last. She
had dreaded poverty, she had bartered her heart, her life,
and him in her dread of it, and lo I such poverty as she
had never dreamed of had come upon her. If she had
only been true to herself and her own heart, what a happy
creature she night have been to-day.

But these tunes of torture were mercifully rare. Her
heart seemed numb — she worked too hard to think much — •
at night she was too dead tired to spend the hours in fruit-
less an£;uish and tears. Her life went on in a sort of tread-
mill existence ; and until the coming of Inez Catheron
nothing had occurred to disturb it.

H-r heart was full of bitter tumult and revolt as she went
back to her work. The dastard ! how dared he ! He was
dying, Inez Catheron had said, and for love of her. Bah !
she could have laughed in her bitter scorn, — what a mock-
ery it was ! If it were true, why let him die I The sooner
the better — dien indeed she would be free. Perhaps Edith

HO IV THEY MET.

345

had lost something — heart, conscience — in the pain and
shame of the past. All that was soft and forgiving in her
nature seemed wliolly to have died out. He had wronged
her beyond all reparation — the only reparation he i^ould
make was to die and leave her free.

Madairie's young women were detained half an hour
later than usual that evening. A great Iklgravian ball
came off next night, and there was a glut of work. They
got away at last, half fagged to death, only to find a dull
drizzling rain falling, and the murky darkness of early night
settling down over the gas-lit highways of London. Miss
Stuart bade her companions a brief good-night, raised her
umbrella, and hurried on her way. She did not observe
the waiting figure, muffled from the rain and hidden by an
umbrella, that had been watching for her, and who instantly
followed her steps. She hurried on rapidly and came at
last to a part of the street where it was necessary she should
cross. She paused an instant on the curbstone irresolute.
Cabs, omnibuses and hansoms were tearing by in numbers
innumerable. It was a perilous passage. She waited two
or three minutes, but there was no lull in the rush. Then
growing quite desperate in her impatience she started to
cross. The ciossing was slippery and wet.

" I say ! look out there, will you 1 " half a dozen shrill
cabbies called, before and behind.

She grew bewildered — her presence of mind deserted
her— she dropped her umbrella and held up her hands
instinctively to keep them off. As she did so, two arms
grasped her, she felt herself absolutely lifted off her feet,
and carried over. l>ut jusi. as the curbstone was reached,
something — a carriage jiole it appeared — struck her rescuer
on the head, and felled him co the ground. As he fell,
Edith sprang lightly out of his arms, and stood on the
pavement, unhurt.

The man had fallen. It was all the driver of the hansom
could do to keep his horse from going over him. There
was shouting and yelling and an uproar directly. A crowd
surounded the prostrate man. X 2001 came up with his
baton and authority. For Edith, she stood stunned and
bewildered still. She saw the man lifted and carried into a
chemist's near by. Instinctively she followed — it was in
16*

346

irOlV THEY MET.

saving her he had come to grief. She saw him placed in a
chair, the mire and blood washed off his face, and then —
was s).c stunned and stupefied still — or was it, was it the
face of Sir Victor Catheron ?

It was — awfully bloodless, awfully corpse-like, awfully
like the face of a dead man ; but the face of the man
whose bride she had been ten months ago — the face of Sir
Victor Catheron.

She leaned heavily against the counter, feeling giddy and
sick — the place swimming around her. Was he dead ?
Had he met his death trying to save her ? " Blessed if I
don't think he's dead and done for," said the chemist. " It
aint, such a bad cut neither. I say ! does anybody know
who he is ? "

Nobody knew. Then the keen eyes of X 2001 fell upon
Edith, pale and wild-looking, with evident terror and recog-
nition in her face.

"I say, miss, you know, don't you?" Bobby suggested
politely. " It was reskying you ho got it, you know. You
know this 'ere gent, don't you, miss ! Who is he?"

" He is Sir Victor Catheron."

" Oh," said Bobby. " Sir Wictor Catheron, is he ? I thought
he was a heavy swell." And then his eyes took in Edith's
very handsome face, and very plain dress, and evident sta-
tion, and he formed his own surnuse. " Perhaps now, miss,
you knows too, where he ought to be took ? "

"No," she answered mechanically; " I don't know. If
you search his pockets, you will most hkely find his address.
You — you, don't really think he is dead?"

She came a step nearer as she asked the question — her
very lips colorless. An hour ago it seemed to her she had
almost wished for his death — now it seemed too horrible.
And to meet it saving her too, — after all her thoughts of him.
She felt as though she could never bear that.

" Well, no, miss, I don't think he is dead," the chemist
answered, " though I must say he looks uncommon like it.
There's something more the matter with him than this rap
on the 'ead. Here's his card-case — now let's see : * Sir
Victor Catheron, Bart. Eenton's 'Otel.' Fenton's 'Otel.
Bobby, I say, let's border a cab and 'ave him driven there."

" Somebody ought to go with him," said X 2001. " I

I/O IV THEY PARTED.

can't go—yati can't go. I don't suppose now, miss," look-
ing VLM-y doubtfully at Edith, '^ you could go nuther?"

"Is it uccessary?" Edith asked, with very visible re-
luctance.

" Well, you sec, miss, he looks uncommonly like a stiff
'un this minute, and if he was to die by the way or hany-
think, and him halone — "

"I will go," interposed Edith, turning away with a sick
shudder. " Call the cab at once."

A four-wheeler was summoned — the insensible young
baronet was carried out and laid, as comfortably as might
be, on the back scat. Edith followed, unutterably against
her will, but how was she to help it ? He was her worst
enemy, but even to one's worst enemy common humanity
at times must be shown. It would be brutal to let him go
alone.

" Don't you be afraid, miss," the chemist said cheerfully ;
" he aiji't dead yet. He's only stunned like, and will come
round all right directly."

"Fenton's, Bill," and the cab rattled off.

CHArTER IV.

HOW THEY parted;

HAT ride — all her life it came back to her like
a bad nightmare. She kept her eyes turned awa}'
as much as she could from that rigid form and
ghastly face opjwsite, but in spite of herself they
would wander back. What Miss Catheron had said was
true then — he wa' dying — death was i)ictured in his face.
What if, after ah, Uierc was some secret strong enough to
make his conduct in leaving her right ? She had thought it
over and wondered and wondered, until her brain was
dazed, but coulu never hit on any solution. She could not
now — it was not right. Whatever the secret was, he had
known it before he married her — why had he not left her
then — why in leaving her after had he not explained ?

348

HOW THEY PARTED,

There was no excuse for him, none, and in spite of the white,
worn face that pleaded for him, her heart hardened once
more — hardened until she felt neill.i r pity nor jKiin.

They reached the hotel. Jamison, the valet, came down,
and recoiled at sight of his master's long lost wife.

" My lady!" he faltered, staring as though he had seen a
ghost.

"Your master has met with an accident, Jamison," Edith
said calniiy, ignoring the title. Mow oddly it sounded to
her. " Vou had better have him conveyed to his room and
send for a surgeon. And, if Lady Helena is in town — "

" Lady Helena is in town, my luly. Will — " Jamison
hesitated, "will you not come in, mv lady, and wait until
her ladyship comes ? "

Again for a moment Edith hesitated and thought. Ft
would be necessary for some one to explain — she could not
go away either without knowing whether the injury he had
received were fatal or not, since that injury was received in
her service. She set her lips and alighted.

" I will remain until Lady Helena arrives. Pray lose no
time in sending for her."

"I will send immediately, my lady," answered Jamison
respectful 1)'. " Tliompson," to a waiter, " show this lady to
a parlor at once."

And then Edith found herself following a gentlemanly sort
of man in black, down a long hall, up a great staircase, along
a carpeted corridor, and into an elegant |)rivate parlor.
The man lit the gas and went, and then she was alone.

She sat down to think. What a strange adventure it had
been. She .lad wished for her freedom — it seemed as though
it were near at hand. She shuddered and shrank from her-
self

" What a wretch I am," she thought ; " what a vile creature
I nnist be. If he dies, I shall feel as though I murdered
him."

How long the hours and half hours, told off on the clock,
seemed — eight, nine, ten, — would Lady Helena never come ?
It was a long way to St. John's Wood, but she might surely
be here by this time. It was half past ten, and tired out
thinking, tired out with her day's work, she had fallen. into
a sort of uneasy sleep and fitful dream in her chair when

//Oiy TIIRY PARTED.

349

she suddenly became half conscious of souie one near her.
She had been dreaniin'^ of San(l\i)oinf, of quarrelling with
jier cousin. " Don't Charley ! " slie said petulantly, aloud,
and the sound of her own voice awoke her fully. She
started up, bewildered for a second, and found herself face
to face with Lady Helena. With Lady Helena, looking very
l)ale and sorrowful, with tear-wet eyes and cheeks.

She had been watching Edith for the i.)ast five minutes
silently and sadly. The girl's dream was pleasant, a half
snn'le parted iier lips. Then slie had moved restlessly.
*' Don't Charley ?" she said distinctly and awoke.

It was of him then she was dreaming — thoughts of him
had brought to her lips that happy smile. The heart of the
elder woman contracted with a sharp sense of pain.

" Lady Helena ! "

"Edith!"

She took the girl's hand in both her own and looked
kindly at her. She had liked her very nnich in the days
gone by, though she had never wished her nephew to marry
her. And she could hardly blame her very greatly undei the
circumstances, if her dreams were of the man she loved, not
of the bridegroom who had left lier.

"I — I think I fell aslee[)," Edith said confusedly ; " I was
very tired, and it all seemed so quiet and tedious here.
How x'^heV

" Better and asleep — tliey gave him an opiate. He knows
nothing of your being here. It was very good of you to
come, my child."

" It was nothing more than a duty of common humanity.
It was imi)ossible to avoid coming," Edith answered, and
then briefly and rather coldly she narrated liow the accident
had taken place.

" My poor boy ! " was all Lady Helena said, but there
was a heart sob in every word ; " he would die gladly to
save you a moment's pain, atid yet it has been his bitter lot
to inllict the worst pain of your life. My poor child, you
can't understand, and we can't explain — it must seem very
hard and incomprehensible to you, but one day you will
know all, and you will do him justice at last. Ah, Edith !
if you had not refused Inez — if only you were not so pioud,
if you would take what is your right and your due, he vd^ht

3 so

HOW TIIEY PARTED.

bear tliis separation until Heaven's good time. As it is, il
is killing hiin."

"He looks very ill," Edith said; "what is the matter
with him ? "

" Heart disease — brought on by mental suffering. No
words can tell what he has undertrone since his most miser-
able wetlding-day. It is known only to Heaven and himself,
but it has taken his life. As surely as ever human heart
broke, his broke on the day he left you, And you, my poor
child — yo:i have suffered too."

" Of I. we will not speak," the girl answered i)r6udly ;
"what is v.uiie, is done, For me, 1 hope the worst is over
— I am safe and well, and in good health as you see. 1 am
glad Sir Victor Catheron has not met his death in my' service.
J have only one wish regarding him, and that is tlaat he will
keep away from me. And now, Lady Helena, before it
grows any later, I will go home."

" Go home ! At this hour ? Most certainly you will not.
You will remain here all night. Oh, Edith, you must indeed.
A room has been prepared for you, adjoining mine. Inez
and Jamison will remain with Victor until morning, and —
you ought to see him bef )re you go."

She shrank in a sort of horror.

" No, no, no I that I cannot ! As it is so late I will re-
main, but see him — no, no ! Not even for your sake. Lady
Helena, ca.. I do diat."

" We will wait until to-morrow comes," was Lady Helena's
response ; " now you shall go to your room at once."

She rang the bell, a chambermaid came. Lady Helena
kissed the girl's pale cheek affectionately, and lulilh was led
away to the room she was to occupy for that night.

it was certainly a contrast in its size and luxurious ap-
pointments to that she had used for the last ten mondis.
She smiled a little as she glanced around. And she was to
spend the night under the same roof wid) Sir Victor Cathe-
ron. If anyone had predicti.'d it this morning, how scornfully
she would have refused to believe.

"Who can tell what a day may bring forth !" was F,ditli's
last thought as she laid lu.r head on her pillow. " 1 am glad
— very glad, that the accident will not prove flital. I don't
want him or anyone else to come to lus death througii me."

JIOIV THEY PARTED.

3S«

She slept well and soundly, and awoke late. She sprang
out of l)e(l almost instantly and dressed. She could but illy
afford to lose a day. Before h'T toilet was quite completed
there was a tap at the door. Shi, opened it and saw Miss
Catheron.

" I fancied ycu would be up eaily, and ordered breakfast
accordingly. Aunt Helena awaits you down stairs. How
did you sleep?"

" Very well. And you — you were up all night I sup-
pose ? "

" Yes. I don't mind it at all, thougli — I am quite used to
night watching. Anrl I have the reward of knowing Victor
is much better — entirely out of danger indeed. Edith," she
laid her hands on the girl's shoulders and looked down into
her eyes, " he knows yoii are here. Will you be merciful to
a dying man and see hi'v. ?"

Siie changed color and shrank a little, but she answered
proudly and ci,ldly :

" No good can come of it. It will be much better not,
but for my own part I care little. If he wishes to urge what
you came to urge, I warn ytni, I will not listen to a word ; I
will leave at once."

" He will not urge it. He knows how obdurate yon are,
how fruitless it would be. Ah, Edith ! you are a terribly
haughty, self-willed girl. He will not detain you a moment
— he wishes to make but one parting retpiest."

" I can grant nothing — nothing," Edith said with agitation.

"You will grant this, I think," the other answered sadly.
"Come, dear child, let us go down ; Eady Helena waits."

They descended to breakfast ; Edith ate little. In spite
of herself, in spite of her pride and self command, it shcjk
her a little — the thought of speaking to him.

\\\\. how was she to refuse? She rose at last, very pale,
very stern and resolute looking — the sooner it was over and
she was gont% the better.

"Now,'' she said, '"if jou insist — "

" I do insist," answered Inez, steadily. "Come."

She led her to a door down the corridor and rapped.
How horribly thick and fast Editli's heart beat ; she hated
herself for it. The door ojiened, and the grave, professional
face of Mr. Jamison looked out.

352

HOW THEY PARTED.

"Tell Sir Victor, Lady Catheron is here, and will see
him."

The man bowed and departed. Another instant and he
was again before them :

"Sir Victor begs my lady to enter at once."

Then Inez Catheron took her in her arms and kissed her.
It was her farewell. She pointed forward and hurried away.

Edith went on. A door and curtain separated her from
the inner room. She opened one, lifted the other, and hus-
band and wife were face to face.

He lay ui)on a low sofa — the room was partially darkened,
but even in that semi-darkness she could see that he looked
quite as ghastly and bloodless this morning as he had last
night.

She paused about half way down the room and spoke :
"You wished to see me, Sir Victor Catheron ? "

Cold and calm the formal words fell.

" Edith ! " •

His answer was a cry — a cry wrung from a soul full of
love and anguish untolil. It struck home, even to /ur
heart, steeled against him and all feeling of pity.

" I am sorry to see you so ill. I am glad your accident
is no worse." Again she spoke, stiff, formal, commonplace
words, that souniled horribly out of place, even to herself.

" Edith," he repeated, and again no words can tell the
pathos, the desjjair of tliat cry, "forgive me — have pity on
me. You hate me, and I deserve your hate, but oh ! if you
knew, even you would have mercy and relent ! "

He touched her in spite of herself. Even a heart of
stone might have softened at the sound of that despairing,
heart-wrung voice — at sight of that death-like, tortured face.
And Edith's, whatever she might say or think, was not a
heart of stone.

" I do pity you," she said very gently ; " I never thought
to — but from my soul 1 do. Jiut, forgive you ! No, Sir
Victor Catheron ; I am only mortal. 1 iiave been wronged
and humiliated as no girl was ever wronged and humiliated
before. 1 can't do that."

He covered his face with his hands — she could bear the
dry sobbing sound of his wordless misery.

" It would have been better if I had not come here," she

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

353

said still gently. "You are ill, and this excitement will
make you worse. But they insisted upon it — they said you
had a request to niaice. 1 think you had better not make it
■ — I can grant nothing — notiiing."

" You will grant ilii?," he answered, lifting his face and
using the words Inez liad used ; " it is only that when 1 am
dying, and send for you on my death-bed, you will come to
me. Jkfore 1 die 1 must tell you all — the terrible secret ; I
dare not tell you in life ; and l.ien, oh surely, surely you will
pity and forgive ! Edith, my love, my darling, leave me this
one hope, give me this one ])romise before you go?"

" 1 promise to come," was her answer ; " 1 promise to
listen — 1 can promise no more. A week ago 1 thought I
would have died sooner than pledge myself to that much — •
sooner than look in your face, or si)eak to you one word.
And now. Sir Victor Cadieron, farewell."

She turned to go without wailing for his reply. As she
opened the door, she heard a wailing cry that struck chill
with pity and terror to her inmost heart.

" Oh, my love! my bride! my wife!" — then the door
closed behind her — she heard and saw no more.

So they had met and parted, and only death could bring
them together again.

She passed out into the sunshine and s])lendor of the
summer niorning, dazed and cold, her whole soul full of un-
told con)passion for the man she had left.

CHAPTER V.

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET,

DITH went back to the work-room in Oxford
Street, to the old treadmill life of ceaseless sewing,
and once more a lull came into her disturbed exis-
tence — the lull preceding the last-ending of this
strani;e mystery that had wrecked two lives. It seemed to
her as she sat down among nuuknne's trooj) of noisy, chat-
tering gills, as though last night and its events were a long
way off and a figment of some strange dream. That she

354

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

had stood face to face with Sir Victor Catheron, spent a
night under the same roof, actually spoken to liim, actually
felt sorry for him, was too unreal to be true. They had
said rightly when they told her death was pictured on his face.
Wiiatever this secret of his might be, it was a secret that had
cost him his life. A hundred times a day that palliil, tor-
tured face, rose before her, that last agonized cry of a strong
heart in strong agony rang in her ears. All her hatred, all
her revengeful thoughts of him were gone — she understood
no better than befoie, but she pitied him from the depths of
her heart.

They disturbed her no more, neither by letters nor visits.
Only as the weeks went by she noticed this — that as surely
as evening came, a shadowy figure hovering alcjof, followed
her home. She knew who it was — at first she felt inclined
to resent it, but as he never came near, never s|)oke, only
followed her from that safe distance, she grew reconciled
and accustomed to it at last. She understood his motive —
to shield her — to protect her from danger and insult, think-
ing himself unobserved.

Once or twice she caught a fleeting gHmpse of his face on
these occasions.

What a corpse-like face it was — how utterly weak and
worn-out he seemed--more fitted for a sick-btd than the
role of protector. " Poor fellow," Edith thougiit often, her
heart growing very gentle with pity and wonder, " how he
loves me, how faithfiil he is after ail. Oh, I wonder — I
wonder, ivhat this secret is that took him from me a year
ago. Will his mountain turn into a mole-hill v.Iien I hear
it, if I ever do, or will it justify him ? Is he sane or mad ?
And yet Lady Helena, who is in her right mind, surely, holds
him justified in what he has done."

July — August passed — the middle of Sei)tember came.
All this time, whatever the weather, she never once missed
her "shadow" fron) his i>ost. As we grow accustomed to
all things, she grew accustomed to this watchful care, givw
to look for him when the day's work was done. But in the
middle of September she missed him. Evening aft<'r even-
ing came, and she returned home unfuUowcd and alone.
Something had happened.

Yes, something had happened. He had never really

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET,

355

held up his head after that second parting with Edith. For
days he had lain prostrate, so near to death that they
thought death surely must come. But by the end of a
week he was better — as much better at least as he ever
would be in this world.

"Victor," his aunt would cry out, " I wish — I wish you
would consult a physician about this affection of the heart.
I am frightened for you — it is not like anything else. There
is this famous German — do go to see him to please me."

"To please you, my dear aunt — my good, patient nurse —
I would do much," her nephew was wont to answer with a
smile. " Believe me your fears are groundless, however.
Death takes the hopeful and happy, and passes by such
wretches as I am. It all comes of weakness of body and
depression of mind ; there's nothing serious the matter. If
I get worse, vou may depend upon it, I'll go and consult
Herr Von Werter."

Then it was that he began his nightly duty — the one joy
left in his joyless life. Lady Helena and Inez returned to
St. John's Wood. And Sir Victor, from his lodgings in
Fenton's Hotel, followed his wife home every evening. It
was his first thought when he arose in the morning, the one
hope that upheld him all the long, weary, aimless day — the
one wild delight that was like a spasm, half pain, half joy —
when the dusk fell to see her slender figure come forth, to
follow his darling, himself unseen, as he fancied, to JK-r
humble home. To watch near it, to look up at her light L-d
windows with eyes full of such love and longing as no
words can ever picture, and then, shivering in the rising
night wind, to hail a hansom and go home — to live only in
the thought of another meeting on the morrow.

Whatever the weather, it has been said, he went. On
many occasions he returned drenched through, with chatter-
ing teeth and livid lips. Then would follow long, fever-
tossed, sleepless nights, and a morning of utter prostration,
mental and i)hysical.

l>ut come what might, while he was able to stand, he
must return to his post — to his wife.

But Nature, defied long, claimed her penalty at last.
There came a day when Sir Victor could rise from his bed
no more, when the heart spasms, in their anguish, grew

356

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

even more than his resolute will couid bear. A day when
in dire alarm Lady Helena and Ine^ were once more sum-
moned by faithful Jamison, and w]]i;:n at last — at last the
infallible German doctor was sent for.

The interview between physiciaji and patient was long
and strictly i)rivate. When Herr Von W'erter went away
at last his phlegmatic Teuton face was i^t with an imwontod
expression of pity and pain. After an interval of ahnost
unendui-able suspense, Lady Helena was sent for by her
nephew, to be told the result. He lay upon a low sofa,
wheeled near the window. The last liglh' of the Septeml)er
day streamed in and fell full upon hss face — perhaps that
was what glorified it and gave it such a radiant look. A
faint smile lingered on his lij)s, liis eyes had a far-off, dreamy
look, and were fixed on the rosy evcinini^ sky. A strange,
unearthly, exalted look altogether, ihat made his aunt's
heart sink like stone.

"Well?" She said it in a tense sort of whisper, longing
for, yet dreading, the reply. He lurreoj to her, tint smile
still on his lips, still in his eyes. He had not looked so
well for months. He took her hand.

"Aunt," he said, "you have heard of doomed men sen-
tenced to death receiving their repneve at the last hour ?
I think 1 know to-day how those men must feel. My r^'-
prieve has come."

" Victor ! " It was a gasp. " Dr. Von Werter says you will
recover ! "

His eyes turned from her to that radiant brightness in the
September sky.

" It is aneurism of the heart- Dr. Von Werter says I
Won't live three weeks."

* « He * * * ik

They were down in Cheshire. Ther had taken him home
while there was yet time, by slow ajad ea>y stages. They
took him to Catheron Royals — it wjj his wish, and they
lived but to gratify his wishes now.

The grand old house was as it had been left a year ago —
fitted up resplendently for a bride — ^a bride who had never
come. There was one particular room to which he desired
to be taken, a spacious and sumptuoas chamber, all purple

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

357

and gilding, and there they laid him upon the bed, from
which he would never rise.

It was the close of September now, the days golden and
mellow, beautiful with the rich beauty of early autumn, be-
fore decay has coine. He had grown rapidly worse since
that memorable interview with the German doctor, and
paralysis, that "death in life" was preceding the fatal foot-
steps of aneurism of the heart. His lower limbs were
paralyzed. The end was very near now. On the last day
of September Herr Von Werter paid his last visit.

" It's of no use, madame," he said to Lady Helena ; " I
can do nothing — nothing whatever. He won't last the
week out."

The young baronet turned his serene eyes, serene at last
with the awful serenity that jirecedes the end. He had
heard the fiat not intended for his ears.

"You are sire of this, doctor? Sure, mind I I won't
last the week out ? "

" It is impossible. Sir Victor. I always tell my patients
the truth. Your disease is beyond the reach of all earthly
skill. The end may come at any moment — in no case can
you survive the week."

His serene face did not change. He turned to his aunt
with a smile that was often on his lips now :

"At last," he said softly ; " at last my darling may come
to me — at last I may tell her all. Thank (iod for this hour
of release. Aunt Helena, send for Editl\ at once,"

By the night train, a few hours later, Inez Catheron went
up to London. As Madame Mirebeau's young women
assembled next morning, she was there before them, wait-
ing to see Miss Stuart.

Edith came — a foreknowledge of the truth in her mind.
The interview was brief She left at once in company with
Miss Catheron, and Madame Mirebeau's establishment was
to know her no more.

As the short, autumnal day closed in, they were in
Cheshire.

It was the evening of the second of October — the anni-
versary of the bridal eve. And thus at last the bride was
coming home. She looked out with eyes that saw nothing
of the familiar landscape as it flitted by — the places she had

358

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

never thought to see more. She was going to Catheron
Royals, to the man she had married a year ago. A year
ago! what a strange, terrible year it had been — Hke a bad
dream. She shuddered as she recalled it. All was to be
told at last, and death was to set all things even. The
bride was returning to the bridegroom like this.

All the way from the station to the great house she never
spoke a word. Her heart beat with a dull, heavy pain —
pity for him — dread of what she was to hear. It was ijuite
dark when they rolled through the lofty gates, uj) the broad,
tree-shaded drive, to the grand portico entrance of the
house.

" He is very low this evening, miss," Jamison whispered
as he admitted them ; " feverish and longing for her lady-
ship's coming. He begs that as soon as my lady is rested
and has had some refreshment she will come to him af once."

Lady Helena met them at the head of the stairs, and
took the pale, tired girl in her aims for a moment. Then
Edith was in a firelit, waxlit room, lying back for a minute's
rest in the downy depths of a great chair. Then coffee and
a dainty repast was brought her. She bathed her face and
hands, and tried to eat and drink. But the food seemed to
choke her. She drank the strong, black coffee eagerly,
and was ready to go.

Lady Helena led her to the room where he lay — that
purple and gold chamber, with all its dainty and luxurious
appointments. She shrank a little as she entered — she re-
membered it was to have been their room when they re-
turned from their bridal tour. Lady Helena just opened
the door to admit her, closed it again, and was gone.

She was alone with the dying man. By the dim light of
two wax tapers she beheld him propped up with pillows,
his white, eager face turned toward her, th(; love, that not
death itself could for a moment vanquish, shining upon her
from his eyes. She was over kneeling by the bedside, hold-
ing his hands in hers — how, she could never have told.

"I am sorry — I am sorry!" It was all she could say.
In that hour, in the presence of death, she forgot every-
thing, her wrciigs, her humiliation. She only knew that he
was dying, and that he loved her as she would never be
loved again in this world.

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

359

■*' It is better as it is," she heard Iiim saying, when she
could hear at all, for the dull, rushing sound in her ears ;
"far better — far better. My life was torture — could never
have been any tiling else, though I lived fifty yeais. 1 was
so young — life looked so long, that there were times, ves,
Edith, times when for liours I sat debating within myself a
suicide's cowardly end. But Heaven has saved me from
tiiat. Death has mercifully come of itself to set all things
straight, and oh, my darling I to bring _)w/."

She laid her face upon his wasted hand, nearer loving him
in his death than she Iiad ever been in his life.

"You have suffered," lie said tenderly, looking at her.
" I thought to shield you from every care, to make your life
one long dream of pleasure and happiness, and see how I
have done it ! You have hated me — scorned me, and with
justice; how could it be otherwise? Even when you hear
all, you may not be able to forgive inc, and yet, Heaven
knows, I did it all for the best. If it were all to come over
again, I could not act otherwise than as I have acted. JJut,
my darling, it was very hard on you."

In death as in life his thoughts were not of himself and
his own stifferings, but of her. As she looked at him, as
she recalled what he had been only a year ago, in the Hush
and vigor and prime of manhood — it seemed almost too
much to bear.

" Oh, Victor ! hush," she cried, hiding her face again,
"you break my heart ! "

His fetble fingers closed over hers with all their dying
strength— that faint, hai)py smile came over his lips.

" I don't want to distress you," he said very gently ; "you
have suffered enough without that. Edith, I feel wonderfully
happy to-night — it seems to me I have no wish left — as
though I were sure of your forgiveness beforehand. It is
joy enough to see you here — to feel your hand in mine once
more, to know I am at liberty to tell you the truth at last.
1 have longed for this hour with a longing I can never de-
scribe. Only to be forgiven and die — I wanted no more.
For what would life have been without you ? My dearest,
I wojider if in the dark days that are gone, whatever you
may have doubted, my honor, my sanity, if you ever
doubted my love for you ? "

3^0

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

"I don't know," she answered, in a stifled voice. "My
thoughts have been very dark — very desperate. There were
times when there seemed no liglit on earth, no hope in
Heaven. I dare not tell you— I dare not think — how
wicked and reckless my heart has been."

" Poor child ! " he said, with a touch of infinite compas-
sion, " You were so young — it was all so sudden, so terri-
ble, so incomprehensible. Draw up that hassock, Edilh,
and sit here by my side, and listen. No, you must let go
my hand. How can I tell whether you will not shrink frouj
it and me with horror when you know all."

VV^ithout a word, she drew the low seat close to the bed,
and shading her face with her hand, listened, motionless as
a statue, to the brief story of the secret that had held them
apart so long.

" It all begins," Sir Victor's faint, low voice said, "with
the night of my father's death, three weeks before our wed-
ding-day. That night I learned the secret of my mother's
murder, and learned to pity my unha[)i)y father as I had
never pitied him before. Do you remember, Edith, the
words you spoke to Lady Helena the day before you ran
away from Powyss Place ? You said Inez Catheion was not
the murderer, though she had been accused of it, nor Juan
Catheron, though he had been suspected of it — that you be-
lieved Sir Victor Catheron had killed his own wife, Edith,
you were right. Sir Victor Catheron murdered his own
wife !

" I learned it that flital night. T.ady Helena and Inez had
known it all along. Juan Catheron more than suspected
it. Bad as he was, he kept that secret. My mother was
stabbed by my father's hand.

" Why did he do it ? you ask. I answer, because he was
mad — mad for weeks before. And he knew it, though no
one else did. With the cunning of insanity he ke|)t his se-
cret, not even his wife susi)ected that his reason was un-
sound. He was a monomaniac. Insanity, as you have
heajd, is hereditary in our family, in different phases ; the
phase it took with him was homicidal mania. On all other
points he was sane — on this, almost from the first, he had
been insane — the desire to take his wif^s life.

" It is horrible, is it not — almost incredibly horrible ? It

THE TELUNG OF THE SECRET.

361

is true, nevertheless. Before the honeymoon was ended,
his homicidal mania devt;h)ped itself — an almost insurmount-
able desire, whenever lie was alone in iier presence, to take
iicr life. Out of the very depth and intensity of his passion
for her his madness arose. He loved her with the whole
strength of his heart and being, and the mad longing was
with him always, to end her life while she was all his own —
in sliort, to kill her.

" He could not help it ; he knew his madness — he shrank
in horror from it — he battled with it — he prayed for help —
and for over a year he controlled himself. But it was al-
ways there — always. How long it might have lain dormant
— how long he would h^: e been able to withstand his mad
desire, no one can tell. But Juan Catheron came and
claimed her as his wite, and jealousy finished what a dreadful
hereditary insanity had begun.

"On that fatal evening he had seen them together some-
where in the grounds, and though he hid what he felt, the
sight had goaded him almost to frenzy. Then came the
summons from Lady Helena to go to Powyss Place. He
set out, but before he had gone half-way, the demon of
jealously whispered in his ear, * Your wife is with Juan Cath-
eron now — go back and surprise them.' He turned and
went back — a madman — the last glimpse of reason and self-
control gone. He saw his wife, not with Juan Catheron,
but peacefully and innocently asleep by the open window
of the room where he had left her. The dagger, used as a
paper knife, lay on the table near. 1 say he was utterly
mad for the time. In a moment the knife was up to the
hilt in her heart, dealing death with that one strong blow I
He drew it out and — she lay dead before him.

" Then a great, an awful horror, fell upon him. Not of
the consequence of his crime ; only of that which lay so still
and white before him. He turned like the madman he was
and fled. By some strange chance he met no one. In
passing through the gates he flimg the dagger among the
fern, leaped on his horse, and was gone.

" He rode straight to Powyss Place. Before he reached

it some of insanity's cunning returned to him. He must

not let people know he had done it ; they would fnul out lie

was mad ; they would shut him u^) in a madhouse ; they

363

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

would shrink from him in loathing and iiorror. How he
managed it, he told me with his dying hrcath, he never
knew — he did someliow. No one suspected iiim, only Inez
Catheron, returning to the nursery, had seen ail — had seen
the deadly blow struck, lunl seen his instant ilight, and stood
siK'H-hound, sjjeechless and motionless as a stone. Me re-
membered no more — the dark night of oblivion and total
insanity closed about him only to open at briefest intervals
from that to tiie hour of his death.

"That, Edith, was the awful story I was told that night—
the story that has ruined and wrecked my whole life and
yours. I listened to it all as you sit and listen now, still as a
stone, frozen with a horror too intense for words. I can re-
call as clearly now as the moment I heard them the last
words he ever spoke to me :

" ' I tell you this partly because I am dying, and I think
you ought to know, partly because I want to warn you.
They tell me you are about to be married. Victor, beware
what you do. The dreadful taint is in your blood as it was
in mine — you love her as I loved the wife 1 murdered.
Again I say take care — take care !, Be warned by me ; my
fate may be yours, your mother's fate hers. It is my wisli,
I would say command, if I dared, that you never marry ;
that you let the name and the curse die out; that no more
sons may be born to hei r the gliastly story I have told you.'

" I could listen to no more, 1 rushed from the room, from
the house, out into tha darkness and the rain, as if the cuise
he spoke of had already come ui)on me — as tliough I were
already going mad. How long I remained, what I diil, I
don't know. Soul and body seemed in a whirl. Tlie next
thing I knew was my aunt summoning me into the house.
My most miserable father was dead.

''Then canje the funeral. I would not, could not think.
I drove the last warning he had spoken out of my mind.
I clenched my teeth — 1 swore that 1 would «t?/ give you up.
Not for the raving of a thousand madmen, not for the warn-
ing of a thousand dying fathers. From that hour 1 was a
clianged man — from that hour my doom was sealed.

" 1 returned to Powyss Place, but not as I had left. I
was a haunted man. By day and night — all night long, all
day through, the awful warning pursued me. * My f4te \y\o^y

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

363

be yours — your mother's fate hers l^ It was my destiny,
there was no escape ; my mother's doom would be yours ;
on our wedding-day I was fated to kill you I It was writ-
ten. Nothing could avert it.

" I don't know whether the family taint was always latent
within me, or that it was continual brooding on what I had
heard, but the fate certainly befell me. My father's homi-
cidal mania becanie mine. Edith, I felt it, felt the dreadful
whisper in my ear, the awful desire stirring in my heart, to
lift my hand and take your life 1 Often and often have I
fled from your presence when I felt the temptation growing
stronger than I could withstand.

" And yet I would not give you up ; that is where I can
never forgive myself. I could not tell you ; I could not
draw back then. I hoped against hope ; it seemed like tearing
body and soul asunder, the thought of losing you. ' Come
what may,' I cried, in my anguish, 'she shall be my wife !'

" Our wedding-day came ; the day that should have been
the most blessed of my life, that was the most miserable.
All the night before, all that morning, the demon within me
had been battling for the victory. I could not exorcise it ; it
stood between us at the altar. Then came our silent,
strange wedding-journey. I wonder sometimes, as I looked
at you, so still, so pale, so beautiful, what you must think. I
dare not look at you often, I dare not speak to you, dare not
think of you. I felt if I did I should lose all control of my-
self, and slay you there and then.

" I wonder, as you sit and listen there, my love, my bride,
whether it is pity or loathing that fills your heart. And yet
I deserved pity ; what I suffered no tongue can ever tell.
I knew myself mad, knew that sooner or later my madness
would be stronger than myself, and then it came upon me
so forcibly when we reached Carnarvon, that I tied from you
again and went wandering away by myself, wliere, I knew
not. ' Sooner or later you will kill her ; ' that thought alone
filled me ; 'it is as certain as that you live and stand here.
You will kill this girl who trusts you ?.nd who has married
you, who does not dream she has married a demon athirst
for her blood.'

"I went wild then. I fell down on my knees in the wet
grass, and held up my hands to the sky. ' O G jU I * i

364

THE TELLING OF THE SECRET.

cried out in despair, 'show me what to do. Don't let me
kill my darling. Strike nic dead where I kneel sooner than
that ! ' And with the words the bilterness of death seemed
to pass, and great calm fell. In tliat calm a voice spoke
clearly, and said :

" Leave her i Leave your bride while there is yet time.
It is the only way. Leave her ! She d(ies not love you —
she will not care. Better that you should break your heart
and die, than that you should harm a iiair of her head.'

" I heard it as plainly, Eduh, as I hear my own voice speak-
ing now. I rose — my resolution taken — a great, unutterable
peace filling my heart. In my exalted state it seemed so
easy — I alone would be the sufferer, not you — ^! would go.

" I went back. The first sight 1 aaw was you, my darling,
sitting by the o[)en window, fast asleep. Fast asleep, as my
mother had been that dreadful night. If anything had been
wanting to confirm my resolution, that would have done it.
I wrote the note of farewell ; 1 came in and kissed your dear
hands, and went away from you forever. O love ! it seemed
easy then, but my heart broke in that hoar. I could not
live without you ; thank Heaven ! the sacrifice is not asked.
I have told you all — it lay between two things — I must leave
you, or in my mndness kill you. Pklith, it would have hap-
pened. You have heard my story — you know all — the
dreadful secret tiiat has held us asunder. It is for you to say
whether 1 can be forgiven or not."

She had all the tinie been sitting, her fiice hidden in her
hands, never stirring or speaking. Now she arose and fell
once more on her knees beside him, tears pouring from her
eyes. She drew his head into her arms, she stooped down,
and, for the first time in her life, kissed again and again the
lips of the man she had married.

" Forgive you ! " she said. " O my husband, my mar-
tyr I It is I who must be forgiven 1 You are an angel, not
a man ! "

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

365

CHAPTER VI.

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

[N hour later, when Lady Helena softly opened the
door and came in, she found them still so, his weak
head resting in her arms as she knelt, her bowed
face hidden, her falling tears hardly yet dried. One
look into his radiant eyes, into the unspeakable joy and
peace of his face, told her the story. All had been revealed,
all had been forgiven. On the anniversary of their most
melancholy wedding-day husband and wife were reunited at
last.

There was no need of words. She stooped over and si-
lently kissed both.

" it is growing late, rdidi," she said gently, " and you
must be tired after your journey. You will go up to your
room now. I will watch with Victor to-night."

But Pklith only drew him closer, and looked up with dark,
imploring eyes.

" No," she said, " no, no ! I will never leave him again.
I am not in the least tired. Lady Helena; 1 w'U stay and
share your watch."

" r>ut, my dear—"

" O Lady Helena — aunt — don't you sec — I must do some-
thing — tnake reparation in some way. What a wretch — what
a wretch 1 have been. Oh, why did I not know all sooner?
Victor, why did I not know you I To remember what my
thougiits of you have been, anil all the time -all the time —
it was for me. If you die I sliall feel as though I were your
murderess."

Her voice choked in a tearless sob. She had hated him —
loathed him — almost wislied, in her wickedness, for his death,
and all the time he was yielding up his life in his love for her.

" You will let me stay with you, Victor? " she pleaded al-
most passionately ; " (lon't ask me to go. We have been
l)arted long enough ; let me be with you until — " again her
voice choked and died away.

With a great effort he lifted one of her hands to his lips —
that radiant smile of great joy on his face.

366

THE LAST END TAG OF THE TRAGEDY.

" She talks almost as if she loved me," he said.

" Love you ! O Victor ! — husband — if I had only known,
if I had only known ! "

" Jf you had known," he repeated, looking at her with wist-
ful eyes. " Eduli, if you really had known — if I had dared to
tell you all I have told you to-niglu,would you not have slirunk
from nie in fear and horror, as a monster who pretended to
love you and yet longed for your life ? Sane on all o'u.jr
points — how would you have compreliended my strange mad-
ness on that ? It is gone now — tliank God — in my weakness
and dying hour, and tliere is nothing but tlie love left. IJut
my own, if 1 had told you, if you had known, would you not
have feared and left me ? "

She looked at him with brave, steadfast, shining eyes.

" If I had known," she answered, '' how your fiitlier killed
your mother, iiow his madness was yours, 1 would have pitied
you with all my heart, and out of that pity I would have
loved you. I would never have left you — never. I could
never have feared you, Victor; and this I know — wliat you
dreaded never would have come to pass. 1 am as sure of it
as that I kneel here. You would never have lifted your
hand against my life."

" You think so?" Still with that wistful, earnest gaze.

" 1 know so — I feel it— 1 am sure of it. You could not
have done it — I should never have been afraid of it, and in
time your delusion would have worn entirely away. You
arc naturally superstitious and excitable- — morbid, even ;
tlie dreadful excitement of your father's story and warning,
were too much for you to bear alone. That is all. If you
could have told me— if 1 could have laughed at your hypo-
chrondical terrors, your cure would have been half elTecleil.
No, Victor, 1 say it again — I would never have left you, and
you would never have liarmed a hair of my head."

Her tone of resolute conviction seemed to bring convic-
tion even to him. The sad, wistful light deepened in his
blue eyes.

" Then it has all been in vain," he said very sadly ; " the
sutTering and the sacrifice — all these miserable nonlhs of
separation and pain."

Again l,ady Helena advanced and interposed, this time
with authority.

THE LAST ENDING OF TFTE TRAGEDY.

367

" It won't do," she said ; " Edith yon in list go. All this
talking and excitement may end fatally. If you won't leave
him he won't sleei) :i wink to-niglu ; and if he jxisses a sleep-
less niglit who is to answer for tlie consec[uences? For his
sake you must go. Victor tell her to go — she will obey
you."

She looked at liim beseecliingly, but he saw that Lady
Helena was right, and that Edith iierself needed rest. It
was easy to make one more sacrifice now, and send her
away.

" I am afraid Aunt Helena is riglit," he said faintly. " I
must confess to feeling exhausted, and 1 know you need a
night's sleep, so that I may have you with me all day to-
morrow. For a few hours, dear love, let me send you
away."

She rose at once with a parting caress, and made him
comfortable among his jjillows.

" Good-nigiu,'' she whis|)ered. " Try to sleep, and be
strong to talk to ine to-morrow. Oh ! " ?he breathed as she
turned away, " if the elixir of life were only not a fable — if
the days of miracles were not past, if he only might be re-
stored to us, how happy we all could be ! "

Lady Helena heard her, and shook her head.

" It is too late for that," she said ; "when suffering is pro-
longed beyond a certain point there is but one remedy —
death. If your miracle could take place and he be restored,
he has undergone too much ever to live on and be hai)py
and forget. There can only be one ending to such a year
as he has passed, and that ending is very near."

lOdith went to her room — one of the exquisite suite that
had been prepared for her a year before. She was occupy-
ing it at last, but how dilTerently from what she had ever
thonght. She remembered this night twelve months so well,
the strange vigil in which she had si)ent in taking iier fare-
well of those letters and that picture, and waiting for her
wt (Kling day to dawn.

To- night she slept, deeply and soundly, and awoke to fmd
the October sun shining brightly in. Was he still alive ? It
was hei first thought. Death might have come at any mo-
ment. She arose — sli[)ped on a drcsbing gown, and rang the
bell.

368

THE LAST ENDLVG OF THE TRAGEDY.

It was Inez who answered in person.

" I heard your bell," she said as she kissed her good-
morning, "and I knew what you wanted. Ves, he is still
aUve, but very v;eak and helpless this morning. The excite-
ment and joy of last night were almost too much for him.
And he remembers what anniversary this is."

Edith turned away — some of the bitterness, some of the
pain of loss she knew he was enduring tilling her own heart.

" If I had only known I if 1 had only known ! " was again
her cry.

" If you had — if he had told — I believe with you all would
have been well. But it is too late to think of that — he be-
lieved differently. The terrible secret of the fatlicr has
wrought its terrible retribution upon the son. If he had told
you when he returned from Poplar Lodge, you would have
been happy together to-day. You are so strong — your mind
so healthful — some of your strength and courage would have
been imparted to him. But it is too late now — all is over — ■
we have only to make him happy while he is left with us."

" Too late ! too late I " Edith's heart echoed desolately.
In those hours of his death she was nearer loving her hus-
band than perhaps she could ever have been had lie lived.

" I will send breakfast up here," said Inez, turning to go ;
" when you have breakfasted, go to him at once. He is
awake and waiting for you."

Edith made her toilet. Breakfa'-t came ; and, despite re-
morse and grief, when one is nine." a one can eat. Then
she hurried away to the sick-room.

He was lying much as she had 'eft him, propped up
among the pillows — his far ""hiter th,.n the linen and lace,
whiter than snow. By ." ..ii,.it she saw fully the gliastly
change in him — saw llin' his fair hair was thickly strewn
with gray, that the awful, indiscribable change that goes be-
fore was already on his face. Is breathing was labored
and panting — he had suffered intensely with spasms of the
heart all night, sleei)ing none at all. This morning the
paroxysms of pain had passed, but he lay utterly worn and
exhausted, the cold dami) of infinite misery on his brow, the
chill of death already on hands and limbs. He lav before
her, the total wreck of the gallant, hopeful, hand.some gen-
tleman, whom only one year ago she ha.l married.

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

369

But the familiar smile she knew so well was on his lips
and in his eyes as he saw her. She could not speak for a
moment as she looked at him — in silence she took her
l)lace close by his side.

He was the first to break the silence, in a voice so faint
as hardly to be more than a whispe*- " How had she
slept — how did she feel ? She looked pale, he thought —
surely she was not ill ? "

" 1 ?" she said bitterly. " O, no— I am never ill — noth-
ing ever seems to hurt hard, heartless people like mc. It is
the good and the generous who suffer. 1 have the happy
knack of making all who love me miserable, but my own
health never fails. I don't dare to ask you what sort of
night you have had — I see it in your face. My coming
brings, as it always does, more ill than good."

" No," he said, almost with energy ; " a hundred times
no ! Ah, love ! your coining has made me the happiest man
on earth. I seem to have nothing left to wish for now. As
to the night — the spasms did trouble me, but I feel deli-
ciously easy and at rest this morning, and uncommonly happy.
Edith, I talked so nnich last evening I gave you no ciiance.
I want you to tell me now all about the year that has gone
— all about yourself."

" There is so little to tell," she responded ; " it was really
humdriun and uneventful. Nothing nmch hap- ened to me;
I looked for work and got it. Oh, don't be distressed ! it
was easy, pleasant work enough, and I v. ,is much better busy.
I begin to believe plenty of hard worl; is a real blessing to
dissatisfied, restless people — you can'! be very miserable
when you are very busy- you haven't time lor luxuries. I
got along very well, and never was ill an hour."

"But, tell me," he persisted; "you don't know how I
long to hear. Tell me all about your life after — after — "

"Hush!" she interposed, holding his hands tight. "You
were the sufferer, not I. O my poor boy ! 1 never was
half worthy such a heart as yours. I am only beginning to
nali/e how selfish, and cruel and hard I iKive been. But,
with Heaven's help, 1 will try and be dilferent from this
day."

She told him the story of her life, from the time of her
flight from Powyss I'lace to the present, glossing over all
10*

370

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

that was dark, making the mo?t of all •ni': was bright. But
he understood licr — he knew liow her j.:.uc had buffered and
bled.

" I never thought of your going sway." he said sadly. " I
might have known you better, but I d:d not — I was so sure
you would have stayed, if not with Lady Helena, then iu sonic
safe shelter; that you would have uien what was justly
yours. I was stunned when I first beaid of your tligiit. 1
searched for you everywhere — in America and all. Did jou
know I went to America, Edith?"

"Inez told me," she answered faintly.

" I could not find your father — I could not find the Stu-
arts. I must have been very stuj^iJ somehow — I could find
no one. Then arrived that day when I saw you in the Ox-
ford Street shop, when 1 tried to foliow y<xi home and could
not. What an evening it was ! Then catae uiy last desper-
ate hope when I sent Inez to you aiad failed. It seemed
almost hardest to bear of all."

"If I had only known — if I had only known I" was still
her cry.

"Yes, the trouble lay there. With your pride you could
not act otherwise than as you did. For you are very proud,
my dailing," with a smile. " Do you know it?"

"Very proud— very heartless — ven- sctn-ih/' she answered
brokenly. "Oh, no need to te]] me how base I have
been ! "

"Yet, I think I like you the better for your pride ; and I
foresee — yes, 1 foresee, that one day you will be a happy
woman, with as noble, and loving, and generous a heait as
ever beat. I undeistand you, ii scews to me now, belter
than you understand yourself. One day — it may be years
from now — the happiness of your life will come to you.
Don't let pride stand between you and it then, Kdith. I
hoi)e that day may come — 1 i»ray for il. Lying in my grave,
love, I think I shall rest easit-r if I kaw^w ly^ are happy on
earth."

"Don't! don't!" she said; "I cannot bear it! Your
goodness breaks my heart."

" There is one thing 1 must ask, Edith," he resumed after
a pause ; "a last favor. You wili grant it, will you not ? "

" Victor ! is there an) iliing 1 wouki mat i^raiu ? "

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

371

" It is this, then — (hat when I am gone, you will take what
is your right anil your clue. This you must promise nie; no
nioic false pride — the widow of Sir Victor Catiicron must
lake wiiat is hers. Juan Catheron is married to a Creole
lady, and living in the island of Martinique, a reformed man.
He inherits the title and Catheron Royals, with its income,
as heir at-law, For the rest you have your jointure as my
widow ; and my grandmother's large fortune, which de-
scended to me, I have beciueathcd to you in my will. So
that when I leave you, my dearest, I leave you safe from all
pecuniary troubles. It is my last wish — nay, my last com-
mand, that yon take all without hesitation. You promise
me tliis, Edith ? "

" I i^romise," she answered lowly. She could not look at
him — it seemed like the Scriptural words, "heaping coals of
fire on her head.'

Then for a long time there was silence. He lay back
among the pillows with closed eyes, utterly exhausted, but
looking very hajipy. The bitterness of death was passed —
a great peace had come. With the wife he loved beside him,
her hand clasped in his, he could go forth in ])eace, knowing
that in her heart there was notliing but affection and forgive-
ness — that one day, in the future, she would be happy. In
his death as in his life he was thorougiily unsehish. It
brought no pang to him now to feel that years after the grass
grew over his grave she would be the Iiappy wife of a hap-
l)icr man. He talked little more ; he dozed at intervals dur-
ing the dav. Edith never left inm for a moment. His aunt
and cousin shared her watch off and on all day. They could
all see that the last great change was near. Pain had left
him — he was entirely at rest.

" Read to me, Fdith," he said once as the day wore on.
She took up a volume of sermons that Eady Helena was
fond of. She opened it, haphazard, and read. And pres-
ently she came to this, reading of the crosses and trials and
sorrows of life : "And Cod shall wipe away all tears froia
their eyes, and there shall be no more death ; neither sor-
row nor crying ; neither shall there be any more pain."

His eyes were fixed upon her with so radiant a light, so
infinite a th inkfnlness, th.it she could read no more. Her
voice choked — she laid the book down. Later, as the sun-

372

THE LAST ENDING OF THE TRAGEDY.

set came streaming in, he awoke from a long slumber, and
looked at the glittering l)ars of light lying on the carpet.

*' Open the window, Edith," he said ; " I want to see the
sun set once more."

She obeyed. All flushed with rose light, and gold and
amythist splendor, the evening sky glowed like the very
gates of paradise.

•' It is beautiful," Edith said, but its untold beauty brought
to her somehow a sharp pang of pain.

" Beautiful ! " he repeated in an ecstatic whisper. " O
love ! if earth is so beautiful, what must Heaven be ! "

Then she heard him softly repeat to himsulf the words she
had read ; "And God shall wipe away all tears from their
eyes, and there shall be no more death ; neitlier sorrow nor
crying ; neither shall tliere be any more pain," He drew a
long, long breath, like one who is very weary and sees rest
near.

" Darling," he said, "how pale you are — white as a si)irit.
Go out for a little into the air — don't mind leaving me. I
feel sleepy again."

She kissed him and went. All her after life she was glad
to remember their last parting had been with a caress on her
part, a happy smile on his. She descended the steps lead-
ing from the window with unquestioning obedience, and
passed out into the rose and gold light of the sunset. She
remained perhaps fifteen minutes — certainly not more. The
red light of the October sky was fast paling to cold gray —
the white October moon was rising. She went back. He
still lay as she had left him — his eyes were closed — she
thought he was asleep. She bent over him, close — closer —
growing white almost as himself. And then she knew what
it was.

" And there shall be no more death ; neither sorrow nor
crying ; neither shall there be any more pain."

A cry rang through the room, the long, wailing cry of
widowhood. She fell on her knees by the bed. An hour
after, the passing bell tolled sombrely through the darkness
from the steeple of Cheshohn Church, telling all whom il
might concern that Sir Victor Catheron had gone home.

Tlf'O YEARS AFTER.

373

CHAPTER VII.

TWO YEARS AFTER.

INE brilliant, August noonday a Cunard ship steamed
gallantly down the Mersey snd out into the open
sea.

There were a great number of passengers on
board — every cabin, every berth, was filled. Every country
under Heaven, it seemed, was represented. Afler the fust
two or three days out, after the first three or four times
assembling around the dinner-table and congregating on
the sunny decks, people began to know all about one
another, to learn each other's names and histories.

There was one lady passenger who from the iirst excited
a great deal of talk and curiosity. A darkly handsome
young lady in widow's weeds, who rather held herself aloof
from everybody, and who seemed all sutBcient unto herself.
A young lady, pitifully young to wear that sombre dress and
widow's cap, remarkable anywhere for her beauty, and
dignity, and grace. Who was she ? as with one voice all
the gentlemen on beard cried out that question the moment
they saw her Iirst.

She was a lady of rank and title, an English lady, travel-
ling with her two servants — otherwise (juite alone — the
name on the passenger list was Lady Catheron.

For the first two days that was all that could be ascer-
tained — just enough to whet curiosity to burnii)g-i)oint.
Then in the solitude and seclusion of the ladies' cabin the
maid servant became confidential with one of the steward-
esses, and narrated, after the manner of maids, her mistress's
history as far as she knew it. The stewardess retailed it lo
the lady passengers, and the lady passengers gave it at third
hand to tiie gentlemen. This is what it was :

Lady Catheron, young as she looked and was, had never-
theless been a widow for two years. Her husband iuid
been Sir Victor Catheron, of Cheshire, who had died after
the first year of married felicity, leaving an immensely rich
widow. . Miserable Sir Victor ! thought all the gentlemen.

374

TfVO YEARS AFTER.

She — Sarah Bctts, the maid — had not known her ladyship
during the year of. her married life, she iiad been engaged
in London, some months after my lady's bereavement, to
travel with her on the continent. My lady had travelled in
company widi her aunt, the Lady Helena I'owyss, and her
cousin, a " Mrs. Victor." They had spent the best part of
two years wandering leisurely through every country in
Europe, and now my lady was finishing her tour of the
world by coming to America— why, Detts did not know.
Not many ladies of rank came to America alone, IJelts
thought, but she had heard my lady was American by birth.
Everywhere my lady went she had been greatly admired —
gentlemen always raved about her, but she seemed as cold
as marble, very high and haughty, utterly indifferent to
them all. She did not go into society — she had been aw-
fully fond of her late husband, and quite broken-hearted at
losing him so soon. That was Miss l>etts' story, and like
Sam Weller's immortal valentine, was just enough to make
them wish there was more.

For the man servant and avant courier of my lady, he
was a genteel, dignified, taciturn gentleman, like an elderly
duke in difficulties, with whom it was impossible to lake
liberties or ask questions— a sort of human oyster: who kept
himself and his knowledge hermetically sealed up. He told
nothing, and they had to be contented with Belts' version.

So Lady Catheron became the lady of interest on board.
Everybody saw her on deck, her railway rug spread in ihe
sunshine, her low wicker-work chair ])laced upon it, a large
umbrella unfurled over her head, reading or gazing over the
sea toward the land they were neariug. She made iio ac-
quaintances, she was perfectly civil to everybody v ho sp<'!ce
to her, friendly to a degree with the children, and I'er s'P'le
was bright and sweet as the sunshine itself Her riMi-euce
could hardly be sot down to jjride. Before the voyag,- was
over she was many times forward among the steerage pas-
sengers, leaving largesses behind her, and always followed by
thanks and blessings when she came away. Not pride,
surely — the great dark fathomless eyes were wondrously
sweet and soft; 'he lijis, that might once have been haughty
and hard, tender md gentle now, and yet llicre was a vatfiie,
intangible sonietl.iiig about her, that held all at arm's length,

Tiro YEARS AFTER.

375

that let no one come one inch nearer than it was her will
they should come. Lady Catheron had hueii their interest
from the first — she was their mystety to llie end.

Yes, it was Edith — lulilh going home — home ! well
hardly that, perhaps ; she was going to see her father, at his
mgent request. He had returned once more to Sandy-
pomt, he had been ailing lately, and he yearned to see his
darling. His letter reached her in Paris, and Edith crossed
over at once, and came.

Was there in her heart any hope of seeing, as well, other
friends? Hardly — and yet, as America drew near and
nearer, her heart beat with a hope and a restlessness she
could no more explain than I can. In Naples, six months
ai^o, she had met a parly of Americans, and among them
Mrs. Featherbrain, of light-headed memory. Mrs. Feather-
brain had recognized an old acquaintance in Lady Catheron,
and hailed her with effusion.

For Edith, she shrank away with the old feeling of dislike
and repulsion, and yet she listened to her chatter, too.

" How sad it was," said gay Mrs. Fealiierbrain, " about
the poor, dear Stuarts. That delightful Charley, too ! ah !
it was very sad. Did Lady Catheron coriespond with ihem ?
But of course she did, being a relative and everything."

" No," Edith' answered, her |)ale face a shade paler than
usual; "she had entirely lost siglit of them lately. Siie
would be very glad to hear of them, though. Did Mrs.
Featherbrain know — "

"Oh, dear, no!" Mr.s. Featherbrain answered ; " I have
lost sight of them too — every one has. When people be-
come poor and drop out of the world, as it were, it is impos-
sible to follow tiiem up. She had heard, just before their
l)arty started, that Trixy was about to be married, and that
Charley— poor Charley ! was going to California to seek
iiis fortune. But she knew nothing i)ositively, only that
they were certainly not to be seen in New York — that the
places and ])eople who had known them once, knew them
no more." That was all.

It could not be, then, that the hope of meeting them was
in Edith's mind, and yet, her whole soul yearned to meet
them — to ask their f(jrgivene:--s, if no more. To clasp Trisy's
hand once again, — honest, loving, impulsive, warui-iiearied

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;^V4.

376

Tff^O YEARS AFTER.

Trixy, — to feel Iit arms about her as of old, it seemed to
Edith Catheron, she could have given half her life. Of any
other, she would not let herself think. He had passed out
of her life forever and ever — nothing could alter that.

"Everywhere she went, she was admired," her servants
had said, " but to all she was cold as marble." Yes, and it
would always be so while life remained. There had been
but one man in all the world for her from the first — she had
given him up of her own free will ; she must abide by her de-
cision ; but there never would be any other. One loveless
marriage she had made ; she never would make another.
Chat ley Stuart might — would, beyond doubt — forget her and
marry, but she would go to her grave, her whole heart his.

They reached New York ; and there were many kindly
partings and cordial farewells. Lady Catheron and her two
servants drove away to an up-town hotel, where rooms had
been engaged, and all the pp.pcrs duly chronicled the distin-
guished arrival. One day to rest — then down to Sandy-
point, leaving gossiping Belts and the silent elderly gentle,
man behind her. And in the twilight of an August day slio
entered Sandypoint, and walked slowly through the little
town, home. Only three years since she had left, a happy,
hopeful girl of eighteen — returning now a saddened, lom-ly
woman of twenty-one. How sturngely altered the old land-
marks, and yet how faniiliar. Here were the stores to
which she used to walk, sulky and discontented, through (he
rain, to do the family marketing. Here spread the wide sea,
smiling and placid, whereon she and Charley used to sail.
Yonder lay the marsh where, that winter night, she had
saved his life. Would it have been as well, she thought with
weary wonder, if they had both died that night ? Here was
the nook where he had come upon her that wet, dark morn-
ing with his mother's letter, when her life seemed to begin —
here the gale where they had stood when he gave her his
warning : •• Whatever that future brinj's, Edith, don't blame
me." No, she blamed nobody but herself; the happiness of
her life had Iain within her grasp, and she had stretched forth
her hand and pushed it away. There was the open window
where he used to sit, in the days of liis convalesence, and
amuse himself selling her intlammable temi)er alight. It
was all associated with him. Then the house door opens, a

TH^O YEARS AFTER.

Z77

tall, elderly man comes out, there is a great cry, father and
daughter meet, and for an hour or so, she can forget even
Charley.

She remains a week — how oddly familiar and yet strange
it all seems. The children noisier and nider than ever, her
ilither grown grayer and more wrinkled, her stepmother, shrill
of tongue and acid of temper as of yore, but fawningly obse-
quious to her.

The people who used to know her, and who flock to see
her, the young men who used to be in love with her, and
who stare at her speechlessly and afar off now. It amuses
her for a while, then she tires of it, she tires of everything of
late, her old fever of restlessness comes back. This dull
Sandypoint, with its inquisitive gapers and questioners, is
not to be endured, even for her father's sake. She will re-
turn to New York.

In the bustling life there — the restless, ceaseless flow o
humanity, she alone finds solitude and rest now. She goes,
but she leaves behind her that which renders keeping
boarders or teaching classics forever unnecessary to Freder-
ick Darrell.

She goes back. What her p'.ans are for the future she
does not know. She has no jjlans, she cannot tell how long
she may remain, or where she will eventually take up her
abode. It seems to her she will be a sort of feminine Wan-
dering Jew all her life. That life lacks something that ren-
ders her restless-^she does not care to think what. She may
stay all winter — she may pack up and start any day for
England.

September passes, and she has not gone. A few of the
acquaintances she made when here before with the Stuarts
call upon her, but they can tell her nothing of them. If the
Stuarts were all dead and buried they could not more com-
l)letely have dropped out of the lives of their summer-time
friends. It must be true, she thinks, what Mrs. Feather-
brain told her. Tri.\y is married and settled somewhere with
her mother, and Charley is thousands of mll.o away, "seek-
ing his fortune."

Then, all at once, she resolves to go back to England.
Her handsome jointure house awaits her, I^ady Helena and
Inez long for her, love her — she will go back to them — try

378

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOTTEN 1

to be at peace like other women, try to live her life out and
forget. She has some purchases to make before she de-
parts. She goes into a Broadway store one day, advances
to a counter, and says :

*' I wish to see some black Lyons velvet." Then she
pauses, and looks at some black kid gloves lying before her.

" What is the number ? " she asks, lifting a pair.

The young man behind the counter makes no reply.

She raises her eyes to his face for the first time, and sees
— Charley Stuart 1

CHAPTER VIII.

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOrrEN ?

HARLEY STUART ! The original of the pic-
tured face that lies over her heart by night and
day. Charley — unchanged, calm, handsome,
eminently self-possessed as ever, looking at her
with grave gray eyes.

She turns giddy, with the utter shock of the great surprise
—she leans for a second heavily against the counter, and
looks at him with eyes that cannot believe what they see.

" Charley I "

"Edith!"

Yes, it is his voice, his smile, and he stretches his hand
across the counter and takes hers. Then she sinks into a
seat, and for a moment the store, and the faces, swim about
her in a hot mist. But her heart has given one great glad
leap, and she knows she has found what all unconsciously
she has been longing for, seeking for — Charley !

He is the first to recover himself — if indeed he has lost
himself for an instant — ^and speaks :

"This is a staggerer,'" he says ; "and yet I don't know
why it should be either, since everybody, high and low, wlio
visits New York drops in here for the necessaries of life,
sooner or later. 1 began to think, however, that you must
have gone away again."

She looks at him. He is in no way changed that she can

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOTTEN f

379

see — the very same Charley of three years before. " You
knew T. was here ! " she asks.

" Certainly, Lady Catheron. I read the morning papers,
and ahi'o.ys look out for distinguished arrivals. Like the
scent of the roses, my aristocratic tastes cling to me still. I
tlTonght you would hardly endure a month of Sandypoint —
delightful, no doubt, as that thriving township is. 1 don't
need to ask you how you have been — 1 can sec for myself
you iiever looked better."

lie meets her steady, reproachful gaze with perfect sang-
froid. " You knew I was here, and you would not come to
see me," those dark luminous eyes say. His i^erfectly care-
less, indifferent manner stings her to the quick.

" Trixy knew 1 was here too, of course ! " she says in a
very low voice.

" No," Charley answers ; •' I don't think she did. /didn't
tell her, and I am pretty sure if she had found it out for her-
self, her family circle would have heard of it. I greatly
doubt even whether she would not have taken the libeity of
calling upon you."

She lifts her eyes again, with a reproach her lips will not
speak.

"I have deserved it," that dark, sad glance says, "but
you might spare me."

" We were all very sorry to hear of Sir Victor Catheron's
death," Charley resumes gravely. " Hammond told us ; he
writes occasionally. Heart disease, wasn't it ? — poor fellow !
I hope Lady Helena Powyss is quite well ? "

" She is quite well."

Then there is a pause — her heart is full, and he stands
here so utterly unmoved, talking common-places, and look-
ing as though even the memory i.f the past were dead and
buried. As no doubt indeed it is. She handles the gloves
she still holds nervously, for once in her life at a loss.

" Your mother and Trix are well ? " she says after that
pause.

" Quite well."

She looks up desperately :

" Charley," she exclaims ; " mayn't I see them ? I have
wanted to see them so much — to — " No, her voice breaks,
she cannot finish the sentence.

380

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOTTEN i

"Certainly you can see them," Mr. Stuart answers
promptly ; " they will be delighted, I am sure. They might
not feel at liberty to call upon you, Lady Catheron, of course,
but all the same they will only be too happy if Lady Cathe-
ron will so far honor them"

He says this in the old lazy, pleasant voice, but it is qufte
evfdent he does not mean to spare her — his half-sarcastic
accent makes her wince as though in actual bodily pain.

" I'll give you the address if you like," he goes on ; " it's
not the most aristocratic neighborhood in the world, but it's
perfectly quiet and safe." He scribbles something in pen-
cil. •' llere it is — due east you see. Trix won't be houje
until seven ; she's at work in a fancy shop in Sixth avenue,
you know — no, you don't know of course, but she is, and I
generally call round for her at closing-up time. But you're
safe to find her at home any evening you may name, Lady
Catheron, after seven p. m."

She takes the slip of paper very humbly — very unlike the
Edith he used to know — her lips quivering, as he can see.

"May I go at once?" she asks in that humble liitle
voice ; " I can't wait. I want to see your mother, and I
will stay until Trixy comes."

" My mother will be there, and charmed to see you. Of
course you can go at once— why should you hesitate — it's
very kind of you and all that. 1 would escort you there if I
could, but unhappily I m on duty. You'll have no trouble
at all finding it."

He is perfectly cordial — perfectly indifferent. He looks
at her as he might look at Mrs. Featherbrain herself. Yes,
Edith, it is all over for you !

" I thought you were in California," she says as she rises
to go ; " and that Trixy was married."

" No, I have never left New York, and Trix is pining in
single blessedness still. We are going to alter all that shortly
though — for further particulars, apply to Trix. Are you go-
ing ? good-by, for the i^resent, Lady Catheron."

She is out in the bright sunshine, feeling as though she
were in a dream.

She summons a hack, and is driven away eastward to the
address he has given her. She finds it — a tall tenement
house in a close street, smelling of breweries, and she as-

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOTTEN i

381

answers

cends a long flight of carpetless stairs, and knocks at a door
on the upper landing. It is oi)cned, and the well-remem-
bered face of Aunt Chatty looks out.

•' Mrs. Stuart ! "

A darkly, beautiful face is before her, two black gloved
hands are outstretched, two brown brilliant eyes shine upon
her through tears. And Mrs. Stuart recoils with a gasp.'

" Oh, dear ni ! " she says, " it is Edith ! "

Yes, it is Edith, vith tears large and thick m her eyes, who
kisses the familiar 1 ice, and who is sitting beside her, how,
Mrs. Stuart never knows in her amaze and bewilderment, in
the humble little front room.

How changed it all is from the splendor of that other
house in Fifth Avenue. How different this dingy black al-
paca dress and rusty widow's cap from the heavy silks and
French millinery of other days. But Aunt Chatty's good,
easy, kindly face is the same.

A hundred questions are asked and answered. Edith tells
her how long she has been in New York, of how only an
hour ago she chanced upon Charley, and found out tlieir
whereabouts. And now, if Aunt Chatty pleases, she is going
to take off her bonnet and wait until Beatrix comes home.

" Of course you will wait ! take off your things right a^'ay.
Dear me ! and it is really our Edith ; won't Trix be sur-
prised and glad. It isn't much of a place this," says poor
Mrs. Stuart, glancing about her ruefully ; " not what you're
used to, my dear, but such as it is — "

An impetuous kiss from Edith closes her lips.

•• Ah hush ! " she says ; '■'• you are in it — and glad to see
me. I ask no more."

" And you are a widow too, dear child," Mrs. Stuart
sighs, touching her black dress compassionately ; "it is very
hard — so young, and only one short year his wife. Captain
Hammond told us — he writes to Trixy, you know. Poor
Sir Victor ! so nice as he was, and that good pleasant Lacly
Helena. We were all so sorry. And you, my dear — how
have you been ? "

" Perfectly well," Edith answers, but she will not talk of
herself. Aunt Chatty must tell her all about their trouble.
Aunt Chatty tells plaintively, only too glad to pour her sor-
rows into sympathizing ears.

382

FORGIVEN OR— FORGOTTEN t

"It was very hard at first — dreadfully hard. Poor Mr.
Stuart died — it was too nuich for him. Everything was sold
■ — everything — we were left beggars. Work was difficult to
get — then 1 fell ill. Charley was in despair almost — he grew
thin and hollow-eyed, the very ghost of himself. AN our
old friends seemed to drop off, and only Providence sent
Nellie Seton along, we might all have died or gone to the
almshouse."

*' Nellie Seton ? " Edith inquired ; " who is she ? what did
she do?"

*♦ She was a school friend of Trixy's, in reduced circum-
stances like ourselves, who came to our succor like an ant'el
m human form. She got 'I'rix a situation m a fancy store,
she nursed me, and kept me alive on wine and jellies when
I could touch nothing else. She cheered up Charley and
kept him from dying of despair. To Nellie Seton, under
Heaven, we owe it that we are alive at all."

"She is a young lady — this good Miss Seton?" Edith
asks, with a sharp contraction of the heart.

"Yes; about Trixy's age, and wonderfully clever. She
writes poetry and gets paid for it, cMid the prettiest stories
for the magazines, and is quite rich. She is one of the fam-
ily now almost, — very likely she will be home presently with
Charley and Trix — they're always together. And now, if
you will excuse me, Edith, I'll go and get tea."

She bustles away, and Edith sits in the little parlor alone.
And she feels, with a heart like a stone, that what she has
lost forever, this brave, good Nellie Seton has won. Well I
she deserves it ; she will try to like her, Edith thinks ; but
somehow even at the thought, her heart revolts. The old
feeling for Mrs. Featherbrain, for Lady Gwendoline, tries to
come back, in spite of her, for this unseen Miss Seton. She
is an altered woman — a better woman, a more unselfish
woman, but the old leaven of iniquity is not dead yet.

"rhe moments drag on — it is drawing near seven. How
will Trixy receive her, she wonders. Will she be generous,
and forget tiie past, or will she make her feel it, as her
brother has done ? Seven. Mrs. Stuart has set the table.
How odd it seems to see Aunt Chatty working. The tea is
sending its fragrance through the little rooms, the buttered
toast is made, the cake is cut, the pink ham is sliced, every*

SAYING GOODS Y.

383

thing looks nice and inviting. Suddenly there is the sound
of footsteps on the stairs, of girls' gay tones and sweet laugh-
ter — then the kitchen door Hies open, and Trixy's well-re-
membered voice is animatedly exclaiming :

" Ma ! is tea ready f 1 am famished and so is Nell. What !
the table set in the parlor in state. Goodness ! "

Edith rises, white as the dainty Marie Stuart widow's cap
she wears — still and beautiful she stands. She sees Trixy's
tall figure, a smaller, slighter young lady beside her, and
Charley standing behind both. Half a -.linute later Trix
sweeps in, sees the motionless figure, anu recoils with a
sliriek.

" Trix ! " Edith advances v/ith the word that is almost a
sob. And Trixy's face grows radiant.

"It is! it is\ it IS !"

She screams, and rushes forward, and catches Edith in a
perfect bear's hug, laughing, crying, and kissing, all in a
breath.

CHAPTER IX.

SAYING GOOD-BY.

e, tries to

|0 coldness about the welcome here, no ungracious
remembrances of the past, no need ever to doubt
Trixy's warm heart, and generous, forgiving, impul-
sive nature.

All Edith's shortcomings were long ago forgotten and for-
given — it is in Edith's way to inspire ardent love. Tiixy
loves her as dearly, as warmly as she had ever done — she
hugs, she kisses, she exclaims at sight of her, in a perfect
rapture of joy :

" O darling I " she cries, " ho7V good it is to see you
again ! what a surprise is this ! Charley, where are you ?
look here ! Don't you know Edith ? "

"Most undoubtedly I know Edith," Charley answers, ad-
vancing ; " old age may have impaired my faculties, but still
1 recognize a familiar face when I see it. I told her I thought

384

SAYING GOOD-BY.

you would be glad to see her, but I didn't tell her you in-
tended to eat her alive."

" You told her ! Where ? when ? "

"In the store — this aficrnoon. She came in 'promiscu-
ous ' for black Lyon's velvet, wasn't it. Lady Catheron ? You
didn't get it, by the way. Permit me to inform you, in my
professional capacity, that we have a very chaste and ele-
gant assortment of the article always in stock. Trix, where's
your manners? Mere's Nellie hovering aloof in the back-
ground, waiting to be introduced. Allow ;;/<? to be master of
the ceremonies — Lady Catheron, Miss Nellie Seton."

Both young ladies bowed — both looked each other full
in the face — genuine admiration in Miss Seton's — keen,
jealous scrutiny in Lady Catheron' s. She saw a girl of two
or three and twenty, under-si/ed and rather plump, with a
face which in poiiit of beauty would not for one instant com-
pare with her own or Trixy's either. But it was such a
thoroughly good face. And the blue, beaming eyes, tlie
soft-cut smiling mouth, gentle, and strong, and sweet, were
surely made to win. all hearts at sight. Not a beauty —
something infuiitely better, and as a rival, something in-
finitely more dangerous.

" Lady Catheron's name is familiar to me as a household
word," Miss Seton said, with a frank little laugh, that sub-
dued Edith at once. •' Trix wakes with your name on her
lips, I believe, and goes to sleep murmuring it at night.
Lady Catheron doesn't know how madly jealous 1 have been
of her before now."

Edith turns once more to Trix — faithful, friendly, loyal
Trix — and stretches forth both hands, with a swift, graceful
impulse, tears standing, large and bright, in her eyes.

" My own dear Trix ! " is what she says.

"And now I'll run away," Miss Seton exclaims brightly;
" auntie will expect me, and 1 know Trix has ten thousand
things to tell and to hear. No,Trixy, not a word. Charley,
what are you doing vith your hat? put it down instantly — I
don't want you. I would very much rather go home alone."

"Yes, its so likely I'll let you. There's no earthly rea-
son why you shouldn't stay; but if, with your usual obstinacy
and strong-mindedness, you insist u|)on going — "

"I do insist upon going, and without an escort. You

SAYING GOOD-BY.

385

know you are rather a nuisance — in the way than otherwise
— oh, I mean it. I get home twice as fast when I go by
myself."

He looks at her — Edith turns sick — sick, as she sees tlie
look. He says something in too low a tone for tlie rest to
hear. Miss Seton laughs, but her color rises and she objects
no more. Edith sees it all. A gray-kidded hand is extended
to her.

" Good-night, Lady Catheron," Miss Seton's bright, pleas-
ant voice says, and Lady Callieron takes it, feeling in her
heart that for once she cannot dislike a rival. This girl who
will be Charley's wife — O blissful fate ! — is worthy of him.
They go out together, laughing as they go.

'* Isn't she just the dearest darling ! " cries Trix in her
gushing way ; " and O Edith ! whatever would have be-
come of us all without her, I shudder to think. In the dark
days of our life, when friends were few and far between, she
was our friend — our savior. She nursed mamma from the
very jaws of death, she got me my place in the fancy-store,
and I believe — she won't own it — but I do believe she
saved Charley's life."

" Saved his life ? " Edith falters.

" It was such an awful time," Trix says in sombre tones.

•' we were

fiiends
we were
da\'s,

starving, Edith, literally starving,
us

All

our old

had forsaken us ; work we could not get, ' to beg

ashamed.' If you had seen Charley in those

gaunt, hollow-eyed, haggard, wretched. He looks

and feels all right now," goes on Trix, brightening up a
bit, " but then I it used to break my heart to look at him.
He tried for work, from morning until night, and day
after day he came home, footsore, weary, despairing. He
could not leave mother and me, and go elsewhere — she was
sick, father was dead — poor pa ! — and I was just crazy, or near
it. And one dark, dreadful night he went out, and down to
the river, and — Nellie followed, and found him there. Ah !
Edith, he wasn't so much to blame ; I suppose he was mad
that night. She came up to him, and put her arms around
him, as he stood in the darkness and the rain, and — I don't
know what she said or did — but she brought him back to
us. And Providence sent him work next day- — the situa-
tion in the store he has now. I don't know about his merits
17

386

MAYING GOOD-BY.

as a salesman," says Trix, laughing, with her eyes full of tears
" but he is immeiiscly popular with the ladies. Nellie says
it isn't his eloqueuee — where the other clerks expatiate Ihi-
ently on the merits of ribbons, and gloves, and laces, shades
and textures, Charley stands silent and lets them tak, and
smiles and looks handsome. I suppose it answers, for they
seem to like him. So now you see we get on splendidly,
and I've almost f jotten that we were ever rich, and wore
purple and line iipen, and feasted sumptuously every day."

" You are happy ? ' Edith asks, with wonder and envy in
he eyes.

'•Perfectly happy," Trijf replies cheerily; "I haven't a
wish unsatisfied— oh well ! now that you've come. 1 did
want you, Dithy ; it seems such ages and ages since we met,
and I was troubled about you. I heard of /«'/«, you know,
poor fellow."

She touches timidly Edith's widow's weeds. There is no
answer — Edith's tears are faUing. She is contrasting her own
cowardice with Trixy's courage ; her own hardness with
Trixy's generosity.

" How do you know ?" she asks at length.

" Captain Hammond. You remember Angus Hammond,
I suppose ? " Trix says, blushing and hesitating ; " he wrote
us about it, and " — a pause.

" Go on ; what else did he write ? "

•' That there was trouble of some sort, a separation, I think
— that you had i)arted on your very wedding-day. Of course
we couldn't believe that."

" It is quite true," was the low reply.

Trixy's eyes opened.

" True ! O Dithy ! On your wedding-day ! "

" On our wedding-day," Edith answered steadily ; " to meet
no more until we met at his death-beil. Some day, Trix,
dear, I will tell you how it was — not now. Two years have
passed, but even yet I don't care to think of it. Only this
— he was not to blame — he was the bravest, the noblest, the
best of men, ten thousand times too good for me. 1 was a
mercenary, ambitious wretch, and I received my just reward.
We parted at the last friends, thank God ! but 1 can never
forgive myself — never ! "

There was p pause — an uncomfortable one for Trix.

SAVmC GOOD-BY.

387

wandering

" How long since you rune to New York ? " she asked
at Icngtii.

Edith told her — told her how she had been
over the world since her husband's death — how slie had <u;ii'-
to America to see her father — how she had tried to tiiid theuj
here in New York — iiow signally she had failed — and 1 nw
to-day, by purest accident, she had come upon Charley in the
J {roadway store.

" How astoni'^hcd he must have been," his sister said ;
"I think I s-j him, lif'ing his eyebrows to the middle of
his forehead. Did he take you for a ghost ? "

" liy no means, and he was not in the least surprised.
He knew I was here, from the first."

" Edith ! "

" He told me so. He saw my arrival in the paper when
I first landed."

'• And he never told me, and he never went to see you I
The wretch I " cried Trix.

" I don't know that he is to blame," Edith responded
quietly. " I deserved no better ; and ah ! Trixy, not many
in this world are as generous as _;'^«. So you are perfectly
happy, darling ? I wonder if Captain Hammond, now, has
anything to do with it ?"

*' Well, yes," Trix admits blushingly again ; ** I may as well
tell you. We are to be married at Christmas."

"Trix! Married!"

" Married at last. We were engaged before I left Eng-
land, three years ago. He wanted to marry me then,
foolish fellow ! " says Trix with shining eyes, " but of course,
we none of us would listen to so j)reposterous a thing. He
had only his pay and his debts, and his expectations from a
fairy godmother or grandniotlier, who voouldtit die. lUit
she died last mail — I mean last mail brought a black bor-
dered letter, saying she was gone to glory, and had left
Angus everything. He is going to sell out of the army, and
will be here by Christinas, and — and the W'.'dding is to take
l)lace the very week he arrives. And, oh ! Edith, he's just
the dearest fellow, the best fellow, and I'm the happiest girl
in all New York ! "

Edith says nothing. She takes Trix, who is crying, sud

denly in her arms, and kisses her.

Angus

Hammond has

388

SAYING GOODjSY.

been faithful in the hour when she deserted them — that is
her thought. Her self-reproach never ceases — never for
one hour.

" We go to Scotland of course," said Trix, wiping her
eyes ; "and ma — also, of course, stays with Charley. Nellie
will be here to fill my place — don't you think she will make
a charming sister ? "

She laughs as she asks the question — it is the one little
revenge she takes. Before Edith can reply she runs on :

" Nellie's rich — rich, I mean, as compared with us, and
she has made it all herself. She's awfully clever, and writes
for magazines, and papers, and things, and earns oceans of
money. Oceans" says Trix, opening her eyes to the size of
saucers ; " and I don't know really which of us ma likes best,
Nellie or me. That's my one comfort in going. Here
comes Charley now — let's have tea at once. J. forgot all
about it, but nobody has the faintest idea of the pangs of
hunger I am enduring."

Charley sauntered in, looking fresh and handsome, from
the night air.

It was quite dark now. Trix lit the lamp and bustled
about helping to get supper. "You told Nellie ?" she asked
her brother in a low tone, but Edith caught the words.

" Yes," Charley answered gravely, " I told her."

"What did she say?"

" Everything that was like Nellie — everything that was
bright, and brave, and good. She will be here in the morn-
ing to say good-by. Now, Mrs. Stuart, if you have any
compassion on a famished only son, hurry up, and let's have
supper."

They sat down around the little table where the lamp
shone brightly — Edith feeling cold and strange and out of
place. Trixy and A nt Chatty might, and did, forgive the
past, but she herself could not, and between her and Char-
ley lay a gulf, to be spanned over on earth no more. And
yet — how beautiful and stately she looked in her little white
widow's cap, her sombre dress, and the frill of sheer white
crape at her throat.

"Edith!" Trix said involuntarily, "how handsome you
have grown ! You were always pretty, but now — I don't
mean to flatter — but you are splendid I It can't be that

SAYING GOOD-BY.

389

black becomes you, and yet — Charley, don't you see it?
Lasn't Edith grown lovely ?"

" Trix ! " Edith cried, and over her pale cheeks there rose
a flush, and into her dark, brilliant eyes there came a light,
that made her for the moment all Trixy said.

Charley looked at her across the table — the cool, clear,
gray eyes, perfectly undazzlcd.

" I used to think it impossible for Edith to improve ; I
find out my mistake to-day, as I find out many others. As
it is not permitted one to say what one thinks on these
subjects, one had better say nothing at all."

The flush thai aas risen to Edith's cheeks remains there,
and deepens. After tea, at Trix/s urgent request, she sits
down at the little hired piano, and sings some of the old

songs.

" Your very voice has improved," Trix says admiringly.
'■ Edith, sing Charley Ms my darling, for Charley. It used
to be a favorite of his."

She gives him a malicious sidelong glance. Charley,
lying back in his mother's comfortable, cushioned rocking-
chair, takes it calmly.

" It used to be, but it has ceased to be," he answers
coolly. " Trix, go out like a good child, and get me the
evening paper. Among my other staid, middle-aged habits.
Lady Catheron, is that of reading the Post every evening re-
ligiously, after tea."

Never Edith any more — always Lady Cathero»^ — never
the girl he loved three years ago — whom he had iaid he
would love all his life, but the richly dowered widow of Sir
Victor Catheron. He will not generously forget, even for
an instant, that he is an impecunious dry goods clerk, she a
lady of rank a -id riches.

She rises to go — it is growing almost more than she can
bear. Trix preises her to stay longer, but in vain ; he never
utters a word.

" Shall Charley call a carriage, or will you prefer to walk ? "
Trix asks doubtfiilly.

" She will walk," says Charley, suddenly looking up and
interfering ; " the night is fine, and I will see her liome."

F;>r one instant, at the tone of his voice, at the look of
his eyes, her heart bounds.

390

SAYING GOOD-BY.

Her bonnet and mantle are brought — she kisses Trix and
Aunt Chatty good-night — they have promised to dine with
her to-morrow — and goes forth into the soft October night
with Charley.

He draws her hand within his arm — the night is star-lit,
lovely. The old time comes back, the old feeling of rest
and content, the old comfoi table feeling that it is Charley's
arm ui)on which she leans, and that she asks no more of
fate. To-morrow he may be Nellie Seton's — ^just now, he
belongs to her.

" Oh ! " she exclaims, with a long-drawn breath, " how fa-
miliar it all is ! these gas-lit New York streets, the home-
like look of the men and women, and — you. It seems as
though I had left Sandypoint only yesterday, and you were
showing me again the wonders of New York for the first
lime."

He looks down at the dusk, warm, lovely face, so near his
own.

•' Sandypoint," he repeats ; " Edith, do you recall what I
said to you there ? Have you ever wished once, in those
three years that are gone, that I had never come to Sandy-
point to take you away ? "

** I have never wished it," she answers truly ; " never
once. I have never blamed you, never blamed anyone but
myself — how could I ? The evil of my life I wrought with
my own hand, and — if it were all to come over again — I
would still go ! I have suffered, but at least — I have lived."

*' I am glad to hear diat," he says after a little i)ause ; " it
has troubled me again and again. You see, Hammond wrote
us all he ever knew of you, and tliough it was rather incom-
prehensible in part, it was clear enough your life was not en-
tirely a bed of roses. All that, I hope, is over and done with
— there can be no reason why all the rest of your life should
not be entirely hai)py. This is j^artly why I wished to walk
home with you tonight, that I might know from your own
lips whether you held me blameless or not. And partly,
also — " a second brief pause ; — " to bid you good-by."

" Good-by I " In the starlight she turns deathly white.

" Yes," he responded cheerily ; " good-by ; and as our
lives lie so widely apart in all probability, this time forever.
I shall certainly return here at Christmas, but you may have

SAYING GOODS Y.

gone before that. To-morrow morning I start for St. Louis,
where a branch of our house is established, and where I an
permanently to remain. It is an excellent opening for me
— my salary has been largely advanced, and 1 am hapjiy to
say the firm think me competent and trustworthy. I return,
as I said, at Christmas ; after that it becomes my permanent
home. You know, of course," he says with a laugh, '♦ why I
return — Trix has told you ? "

So compltjtely has she forgotten Trix, so wholly have her
thoughts been of him, that she absolutely does not remem-
ber to what he alludes.

" Trix has told nie nothing," she manages to answer, and
she wonders at herself to find how steady is her own voice.

" No ? " Charley says, elevating his eyebrows ; " and
they say the age of wonders is over ! Trix in the new roll
of keejiing her own secrets ! Well, I very naturally return
for the wedding — our wedding. It's extraordinary that Trix
hasn't told you, but she will. Then — my Western home
will be ready by that time, and we go back immediately.
Rfy mother goes with me, I need hardly say."

Stili so absolutely wrapped up in her thoughts of him, so
utterly forgetful of Trix, that she does not understand. Our
wedding — he Jiieans his own and Nellie Seton's of course.
His Western home, the home where she will reign as his
wife. In the days that have gone, Edith thinks she has suf-
fered — she feels to-night that she has never suffered until
now ! She deserves it, but if he had only spared her, —
only left it for some one else to tell. It is a minute before
she can reply — then, despite every effort, her voice is husky :

" I wish you joy, Charley — with all my heart."

She cannot say one word more. Something in the words,
in her manner of saying them, makes him look at her in
surprise.

" Wei', yes," he answers coolly ; " a wedding in a family
is, I believe, a general subject of congratulation. And I
must say she has shown herself a trump — the bravest, best
girl al've. And you" — they are drawing near a hotel —
" may I venture to ask your plans, Lady Catheron ? how
long do you think of remaining in New York ? "

" I shall leave at once — at once," she replied in the same
husky tone. To stay and meet Nellie Scton after to-night

392

SAYING GOOD-BY.

is more than she is able to do. They are close to the hotel
now. Involuntarily — unconsciously, she clings to his arm,
as the drowning may cling to a straw. She feels in a dull,
agonized sort of way that in five minutes the waters will
have closed over her head, and the story of her life have
come to an end.

" Here we are," his frank, cheery voice says — his voice,
that has yet a deeper, more earnest tone than of old. " You
don't know, Edith, how glad I am of this meeting — how glad
to hear you never in any way blamed me."

'* I blame you ! oh, Charley I " she says with a passionate
little cry,

" I rejoice to hear, that with all its drawbacks, you don't
regret the past. I rejoice in the knowledge that you are
rich and happy, and that a long, bright life lies before you.
Edith," he takes both her hands in his strong, cordial clasp,
'• if we never meet again, God bless you, and good-by,"

She lifts her eyes to his, full of dumb, speechless agony.
In that instant he knows tlie truth — knows that Edith loves
him — that the heart he would once have laid down his life
almost to win, is his wholly at last !

The revelation comes upon him like a flash — like a blow.
He stands holding her hands, looking at her, at the mute,
infinite misery in her eyes. Someone jostles them in pass-
ing, and turns and stares. It dawns upon him that they
are in the public street, and making a scene.

" Good-by," he says hastily once more, and drops the
hands, and turns and goes.

She stands like a statue where he has left her — he turns a
corner, the last sound of his footsteps dies away, and Edith
feels that he his gone out of her life — out of the whole
world.

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

393

CHAPTER X.

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

IJISS NELLIE SETON came early next morning to
see her friend, Mr. Charley Stuart, oflF. He is
looking rather pale as he bids them good-by — the
vision of Edith's eyes upturned to his, full of mute,
impassionate appeal, have haunted him all night long. They
haunt him now, long after the last good-by had been said,
and the train is sweeping away Westward. Edith loves him
at last. At last ? there has never been a time when he
doubted it, but now he knows he has but to say the word,
and she v/ill lay her hand in his, and toil, and parting, and
separation will end between them forever. But he will
never say that word — what Edith Darrell in her ambition
once refused, all Lady Catheron's wealth and beauty can-
not win. He feels he could as easily leap from the car win-
dow and end it all, as ask Sir Victor Catheron's riclily dow-
ered widow to be his wife. She made her choice three years
ago — she must abide by that choice her life long.

"And then," he thinks rather doggedly, "this fancy of
mine may be only fancy. The leopard cannot change his
spots, and an ambitous, mercenary woman cannot change
her nature. And, as a rule, ladies of wealth and title don't
thro"' themselves away on impecunious dry goods clerks.
No 1 J. made an egregious ass of myself once, and once is
quite enough. We have turned over a new leaf, and are
not going back at this late day to the old ones. With her
youtli, her fortune, and her beauty, Edith can return to Eng-
land and make a brilliant second marriage."

And then Mr. Stuart sets his lips behind his brown mus-
tache, and unfolds the morning paper, smelling damp and
nasty of printer's ink, and inunerses himself, fathoms deep,
in mercantile news and the doings of the Stock Exchange.

He reaches St. Louis in safety, and resumes the labor of
his life. He has no time to think — no time to be sentimen-
tal, if he wished to be, which he doesn't.

" Love is of man's life a thing apart;'' sings a poet, who

594

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

knew what he was talking about. His heart is not in the
least broken, nor likely to be ; there is no time in iiis busy,
mercantile life, for that sort of thing, I repeat He goes to
work with a will, and astonishes even himself by his energy
and brisk business capacity. If he thinks of Edith at all,
amid his dry-as-dust ledgers and blotters, his- buying and
selling, it is that she is probably on the ocean by this time
— having bidden her native land, like Childe Harold, " One
long, one last, good-night." And then, in the midst of it
all, Trixy's first letter arrives.

It is all Edith, from beginning to end. Edith has not
gone, she is still in New York, but her passage is taken, and
she will leave next week. " And Charley," says Trix,
"don't be angry now, but do you know, though P2dith Dar-
rell always liked you, 1 fancy Lady Catheron likes you even
better. Not that she ev^r says anything ; bless you ! she is
as proud as ever ; but we women can tell. And last night
she told ma and me the story of her past, of her married
life — or rather her ////-married life — of her separation from
Sir Victor on their wedding-day — think of it, Charley ! on
their wedding-day. If ever anyone in this world was to be
pitied, it was he — poor fellow ! And she was not to blame
— neither could have acted other than they did, that I can
see. Poor Edith ! jioor Sir Victor ! I will tell you all when
we meet. She leaves next Tuesday, and it half breaks my
heart to see her go. Oh, Charley I Charley ! why need she
go at all ? "

He reads this letter as he smokes his cigar — very gravely,
very thoughtfully, wondering a great deal, but not in the
least moved from his steadfast purpose. Parted on their
wedding-day ! he has heard that before, but hardly credited
it. It is true then — odd that ; and neither to be blamed —
odder still. She has only been Sir Victor's wife in name,
then, after all. But it makes no diti'erence to him — noth-
ing does — all that is ]>ast and done — she flung him off once
— he will never go back now. Their paths lie apart — hers
over the hills of life, his in the dingy valleys — they have said
good-by, and it n.aans forever.

He goes back to his ledgers and his counting-room, and
four more days pass. On the evening of the fourth day,
as he leaves the store for the night, a small boy from the

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

395

telegraph office waylays him, and hands him one of the well-
known buff envelopes. He breaks it open where he stands,
and read this :

"New York, Oct. 28, '7a
" Charley : Edith is lying dangerously ill — dying. Come
back at once. " Beatrix.''

He reads, and the tnith does not come to him — he reads
it again. Edith is dying. And then a grayish pallor comes
over his face, from brow to chin, and he stands for a mo-
ment, staring vacantly at the paper he holds, seeing nothincj
— hearing nothing but these words : " Edith is dying." lu
that moment he knows that all his imaginary hardness and
indifference have been hollow and false — a wall of pride
that crumbles at a touch, and the old love, stronger than
life, stronger than death, fills his heart still. He has left
her, and — Edith is dying ! He looks at nis waich. There
is an Eastward-bound train in half an hour — there will be
barely time to catch it. He does not return to his board-
ing house — he calls a passing hack, and is driven to the
depot just in time. He makes no pause from that hour —
he travels night and day. What is business ; what the pros-
jiects of all his future life ; what is the whole world now ?
Edith is dying.

He reaches New York at last. It seems like a century
since that telegram came, and haggard and worn, in the
twilight of the autumn day, he stands at last in his mother's
home.

Trix is there — they expect him to-night, and she has
waited to receive him. She looks in his face once, then
turns away and covers her own, and bursts into a woman's
tempest of tears.

" I — I am too late," he says in a hoarse sort of whisper.

" No," Trix answers, looking up ; ♦• not too late. She
is alive still — I can say no more."

"What is it?" he asks.

" It is almost impossible to say. Typhoid fever, one
doctor says, and cerebro spinal meningitis says the other. It
doesn't much matter what it is, since both agree in this —
that she is dying."

396

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

Her sobs breaks forth again. He sits and gazes at her
like a stone.

** There is no hope ? "

" While there is hfe there is hope." But it is in a very
dreary voice that Trix repeats this aphorism : " and — the
worst of it is, she doesn't seem to care. Charley, I believe
she wants to die, is glad to die. She seems to have nothing
to care for — nothing to live for. ' My life has been all a mis-
take,' sTie said to me the other day. ' I have gone wrong
from first to last, led astray by my vanity, and selfishness,
and ambition. It is much better that 1 should die, and
make an end of it all.' She has made her will, Charley —
she made it in the first days of her illness, and — she has left
almost everything to you."

He makes no reply. He sits motionless in the twilit win-
dow, looking down at the noisy, bustling street.

" She has remembered me most generously," Trix goes
softly on ; " poor, darling Edith ! but she has left almost all
to you. * It would have been an insult to offer anything in
my lifetime,' she said to me ; ' but the wishes of the dead are
sacred, — he will not be able to refuse it then. And tell him
not to grieve for me, Trixy — I never made him anything
but trouble, and disappointment, and wretchedness. I am
sorry — sorry now, and my last wish and prayer will be for
the happiness of his life.' When she is delirious, and she
mostly is as night draws on, she calls for you incessantly —
asking you to come back — begging you to forgive her.
That is why I sent."

" Does she know you sent ? " he asks.

" No — it was her desire you should not be told until —
until all was over," Trix answered with another burst of
tears ; " but I couldrit do that. She says we are to bury her
at Sandypoint, beside her mother — not send her body to
England. She told me, when she was dead, to tell you the
story of her separation from Sir Victor. Shall I tell it to
you now, Charley ? "

He makes a motion of assent ; and Trix begins, in a
broken voice, and tells him the sad, strange story of the two
Sir Victors, father and son, and of Edith's life from her wed-
ding-day. The twilight deepens into darkness, the room is
wrapped in shadow long before she has finished. He never

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

397

Stirs, he never speaks, he sits and listens to the end. Then
there is a ])ause, and out of the gloom he speaks at last :

'* May 1 see her, and when ? "

" As soon as you come, the doctors say ; they refuse her
nothing now, and they think your presence may do her good,
— if anything can do it. Mother is with her and Nellie ;
Nellie has been her best friend and nurse ; Nellie has never
left her, and Charley," hesitatingly, for something in his man-
ner awes Trix, " I believe she thinks you and Nellie are
engaged."

" Stop ! " he says imperiously, and Trixy rises with a sigh
and puts on her hat and shawl. Five minutes later they are
in the street, on their way to Lady Catheron's hotel.

One of the medical men is in the sick-room when Miss
Stuart enters it, and she tells him in a whisper that her
brother has come, and is wailing without.

His patient lies very low to-night — delirious at times, and
sinking, it seems to him, fast. She is in a restless, fevered
sleep at present, and he stands looking at her with a very
sombre look on his professional face. In spite of his skill,
and he is very skilful, this case baffles him. The patient's
own utter indifference, as to whether she lives or dies, being
one of the hardest things he has to combat. If she only
longed for life, and strove to recruit — if, like Mrs. Dombey,
she would, "only make an effort." But she will not, and
the flame flickers, and flickers, and very soon will go out
altogether.

" Let him come in," the doctor says. " He can do no
harm — he may possibly do some good."

" Will she know him when she awakes ? " Trix whispers.

He nods and turns away to where Miss Seton stands in
the distance, and Trix goes and fetches her brother in. He
advances slowly, almost reluctantly it would seem, and looks
down at the wan, drawn, thin face that rests there, whiter
than the pillows. Great Heaven ! and this — this is Edith !
He sinks into a chair by the bedside, and takes her wan,
transparent hand in both his own, with a sort of groan. The
light touch awakes her, the faint eyelids quiver, the large,
dark eyes open and fix on his face. The lips flutter breath-
lessly apart. ^'Charley ! " they whisper in glad surprise, and

398

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

over the deathlike face Ihore flashes for a second an elec-
tric light of great amaze and joy.

" Humph ! " says the doctor, with a surprised grunt ; " I
thought it would do her no harm. If wc leave them alone
for a few minutes, my dear young ladies, it will do us no
harm either. Mind, my young gentleman," he taps Charley
on the shoulder, " my patient is not to excite herself talk-
ing."

They softly go out. It would appear the doctor need not
have warned him; they don't seem inclined to talk. She
lies and looks at him, delight in her eyes, and draws a long,
long breath of great content. For him, he holds her wasted
hand a little tighter, and lays his face dowii on the pillow,
and does not speak a word.

So the minutes pass.

" Charley," she says at last, in a faint, little whisper,
" what a surprise this is. They did not tell me you were
coming. Who sent for you ? when did you come ? "

" You're not to talk, Edith," he answers, lifting his hag-
gard face for a moment — poor Charley ! *' Trix sent for
me." Then he lays it down again.

"Foolish boy!" Edith says with shining eyes; "I do
believe you are crying. You don't hate me, then, after all,
Charley ? "

•' Hate you ! " he can but just repeat.

" You once said you did, you know ; and I deserved it.
But I have not been happy, Charley — I have been punished
as I merited. Now it is all over, and it is better so — 1 never
was of any use in the world, and never would be. You
will let me atone a little for the past in the only way I can.
Trix will tell you. And, by and by, when you are quite
happy, and she is your wife — "

. The faint voice breaks, and she turns her face away.
Even in death it is bitterer than death to give him up.

He lifts his head, and looks at her.

" When she is my wife ? when who is my wife ? " he
asks.

" Nellie — you know," she whispers ; " she is worthy of
you, Charley — indeed she is, and I never was. And she
loves you, and will make you hap — "

" Stop ! " he says suddenly ; " you are making some

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

399

stn-'Mge mistake, Edith. Nellie cares for me, as Trix docs,
anO Trix is not more a sister to me than Nellie. For the
rest — do you remember what 1 said to you that night at
Killarney?"

Her lips tremble — her eyes watch him, her weak fingers
clos' tightly over his. Remember ! does she not ?

" i said — • I will love you all my life ! ' 1 have kept my
word, and mean to keep it. If I may not call you wife, I
will never call, by that name, any other woman. No one in
this world can ever be to me again, what you were and
are."

There is another pause, but the dark, uplifted eyes are
radiant now.

"At last 1 at last 1" she breathes; "when it is too late.
Oh, Charley ! If the past might only come over again, how
different it all would be. 1 think" — she says this with a
weak little laugh, that reminds him of the Edith of old — " I
think 1 could sleep more happily even in my grave — if
' Edith Stuart ' were carved on n)y tombstone I "

His eyes never leave her face — they light up in their dreary
sadness now at these words.

" Do you mean that, Edith ?" he says bending over her ;
"living or dying, would it make you any happier to be my
wife?"

He.- eyes, her face, answer him. " But it is too late," the
pale lips sigh.

" It is never too late," he says quietly ; •* we will be mar-
ried to-night."

'' Charley V

" Yon are not to talk," he tells her, kissing her softly and
for the first time ; " 1 will arrange it all. I will go for a
clergyman I know, and explain everything. Oh, darling !
you should have been my wife long ago — you shall be my
wife at last, in spite of dea:h itself."

Then he leaves her, and goes out. And Edith closes her
eyes, and lies still, and knows that never in all the years
that are gone has such perfect bliss been hers before. In
death, at least, if not life, she will be Charley's wife.

He tells them very quietly, very resolutely — Ler father
who is there from Sandypoint, his mother, sister, Nellie, the
doctor.

400

THE SECOND BRIDAL.

Tlicy listen in wordless wonder ; but what can they say ?

" Tiic excitement will finish her — mark my words," is the
doctor's verdict ; " 1 will never countenance any such melo-
dramatic proceeding."

But his countenance does not matter it seems. The laws
of the Medes were not more fixed than this marriage. The
clergyman comes, a very old friend of the family, and
Charley explains all to him. He listens with (iiiiet gravity
— in his experience a death-bed marriage is not at all an
unprecedented occurrence. The hour fixed is ten, and
Trixy and Nellie go in to make the few possible prepara-
tions.

The sick girl lifts two wistful eyes to the gentle face of
Nellie Seton. It is very pale, but she stoops and kisses her
with her own sweet smile.

" You will live now for his sake," she whispers in that
kiss.

They decorate the room and the bed with flowers, they
brush away the dark soft hair, they array her in a dainty em-
broidered night-robe, and prop her up with [)illows. There
is the fever fire on her wan cheeks, the fever fire in her
shining eyes. But she is unutterably iiappy — you have but
to look into her face to see that. Death is forgotten in her
new bliss.

The bridegroom comes in, pale and unsmiling — worn and
haggard beyond the power of words to tell. 'I'rix, weeping
incessantly, stands near, her mother and Mr. Darrell are at
one side of the bed. Nellie is bridesmaid. What a strange,
sad, solemn wedding it is I The clergyman takes out his
book and begins — bride and bridegroom clasp hands, her
radiant eyes never leave his face. Her faint replies llutter
on her lips — there is an indescribable sadness in his. The
ring is on her finger — at laft she is what she should have
been from the first — Charley's wife.

He bends forward and takes her in his arms. With all
her dying strength she lifts herself to his embrace. It is a
last expiring effort — her weak clasp relaxes, there is one
faint gasp. Her head falls heavily upon his breast — there is
a despairing cry from the women, cold and lifeless, Cliarley
Stuart lays his bride of a moment back among the pillows —
whether dead or in a dead swoon no one there can tell.

THE NIGHT.

401

CHAPTER XI.

THE NIGHT.

JT first they thought her dead — but it was not death.
She awoke from that long, death-like swoon as
morning broke—so near unto death that it seemed
the turning of a hr\ir might weigh down the scale.
And so for days after it was — for weary miserable days
and nights. The great reaction after the great excitement
had come, all consciousness left her, she lay white and
still, scarcely niovjng, scarcely breathing. The one beloved
voice fell as powerless on her dulled ears now as all others,
tho dim, almost lifeless eyes, that opened at rare intervals,
were blank to the whole world. She lay in a s[)ecies of stu-
l)or, ur coma, from which it was something more than doubt-
ful if she ever would awake. The few s|)oonfuls of beef-tea
and brandy and water she took they forced between her
clenciied teeth, and in that darkened room of the great hotel,
strangely, solemnly quiet. Life and Death fought their sharp
battle over her unconscious head.

And for those who loved her, her father, her friends, and
one other, nearer and dearer than fr.ther or friend, how went
those darkest days for them i They could hardly have told
— all their after life they looked back, with a sick shudder, to
that week.

For Charley Stuart he never wants to look back — never to
the last day of his life will he be able 10 recall, to realize the
agony of those six days — days that changed his whole nature
— his whole life.

They watched with her unceasingly— -death might come at
any moment. There were times when they bent above her,
holding their own breath, sure that the faint thread had al-
ready snapped — times when they held a mirror to her lips to
be sure she breathed at all. For her new-made husband, he
never left her except when nature succumbed to the exhaus-
tion of ceaseless vigil, and they forced him away. He for-
got to eat or sleep, he sat tearless and still as stone by the
bedside, almost as bloodless, almost as wan and hollow eyed

402

THE NIGHT.

as the (lying bride herself. The doctors stood gloomily silent,
their skill falling powerless here.

" She needed only the excitement of this most preposter-
ous marriage to finish her," one of them growled ; " I said
so at the time — I say so now. She had one chance for life
— perfect quiet — and that destroyed it."

On the fourth day, a letter from England, in a woman's
hand, and deeply bordered with black, arrived. Edith, in
the first days of her illness, had told Trix to open all her let-
ters. She would have passed the power over to her brother
now, but he waved it away impatiently. What did it matter
whom it was from — what it contained — what did anything
matter now ?

His haggard eyes went silently back tq the marble face
lying among its pillows, so awfully still.

Trixy opened and read it. It was from Inez Catheron, and
announced the death of her aunt, the Lady Helena Powyss.

" Her end was perfect peace," said the letter ; " and in
her will, she has left her large fortune divided equally be-
tween you and me. If possible it would be well for you to
return to England as speedily as may be. If wealth can
make you happy — and I hope at least it will aid — my dear-
est Edith, you will have it. For me, I join a charitable Sis-
terhood here in London, and will try to devote the remain-
der of my life to the relief of my suffering and poor fellow-
creatures. As to the rest, if you care at all to know, my
brother reigns at Catheron Royals now ! He is, in all re-
spects, a changed man, and will not, I think, be an unworthy
successor of him who is gone. His wife and children are all
that can be desired.

" Farewell, my dear cousin. When you return to Lon-
don come to the enclosed address, and see me. "No one
will welcome you more gladly than

" Inez Catheron."

So another large fortune had been left Edith — she was rich
now beyond her wildest dreams. Rich ! And yonder she
lay, and all the gold of earth, powerless to add a second to
her life. What a satire it seemed. Youth, beauty, and
boundless wealth were hers, and all were vain — vain I

THE NIGHT.

403

The seventh night brought the crisis.

" This can hold out no longer," the physician said ; "be-
fore morning wo will know the end, whether it is to be life
or death."

"Then — there is hope yet?" Trix breathed, with clasped
hands.

He looked at her gloomily and turned away, the lueaning-
less formula on his lips :

" While there is life there is hope."

" It will be little less than a miracle if she lives, though,"
the other added ; " and the days of miracles are over. Hope
if you like — but — "

" You had better not let: him sit up to-night," said the first
l)hysician, looking compassionately at Charley; "he won't
be able to stand it. He is worn out now, poor fellow, and
looks fit for a sick-bed himself."

" He knows it is the crisis," Trixy an.?wered ; " he won't go."

" He has watched the last two nights," Miss Seton, inter-
posed : " he musi\^o, doctor ; leave me an opiate — I will ad-
minister it. If — if the worst comes, it will be but a mo-
ment's work to arouse him."

The doctor obeyed.

" I will return at day dawn," he said, " if she be still alive.
If not — send me word."

The twilight was falling. Solemn and shadowy it crept
into the sombre, silent room. They went back to the bed-
side, pale and tearless ; they had wept, it seemed, until they
could weep no more. This last night the two girls were
to watch alone.

She lay before them. Dead and in her shroud she would
never look more awfully death-like than now. He sat be-
side her — ah, poor Charley ! in a sort of dull stupor of
misery, utterly worn out. The sharp pain seemed over — the
long, dark watches, when his passionate prayers had as-
cended for that dear life, wild and rebellious it may be, when
he had wrestled with an agony more bitter than death, had
left their impress on his life forever. He could not let her
go — he could not I " O God ! " was the ceaseless cry of
his soul, " have mercy — spare ! "

NeUie Seton's cool, soft hands fell lightly on his head —
Nellie's soft, gentle voice spoke :

404

THE N^GHT.

you

the

" Charley, you are to leave us for a little, and He down.
You must have some rest, be it ever so short ; and you have
had nothing to eat, I believe all day ; you will let me pre-
pare something, and take it, and go to your room."

She spoke to him coaxingly, almost as she might to a
child. He lifted his eyes, full of dull, infinite misery, to
hers.

" To-night ? " he answered : " the last night ! I will not
go."

" Only for an hour then," she pleaded ; " there will be no
change. For my sake, Charley ! "

All her goodness, all her patience, came back to him.
pressed her hand in his own gratefully, and arose.

" For your sake, Nellie, then — for no other. But
promise to call me if there is the slightest change ? "

" I promise. Drink this and go."

She gave him a glass of mulled wine, containing
opiate. He drank it and left the room. They listened
breathlessly until they heard his door, further down the pas-
sage, open and shut — then both drew a deep breath.

" Thank Heaven," Trix said ; " I couldn't bear to see him
here to-night. Nellie, if she dies it will kill him — just
that."

The girl's lips quivered. What Charley had been to her —
how wholly her great, generous, loving heart had gone out to
him, not even Trix ever knew. The dream of her life's best
bliss was at an end forever. Whether Edith Stuart lived or
died, no other woman would ever take her place in his lieart.

The hours of the night wore on. Oh ! those solemn
night watches by the dying bed of those we love. The faint
lamp flickers, deepest stillness reigns, and on his bed, dressed
as he was, Charley lies deeply, dreamlessly asleep.

It was broad day when he awoke — the dawn of a cloudless
November day. He sat up in bed suddenly, for a moment,
bewildered, and stared before him. Only for a moment —
then he remembered all. The night had passed, the morn-
ing come. They had let him sleep — it seemed he could
sleep while she lay dying so near. Dying ! Who was to
tell him that in yonder distant room Edith was not lying
dead. He rose uj), reeling like a drunken man, and made
for the door. He opened it, and went out, down the pas-

THE MORNING.

405

page. It was entirely deserted, the great household were not
yet astir. Profound stillness reigned. Through the wi'.i-
(Idws he could see the bright morning sky, all Hushed, red
,nul golden with the first radiance of the rising sun. And in
that room there what lay — death or life ?

He stood suddenly still, and looked at the closed door.
Me stood there motionless, his eyes fixed upon it, unable to
advance another step.

It opened abruptly — quickly but noiselessly, and Nellie
Seton's pale, tired face looked out. At sight of him she
came forward — he asked no questions — his eyes looked at
her full of a dumb agony of questioning she never forgot.

"Charley !" she exclaimed, coming nearer.

The first ray of the rising sun streaming through the win-
dows fell full upon her pale face, and it was as the face of an
angel.

" Charley ! " she repeated, with a great tearless sob, hold-
ing out both hands ; " Oh, bless God 1 the doctor says we
may — hope ! "

He had braced himself to hear the worst — not this. He
made one step forward and fell at her feet like a stone.

CHAPTER XH.

THE MORNING.

|HEY might hope ? The night had passed, the morn-
ing had come, and she still lived.

You would hardly have thought so to look at her
as she lay, deathly white, deathly still. But as the
day broke she had awakened from a long sleep, the most
natural and refreshing she had known for weeks, and looked
u|) into the pale anxious face of Trix with the faint shadow
(ila smile. Then the eyelids swayed and closed in sleep once
more, but she had recognized Trix for the first time in days
— the crisis was over and hope had come.

riiey would not let her sec him. Only while she slept

4o6

THE MORNING.

would they allow him now to enter her room. But it was
easily borne — Edith was not to die, and Heaven and his own
grateful happy heart only knew how infinitely blessed he was
in that knowledge. After the long bitter night — after the
darkness and the pain, light and morning had conie. Edith
would live — all was said in that.

"There are some remedies that are either kill or cure in
their action," the old doctor said, giving Charley a facetious
poke. " Your marriage was one of them, young man. /
thought it was Kill — it turns out it was Cure."

For many days no memory of the past returned to her,
her existence was as the existence of anew-born babe, spent
alternately in taking food and sleep. Food she took with
eager avidity after her long starvation, and then sank back
again into profound, refreshing slumber.

'• Let her sleep," said the doctor, with a complacent nod ;
"the more the better. It's Nature's way of repairing dam-
ages."

There came a day at last when thought and recollection
began to struggle back — when she had strength to lie awake
and think. More than once Trix caught the dark eyes fixed
in silent wistfulness upon her — a question in them her lips
would not ask. But Miss Stuart guessed it, and one day
spoke :

"What is it, Dithy?" she said; "you look as if you
wanted to say something, you know."

" How — how long have I been sick ?" was Edith's ques-
tion.

" Nearly five weeks, and an awful life you've led us, I can
tell you ! Look at me — worn to skin and bone. What do
you suppose you will have to say for yourself when Angus
comes ? "

Edith smiled faintly, but her eyes still kept their wistful
look.

" I suppose I was delirious part of the time, Trixy ? "

" Stark, staring crazy — raving like a lunatic at full moon !
But you needn't look so concerned about it — we've changed
all that. You'll do now."

" Yes," she said it with a sigh ; "you have all been very
kind. I suppose it's only a fancy of the fever after all."

"What?"

THE MORNING.

407

don't

laugh

at me, but I thought Charley
" the most natural thing

-a question trembled

" I— Tnxy !
was here."

" Did you ? " responded Trix ;
in life. He is here."

Her eyes lighted — her lips parted
upon iheni, but she hesitated.

"Go on," said Miss Stuart, enjoying it all; "there's
something else on your mind. Speak up, Edie ! don't be
ashamed of yourself."

" I am afraid you will laugh this time, Trixy — I know it
is only a dream, but I thought Charley and I were — "

"Yes," said Trixy ; " were— what ? "

"Married, then!" with a faint little laugh. "Don't tell
him, please, but it seems — it seems so real, I had to tell
you."

She turned her face away. And Trixy, with suspicious
dimness in her eyes, stooped down and kissed that thin,
wan face.

" You poor little Dithy ! " she said ; " you do like Char-
ley, don't you ? no, it's not a dream — you were married
nearly a fortnight ago. The hope of my life is realized —
you are my sister, and Charley's wife ! "

There was a little panting cry — then she covered her face
with her hands and lay still.

" He is outside," went on Trix ; " you don't know what
a good boy he has been — so patient — and all that. He de-
serves some reward. I think if you had died he would have
died too — Lord Lovel and Lady Nancy, over again. Not
that I much believe in broken hearts where men are con-
cerned, either," pursued Trix, growing cynical ; " but this
seems an exceptional case. He's awfully fond of you, Dithy ;
'pon my word he is. I only hope Angus may go off in a
dead faint the first time I'm sick and get better, as he
did the other day. We haven't let him in much lately, for
fear of agitating you, but I think," says Trixy, with twink-
ling eyes, " you could stand it now — couldn't you, Mrs.
Stuart?"

She did not wait for a reply — she went out and hunted up
Charley. He was smoking downstairs, and trying to read
the morning paper.

" Your wife wants you," said Miss Stuart brusquely ; "go I

4o8

THE MORNING.

only mind this — don't stay too long, and don't talk too
niiich."

He started to his feet — away went Tribune and cigar,
and up the stairs sprang Charley — half a dozen at a time.

And then Miss Stuart sits down, throws her handkerchief
over her face, and for the next five minutes indulges in the
exclusively feminine luxury of a real good cry.

sic £l£ sic 9k Sif ik df ifa ii*

After that Mrs. Charles Stuart's recovery was perfectly
magical in its rapidity. Youth and splendid vitality, no
doubt, had something to do with it, but I think the fact that
she was Mrs. Charles Stuart had more to do still.

There came a day, when propped up with pillows, she
could sit erect, and talk, and be talked to as much as she
chose, when blinds were pulled up, and sunshine poured in ;
and no sunshine that ever shone was half so bright as her
happy face. There came still another day, when robed in a
pretty pink morning-dress, Charley lifted her in his arms and
carried her to the arm-chair by the window, whence she
could look down on the bright, busy city street, whilst he sat
at her feet and talked. Talked ! who is to tell of what ?
"Two souls with but a single thought — two hearts that beat
as one," generally find enough to say for themselves, 1 no-
tice, and require the aid of no outsiders.

And there came still another day — a fortnight after, when
looking pale and sweet, in a dark-gray travelling suit and
hat, Mrs. Charles Stuart, leaning on her husband's arm, said
good-by to her friends, and started on her bridal tour. They
were to spend the next three weeks South, and then return
for Trixy's wedding at Christmas.

Christmas came ; merry Christmas, sparkling with snow
and sunshine, as Christmas ever should sparkle, and bring-
ing that gallant ex-officer of Scotch Grays, Captain Angus
Hammond — captain no longer — plain Mr. Hammond, done
with drilling and duty, and getting the route forever, going in
for quiet, country life in bonnie Scotland, with Miss Beatrix
Stuart for aider and abettor.

Charley and his wife came to New York for the wedding.
They had told Mr. Hammond how ill Edith had been, but
the young Scotchman, as he pulled his ginger whiskers and
stared in her radiant, blooming face, found it difficult indeed

THE MORNING.

409

to realize. She had been a pretty girl — a handsome woman
— happiness had made her more — slie was lovely now. For
Charley — outwardly all his easy insouciance had returned —
he submitted to be idolized and made much of by his wife,
after the calm fashion of lordly man. But you had only to
see him look once into her beautiful, laughing face, to knew
how passionately she was beloved.

Mr. and Mrs. Angus Hammond had a splendid wedding ;
and to say our Trixy looked charming would be doing her
no sort of justice. And again Miss Seton was first brides-
maid, and Mrs. Stuart, in lavender silk, sniffed behind a
fifty dollar pocket handkerchief, as in duty bound. They
departed immediately after the ceremony for Scotland and a
Continental tour — that very tour which, as you know, Trixy
was cheated so cruelly out of three years before.

Mr. and Mrs. Stuart went back South to finish the win-
ter and the honeymoon among the glades of Florida, and
" do," as Charley said, " Love among the Roses." Mr.
r3arrell returned to Sandypoint. Mrs. Stuart, senior, took
up her abode with Nellie Seton, pending such time as her
children should get over the first delirium of matrimonial
bliss and settle quietly down to housekeeping. After that it
was fixed that she was to divide her time equally between
them, six months with each. Ciurley and his wife would
make England their home ; Edith's ample fortune lay there,
and both loved the fair old land.

In May they sailed for England. They would spend the
whole of the summer in Continental travelling — the pleasant
rambling life suited them well. But they went down to
Cheshire first ; and one soft May afternoon stood side by
side in the old Gothic church where the Catherons for gener-
ations had been buried. The mellow light came softly
through the painted windows — up in the organ loft, a young
girl sat playing to herself soft, sweet, solemn melodies.
And both hearts bowed down in tender sadness as they
stood before one tomb, the last erected within those wails,
that of Sir Victor Catheron. Edith pulled her veil over her
face — the only tears that had filled her eyes since her second
wedding-day falling quietly now.

There were many remembrances of the dead man. A
beautiful memorial window, a soml re hatchment, and a mon-
18

410

THE MORNING.

ument of snow-white marble. It was very simple-it repre-
sented only a broken shaft, and beneath m gold letters this
inscription :

Sacred to the Memory of

SIR VICTOR CATHERON, of Catheron Royals, Bart.

Died Oct. 3, 1867, in the 24th year of his age.

*'-His sun set while it was yet day.**

THE END.

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CHARLES DICKENS' WORKS.

A IVcw E<lition.

Ainorip the numerous editions of llic works of iliis gieatest of En(j-
ll<h Novelists, there has not been until now ^w^- that entirely satisfies the

puhlic demand Without cxcc]Hir)n, tliey each have some

strong <lisiinctive objection, . . , cither the shape and dimensionn
of the volumes arc unhandy — or, the type is small and indistinct or,
the paper is thin and poor — or, tlie illustrations [if they have any] are
unsatisfactory — or, the binding is bad — or, the price is too iii^^K

A new edition is no7t>, however, j ublished by G. W. Carleton & Co.
of New York, which, it is believccl, will, in every res])ect, completely
satisfy the popular demand. . . , It is known as

'<€url<!toii'H \ew IlliiMtrtUvd Edillon.''

The size and form is most convenient for holding, . , the type is
entirely new, and of a clear and o]>cn character tliat has received the
approval of the reading; community in other popular works.

The illustrations are by the orij^inal artists chosen by Charles
Dickens himself . . . and the paiicr, printing, and buuling are
of the most attractive and substantial character.

Th.' publication of this beautiful new edition was commenced in
Ai)ril, 1873, ami will be completed in 20 volumes — one novel each
month — at the extremely reasonable price of $1.50 per volume, as

follows : —

I — THE PICKWICK PAPERS.
2 — 'H.IVEK TWIST.
3 — DAVID COIM'F.RKIEI.D.
4— r.KEAT EXPECTATIONS.
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6 — HARNAIIY RLDOE.
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10 LIl TI.E UORRIT.

1 1 — MARTIN CHU7.ZLEWIT.

12 — OUR MUTI'Al, IRIEND.

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14 — ClIRIS'fMAS nOOKS.

15 — SKETCHES BY *' liOZ."

16 — HARD TIMES, ETC.

17 — PICTURES OE ITALY, ETC.

18 — U.NCOMMEKCIAI, TRAVELLER.

19 — EDWI.^" DKOdD, ETC.

20 — ENGLAND and CATALOOUE.

Being issued, month by month, at so reasonable a price, those who
d{i;in l)y subscribing for this work, will ini|ierccptibly soon find them-
iclvL's fortunate )wners of an entire set of this dest eJilion of Dicktnf
Works, almost without having paid for it.

K Prospectus furnishing specimen of type, sizefl-pagc, and illustra-
lirns, will be sent to any one frte on application — and siiecimen copies
of the bound Iwoks will l/e forwarded by mail, postage free, on receipt
of price, $1.50, by

G. W. Carlkton & Co., Publishers,

MadLion Square, New York.

THREE VALUABLE BOOKS,

All BeaatifuUy Pnnted and Elegantly Bound.
«

I.— Tlic Art or ConversatioK,

with Dltvctijni for Bclf-Culture. An admirably conceived and entertaining
warlr — wnHiblp, InRtructivo, ond fiill of BU(rg<^ionH valiinlile to cvrr; ons who
deiiircs to be either a good talker or llMener, or who wlhhcs to api'car to adran-
tatre in Rood society. Evory younif and CTcn old iwrson HhouM rt'ad it, Rtudy it
over and over attnin, and foUuw those hints in It which lead them to briNik up
bad hHbitnand cultivate Kood onca. *«* Trice $1.5U. Among the contentM will
Im> found chapters upon —

Attention in Convebsation.— Sat-
IHE.— Puns.— Sakc ABM.— Teasino.—
Censviie. — Fault Fi.fDiNo.— Eoot-

MM. — I'OL^TENESS. — COMPLIMENTS. —
STORIE8.-ANEriK)TE8.-QlE8TIONI!ia.
-LlUERTIES.-lMPCnENCE.-STARINO.
— DISAOBEEABLB bUBJEOTB. — tiElr

PISHNERS. — AnaUMENT.— 8Acniric««.

—Silent rEoriK.— Dinnkb Co»-

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MontaiTT. — Correct Lanoiiacjk. —

SELF-INBTBIOTION.— Ml8CELl.AlIE0tJ«
KNOWLEOOB.— LA.NUUAOEa.

II.— The Habits of Good Soclcl]-.

A Handbook for Ladlen and Oentlonion. With thmiKhtii, hintH, and aneodotM
conoerning social observances, nice points of tiiRtc and i;(io<l nianncrH, and the
art of nUkUni; onenelf nKreeiible. The whole iiit('rs|)orKcd wit liunioronH illus-
trationa of social prcdicainentH, rrniarkR on faaliion, etc. *,* Price fl.75.
Among thaoontents will be found chapters upon —

GentlevcVs Preface.

Ladies' Pbepace. — Fa8hiomb.

Thoudhtb on Society.

Good Society.— Had Sooictt.

The OnEBSiNo Room.

The TiADlEs' Toilet. — Drebb.

Feminine Accomplibumentb.

Mannkrband IIabitb.

Plbi.ic and Private Etiquette.

Married and UNMABRiBn Ladies.

Do DO Gentlemen.

Calling Etiquette.— Cards.
Visitino Etiquette.— Dinkeiis.
Dinner Parties.

Ladies at Dinner.
Dinner Hadits.— Carvino.
Mannkbs at Supper. — Rallb.
Morning Parties.- Picnics.
EvKNiNo Parties.— Dances.
Private Theatricals.

IlECKPTlONS. — ENOAO EMENTB.

JIarhi/ge Ceremonies
Invitations.— Dresses.

IiHIl>E.SMAII)!<.— I'HKHENTS,

Travelling Etiquette.
PuiiLio Promenade.
Country Visits.- City Visitb.

III.— Arts of Writing, Reading, and Spcnklnff.

An exceedingly tasclnatinir work for tcarhinf? not only the beginner, but for
perfecting every one in these three most doRirable acctimplinhmcntii. For youth
this book "(both interePtinR and valuable; and roradullR, whether profesBionally
or socially It Is a book that they cannot disiionso with. *»♦ Price ji.60. Aui>.ng
tb"! contcnn will be found chnpterf Hi)on —
Reading b TniNKiNO.— Lanouaoe.— Sat.— What not to Sat.— How to

Bkqin.- Caotions.-Delivert. -Writ-
ing A Speech.— First Lenkons.- Pub-
lic Speaking.— Delivery. Action.
Oratory of the I'ulpit.- Composi-
TtoN.— TuR Bar.— Ueadinii of Wit tt
Humor.— The Platfobm.— CosBTBUO-
TiON OF A Speech.

Words, Sen '•ENC'Es. ii Construction.
What to .\ vein.— Letter Writing.—
Pronunc \tios.— Exprkhsion.— Tone
Religiocb Headings.— The Bidle.-
Prayeks.-Duamatic Readings,— The
Actor ii Rkadf-r.— Foiindatio.vs fob

C BATOR r AND SPEAKING. — WHAT TO

7'A«»e teortt ar* the most perfect of their Unit ever published ; freth, tenttbU
jood-huinorea. enterlaininff, and readable. Every person of tatu t/u>uld po*-
Mw them, and cannot be olherxctne than delighted with them.

Plf" A beautiful new minature edition of these very popular knoks has jnst
been publlflh(!d, entitled "The Diamond Edition," three Utile volumes, ele-
gantly printe<l on tinted |>a|>er, iind hi^ndH<iinely bound in a box. Piioe 99.00,

•^* Thcie books are all Rent by mall, postage free, on receipt of price, by

Q. W. CABLETON Si CO., FullisheTS, Madison Sqaare, New York.

Mary J. Holmes* Works.

I.— TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. '
•.—ENGLISH ORPHANS.
j.-HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE.
♦.—•LENA RIVERS.
S— MEADOW HROOK.
6.— DORA DEANE.
7.— COUSIN MAUDE.

' 8.— MARIAN GRAY.
9.— DARKNESS and DAYlIGirt.
10.— HUGH WORTHINGTCJf.
II. -CAMERON PRIDE.
«.— ROSE MATHER.
13— ETHELYN'S MISTAKE.
14.— MILLHANK.
,i5.-EDNA URO\VNING.

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless.
She is in mary respects with6ut a rival in the world of fiction. Her characters
are :ilway5 iife-like, and she makes them talk and act like human beings, subject
to the same emotions, swayed by the same passions, and actuated by the same
motives which are common among men and women of every day existence. Mrs.
Holmes is very happy in portraying domestic life. Old and yoiuig peruse her
stories with great delight, for the writes in a style that all can comprehead." —
AVtw i'fri W'tekly,

"Mrs. Holmes* stories are all of a domestic character, and their interest,
thwefore, is not so intense as if they were mere highly seasoned with sensati'onal-
isrn, but it is of a healthy and abiding character. Almost any new book which her
publisher might choose to announce from her pen would get an immediate and
general reading. The interest in her tales begins at once, and is muintained to
the close. Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and re.ndy,
and her knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary
lift: is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to wrife any other than an
excellent tale if she were to try it." — Boston Banner,

" Mrs, Holmes it very amusing ; has a quick and true sense of humor, a
sympathetic tone, a perception of character, and a familirr, attracti\e style,
]ilcasantly adapted to the comprehension and the t'lste of that large class of
American readers for whom fashionable novels and ideal fantasies have no
charm." — Htnry T, Tuckerman,

tW"^ The volumet are all handsomely printed anJ bound in cloth, — sold
•«•! /where, and sent by xaa!A, Jiottagt free, on receipt of price [fi.so each], by

O. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,

Madison Square, Nero York.

". :