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' f 53 J C' f r f. CONTENTS. r CHAPTER I. The Germ or a Iraodey 9 CHAPTER H. The Villa. »b Angel I4 CHAPTER III. The Saint and the Sinner 18 CHAPTER IV. The First Step 21 CH \PTER V. A Maiden's Soul Awakes- 25 CHAPTER VI. Conjectures and Suspicions : . 30 CHAPTER VII. Warning Voices .' 34 CHAPTER VIII. The Confession 30 CHAPTER IX. Life without Honor Worthless 44 CHAPTER X. The Crisis of Her Life 40 CHAPTER XI. The Test of Faith 50 CHAPTER X!l. The Broken Lily kq IV CONTENTS. CHAPTER XIII. A Woman Without a Female Friend .. CHAPTER XIV. PAGE 60 Sir Vani's Warning CHAPTER XV. * His Wife Must be Happy. ' CHAPTER XVI. * An Angel and a Coquette '. . . CHAPTER XVII. * You NEVER TELL ME OP YoUR LlFE ' . . . , CHAPTER XVIII. IHE Marked Handkerchief CHAPTER XIX. In Quest of the Secret . CHAPTER XX. 1 Hold Her Death WARRAtfT ' CHAPTER XXI. ■Now I CAN Bear My Fate '. . . CHAPTER XXII. Real Love Begins on Earth and Ends in Heaven ' Distilling the Poison CHAPTER XXIII. CHAPTER XXIV. IHE Coquette's Advances CHAPTER XXV. Sir Vane's Uneasiness w .r CHAPTER XXVI. With Murder in Her Heart A Cruel Letter. CHAPTER XXVII. ,^ ^ CHAPTER XXVIII. VouR Life has been a Living Lie !' 65 70 73 77 81 85 90 95 101 106 Ill 116 .... 121 .... 12< .... 131 :i i if CONTENTS. V PAGE CHAPTER XXIX. A Woman Crushed to Earth 136 CHAPTER XXX. * You HAVE Deceived Others, but none so Cruelly as Me ' 141 CHAPTER XXXI. A Lonely Wanderer 146 CHAPTER XXXII. A Premonition 151 CHAPTER XXXIII. * You Have Murdered Her ' 165 CHAPTER XXXIV. * I HAVE Made a Terrible Mistake ' 159 CHAPTER XXXV. A Lady Visitor 164 CHAPTER XXXVI. * I will Give You Cause to Remember Me ' 169 CHAPTER XXXVII. A Woman Scorned I74 CHAPTER XXXVIIL The Cry of an Anguished Heart 179 CHAPTER XXXIX. * I have been Sinned Against ' 184 CHAPTER XL. A Proposal Rejected 189 CHAPTER XLL A House with a Mystery I95 CHAPTER XLIL The Husband's Joke 200 CHAPTER XLIIL A Woman's Terrible Vengeance 206 chapter xliv. False and True Love 211 VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER XLV ^^^^ Bin .OK Hek I wo... H.VK B... . hIppv Wx.k. . . 2ia CHAPTER XLVr. The Joke that Paris Enjoyed m„„ ^ CHAPTER XLVII. ^^' IHE SPEII OF A BeaUTIEUL Face 226 CHAPTER XLVIII A iJiSFiQUBED Favorite ' 232 rr r CHAPTER XLIX How It Was Done.. 237 m ^ CHAPTER L. IHE Deplorable Consequences 239 r ^, CHAPTER Lf. iN A New Home . . . 24T -^ M^N w™ SUCH . r™,. ■■ 264 ,T ,x. CHAPTER LVI. Life Wil. Never Be the Same Acuin ' . 271 ,T CHAPTER LVII SHOULD Like to Know Everythino About Him ' ^76 , _ ^ CHAPTER LVIII. 1 wish I COULD Always be Nineteen 279 CHAPTER LIX. ' He had Slain Her, but She Loved Him '. . 1.... Jo6 V CONTENTS. . .. 221 ... 226 .. 232 .. 237 .. 23& . 247 . 252 . 256 ' 261 vi Vll PAGE CHAPTER LX. * As THOUGH SOME GrEAT WeIGHT WERE ON HiS MiND ' 291 CHAPTER LXI. A Solemn Warning CHAPTER LXll. The Whispering Voice • 296 301 306 CHAPTER LXIV. As She Looked Then She Never Looked Again 310 CHAPTER LXV. CHAPTER LXIIL Like a Dagger in Her Heart A Folly or a Crime CHAPTER LXVl. * Let Him Deny It if He Can ' . CHAPTER LXVII. Doomed to a Life-long Sorrow 316 321 326 332 335 CHAPTER LXVIII. The Father's Explanation CHAPTER LXIX. Night for Evermore CHAPTER LXX. A Last Request o^o CHAPTER LXXL * I Touch the Hands of Men of Honor ' 347 CHAPTER LXXII. The Victim of a Man's Sins 352 CHAPTER LXXIII. * Angel of My Life, Come^Back to Mb ! ' 357 CHAPTER LXXIV. Thb Earl's Atonement 3^9 .* J •>« 1 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. CHAPTER I. THE GERM OP A TRAGEDY. NOBLER girl had never lived than she whose saintly face and saintly ways were so appreciated that in the ^ vicinity of her abode she was known as « the village angel. Yet she was of humble origin, the daughter of a poor doctor. ^ He was a struggling country surgeon, with a small income, the reward of very hard work— a man of no particular family with no great connections, of no influence— a man content to wear thick leather shoes, a somewhat shabby coftt, and frayed gloves ; a country surgeon, working hard for his daily bread, and finding that difficult to win ; a man whose daily routine never varied, and who would one day pause in his work to die, and the world would know him no more. And she was his only daughter—' only a doctor's daughter,' as bir Vane Carlyon said, over and over again to himself: no lortune save the praise and love of all who knew her, no dowry save the blessings of the poor. Nothing but her fair, girlish loveliness and sweet, pure character ; among other girls she was wliat a white lily is among other flowers. One drop of water in the great, deep ocoan, one grain of sand on the vast seashore; one leaf in the boundless forest is to Sir Vane Carlyon of quite as much importance as the doc- tor 8 daughter. She is one in a world of women, one out of the millions of fair girls, differing only from the others in that she if fwWtem "'°''^ g^a^eful— true, sweet, and pure as the petals Kc thinks idly to himself, as he watches her, 'Shall he seek to wm her, or shall he pass her by T 10 THE earl's atonement. wiahing to win her excel tha it'' °° Particular reason for on>eaven-to the pain. ^Jli:Z::lf:j[XT:.Xi; giv^tm^e'irl'TrouWe""''" ""'O-^^Uon waa-shonld he watchea her. ^':^^\^^^:Z:^^-it^^ haf SWh^d^n^ ^^^^^^^^^ '■>«' ¥ honor^nterfere with his Mies-shZd he'r h^orL-^t? gollen "h^hro'At' "'' '''r *y *.°°« "''o™ hia head, and the '■"^^^ "^^6' voices of nature spoke to THE GERM OF A TRAGEDY. 11 on the pos- reason for iensatioii to "ul, dreamy quench the t eyes, and f passion ; V dropped that tell of irons love of earthly ■should he (vorth the even ever the cane ' blossoms Qg in the in by the 5re flirta- even the and beau- ts. If a ion; but ter, wi^.h creation ; he had IS half so I that he woman's r let her and the 3r wind he great he birds ipoke to him— he was deaf to them, one and all; he thought onlv whether he should take the trouble to win this girl, who looked tair and pure, as though her heart was in Heaven. A question of little moment to him— at the utmost it meant remaining some weeks longer at Whitecroft ; then probably going abroad, and the expenditure of a few thousand pounds lo her It meant life or death, honor or dishonor, heaven or the everlasting darkness of the outcast. The sweet flowers of the celandine fell to the right and the lett, as he struck them recklessly with his cane. He looked once more at the face of the doctor's daughter-^the golden hair was like a halo round it : from out of the violet eyes shone the truth, tenderness and purity of a loving soul-the mouth had the sweet, pathetic, graceful lines one sees in the portrait ot iJeatrice Cenci ; the delicate, graceful curves of the head and neck, the slender, faultless figure, instinct with grace and rehnement, made a picture that was seldom equalled. bhe had been playing the organ at the church, and was busily engaged in locking the worn old door, when he, passing up to the vicarage, saw her, and stood watching her. i T\.. 7^ '^''^^? disfigure that face,' he said to himself. 1 he people round here call her a saint. It will be a novelty W^fnf r' ^1 '• f"^- •l''^" '^^y- ^^*y ^««*' <^he smiling heads of the celandine, with another vigorous stroke of the stick 1 will stay, he repeated : and in those three words lay the germ of a tragedy, the death-warrant of the sweetest, brightest of human creatures-the death-knell of a human soul ! fehe was still struggling with the key ; it would not lock the and bSed ' "^""^ ^^"^ '^^'^^' '^'""^^^ ^°S^'' "^^"^ ^^^ V^n^^"" 1°"^^^^ ^il'"'^'' opportunities, or mars them,' said Sir Vane Carlyon-« this is mine, and I will make it.' had ril'n'f * u' ^^'^^^^■ya^d. Even if one of the quiet dead had risen from his grave to giveiiim solemn warning, it would TevL ""S^'^^'^'T ^^ P«rpose-once formed nothTng trLtf ^l^^' standing by her side the next moment, hat m hand and the sunhght never fell on a handsomer face-dark bnlhant, proud, and full of power, a face fatal in its irresistible ' I beg your pardon,' he said, ' but that door seems to give 12 THE earl's atonement. the cool, shady church orYo 1?,?!,^°^ T" 8°'" *" '■«»' '" He?t ''f7 r-'sarr" ' '-^'^'^ ""'e urchTns like Ihose.' healthy, stroTird/J'rLdXI" '^'^ "' ''""'"''^' ^^^ lie looked at her m wonder in connrZwifh visage chilTen"""^ "'''' """'S'" "' -«'^ creati't' she'rd!\°of,^/''''4'Vd'; ""' .T'""'"' '""« '» dearest to Heave.,:' ^' "'° °°° """8 ""^''^s' and youo° Alllolt'r.f 7''\''i' ''"™' "'^^""f"! «» 'hat of a even of a village child, loweredhim kher ailht h, /h! ""' made a,. opport„aity of speaking to her he had' no wkh";* pursue th s sty e of conversation it ■?? 7"" '" children nor oLuk TdesTred to m^ """''' "' ""^^o * ■J k it, allow c is rusty. 10 attempt iculptured ed a little matter of le difficult ^! 10 thieves she said, to rest in the pews. J ke those.' his dark 1 n a voice 3croft are 1 fh he did ; fiijsh. 1 d to me, of souls 1 ;tentioo. thing in •est and 1 lat of a V in the the soul having wish to village I'j^^B THE GERM OF A TRAGEDY. 13 'lam afraid the rector must go to the expense of a new ock he sai. 1 ' this will not last much longer. I shall beg the old one when it is done with.' ° * Why ? ' she asked, with the simple wonder of a child 'Because it has brought about that which I most heartily desired, he replied ; ' an introduction to you.' There was not the least affectation, nor the faintest approach to coquetry in her manner-the grave, sweet simplicity charmed him as nothing had ever done before. ' Do you wish to know me ] How strange ! ' she said 1 do not think it strange. I think it perfectly natural. I saw you first m church, three weeks since, and I have been longing ever since to know you.' Not the faintest gleam of coquetry came in the eyes or face ; he watched her keenly to see if his flattering words produced any effect upon her-he could see none ; she did not seem even to understand that it was flattery— she took it as the an- nouncement of a fact, nothing more. ' 1 am a very easy person to know,' she replied. ' I think every one in \\ hitecroft knows me.' 'Then every one in Whitecroft is singularly blessed and happy.' he said : 'I wish I were one of them. I do not belong to Whitecroft.' She looked at him, taking in with one comprehensive glance the handsome, aristocratic face, the tall, well-knit figure, the air of superiority-then smiled thoughtfully. ' You do not certainly belong to Whitecroft,' she said • 'we working' ''"' ^''"* ^"' P'^P^' -"'' ^•^ P^^"- ^^^ i^^^d- ' I am neither, you think 1 ' of her 'held'' '"'"'' '^'^ ''^^'"^' ^'^^ ^ charming little nod \a^\t'l ''™^ he had been obliged, sorely against his will, to ock the door. He had intended to ask her if she would meet him again if he might walk across the fields with her • but as she stood in the shadow of the old eray porch, the th ck .reen ivy making the background of the picture, the sunlight falling on her face, on her pale golden hair, and the gray cloak shf wore, she looked sn voun'^ so rur- \- f-r -' u 7- like what he had seenin pictures of the angels, that his cour- u THE earl's atonement. she had any leisure she spent it in that manner. ^ '" go every day ] ' "isnuments. Do you 'That would presuppose a good deal of leisure,' she renli^rl dav wTf. T^^^' ^"^ ^" ^«"^d see her again on Thurs. day With a few courteous words he bade her Jod hv .! i went home to dream of a fair, pure face andV^^? f ^',5"'^ -1 CHAPTER 11. THE VILLAGE ANGEL. !™u^.hTer'" Th'^''''^' ^"'^""^ ^^^^d^he 'doctor's r daughter. There was no one like her, and none of them remembered ever to have seen any one lilce Lr sviss r St -:,!" rii d THE VILLAGE ANGEL. 15 n appoint- ask her I'es, wlion i B, and the Do you 4 e replied, irs to it j' ^ery nar- ' art. n Thurs- -by, and f golden v^hich he 1 lector's lone of ke her. leaving pretty anging I. No irooke, on. iVhite- before I, and le had He went to live there. When Dr. Sleigh died, he bought his pretty house and the old-fashioned garden, with its spread- ing sycamore trees-a pretty house, that looked as though it were dressed in flowers, shaded with rippling foliage bri^dit with gleams of scarlet and goM ; roses and passion-flowers chmbed the walls, framed the windows, clustered over the porch, where, in summer, it was pleasant to sit and watch the butterflies, the bees, and birds. People at first thought him too young, but after a time they discovered that he was much older than his years-that he was gentle, studious an.i kindly of heart; rather absent- minded, and easily imposed upon; kind to the poor, and as Th-M ""ir'^l^u^u'"?"^/'^" ^^*« °^ ^^'^ poorest woman ^ child as though he had a duchess for a patient. Dreamy, and in many ways unpractical, he was earnestly devoted to his profession ; and if ever he thought of himself at wlVMri'^i^f^^.''^"* ^' ^^^ been sent expressly into tl^ world to heal the diseases and assuage the pains of mankind lieart'oT^'^h ^^l'^ ""P^^' ^^"^"^ ^-''^ doctor .on the heart of the whole village ; men, women, and children all loved him, trusted him believed in him and sought him in all trou bles. He married the village beauty, Laura Ennis, and Uiey were the happiest pair in the world, "she was the brightest Tsunbear "''' '"^ '^"" "^'^^ ^^^"^^^^^ Agatha w^s like tl^itl^T '"f,^^"^-X ? terrible accident happened, which plunc^ed the whole village into mourning, and blighted the doctor's life He had been appomted medical officer for a somewhat stra^' gling country district, and in conseq.ience had been obli^^ed fo" purchase a little carriage and pony.' When the pony was not required for duty Mrs. Brooke liked to drive her pretW litl daughter through the green lanes ; but one day a terrtbfe a c^ dent happened. She was driving to Westbury, along tehTgh- road, ta king to little Agatha about the lovely sightslnd scenes around them, when suddenly along the white, stfai-dit road she waTdMn""""' "'' '"^ unmanageable horses speeding t hearthfto?d\^f itV""!^!^ mth a white face and beating neart she told her httle girl not to crv. there wa« n.fh\r,% ^r.u-^i sne drew the pony near o the hedge, and waited iS Hi THK KAm/s ATONKMKNT. forriflod silciuv for tho p fill <»v..r l»-r,>ro fiiiy 011,1 kuo usHin^'oftlui irifiiriiito,! | lorHOH. It WM nH'tliato ntiiHo of r| vv wimt Im.l Jiapporind : ixwl t.\ in irri' ""iv ti,i,. ihM iL uuC' "' "■•'" "''""•' '■'•••"'y «««'Tta .1, which he soiao„;i::Ld ,t:ie u J 1^,;:;; j:^^'^ r 'f^^^^ ^^ befor. him stretched out the rea ,1 k t "'n */ '"' "^««' on the distant golden shore of^wfj' . . T^'- "*"'''^ ^'tcr.iity, eyes like ■ violets steened in Jp J' .1 " > I"*'' S''''^' »"<• and compassion alm„s7dTvine AH he ovtrt "^^ T'"" "''^ tenderness, the grand compassion ttC!!itv^ '"7 »»,^ fll ed her mother's heart hkd come to hlrLdlitht \^ JlS^it""'"^' '"' '"''P'"''' -1 "-""g ev:jVTreat"lLt doc?r Ultd rhe^ frut'allThe ^ ctil^^'" "k^ "'^■"- ""> at that early a-e the sweet llh'^ "'"' "'"' '''■'« '" i she -ved eJery^UtfeTenclri ent' rerZ ttTrM""" ' lying with aching h'-i-d or iniured limh. u fu ''"'" ""«« sieht in the world w ,,*: ti' lovet cVH „1 hT '^. ?■•«,"'««' gold, going into tho co^.,0., W Titti bin"'' uI^t'L^^.tf » 4 T[fK VfLLAOE ANOEL. 'H. It wa.< • I Mm irii- 17 itTtalrmd, 1 iiid ovnr- ^^ la 'll«ul 1 t'ltll with i , llowrry 1 1(1 worM M of croa- m ^inio tlio m hcA like 1 it was S hild l(,ft fl !w more fl . Ifow S dov()t« « it, the ■M re ill ; ' rS itself : 9 ) ones s 'ttiest • fl f pale 1 the lHnu, '' ^''*^ ^ ' '^''''"^"''■" "'^^ ''^"^ tJ»« answer was always ' Only ♦: ^ ioctor's daiifjliter.' And the doctor's da.u-hter had grown up the village angel ; even h„r heautilul name seemed part of herH..|f. The old jFrav |'».urch. w.th itH ivy-covered poreh. built hundre.ls of years ago. had been dedicated to St. Agatha. Who St. Agatha was the V llage people d.d not kn<.w- they had never anked. On the great Hta,n.d.gla..s window at the eastern end of the church there waH a picture of he, a beautiful, fair voung ma d w th a pure, Bweet lac., and a hulo round the hair of .ml i Id she earned a palm branch i. her hand; but what I o palm br'anch meant they never undtrstood. oiantn The most curi.Mis thing was that Mri^, Brooke -ved the old tt'chlr r """^"^^^*^'' ^^^ <•'- y^-^ «<-.. an. iL; 1 att the church was exactly opposite to it. VVh- the nrettv nit baby was placed in her arms, and she aw 1 nlle old of^ he" hair and the tiny fair face, she said t her h. sband « Le rie people, and as to them "IS Agatha, lay n the child d she had branch of octor told *' fused to »e pagan was an additiona charm in the eyes of the simr the doctors daughter in some inexplicable wa part of the church, a. d associated with the rayst whose sweet, saintly face shone on them every Ihe strangest thing was the influence it ha.i Itself. She was the only Agatha in the village, been named after the beautiful la.ly who carried ti palm m her hand. She asked about her, and the her that Saint Agatha had been one of "those wh. t.7 u\ ^''^ ''??^''^ "■'^'«' ^"'1 ^*>r that reason ,e paean h rlTaSlv^nrn'T '^ '^' ^'\ '' '^^"^'>' -'i ^he r m.^/of tier had lived in the heart of the people ever since X'ounff ^^XT^:^;^"^' '"" ""^ '-''"-' '^» •• -- f„7,'hT "I" " *''''?'^ ''^'"' '" "■« °" stained-glass window read it and thr^Tl '" """' '^ ?'■"= ""'" ^^■»'''' i''i "r^Z her Latin .ea,ons and taughTaer-the'remTnts TZ^Z ^Z 18 THE EAEL'S ATONEMENT. ^ How would the^^uS fcf #"'''^"r '""' "I'*"'/ tween hawk and wounded dove ""' '"'^'^'^ ^^y »>«- li CHAPTER III. THE SAINT AND THE SINNEB. ?UT/iS^^ at His feet pious, refined lady, had dlvoted h^r f f ^\"^«ther, a gentle! fiade only one mistake-she W comnff^ i ^'' T' ^he had he grew up handsome selfish fon^??^'^'^^ '^^'^^^ him ; and trol, obstinate and pCd IJ^hld^^^^ry, i«ipatient of con loved his mother; he was ^en^rn '"""^^ ^^^^ qualities ; he not see oppression'or inTustifeTothr'^''' " ^""^^ ^ ^« «o«ld hood where truth could^bf mana °d^^^^^^^^ .^'/'^^^ *^^d a false- «ider that the world was made ^fo/ht'w^'"^° "P ^« '^^^ Carlyon, of Garswood ; he owned SH v^^'i ?u\ ^^' ^^^ ^ane House one of the fa rest rnins 7n ^ V^^-"^ ' ^ him ; he was a power in th^ knd ?.r\ '^^'^^^^' ^«^°"g«d to argest coal mines in England anj ^-- ""^ '°'"' "^ *^« P We. a r„ w of 4tiin'^%s.^L"; tr^r jI;' THE SAINT AND THE SINNER. 19 trained by the sweetest and best of mothers he was wanfmc ;« reverence and loyalty towards women VerhlpTtwas^^ much the fault of those who pursued him as his own fir du^ rf/rj /Tk ^' ^"^ ^^/^ '^' °^««* ^ligiWe match n Eng land, and had been courted as such. Everything possiWe and even at times the impossible, had been done to wki him but in vain. He had broken the heart of more than one w7man his own had never even been touched. He admired Xde love, and rode away. No matter if he left an achWh^artor a shadowed life behind him, that never troubled him Ihere were one or two women who cursed the hour in whirh his handsome face had smiled on them to their destruction One or two sins were laid to his door that caused the world to ctTboLrw'nd'S.^"' "^^^--^ veryapolog^^cTel^.! each^othTitd'^r.T '"^ ''f' 'T' ^^^' '^' °»^*^«°« ««id to feults of Tf^ll ^^^'^'^''^'^^^^^y must be indulgent to the taults of a fashionable sinner, whose income could not be less than two hundred thousand pounds per annum ? He was the pride of the day, but as yet he had loved no one His mother ?hAf ^^"'^*i^^ '""''''^ ^^"^' ^"d i° ^° evil hour he went his eves La7v r'T"' ^"°"»^^\-i^^ -^y one drawbalk in T. % A 11 r.^ . ?^^ ^""^^ ^ S^^^^ ^over of the proprieties and she liked all her visitors to attend church on Su^ndTy morning there was no getting off comfortably with a cigar no pretence o hts did'^tA'^ ""r' '°"'^ himself 'obliged? do : out 0? it but^! J n'^r^'^ 'T^. ^^'^^'^on and desire to get out ot It, but Lady Croft looked him straight in the face b„ T?kT Pi«^««yo»r««If/ she said ; * there is no compulsion • the wel'ktu"/ if\T" ^--J^y^d himself, served hSlf all day£;:o^^^ on Sun- straight words that came to him like a blow in the face. 20 THE EAIIL'S ATONEMENT. to the beautiful old church of sT HthV n ^^""'^ '^^^^^ ^'^^ reverent enough, inwardly he was ?n,!; P^^^^^^^'y l>e was amuse himself with '" ^^^^^^^ of something to yet .leaned tl,e leasf "i'lfrhk"'"™. "" r'" '>»'' ""' vi.caragepew,ki„dly,f„s,7h?<,rr '. A *''^',' "''» ^at in the -Hh keen eyes, no.fc^d Z)a:«LrSlf 'l™' ""'''"*'' "^o"' her net, and thous-ht in her hfirlll! , '''•""'some young baro- "p. When he1,as reviewed « , rp:o:,:'rf '* '^ '° «^e him the distance, a beautiful w!nd, mlhf.l ^f"" '",""' ''e sees, in eyes. He does not know wl J Tf "'"''"='" '"^ ™»'iering ?rer,ch harmonious, bea^tift ■ iT'^^S^ buttheeoloit beatl:^t^:: iinf^g!:j/--t; "■'"•■'-• "-■''"^''ow » sad pity they were not aU good *" '" ''«»»«''i'l what faceL;d^^-t;:,»;-^J--J.nnde™ ,he window, a clad m soft gray kneels there a ImwV """"'' ' * ««•"■« which ,s grace ; the face is fair 1, ' k • ■ *^'"'''' '^'y 'ine of w'».low, and the pale golden haiml^'".",' ""^ f»=« '» ">« IS startled for a minute Vhi?l,- .^""^ * ^alo round it. He palm branch has dce,;j„''d"'b^;"S :'■"»' t'-t the girl with the perfectly beautiful and exqmtite ?ae 'l' f """ ''^'"" '>'°' ""is As a matter of course at ,Li ''""«• quired after her, and held h^ '"!: '™' "PPortnnity he in- mother's death-heard how, K """'"•'"" ""'e story of her old gray church, and Ld I ^d ^^."""''i'^ '"«' '"«« called the ' doctor's daughter "I'd 1, ^''"''* ^""^ ^^e was through the streets, men. wmne"' and cblH "' uT '^^ P«^«ed -e pleased him ; the^l'™ ^sS ^rpplThotr; £ THE FIRST STEP. 21 The chance to speak to her camp if laof rrrU^^ ^v the vicarage, hesaW her tryiv'v^nlft >W u^."^ *^ made up his mind. He 2™]! .?»t " ""^ T"''*'''"' ''« would b^ a certain piqutytrou't woTin^a sal^ ""• ^"^'^ How It would end he did not know rlirl T^ thefancy^ofa moment. He J^^Z^^T^,!^ CHAPTER IV. THE FIRST STEP. ■ ^^Z!^^ ^T^^ "^^1^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^ork that day She performed precisely the same duties, she visfted the to her fa hTot-S tt •Tut^n^J'V^"^^^-^^^' ^^^^ the strange senTation ors^mf nt t^'ln he mr's^^Th'" ^ev^th-ougl ^^^tMld'Tt^ "^ -"a dntn-ent; she of meetingTim ;.aif T that f ■■' ' *' ''''' •"<" "'"'k Wen brighteninl „n.ef,'?e an^d'Ue? t nglrnTir"^ "' ""' ""^ It was an old custom of hers to „'.„ ^"^'tu....^^.. _,. noon Lo the orfyfln 'Vhiic rru J 3 ■--•■'> ^iiuiouay aiLer- organ. J nis Thursday was a bright, beautiful day. 22 THE earl's atonement. promise of the lilao anrfth. ifl. fT'^'^T' '" "ossom, the owa filled withXer thefi^^- "'^'-^ laburnum, the mea.1. unta they ioo,.^^:':/f:,zttTir' """ "'"=-' her eyes were dS ft?r J f • " P*"'*?"" "^ ^S^' »nd sound, light.^ TheT when the df J 7""'^ "^^ "" brightness of .!?e be'foreherth^Ime sLg?r """'^ ''™^' ^''^ «"- »'an'^^°«'e bead bent m almost lowly homage have tt'^e'a^'prasZ'' Jhe*r!{ ''* """' ' ^ ""^ ' "P"" ^ have finished.' *'**""« "" "g*'' '""day. but you the'i;XE'of trice"' Vhe'ris',^ T"l' """^ ""»■ ""e saw tifled it, until inhiffnr^ h- ™'''' brightened and beau- bright smXl'^ralfl^ured hTZt '''''t , " T '""'^' looked half hesitatingly rhim' ^^W love do » She pvLCtSjCt'." ""^ ""^ -«». I will go back and w<;«ttji''^:t;teiai:g^:r.'''- -^'■^'-^ - «■« anotherworid^ll ?he":fte° '^'''' t '"P^^i * I have been to Samson and Dotr^tT^d Miol' "^Th'r""' "'* of gold and green seemed unreal to me.' P'''™' """^ sight fawomaSTake!'"'"'^''" '''"^ "''^ damson lost his ' Th!'j'"' '"""""'•^'l ■■ ' but Delilah is dead.' lookIS:t%rwthtra: ,^;:i^^«™S.'^-i.l; and she ' I do not think so,' she Zm . ? do ""f »,.'>«a''«f'>l face, than one ever existed ' ^ ' """ ''^''*'« 'bat more paf oSte.°"' ' '''" '""""^ '"''"P"y' when he saw the ' ^ hoaor such beautiful faith,' he said. 'm TfiE FIRST STEP. prime, the )S8om, the the mead- id daisies, the carol the sweet the cool id sound, ess of ihe standtug en stood, ' homage I oped to but you I he saw id beau- e frank, I I She ick and in the been to d, with b world lost his >d she il face. t more iw the 23 But she did not quite understand even that. Delilahs were not in her hne ; and it was natural to her to believe in every- thmg. They left the glowing sunlight and the scented lime- blossoms, and went back into the cool, deep shadows of the old church. i ■! ■^^•1^^,!^ ^^^\ ^? ^^*^ ^^® °^g^" ^^ perfection,' said Agatha. It will be much better for you to remain down here in the church, and I will play to you. He answered cheerfully, but a strange pang of disappoint- ment shot through his heart. She did not care then for a tetea-tete with him ; It was the music, and nothing more ; whereas he really cared nothing for the music, and only wanted to be with her. He remained below in the dim, beautiful old church, his eyes riveted on the grand eastern window, listening to the light footsteps, wondering a little, touched a little, finding the circumstances and surroundings quite different to any he had ever known before. ^ .lnfn«?i^^'^ ^^ir^'H ^^!- '^^^ ^^^^^owB, floated to him sounds almost divine- the pleading cry of Delilah. * Hear me-but hear me-hear the voice of love.' It was so perfectly rendered pressed Delilah's love and woe so perfectly, did not believe the type of woman existed in those days. Knowing what he had hlTw '^ ^'" ^'^'^ 't P^"^^^'^^ ''y ^'"^'^^^ ^^^- It should have been, ' spare me ! ' not ' hear i ' Something better and holier woke in his heart than had ever one'vetT' ^I'Vt ^^°"^? ^' ^P^^« ^^^> ^^^ had spared no one yet? Should he go out from the church, and never look inn it '"'^"'''''/""^T" ^^^^^^ «^"d almosi, who had faTth tL br^r?' •°^' Pf ^T' ^^ ^^1 ^«"- It was like tearing em of a litTL"^ "^- " ^^^■''^\ "^ P^^^^^S ^^^ ^^e bright about if Thi ^T^ bird-there was a sense of cruely seek thk on. J^T u^ ^"" ^^ ^^•^^^«' ^hy should he Jht !t\ Z' f ."^^d«^, by her own innocence ? Was it pos- sible that, standing under the light of the eastern window Hs- PosS thaTrhf l"'.?.'^ *^'^ «^^^^- heard"befrre,Tks better man? ^^''' "'"'" ^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ ^« ^^ a 24 f f THE earl's AtONEMENT. .e.^ed :^Paf„^&^gi;,t:^ "^ he had „=„'j While I have eye3 he wants no light • music TpM t£e Z'^hT" ""'^ r' "g^i-. and then the footsteps '^re'descenlL"*'"'' ""'"* '^»''^<' '"'"y. th« "ght grSV?;ifeyl""„1„''eV°^- '''" ""^ ""'» hands holding the heard you say that you should b^here on thnr^d''"™^/' ^ IJou^ed to hear the beautiful old'Tgrn" ftru^^t'iroufl mol'llutlful tes. "^ "' ''"• ^'*'' """-»' ™'P™e i» her Thi'if,!"i''T° ? Pu^ose r she asked, j^ The^s.„ph„.ty of the words amused bin. so greatly, that he the same'p?et:r^."tJs:H '' ?^ oTar"'""""'' ""^^ ^ ^^ '" may I go with yon V " *'' Siomg across the fields, She was too much surprised to say ' yes ■ or ' nn • K„t v she opened the white oai„ ti,.. 1 J r •';?' . ""' "Ut when fields, he went wfth fcTr No ItZ '!"* "''"'^.''•J'-'-d to 'he her-the ways of life ai Whi,,.? f^ impropriety came to easy; she di^ not know whit eTthrr„r''''- ^'"""^ ^'"^ ""'I quired, for such a caseLd „.,? t Propnety or etiquette re- beforeLa handsome lor,nvv P'"""'' '" ^'' «Perience through the fields wi'th her ^"""^ '"'^"' "^"""^ *° ''»»' miSLu'oS'wltrt't ?„"■'■" *""?■" "> himself-per. any one else h^ would h ? ^' " '"=' "'■*'■ 'o say. To made viotnt love This 21-^.'* extravagant complil^ents? him. While wrher'a d f :CVkrjT "JT ""''^ in a shrine, the sanctitv nf »hf„i, I '*"■ as though he were Still he must talk to he^^ "'""'' ''* "^^''^ »<" desecrate. ' Why is this place called Whitecroft J ' he aslccd. 4 ds holding the A maiden's soul awakes. 25 She was quite at home with him then. *Look round and see if you can guess/ she replied. He looked round, but saw no reason. She laughed again. ' Your eyes are not educated for the country,' she said • * do you not see all the white blossoms, the hawthorn, the May the cherry trees, pear trees, the whole village is a mass of lovely white bloom and that is why it is called Whitecroft. My road is down this lane. I will say good afternoon,' and with a graceful bend of her fair head she disappeared CHAPTER V. a maiden's soul awakes. HREE weeks had passed since Agatha Brooke had nlaved the grand music of Samson, thinking it the greatest treat she could offer. May had passed, and the beauti- here ' ^^^ ^ ^""^ ''^" ^^^^""^ ^^^ ^''^^^S^' ^^^ Then came a lovely sunny day when Sir Vane stopped to ask himself If he had made much progre.<^, for in spite if three weeks wooing such as he had never undertaken before, it was still quite uncertam whether he should win or lose her he had known none but such women as Agatha Brooke he should have been a different man. Not even iu the presence of the best born and noblest ladies in the land had he felt more respect, more reverence than he did for this young girl who was as unconscious of all peril as the wild roses thit grew on A^fil^'n .^' ^^^d^o^ed her in the most chivalrous faslln At first, all his meetings with her seemed quite accidental, but t was wonderful how frequent they were. He seemed alCs to have calls to make at Westhnrv ur.A +,,-.]. „„„-^^ ^5^! exercise in the green lanes and field; a'round WhTte'c "ofrThen B 26 THE earl's atonement. he was always so deferential, so full of homage and reverence • every meeting seemed so accidental that she had not the faintest suspicion. Every day life grew more sweet, the sunlight more golden ; every day the faint dream grew deeper; every dav she roRe With new hope new lightness, new beauty, and the vague happiness that filled her heart made her so beautiful that the VI] age people looked at her in wonder. She would have re- coiled with something like fear had any one said to her ab- ruptly that she was beginning to love ; to her innocent mind love was a far-off mystery. She never connected it with the dreamy delight that was changing and coloring the whole world for her. Then what Sir Vane considered a piece of good fortune hap- pened to him. He sprained a finger, and one fine morning he came nding into VVestbury and drew his reins at the doctor's 1 Ttx?^ T^ '" ^"^^a^*^' wi<^h a message that he should be glad if the doctor would see him at once, as he had an engage- ment, and very soon they stood face to face-the handsome young aristocrat, who knew no law but his own will and plea- sure, and the village doctor, kind, generous, absent-minded and unsuspicious ' The sprain was painful, and the doctor wanting somethincr as usual called for his daughter. She came in, looking, to his mmd, more than ever like the saint on the eastern window for she wore a pal« blue dress, and her golden hair hung loosely on her neck. When she saw him there, in her father's sur-erv talkmg quite at his ease, asudden sense of bewilderment sSzed her. In a few brief words the doctor asked for what he wanted ; but Sir Vane interrupted him. ; I have never had the pleasure of a formal introduction to Miss Brooke, he said; «but I was fortunate enough to be of some little assistance over locking the church door.' And then, while the doctor attended to the finger. Sir Vane told him of the little adventure, and how he had afterwards enjoyed the music of the beautiful oratorio. His conscience a most smote him when he looked into the dreamy, absent face ot the girl s father, for the doctor saw so little in it, and thought so little of It, he paid but vague attention. It was as easy as deceiving the blind. ^ During the whole of the summer weeks that tragedy lasted 1 I A maiden's soul awakes. id reverence ; t the faintest unlight more very day she id the vague iful that the lid have re- d to her ab- nocent mind i it with the g the whole fortune hap- raorning he the doctor's le should be 1 an engage- B handsome ill and plea- ent-minded, ■ something, •king, to his window, for lung loosely sr's surgery, aient seized )r what he oduction to gh to be of r, Sir Vane afterwards conscience absent face nd thought i as easy as edy lasted, 27 he never once thought of his daughter at the same time with the young stranger. He called daily for a fortnight over the injured finger. He was clever enough to get to know when the doctor would be from home. He always waited for his re- turn ; so It came to pass that many hours of the beautiful sum- mer days were spent by them in the shady, flowery cottage Ihe doctor had no suspicions. Agatlia was a child to him • that she had grown fair and slender as a young palm tree did not occur to him, to whom she would always be a child For- tune at times seems to favor the designs of evil ; it certainly favored >Sir Vane. Any other girl would have foreseen the danger to herself. She lived on as unconscious of what was coming into her life as a dreaming child. She did not notice how, every day when he left her, he said something which plainly indicated when he should come again ; and she, quite as unconsciously, was al- ways there. "^ . ^ F^^^t love is pitiful, it is so often wasted, so often lavished in vain. This girl s whole soul had gone from her, never to be her own again. Gradually her life became one long dream of liim. She remembered every word he uttered, she could bring to her mind every expression of his face ; wherever he stood became a place at once sacred to her; if he touched a book, a picture, or ornament, it became a priceless treasure to her • when he threw away a withered flower she treasured it. It was love without stint, without measure, without limit of bounds ; and yet she knew nothing of what it was. 1 hey had met each other one bright June morning in the beautiful old avenue of chestnuts that led to Croft wSods, ac- cidentally on her part, intentionally on his-a beautiful morn- ing, such as one often finds in England in the glory of sum- mer prime Some of the flowers of the chestnut had fallen, and the leaves lay at their feet. ' How bri-ht the sunshine is to-day ! ' she said. ' It must be a fancy of in ,, but it seems quite a diff'erent color.' His dark, handsome eyes devoured the fair, calm beauty of the angelic face. •' ' Perhaps the diff^erence comes from within,' he said. I have Known t.impa nrlian fV.rv l..,:^l,i „-i. ^.. i i i , . 1 »> '"»o fvr : ■ :" " """^ "'^o'^^^-^^ sun nela no light for me.' Ihat comes from trouble,' she said, gently. ( 28 f| THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. j ' 1 II! ' Yes, or weariness, or ennui ; that you see the light bri^'hter proves — do you know what it proves ? ' » o * No, I do not,' she rei)lied : ' will you tell me 1 ' 'It proves that new brightness has come into your life ' he said. ' She looked at him with such serious eyes. ♦I do not think so,' she said calmly. ' ^iy life is iust the same as it has always been.' His heart sank as he listened. Had all his persistent woo- ing been wasted— all his devotion been lavished in vain? Would this girl, with the pure soul and angel face, see him pass out of her life lorever, and make no sign? He had lav ished, as he considered, his best love-making on her and he had not stirred the sweet, sleeping soul. ' ' Shall you bo content to live here all your life, doiu'^ what you are doing now ? ' he asked, suddenly. ° The startled look in her eyes showed him that she had not thought of the future. 'I do not know,' she s;ud. « I am very happy— I could not be happier.' ♦ Would you not like to see something of the great world ? ' he asked. 'Out beyond the green hills which surround White- croft there lies a gr.,nd world, full of art, science, bea.ity, and pleasure. This place is like the " Happy Valley" of Kasselas — have you no wish to go beyond it ? ' ' I have never thought of it,' she said. ' It must seem st-ange to you, but n'y hfe has always been filled. I have so many to help, so much to do, that I luave had no time to think of such things. I hardly realized that there was a world beyond the green hills there which I had never seen.' 'Do tell me,' he said, bending forward eagerly— are you mortal ?-human ? Have you ever known what ii> is lo-to feel your own heart beat one throb more quickly-to feel your pulse tlirill—to ieel even your own face grow warmer? Are you really a mortal or are you, as I sometimes half believe, the Agatha trom the stained-glass window, come down to earth with nothing but soul and spirit ? Which is it ? ' She laughed out merrily. ' Indeed I am not St. Agatha. She has iron bars across her laco, you know. A MA I DEN ii SO' AWAKES. 2y it brighter ir life,' he just the itent woo- in vain ] I, see him had lav- r, and he iug what had not jould not world ? ' d White- tiity, and Kasselas 1 st^-ange many to : of such ^oud tlie are you —to feel ur pulse \.re you 3ve, the earth OSS her 'And you have iro., .>ars across your m 1,' he ir rrupted. For the first time he saw tliat her htiautfui face w; crimson, and her eyes fell— the first time there was a breaki ig of the long sleep, a stir of the tremulous, rosy dawn. • You are very much like that figure. Miss Hrooko,' he Siiul, And she laughed again, the merriest, happiest laugh he had ever heard. ' I am very glad,' she said. ' I would sooner be like that than a figure in a fashion book.' ' I should hardly have thought that you had ever seen one,' he said. ♦ I could not think of you at the same time with fashion and finery ; you always come into my mind with the beautiful, picturesque surroundings of the church, or these lanes. I do not believe you know what fashion is, Miss Brooke.' ' I am not quite sure that I do,' she said, slowly. * There is a beautiful world you ought to know,' he continued, ' that has nothing so frivolous as fashion— the world of art, and science, and beauty. You are too much (I know you will forgive me, Miss Brooke) too much like an angel— nay, that I cannot be sure of— too much like a marble statue— as fair, as pure, as lifeless.' I How can you say so 1 ' she cried. < Why, I am full of life ! ' *I could say to you what the Queen Guinevere said of her husband—" You want warmth and coloring." ' _ * That I do not ! ' she cried, almost indignantly, and taking his words quite literally. 'I am never cold, and I have color enough for ' She paused for want of a simile. 'For a wild rose,' he suggested. I Yes, or any other rose,' she said, earnestly. ' You do not understand,' he said. ' Yo;i want warmth of manner. * I think not,' she said. ' I am often ashamed of myself for the way in which the children caress and love me.' 'Ashamed, are you ?' he said. 'Ah, me ! I wish I were a child ! ' * Do you. Sir Vane— and why 1 ' The simple wonder of her question was beautiful to the man 01 the worln. TTn wlTiav>o».Qr^ Uic «.,^.. -^j :._ ^i .4 v- the dreaming soul awoke, never to sleep or dream again. 80 THE EARI/s'aTONFMENT. ! CHAPTER VI. CONJECTURES AND SUSPICIONS. Lord Croft t'u'hod. "'" ""' """' "">■ ^™' «- ^»e-' ° _' What is wrong, Emily ?■ l,e asked. have ntirg'':^:,!, ■ ™;:":Lf I'hTt 'i ''" ::f'^ f^^""'^- ■ ^ but I ca„,.of b,.lieve'hn'go n'g'":: '„ S, " "uf""""] "' ' much time out of doors and I im t^l It Ti ^ 'P'"''^ =" out a bouquet of (lowe iWs t ,f,"h t"" «'"' "".' """'• I am sure.' blowers m ins hands mean misohief, •They are very innocent messencers ' sai,l l,i. l i i.- • was always amused with his wife'^srruVl Id fea's''"' "'° Lady Croft continued anxiously : ^ '^ '*"^ ^^^'^S' * Have you heard anythin-' abon^ h\m i a ^i. mors in the neighborhood or w a i^J ^'•^ ^^re any ru- there any prettyL^iris ? You Jolt h T ^"^ -^'^^ P°'"^' ^'^ ' I think you mild^e him th I r ""''^ P.' ^"''^ "^'^'^»^^«^-' Croft. There ar^ no nice iHs v ?r ^"''' ^^ ^'^'^'' ^'"^^ ^'^^^ at least none that we Cw^of ' ^'^'^"^ '" ""^ neighborhood ; both had seen her but in hnthfl ' ^■^^\' ^^'^ ^^""^^ ^^ ^^^r, from the rest of ,1."^ ^:X^.zt^,:;^^t:^ handsomest and most courteous of me^ but T d 'f ''"' "^ "'" h m. Ladv Brandon told m. ! ^ ' "'' ""' ■)""« "'ust I hope they are^ot true ' ' '"''"■«' """'^ '"'™' "■» i ' D^^'t^S Kl'' rt!TmX'"/;;:if,^: '-<>f P ca>m^ was wrnncr ' ' ^"^ ' "^ ^^^uld know if anything CONJECTURES AND SUSPICIONS. 91 «iy do not far] eying le. ikly. « I Jimed of; pends so out with, mischief, hip, who any ru- sint, are ischief.' id Lord )rhood ; 1 whom of her, !t apart ler life, itinued ! of the te trust it him ; calmly, lything ' I should like to know where those flowers go,' said her lady- ship, plaintively. Afterwards she knew. Another conversation took place that same day. The rector. Dr. Kuthven, had gone to his garden, where every day he re- viewed his standard roses and carnations ; his wife. Lady Anne, followed him. • Francis,' she said, ' I am not quite happy in my mind this morning.' She was a good-hearted, generous, kindly woman, with broad views and sympathies— busy, rather fussy and effusive, but genuine to the very core of her heart Doctor Iluthven was so well accustomed to her little eccentricities, that nothing she said ever surprised or ruffled him. ' Francis,' she repeated, in a louder tone of voice, * do you hear what I say 1 ' ' I beg pardon, my dear,' said the rector. ' This is the rose that I took such pains to ingraft, and I am afraid it is dying. What is the matter — your mind, did you say 1 ' ♦ Yes,' replied her ladyship, ' 1 said my mind. I am not quite easy or happy in my mind, and I want to speak to you about it. I went into Whitecroft yesterday, and passed the end of the great cathedral avenue, I saw — what do you think I saw, Francis V ' Only Heaven knows, my love,' said the rector, piously and patiently. ' A sight,' she continued, * that made me very anxious ; Agatha Brooke, looking fair and angelic, as she always does, in earnest conversation with Sir Vane Carlyon.' * And who, my dear, is Sir Vai.e Carlyon V asked the rector, for his wife had paused, as though anxious not quite to over- whelm him. ' Oh, Francis,' cried Lady Anne, * when will you give more attention to such matters ? You must remember having met Sir Vane two or three times lately at Croft Abbey.' ' What ! ' cried the rector, ' that handsome young fellow with the dark eyes ; of course I remember him. 1 was much struck with him. That reminds me that he has called here three times, and we have been from home. We must ask the whole Abbey Porf V\r \JLXIJ.LX\/tt :i.gania ofooiiC { 32 E EARLS ATONEMENT. li ! ' That is what I want to find out,' said Lady Croft. * Agatha, to my mind, is the sweetest and the most beautiful girl I ever knew, and the best. She is as simple and innocent as the daisies that grow in the field ; she has no mother, and her father, good man as he is, never comes out of the clouds. I feel that I am in some way responsible for the beautiful mother- less girl, Francis, I am quite sure, from the way in which he looked at her, that he was making love to her.' ' Making love to her ! ' repeated the rector. ' My dear Anne, it is impossible.' ' My dear Francis, it is true,' she replied. * Now what does it mean ] He cannot think of marrying her, and if he is only seeking a little flirtation and a little amusement, it must not be allowed ; her life must not be shadowed by a light love like that. Agatha Brooke is different from most girls ; there is more of the angel than anything else about her. Do you think I hid better speak to her 1 ' ' I should do it very cautiously, Anne. There may be nothing at all in it, and you may suggest ideas that would otherwise never have occurred to her. * I will be careful enough,' said her ladyship, * but I shall certainly do it. ' What a sad thing it is when a girl loses her mother ! ' Another little event happened that same day. Sir Vane could not tear himself away. He walked home as far as the cottage gate, where he stood so long, and looked so loving at the exquisite drooping face, that Joan Mayberry, the doctor's faithful old servant, grew impatient. What was this handsome man — looking, as she thought, like a young prince — talking to her young mistress about ? Surely this was the same man who had called so often, and Joan's eyes were suddenly opened. * What have we all been thinking about 1 ' she said to herself. * Great heavens ! what is master doing 1 ' For Joan, who in early life had been disappointed by a faithless butcher, believed that all men were like ravenous wolves, and that one should come near this household treasure was not to be thought of ' The mischief is done,' thought Joan to herself, with a deep groan, as she watched Agatha enter the house, the lovely face VilnoViinnr Txrifl-i fVia cnroof. oViomo nf Vior 1/ •£) fin ovaa •■J--- dropped, the red lips parted in a tender, dreamy smile.' CONJECTURES AND SUSPICIONS. 33 . That 18 iust liow I looked when John left me/ she said to herself 'She does not know where she is going, that is quite sure she who has never had another thought except or the Sch and the poor. I must tell her she has no mother of ^ Vel when an hour afterward she went into the pretty sit- tinl-room under the pretence of talking about the gathe^^^ f r ?f ^hf was Quite at a loss how to begin. The girl betore ner, with her fZ pure face and sweet, happy eyes, looked so un^ ronscious of Anything like flirtation, the old servant was at a loss. It was like warning an angel against earth « What is it Joan ] ' asked Agatha, finding that the old ser vant stood s^l with an expression of great uncertamty on her '"a w^tt^'sV you, honey, who was it talking to you at the ^^« This morning, do you mean 1 ' asked Agatha. •Yes This mining, and he stood there so long he might have been a gate-post himself,' replied Joan. ^Tut she wL relieved even before the answer -^e ; the f^ce into which she gazed so anxiously never changed-there was r,«iflipr flush nor smile, as Agatha answered : , . a- ""Thatgfntk^^ is' one o'f my father's Patients-he is Sir Vane Carlvon, the only nobleman on our books, Joan. * A nobCan, is he, honey 1 Ah, take care, take care. Men are tT'nTughUut no Jmen_' -d the upraised hands RDoke eloquently of Joan's opmion of noblemen 'Badi How do you mean, Joan r asked her young mis- tress who knew the episode of the faithless butcher. 'Deriiful I mean. Miss Agatha ; and what I should like to knowTstWs_if a butcher can be so deceitful, what might a "^S: JotVdo you think a man's crimen, or sins, or follies rise with his position in life 1 ' asked Agatha. „,rnnit« 'You may be sure they do, honey,' replied Joan, not quite sure of h^r position, and looking very wise to make up for it ' 'Accordlnl^to she said, « a king would be the most wicked of men, and a beggar the most holy. There is something m that, dear/ said Joan-^ ^^^IZ^Zt care Miss Agatha,' do noL dcuuvu a ^TUi^^ .. • .~j~ -—- him what he LanUand do not let him speak to yoa. I il- 34 THE earl's atonement. Joan replied with a mournful gesture the ia^brfar.vra,'^,:: tir'^i t'^- -"-^ the idea. ' '^''^"' '^^ ^^P^^^d, laughing merrily at ^^"::a^^^^^^^^ young man with all past. ^ ^""'^ ^^«" s'^^^i^ing her all these weeks CHAPTER Vir. WARNING VOICES. "S.r!ortt;^^Lt°'?t"ptf°d7"''-^''r'^ Lady Anne V,.tU, /"^ Puzz'ed her greatly— -ouldbegiaJto te £r 'tha? drTAn'" '''t^ '° ''"' -'» cided upon going at onre Tl,. ^' ^''"' '"'"^^- ^S^'ha de- fromthedoctor's^pr'ttylome Tr''F.™' "•" '« distant Belf with Lady Anne who r»«/ jhorttime she found her- ness and fuss * *'"' '"'"^'l her with her usual kiud- BpeaftoTou'ofatrV i'l'™' '^/T ''^''^'> ^ -»' "> come into the garden^itr^ ) J d'"' f^'H^" W'" y™ know what I am savin "and „„„ . "'" 7"'' ^^ "n" '» four walls, for walls have ears " " "'^''" ''* «'"'« «"« i" Ag:hatRe'5'""Lad^An'nr fnT t'? °' ^^-^ --. broad path that was shaded bV fmitTr"* "fu '"'■' «'»'» » sweet old-fashioned flowers ^ ' *"** bordered with • theXe'r^r sert^^^L-l-r-; "^g- her ladyshin : -- - 10. j„„ ,„ „ji£ to you myself. "No'w' WARNING VOICES. 35 tell me quite frankly who was that gentleman talking to you in the lane the oiher morning, and what was he talking about 1 « He is Sir Vane Carlyon, one of my father's patients, and we were talking about the world in general,' she replied. An expresson of great relief came over Lady Anne's face. ' That is it,' she said. ' I could not imagine how you came to know him so well.' But Agatha was too truthful to let an evasion pass. She told Lady Anne all about the church door and the music ; and the rector's wife, who knew something of the world, declared to herself that he had purposely injured his finger — there could not be the least doubt of it. He was most certainly seeking the girl, although she was en- tirely unconscious of it. Lady Anne felt that she must inter- fere, she must speak out. Yet, like Joan, she was awed by the girl's pure, sweet face and child-like innocence. ' My dear,' she said, slowly, 'it is a sad pity that your mother is not living just now.' ' Why just now more than any other time ] ' asked Agatha. ' Because you need her more. But I will say for her what I believe she would have said — you must be careful; you should not talk to gentlemen ; above all, to one who is a perfect stranger.' * He has been very kind to me,' said Agatha, * and he has taught me a good deal that I did not know.' Lady Anne looked up quickly ; there was nothing but bright, fair innocence in that exquisite face.' * A handsome young man is not the best teacher you can have, Agatha. What has he taught you 1 ' ' A great deal, Lady Anne. I knew so little.' ' You knew enough, my dear, to make your life of use to others and get to Heaven.' ' I know more of heaven now,* she answered, with uncon- scious warmth. ' A.n earthly heaven, I fear,' said the elder lady ; but the girl by her side did not even know what an earthly heaven was. She saw that Agatha had not the faintest suspicion of what she meant. She went '> o i^ X. « T vx jr 36 THE earl's atonement. to ti?c evf;:; T n^^^^^^ eyes of an innocont.irl Tins yon„. r^an kevUMy o o .P^ ^"'^ ^""' ^«^t'»»- met, with lax notio„s,ira r^ba ili I oF 'T/"^\ ''^^^« "«^«r canng only about pleising 1 nS ^ T"^' "'"^ young men do enjoy thems( ves Th« ' ^'^' ^"" ^^°^ «"«h of-tho-way spot like flii«T.!j T'l- ''*'^ ^^"^^^ to a quiet out- Jo hand, ip^ £Xs tS:^S t-^^' -^''^ they can fi„d, and then leave her to brS T V'' ""''^'^ l^^^l thnik no more of sucli thim.« h ^ ^''''' ^'^"^<^- They the grass. The girl^n^ b war eT \7TJ'''' I'- ^^^^^ the waruina She niav 1„. Z.r , ,' *"" ""^r 'is^ns to he«elf,vi3e?th™ otS. SI f^Z ', """^ f''° ."''"^^ "''"'" love; they amnse tlie vn„n„ ^ "^ her heart and I,„r .then hego^es ...Ty'X^,,^ nZ'e ""^ '"V '"* ™">- instances of it forget, evin h'r nal .' '""^ ''"'"^■' """^ fear b W V " e^Tver fir',' '"""' .""'^ *-" '^ » ^"•^'^ow of tliink-s. ^^' • ^'" ^'"^ speaks out bravely what she case.' "'^">^' ^"t I have never heard of such a Lady Anne turned to look af- h^r fi • teen against the experience of fol'~ '""°''°'' ^^ ^^°^- whiZknrj'tt mist ; "S f "^'^"^ ^^^ ^^-^ ^'- ^-'^-t- liave been throitn e 1 nn l ''^' ''"''"" ^'^^ Whitecroft. T I will not tell /o what tv/''''"\^ ^^^^^ «^^"--h, well true. A man ^liko S VanelrT4"' >' 7""'' ^ *^" ^«« ^^ amuses himself often and oftprK ' 5*"^^ '°"g^<^ after- few months afterward has tllnH^ Pretendmg to love, and a who, it may be never InS."" ^"^^^ ^^'^ "^^^^ of the mrl Dear Agathl I have seen suoh"^ "^^^ 'l'^' ^'' ^^P^^ture. careful-!believe me for von? "^^''l' ^"^^^"^ ^'^^^ •' ^e careful I ' ^ ^^ > *or your own sake, for Heaven's sake be ^ ' ^^'iSk^ltf t^^ tf ^^" - -^^^ ^^out.' Anne. eusetoyou, do not beheve him,' said Lady helrfhi^t^rird'l.rrh"' "P'r^' ^S^«'»- '" you ■ '"'''•' ^^^ ^^ ^^y^> It IS so iresh— eloquent. ' WARNINrj VOICES. 37 • That I do not donbt,' said her ladyship, dryly, ' bat you must not believe it. Does he flatter you — tell you you are beautiful V ' No,' she replied : then remembering how fervently he had wished to he a child, she stopped, blushing crimson. ' Does he ever talk about love ? ' continued Lady Anne, feel- ing that she could not go any further. ' No,' was the brief reply. • I ain glad to hear it. There is only one honorable love in the world, and it ends always in marriage. Such a man aa this Sir Vane would never have that love for you, Agatha ; such men marry women from their own world — from their own sphere of life.' • Lady Anne,' cried the giri, ' why do you say these things to me ? ' I do not deserve them. I have no thought of mar- ria^'e. I shall never leave my father. You — you pain and grieve me ! ' ' I did not intend to do so/ said Lady Anne. * All you have to do is to pass him with a bow, and if he should speak to you in the streets, lanes, or fields, tell him that Lady Anne Ptuthven does not approve of it. Will you do that ? ' " Yea,' she replied, and Lady Anne could say no more. Her warning, after all, had been a po«^jr one— she had taken but one view of a wide subject. Agatha was not to believe, not to trust : but she spoke no word to the girl of the passionate love which carries all before it. When she had finiihed, had kissed Agatha and dismissed her, Lady Anne felt very much as though she had taken the veil from the eyes of a chili 'After all,' she said to herself, ' I am not quite sure whether I have done more harm than goo'""» •» h- ' Do you tears. ^ quivered, Her eyes grew dim with happy • Yes I know,' she replied. I love you, Agatha ! I loved vnn ih^ fi l you standing in the old gray church L '^ ""^"^'"^ ^ «^^ darling, the sunlight was Sn vonr h."^ ^^ remember it, little white hands^that couJd noT^n.tTi! ^5^ ^^^ ^^^^^^t the watched you ; a lark was iin^h^.n ^^' ^"^^- ^ «^°°^ ^^d shadow fell on the Ll Mvl^ ?'' ^^^^ ^^^'^^ ^^^ your moment, and it has f^ler c^^e back T' '"''-'' ^^^ ^" ^^^at It lies there now. What shaH v^. ^ "" ^.^"^'^ "^^^r will- mine? ' ^''^^ '^^" y«" do with it-this heart of ^^ ; You loved me,' she whispered, ' and you had never spoken all7n te1hrch:7ou't;: ttifr^^, ' r >- «-^ of dow, and vou we^e so sS so - r^' under the eastern win- fancied the figure with the nilm Z ""u-'^ '^^^ ^' ^''^ ^ ^alf down to knee^l unrpray T Wed " V''' H""^ ^^^ ^^me revelation to me, a new hfe Sp^h/'" V^""" ^^ ^^« ^ new world for me. it is oT lot of vou^irr \"'' \^'°^1^ ^" '^' here, it is for love of you that T ,^ / ^^""^ ^^^" lingering promise to go away wS^^e ' '^" ^^ ''^^ ^''^ ^^^^lyou facf LfdiTd^ra'r ^^ ^t^ ^^-t broke over her self that Lady Anne and Joan Id hnfh k"^"' '^^'"^ ^^ ^«r- both misjudged him Thp fl .u ^^? mistaken, had wisely eniugg agaS the love t^iarMi!tX ''.' ™^^ ^^^ neither of them had spoked to her -t^ i' ^'''^^'' '^"^ carry her away with it • thev h^^ 1 . u^ ^^^^ ^^^'^^ ^^^^d who would Jr. 1,." ;„^*^'7, ^^d ^a^ned her against the man ""' ^"'" ^"^ ^*^^S«t It, they had not warded THE CONFESSION. 41 binued. 'Just ^ to f ch other that exquisite that held the lis. ' Do you ushes covered ^ with happy loment I saw remember it^ athwart the I stood and id, and your • you in that never will — bhis heart of ever spoken you first of astern win- first I half i had come was a new ged all the 1 lingering 3 until you e over her ag to her- aken, had irned her way,' but at would i the man 't warned her against the man who wanted her love in return, and would not go without it. They were both wrong and a sense of un- utterable gladness filled the pure young heart. ' You are so silent, Agatha,' he pleaded, ' say one word to n^. I tell you I love you— I lay my heart at your feet! Will you try to love me ? ' She twisted her fingers nervously from his, and gathered the golden celandines once more. He took them from her, and gathered her hands in a passionate clasp. ' You must listen, sweet, to me ; and you must not look at the pretty celandines— I am jealous of them. I brought you here to tell you how dearly I love you— to ask you if you love me. What answer will you give me, sweet ? In all these weeks, when I have been like a shadow to you, have you not learned to care for me 1 ' No answer came from the girl's sweet lips, but the drooping face was enough for him. ; he knew that he had won his victory^ ' You have never loved any one in your life, have vou sweet 1 ' he asked. ' J' . ' No, never— that is, except my father and all the poor in Whitecroft.' He smiled. ' But you have never had a lover, Agatha ? ' ' Oh no I ' she cried in genuine distress ; * I have not thought of such a thing.' • Do you know, Agatlia, that before a woman learns to love, her heart sleeps, sleeps in a delicious calm, knows little pleasure, little pain, lit' le rapture, little despair. It dreams. But when love come?, it wakes— wakes to a new life, full of sharpest pleasure and pain— full of sweetness that is yet half bitter— of bitterness wholly sweet. And the dawn of love is hke the beautiful rosy flush, that breaks in trembling on the still gray of the morning skies. Has your soul awoke yet 1 It was sleeping when I .aw you first— sleeping in deepest calm. Has It awoke ? Lift up your face, my darling, and let me see.' But the beautiful face drooped even lower ; she dare not raise it lest he should read her secret in her eyes. ' I must see it for myself,' he continued : * I cannot say more until 1 know whether you are willing to listen.' He raised her face in his hands, and looked into her eyes. '"M 42 THK earl's atonement. 00 surely the calm was br<,k"en ^nl;.^^ to b.n l"^' ^'^■'' "^'^ ' tried in vain to hide the fh.X I f i ''''^"' "n'*^'"- She 8he was powerless. "*^ ^^'"~^'^ "'^"id read it, and . 'I see,' he said slowhr ' yonr llpor^ ,*= „ i i« the rosy dawn not the c^/y 'h 'v T'^'x' ^°^^^'^- ^^ wi;.. thepai^Ejiir sti!;:;:: ^ni!;lr;4 ^^^^^^^- i;«ht..o.. there, and the old IiS 7;:!^^;:^ l^^^ ence to your life-'telf ma "'^ ^^^^" '"^^^ «««^« ^iffer- 'I- I cannot,' she said, gently « T rlo «.* i understand.' ' fa^u^'y. 1 do not know—I do not w'^oirf 's;^Crec^rr.or^ ^^ r,-^- 1 - -ay / Yes,' she replLd ;7ou SJe and V""^ ^"'^^^ ^ ' mind.' ^ ^ •'^ "^ ^a*"^ ^"d voice are never out of my ' \Vhen you see anything beautifi,] «,i, inusic when you watch the sS and ,h'" ^'" ^ear sweet thoufifhtsgjtome?' ^"^ ^"® ^^^nset, do your ; They never leave you,' she said.' Ti^^at? dr^opTd iLIf ^buri! f '^ ^^^ -^ ^" ^'^y ^ ' , Yes.' ^^^ ^''"^^'' ''"t lie knew the answer was : for if/'^TfT ^'''"'^ 'l^'P' ^'^"'■«' does your heart b^nf f . wUh^V'LL^^^^^ ^- ^-, woXoltrJmti: lipf rhStSt^; beei^'k- tTsarb' ^^.^ '^''^' ^^^ ^-^ dren who loved her J^S her ' -.^^^^^ •^'"'"^" ^^^ «hil- this h^nr. I -er;7;;amerii^:rir:^^^^^^^ I I 5* :4 ) passion, the r-fnilf in crim- g Jips. Ah I again. She read it, and '9 THE CONFESSION. 4S Agatha. Ifc sen F, marble ?ed.' t of Agatha fused, a new m was gone y. He had own so ear- ided on the some differ- ' — I do not I am away out of my hear sweet , do your II day ? ' 5wer was : 'eat faster II tremble ihe sweet and chil- wild and )nged for wake a woman's sleeping heart, and yet when I saw your face, I thought how human love would brighten and beautify it. Will you tell me now— do you care for me ? ' It seemed to the trembling girl that her very life had gone out to him— that her heart and soul had left her to go to him, and she could not recover them. She was dazed with her great happine^ ; 'he blue sky, the tall trees, the green grass, the golden celandines, all seemed to whirl in one confused mass ; the song of the birds, the hum of the bees, the rich deep sound of her lover's voice filled her ears; it was as though a dazzling ray of sunlight had fallen at her feet and bhnded her. If she had been more like other girls, if she had had 'small flirtations and little loves,' it would not have affected her, but to the pure, sensitive heart and innocent soul, over which breath of evil never passed, this great human love came, with a depth and earnestness lighter natures could never know, came like a revelation. ' You will tell me, Agatha 1 ' he said. * I must hear it from your own lips— in your own fashion.' He laid her arms round his neck. 'If you are afraid of the sound of your own voice,' he said, ' whisper to me. You are speaking to your own heart, when you speak to mine. She did whisper, and he thought them the sweetest words he had ever heard. * I do love you,' she said. ' I care for you more than for my own life. I— I love you,' and then she was silent with unutterable content. 'My darling, it is more than I deserve that you should say this to me ; but they are words I would have died to hear. I would have given my whole life for one kiss from you ; and he loved her so deeply and so earnestly in that one moment, that he positively half thought that he would leave Croft Abbey and never see her again ; but the beautiful face charmed him, bound him captive and the half-formed wish died. ' You have loved your father and the poor ; every sick or sorrowing soul in the parish seems to have found com- ii.i„ ..i j,^.„. ^„i^ i,£j,^. i^^vyu iuaiiiinace inings, such as tile oid gray church, the organ, the eastern window, the grand steeple, 44 'I THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. tlio meadows il life foTwS £t" '',;;':> f,«»"'» ^ ""■- « nothi„« in your im„ -est, your iZt ^TaZod'"" """'«1"»' ^"" '-«" everthing. Promise me ■ '" ''" y""'' """'I'l. your lifoJ foul, one Jife between tl em ? ?^"' ^ i'*"^" ''"' ^^'*''^' ""« times better that they should havp h,.'^'' "^ ^^ '"" thousand 'I want you, my darl n"' hi • . ? """^ '''^ ^^^ ^^^as. or the futu.'e, but'^o live ^ily iHL '"' '" *'''"'' '^^ ^^'^ Past your heart concentrated on i ohp f ^f f^' '''"^^ ^" '^^^^P ^H you love me-will you ?' ^ f-ict-that I love you and 'Yes,' she answered. I CriAPTER IX. UFE '.VITHOUT HONOR WOKTIILESS. «E"lt;:fJ^^^^^^^^ in the -...-it u'X'l,e"E iv- t^t^.t?"t and graciou, deeds, she now iT iT.i '"^h.^!"'' ""^ '<> «' . ,«ii._-t ".ufsnip to love. ' "" " j"^icsi, una LIFE WITHOUT HONOR WORTHLKSS. 4d Sir Vano came no more to the cottage half-hiflden by flowers —he kn^w that there vas a guardian angel tliere in the shape ot old Joan. As ho had grown more interested in his wooinc he had grown more careful over it ; he never met her now when; Liie keen eyes of Lady Anne could discover him ; he had assumed a mastery over Agatha which was delightful to the girl who loved him with her whole heart ; her whole days were one long act of oht^dience to him. ' You will walk through Croft Wood to-morrow, A"atha,' he would say ; ' and you will find some one there who would wait a wh.)le day, even in the sharpest frost, just to see you pass by ' or 'the moon will he shining, my darling, to-night. Come into the lane that I maj see the moonlight in your eyes.' He managed every day to see her once or twice : and his wooing was so sweet that, only for his long stay at Croft Abbey he would have prolonged it. He was watching the awakening of the truest, purest heart that had ever beat , the tremulous blushes, the sweet coy smiles, the thousand new and beautiful graces that love had awakened in her. It is not pleasant to write of human cruelty ; one does not linger over the details of the torture of a bird or the slaying of a butterfly. She wa ^.o young, so spiritual, so innocent, he might spare her. So .g as he lived he would meet no one like her. He had the greatest influence over her ; he could persuade her to believe anything that he told ler ; and he set himself de- libeiutely to work to destroy the whole fabric of her life. Everything in this world had made progress, he told her • but nothing, perhaps, greatei than what was called religious beliet. He tried to explain to her how so-called clever men of the present day had found out that there was no need for faith —tor self restraint. He had pointed to the old gray church which made his words a living' lie ; and said : ' •All the kind of thing taught there is old-fashioned non- sense ; good enough, you know, for the simple people here, but tlie vyorld has shot aheal ; this is not the age of narrow ideas Uue by one, as if m some cruel siege a fair castle is destroyed he beat down th. ramparts of faith, with specious word' wicn Clever argument ; not that she ever loved Heaven less' but that she began to have a confused idea things were not as 46 THE earl's atonement. onlS'th^Ti'*"'" '° be-that there were many other view, warm' wl'!!;1fH °"" '™"'"S '° *« ^^ade of Croft Wood_a tell ylf\ ZeklTf\r\f'' ^^"^' ' ^ ^^^ som^LT 'o She was tittW nn . ''' ^^'' "'"/"^"g ^^«"t business.' ^ at her fS 4/ln\ f T^u-""^""^' ^"^ h« ^a« '^^If kneeling Ite stasKr^^^^^^^^^^ a smile-that world o'f in poetry and romrrp ^ler whole soul just then was steeped pale. ^ ^'^- ^'' ^^""^ ^^« somewhat agitated and wood-th^LTiZt '^'^^'^'' ^^ ^^^^' '*h^t I «»««t go to Gars- that' • "^''°°'''' ^'""ly-'go ! I had never thought of ingt^wt^l'tlt ttC ""'" '-'' '""^ "'' '-'' '- many weeks. I rannnf rlfVi ^'^.'^ey, and I hare been here ^ot^me to sta^rwtt^r; u'w'o'S?^ IfXSve tVfi for'a'';;5;llf ;el:t"'' ' '" ^''" ■"'="' """ ^ ^^aU not see you . 1\*"' *„f'•^''^' »y <•"""& that I cannot nron,;.. „ye" -- '- . ,»ar. .-eruai,» i,„rcl. Oroft may not ask me down'ay^J '" LIFE WITHOUT HONOR WORTHLESS. 47 Man of the world as he was, and utterly callous where only the heart of a woman was concerned, he turned away from her, for he could not endure to see the anguish in her eyes. The white fixed face, with the strained, wistful look in the large violet eyes hurt even him with a physical pain. ' Could you not come,' she asked, in a low voice, * without any one asking you 1 You can do as you like always.' * It would involve more than you think of at present,' he replied. ' But we will not think or speak of parting on this fair summer's eve ; it would spoil all its beauty.' She looked up at him with eyes full of reproachful wonder. ' Is it not spoiled now ] ' she asked. ' Ah, me 1 while I live the sun will never shine for me again ! ' ' Do you care so much for me ? ' he asked. ' You know,' she replied, and her face lay hidden on his breast ' I do not know ; I want to hear it from yourself, he said * from your own lips. Do you care for me so much ] ' ' More than for my own life ' she replied. * Would you give up the world, and all you love best in it, for me 1 ' he asked. 'Yes,' she answered ; ' I would.' < Without counting the cost ] ' he asked. ' There would be no cost. In following my love I should follow the highest good,' she replied. Then her tender arras were laid round his neck, and she said : ' You make me think of my beautiful namesake, Agatha, in the old church. They asked whether she would have all this world could give her— honor, wealth, pleasure, love— and deny God, or whether she would die praising Him.' * What would you have done,' he asked her, ' if you had been tried in the same fashion 1 ' She was quite silent for a few minutes, then she raised her fair young face to the blue skies. «I woild have died as Agatha did,' she replied. * Life without honor is not worth living.' The words were like a blow in the face to him. Was it worth his while to try to win a girl who held honor dearer than life 1 He had but one hold on her, one weapon with 48 THE EABL'S ATONEMENT. wh.ch he cou.d .t.gg,e, .„. ,,,, „,, ,„ ^^^^ ,^^^ ^^^ ^^^_ which woald you choose. ™ " ''*" "o "Peak again, befZ. «'""=" '» "im weeping a« «„ely „oma. had never wept She pro.i,ed, while w'eyt-vXl'SU CHAPTER X. THE CRISIS OP HER LIFE. I'^lpWe^^^^:?^ for hinaself bitter pain in her heart wu f^ '^,'^'' *^a<^ sword of was to become of her ? ^^^^ '^^"^^ ^^^e do 1 What unretCl^^;^,1;«^^^^^^^^^^^^ f^ '^^^ ^-- her couch and the end of the ViSl afterr ^'^ ^^^^^^^ slowly of Wood again. It requSed no nrfT t '"'^"^ht ^^r to Croft young face is wornTth pain^Th ?^f^l *« ««« t^at the radiance have left her : that^ tL"~.?''^/" ^^" brightness and her eyes come from the shedd n^ S"^ ^"'^^^^ ^^^^«^« ""Ter ful to see the quivering of her h^lT^ ^'T' ^^ ^as pain- in her usual fashion. It las as .L 't ^i''^ *« «P«ak to h m looked wi.t%l^> -^h-t a word. Poor child I she THE CRISIS OF HER LIFE. 49 *Is it the last time, Vane ] ' she asked, simply. ' That will depend on you, my darling 1 ' he replied. He was more gentle, more caressing than ever; his eyes never wearied of drinking in the loveliness of that fair, sad face. He said more loving words to her that night than he had ever done before ; this was the crisis ; he should either win her or lose her that night ; he was not sparing of kisses or words : he made her rest where the golden celandines bloomed and the meadow-sweet trembled in the caress of the summer wind. * You look so tired, Agatha,' he said ; what have you been doing ? Sitting up again with some of those dreadful children 1 You must not do such things.' He knew well enough why the sweet and beautiful face was so pale, but he wanted to make her say so herself. The assur- ance would be doubly sweet if it came from her own lips. He was kneeling by her side, drawing the pale face to him, and kissing the quivering lips. ' Your life is too precious, too sweet, my darling, to be wasted on these little rustics. You must take more care.' What would it matter when he was gone? Who would care 1 Who had ever been like him — cared for her health and ii^omfort 1 What should she do 1 * It is not that, Vane,' she said. ' I have not been sitting up with any one. I have been thinking of you until my heart has almost broken.' ' Of me 1 ' he repeated. * I ought to be proud and happy.* * Are you really going away,* she said. ' And so soon ! ' * Do you want me to stay 1 ' he whispered. * Yes, with all my heart,' she replied. His heart beat with triumph. * But, Agatha, sweet, if it be impossible 1 ' * Ah, then may Heaven take pity on me, and let me die ! ' she cried. * There is another alternative,' he said, slowly. * I cannot stay with you. You can go with me ; then we shall have no more parting, no more sorrow, no more tears. Gome with me, Agatha !' She flung herself on his breast in a very rapture of joy. 60 WE EAEL'S ATONEMENT. P^H 0/2 : ,f "V^™^ "'4 TelToJc? " '' ""', «^» -'"-out ^/'' Joan and Uiy'ZZlT '" P"'°"-' '" "' ^™^'' «™sa„^I™7 "' '^'^^^ "P^-od "I'ene'X?/ ,'•"■?'■ 'h"' Trust me, Acatl,, „ , ■ '^ ^ ''*'' '" h« again.' ' ^'^""'. »d ,„ «,;, "« need never part OHAPTEK XI. THE TEST OP FAITH. AT Tji It ^, He wonderedTn iS "'r^^^-' ''*"" "^- J'ou never wish to ?ht of my life fe. He kissed 10 color came \ ^ive without 'eft the beat ever part, if 'e me yours, e right after ;ng as this. ^ taught her was unpre- to her that "er in his never part THE TEST OF FAITH. 51 omes be- ^st each not be- would Yon •gainst Anoe and Joan might have said, they had never contemplated her going away with him. She shivered in the strong grasp that held her. He laid her head on his breast. No music was ever so sweet as his voice while he wooed her on to the broad path which had so fatal an ending. 'You would be so unhappy, my darling, without me,' he said, gently «I can picture you, in the long years to come, looking at the places where we have met, true to me alwavs and loving no other.' ' ' No, I shall love no other,' she replied ; * and. Vane, I am sure that I should not live long. All last night I was awake thinking what I should do when you were gone. I could not eat or drink— all food was like dry ashes to me. I should soon die. I did not know love was anytiiing like this : it is deeper than life ; it is a storm, a whirlwind, and sweeps everything before it. I did not know.' ' We will have no storm, my darling,' whispered Sir Vane • we will have a profound and beautiful calm. Why should you be miserable when you may be happy with me 1 Why die when our lives can be passed together 1 Only trust me and all will be well.' *! do trust you,' she repeated, 'just as I believe in Heaven ' Heaven, she thought, could be no dearer to her than this handsome lover, whose dark eyes seemed to look throut^h her soul. She believed in him as she had always believed in ■Heaven. ' We will not part,' said Sir Vane. ' You shall come with me, my darling, and I will show you everything most bric^ht and beautiful under the sun. You shall see the fairest laJds, the grandest works ; we will go to sunny Italy and fair, sunburnt bpam; we can linger where we will and go where we like .Ihere IS nothing this world calls famous or lovely that shall not gladden your eyes.' She clung to him, weeping from excess of happiness. 1 want; nothing but to be with you,' she said. ' You are so beautiful, Agatha, he continued. ' In all the world I have not seen so fair a face, and your beauty shall be adorned with dress and jewels, until men's ev^s «ball Ho Uazzied as they look at you.' «2 '•«'■• EABI,-s ATOlfMENT. , -N^o,' she cripf? 'You ar»7 '""■"'■■se to you if J .„'™'' endure it Heave„%tu!h''fof'"';» "^'S' aiJ''".T' >>"' '"»' m ' Jacked some hinfT"^'"*: yon 'ome I J!f" "?"«■• ">ank knowing you mf W"' J-^n-you fill It If? TJ *"' niy life ' ^;*'/»»'l S Wr^n^- .^eei'inol^ ;: e ''" "'*°nt as „x,c ma so. it «ra« h;:'^"*"* ^^«riiand in his ho/pi poor child ! '^^^ "« nio.t solemn mom'eAt o/ tr'll?^ /toKttt''r^'^'.esaid. '"''" "'X:^:to£-:"''"^"''— '---,or The test of faith. 63 'o;r no other Jife ^ iive where the 8 the sun shines >;« pass all too •^o" shall never >ok back with v-er endure it. hut trust me.' ^ never thanic jv that my Jife 1 died without ;e.' '"/ he replied. St you more. ^nd the face ^i the loving ht or leave '^re solemn Think be- them with 'r troth to ^■kneeling ^ her life, trust me 'J and do ' iess, or ' My heart is one with yours — my soul, my life are all one with yours,' he said. * And now, Agatha, do you know what you are at this moment V ' No,' she answered, with a smile. * It makes you my wife, dear. Now as we are kneeling together under the blue heavens, as Heaven hears us, you are my wife, darling, and we can never be parted again.' The beautiful face leaning on his breast grew deadly pale. Ah ! if mother in Heaven, or father on earth had but seen her danger then, and could have snatched her away. To her excited fancy the birds ceased singing to listen, and the leaves stood still on the trees. If a dart of lightning had been hurled at him from the skies —who could wonder ? Some men take lives and are punished by Heaven ; he was deliberately and wilfully slaying a human soul — taking from it the life nothing could give it again. ' My wife,' he said. * Listen, Agatha ; how sweet the words are — my beloved wife.' She did listen, poor child, and she thought to herself that no music on earth was ever so sweet. Then she raised her head and looked at him. ' But, Vane,' she said gently, * how can that be ? - To be a wife one must be married, and wear a wedding-ring. I have not been married — I have no ring.' * You shall have one, my darling — a wedding-ring, thick and solid as gold can make it. Tell me what marriage is 1 ' She looked puzzled for a few minutes, then her brows and eyes cleared, like those of a child who suddenly remembers a lesson. ' Marriage,' she repeated, * It is when two hearts and two souls become one.' * Right ; and were two hearts ever more surely one than ours 1 ' he asked. ' No ; I should think not,' she replied. ' Now follow my reason, Agatha. Marriage means the union of two hearts in love and faith. Our hearts are one ; therefore, I say we are married.' His heart smote him for one moment, when she looked at him with the eyes of a child, and the smile of an angel. 54 ';| 'I'WE earl's atonement. . ' How strange ! ' ghp ro;j in L litZ' V 'l-^^^^voralSb^JP^yor^ attached and cort: :: f i°r ^^'"" "<•'••'' « "i l 'li""' '»^ ""'^ yo" my liea r ,^ '"^^on with all mv h^rf ,T"'^''""'nts troth to yZ •L'T" ''''"g-d my fait? itL \-T «'™n can be Z,rc'tZtT.'^T ""^ ^«n«' '» me Wh'^^'''"'<'.'ny She k„e,. 30 jiitK^tmn than ours?™'- ^^''■^' """"ge are sometimPQ of •* "® ^as bound fn m^ u . •^^ *^ ^^^ 'J -e &i,"™„,r>o you „„, 4 i7d:X r "^ """ ' I do tr.,«f . , , ^' ^°" ^^nnot ^^'^::^;rnee;:":""^^^ W l-^h^r-f ^^ \r-, Agatha.' what he w.?ll.-®^' "^^«' at that tirnr^;,? Jf,^^.", ^^^ ^^ring -"v^"^. — -v.«Ooeu one truth of m vane, marriage ayers attached t'ie weddings '6^; it is the liafc the world the far more "louncements I have given l>"ghted my lat marriage '^osay, that »a, with the K to deceive re are men 3^vs, oaths, ^ed, honor- JjJd sooner M, if needs ays to his lains that ' does not fy as you ^e truly, u cannot after the ihe new larriage ratha.' luring uth of THE TEST OF FAlTH. 55 * T should like best,' she continued slowly, ' to be married in a church, and to hear all those grand blessings. 1 should like the ring to be placed on my finger, just as 1 saw it on Anne Gay's not many weeks ago.' * I will place it there myself,' he said. ' Is it quite the same thing t ' she asked, doubtfully. ' Quite,' he answered ; * that is, if you have trust and faith in the one who placed it tiiere. You have that faith in me.' 'Tell me, Vane,' she said, gently, « why do you like this plan best ] Why not go to the church, as everyone else does 1 ' ' Pardon me — everyone else does not ; but this is the reason. I will tell it to you. If we went through all the fuss and cere- mony that is usual, of course the marriage would be talked about, that would not do. There are grave reasons why my marriagd with you must not be known— grave and weighty reasons. I will explain them to you later on. It would be my ruin if it were known.' ' That must not be,' she said, gently. * No, I am quite sure you would not allow that, Agatha ; we must keep our secret for some time at least— afterward it will not matter, and I shall be only too proud to introduce you to the whole world ; but for the present you will be content, will you not, with love, and with me ] ' ' I shall have all the world when I have you,* she said. ' Vane, it is not that I mistrust you ; I do not — but it is all so new and so strange to me, I can hardly understand it. It is like a funeral where no one is dead. Let me ask papa what he thinks; he will know better than either of us.' The simplicity of the words amused even while it irritated him. She was still a child in heart, do as he would, say what he would, it seemed impossible to shadow the innocence of the pure, simple soul. * You must trust me all in all, Agatha,' he said. ' You must not speak of it either to father, friend, or anyone else. Our secret must rest with us. You say you trust me — give me a proof. I will put your faith in me to the test.' ' I will not fail, 'she replied, ' test and try it as you will' - i--'v j'-tt, t.tiixj. -jiiav xiiaccs luc lUVC }UU SO UUUriy. XHQ surest way that a woman can take to win a man's heart is to show unbounded faith in him. Now for my test. Bend your head a little lower, Agatha, and listen.' 56 'THK earl's atonement. CHAPTEKXII. THE BROKEN LILY, and never to ref.urn 1 vv'r,, l^?' '" '"' "'i'h me alwava pledged and plighted as wttj^u ^^'""^ "'"" I say-^nt the d.llerent-formrand r„l ' •""■" "' "" "'^ togo thro„"h ?hall have the Jddiig rnrTwill'^"'?'' "-^ P^lle Y„t life 3heha™„everTeiXi ■'' ""* "•'""•' "^ her short simnle spoken of marriage ir^l'^r';"" *s™ssed-nTm e had jaked to some of tfe vinl^;eddi'n^s S7. "P.^"^" '':rb ™ her as so emn as church "serviees-ailw -'^ '""' '"''"'^'•"' Whether there was anv variAtif^ i ]'.'5«''g« and pravers know-, she had not thoLhfonrV^'"'. <'fe«nce, she did not told her it was wrong bnt hi feet"" "''r''' k'™ ""d P^re accOTd with her reasoA. '"''"S' ^""^ ™hes were not in «ja. wi;k'LX'r,l';fi:*^^h«^aW .come with me. and wUhoutreserve;orlet„spa?tl:i:lf--,of^^^^^^^ pleaded. *^ "^ "> Joan-ask Joan what she thinks 1 • she P'icffgl^n'ittl?;^;^- Do^"'- yon helievo in meim- ^ay no more, A»SLih» v never forgive the do?bt I'' ^''"•^>^*^" ^oubt me., and I can THE BROKEN LILY. 57 'on go away mature what me always say— that, go through pie. You finger, and )rt, simple 'o one had liad been seemed to f prayers. 5 did not and pure, •re not in me, and youT life X or not fs ? ' she 1 me im- confirm comfort so new I CAQ And Sir Vane turned from her, as though he had tears in his eyes. The next instant the tender arms were round his neck. ' Has the test failed, my darling ] ' he asked, kissing her face. ' Has it failed r ' No,' she replied. I will trust all to you. What you tell me is new and strange to me. It is not what I have been taught to believe ; but the belief of my life I give up to you. You would not tell me what was not true. I will believe what you tell me on the good faith of your own word. I will and do be- lieve that I am — ' She paused, and a hot blush covered her face. * That you are my wife ! ' he cried, and lie kissed the falter- ing lips that could not utter the words. * And, darling, rou will go with me 1 You will not let me go away lonely and wretched.' ' I will go,' she said. 'You promise inviolable secrecy — not one word to father, or Joan, or any one else.' * If you desire it I will be quite silent,' she replied. 'You will be as obedient as you are beautiful,' he cried, an obedient wife is a great blessing.' ' I must love, honor, and obey,' she said. * Those are beautiful words, Vane ; they comprise everything.' I You will have plenty to do, Agatha darling, if you will go vr.th me. Listen to my directions — write first a letter to your father ; tell him you are married, and that you have gone away with your husband ; that you will write to him in a short time, and that he need not have the least anxiety over you ; you will be rich, happy, and beloved all your life. Add anything else you like ; but be sure about this, write every word as I told you. Do not pack any boxes. We will go straight through to Paris, and there you shall buy everthing you can possibly want.' ' Poor father ! ' she said, sadly ; ' it seems very hard that my happiness should make his misery. Do you think he will miss me?' * I should say that he will miss you very much, indeed, but he will be pleaseu to know that you are happy." . .,., -.•.?..ttii!-.n t-jco, TTltiil biicir looked wistfully at him. D your 'and such SUiiUU ' li-i-l m uOUDliS, 68 ;i! I 1 I. I'!! li « THE EAHl's ATONBMtOT. that leaves IVestlmrv .f^"-' u'"^ '''"''"'g ecu 1 hVT "' ''^ I will meet yoTZZ ' 'J'S'"- Take a ticket tnTi . "■ '™" oou™«e fai, foj fl"^^' «" - wi„ g„ ,, ^'^o H^»,„3te_. "ill laugh !t me tL""''' ''"•« b'en muTh ir"*" °'""-'^'» to ;,""-; but,f .,e cou,. apJ,rwit---a,^o«,. banussed in bis Jaiu^ h/i '°«^^*hi^7 constrained «n^ piquant to woo an wi. '""^ ^^^^^ to himself^f and em- sant. Tliere w«? "" ^ '^'»'^- He did Z fi .^"^^"^^ be f ^j/?" Most why ■ight. time year or two? poor people t tliom when THE BROKEN LILY. 59 spared, tliere is ijiife.' the 1 must say, r love, wlio vo courage ''■ want you together ; ^>ey at five t^»e train Btminster. ^Vill your ' it could io church ei". You 'he beau- a foolish siie say ent soul 'hristian md em- >uld be 30 plea- e odds othing f heart He never tired of calhng her his wifo. And the name had a magical influ«uice over her. When they parte.!, evevy ar- rangemeiit had been made for thn meeting on the id rrow He watched the girlish, graceful figure, as Agatha wilJced slowly down the lane. lie had won the victory ; she would be his, this beautiful girl who had hitherto been content with a life of charity— his ! .md he did not believe ^liat any other could have won her. Yet ho was not quite happy— a matter which surprised him lie did not sing to himself as he went through uie ;-{^' 'laughter He -fint home through *he lanes, and passed through the c) ui*cu J 'vd, as he had done once before, to shorten the dis- t moo. B .w well he remembered seeing her there, under the i/y- ovmu porch, with the light on her face that would hine thb-^- iM'Vf iiiiore. A he passed through the grounds to the abbey, he saw a tall white hiygrow'iig alone— a fair lily, whose petals were like snow—and with one blow of his stick he cut it down. That should not stand up in the face of the blue heavens while she fell ! Some voice had spoken and startled him. Whether it was pity, rgeret, remorse, who shall say ? but as he looked round just before he entered the house, something like a curse rose to his hps that he had ever seen the place at all. He tried to say to himself that it would have been a cruel thing to have left one so beautiful to fade away in this un- known village ; but he could not blind himself as he had blinded her. Little sleep came to him that night. He left early in the morning, having made his adieus over night, and the last thing he saw. as he left the grounds, was the beautiful white lily he had wantonly slain the night before, Ivinc. dead on tht^ grass. > j o ' What sentimental nonsense have I taken up?' he said to himself; ' and what a flower, beaten and dead, can have to do with my beautiful love, Agatha, I cannot imagine." Yet he knew best why the flower reminded him of her i 'hi 60 THE EABI'S ATONEMENT. CHAPTER XIII. A WOMAN VVITHOW A FEMALE FWENa than most women of l,er L «h """*• ^"^ '""d clearer Seas -=he could talk well a„rbrililtr * ''""s''"'''' "o-panion wicn tact and noetrv a ^ A , ^^^^ was well sfnr^^ Kirs s.;-.3^r ?' ''"•"■SJr- "c "ow that it was tooTate T? ^ .""'V^ ^"-^ ^^«k. He saw if ^e that if „er f^ith " d'S dfe7h" ?°"S'' "»" '» ^q te happened that they reached JW ''' r'-^'^ "™an. It '-t.vaU -ce,ebrldrantt'h:XVir^.r°i«'« 4» -. — ' ""wia crowaed. A WOMAN WITHOUT A FEMALE FRIEND. 61 English French and Americans, lovers of court spectacles were all gathered, and Sir Vane, still travelling as Mr. Heriot' was compelled to put up with two small rooms at the Hotel de 1 Orient ; and at this same hotel, as he went down the grand staircase he met an old friend with whom he had been at col- lege-Captain Farmer— who, with his wife and children, was staying there. In his genial, cheery manner, the caiftain cried out : '^ ' Sir Vane, how glad I am to see you. How long it is since we met. ° Then, perceiving Agatha, he took off his hat, with a low, sweeping bow, evidently tliinking she was Lady Carlyon Are you staying here V he asked. ' I am glad. My wife and children are here. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you.' ® But there was little response in Sir Vane's handsome face. His friend went on careless of everything, except his pleasure at the meeting. "' i r u ' ^ f}^ no^t know you were married. They told me at the Carlton that you had disappeared somewhere-that no one knew your whereabouts.' Then he stopped abruptly, for he saw that Sir Vane had no llisTidr ^ ^^^^""^^ °^ introducing him to the lovely woman at Sir Vane whispered a few words to her, and she went slowly oldfrTenV^*'"^ ^""^ "^'^^ ^ ^""^^ ^*'^' ^^ ^'"''"^^ *^ ^'^ ' You are mistaken,' he said, ' I am not married. You will excuse me, just now, at least. I must decline any introduction to Mrs. Farmer. May I ask you also not to mention my name ? 1 am known here as Mr. Heriot.' The Captain's gay face clouded over. 'You will never learn sense Sir Vane. I was honestly glad gootrnVbTaS f":r' '^ ^'^ ^"^^^ '""^ ^'^^ ''''~-''^' ^ * r'n "!!''' ? ^,^*''^" ^^"^^""^ "'^"^^^ ' ' ^e said, with a groan. leav?n. , ^""^ f ^F"^""' *^ '^y "«*^^^"g «f this ; we are ioZA^^ ,to-morrow, and it is not worth while to have any 62 THE EAEL'S atonement. plaS tf i^.l'^" ^'' "P' "'.^^ ^«^^d ^he question ; he had sltht and ns"u\'^7J^°'^^^ ^" ^^^^^^ 'he was liable to Bii^nc and nsult, but he could not have borne to spp if o ""ra:2T„r ';»^™-' ;-? -»'<1 have Iddened w™ " .„r.i'f understand,' said the Captain; 'you may rest as sured of my silence. I will not speak of haviL m^vou eve„ if vni^ r ' ''V"" "'* '" P'-«»«'i, bat I shouW ike to Isk If you have ever thought what the end of all this will be ! It anTfr„d:r;or ^° ™^^ '»"»- ^'- ^»"^ ii~i\iui youCLet ma'^to^od-b; • '"" P"""^ "' '^"^^^^- ^"S"' looled S'^dlram^^ "" ^^"'d f-™ "-e captain's face ; he wha?Te^"feuToT.rt{ ^V'^"'"^ '""o^^"^ in his heart for "■"« ne relt to be the degradation ofhis old friend Tl.ov parted not to meet again for many long yeais ^ she sZ^ tr/h,^ v^'"" J™' "P *e%Lrcase after Agatha, ht neck and bi^^'^? "k^ '"°'"'"'^- '^'"' '*'*' '«'' arms round . Oh V ^ •J'^'' Wu^hing face on his breast. marHedr™'' "'"'• ' '^'"^ '"<' •>« '^""'' «=at we were ' WilH^'lni'.f'",^'' w'^f ,^ ""PP"'*'' »««"g us here together.' nowr 1 Tked ■ T'" ''" "^''^ °f '*'^'" i' be known yoiT! ' . ^'■'' ^°" 1""* "»<•« "'at it will not harm to ml"' "'" ""' 'P'"'' °f ■' •^'"■""S- No, no harm can come wa?not'mtTed"°'Thit'':i"""^ ''''"^t'^ ">'" «» «-'i "o grand etr™' a,o^ 'and"':n1h™rt1:nr «t« "^ '"^ room a lady stood waiting wTthalitUeb^;" ''-'"''' " " nis^ orrmo;vmfed t:?"^; ''i'"' '?«> '^'^ «"'»• A sudden of th° cSren Awi , *J.' '^t"" ''"> '*" '"">• and thought The c' M oZ 1 »T ''"?^f "'>'' ''^"^ 'O'ed h" so deariy to recover it, and held U out to^L ^""""'' '*■' ''"P^"* *I than If vrm ' on," J *u_ 1 • ^ ..„, „„,.^ ,,,^, „^,„^ jjj gj^^^ ^^^^^^ periect English. A WOMAN WITHOUT A FEMALE FRIEND. G3 She was just a lictle startled, and said * You are English ? ' * Yes,' he replied, * I am English.' Just at that moment a stern voice ' Charlie ! ' called * Yes, papa,' the boy answered. * Come here, I want you. And looking up, Agatha saw the same gentleman who had claimed Sir Vane as his friend — the only one she thought, in simple heart, who ha-I spoken of their marriage. He never looked at her, but came forward and took the lady and child away. There was something in his manner which told her that he had done it purposely — that he would not allow his wife and child to speak to her. * Why did he do it Vane ?' she asked afterward, when she was describing the scene. ' Why would he not let the boy speak to me '? ' * I cannot tell,' said Vane ; most probably we have lost caste in his eyes by taking rooms on the fifth story, but we could not help it.' She laughed. * How foolish 1 I should never care where anybody lodged or lived,' she said. She did not doubt him. They did and said such wonderful things in this world of his, she never pretended to understand them. At last she did begin to think it strange that she had not made one lady friend since she left Whitecroft. With the exception of the servants in the different hotels, she had not spoken to a woman. When they were quite among foreigners. Sir Vane introduced her as Mrs. Her lot, and spoke of her as ' my wife.' With English people they rarely associated, and she knew none by name. Vane.' she said one morning, * I am tired of seeing I wish I knew a nice girl. I should like a all cirl men's faces, friend.' * When I see one nice enough for you to know, I shall be glad, too,' he said. * But Agatha, you are not growing tired of me, are you ? ' She made an answer that delighted him, Snch love as hers never grows cold or dies, unfortunately. 64 THE earl's atonement. Bhl^thnLT'^ clearly every hour that the moment in which seemed to him UlTi fl • ^^^ •' . ^^^^^ narrow ideas ? It greater part of the year P^'""* "• ''=' ^^'^ ''""^e during the wilrforimtkdltt''' "rr"''-,''" -"-^'^ y^'f •>« fairest cities in SwiSnd Tv ""''' '"^K'""'' "' '^e ionged for .tZiVrd^fSrd hi:!,'.''^"^^^ ""' "- '"' cried Xfth! 1 ""f delightful life in the whole world-' cried Agatha, when he consulted her • 4„,1 v„ i noUhmk that my father couh/come"; seet ihire" '' '' ^'" He promised that he would think of it. dull except to ttse who L' ^'n "^ ""' ^^l^". '^'' ^^°'« ^^"^ J in themselves? ^"""^"^ "'^"'"' °^ ^^^ g^^'-^t resources * My great resource is vou Affatln ' Ba;A o;^ ^r read the letter : 'we could npvpfl!!^' ,f ^? ^^^ ^ ane, when he Madame went on to tate the '^it'' ^^" ^^^ ^^^^ ^"S^^her.' th^at h. hushand's n^ttfa^lrol^ltVlX ?3^fL^ f ^^^ ^-" xxcr, uu, spent the greater part of her time in^Paris; Si SIR vane's warning. 65 Sir Vane never thought of that part of the letter again until he saw Valerie— then the world changed. They started at once for their new home ; Sir Vane was most impatient ; but if he had known what was waiting for him on the shores of the blue lake, he would rather have been dead than have gone there. They were delighted with the Chateau ; it well deserved its name of ' Beautiful Flowers/ for it was literally smothered with them. Nothing could have been more picturesque or beautiful. Flowers of every hue, of every description, ot every kind of loveliness ; they climbed the walls, they peeped in at the windows, they covered the doors and the iron railings, the gardens were filled with them. The whole place seemed laughing in the sunshine ; the fra- grance of the flowers greeted them. * How happy we shall be here, Vane ! ' cried Agatha. He kissed her beautiful face, as he answered : • We should be happy anywhere together.' \nd he meant what he said. sit I I h CHAPTER XIV. SIR VANE'S WARNING. \^/n R. and Mrs. Heriot,' as madame la baronne implicitly mA believed them to be, were very warmly welcomed at ^*t5S5^ the Chateau Bellefleurs ; every preparation had been made for them. Two magnificent suites of apartments, over- looking the lake, were set aside for them. Madame and her niece occupied the other side. They would be as free from in- trusion as though living in their own house. Madame had re- served om small part of the garden for herself and her niece ; all the rest was at their disposal. Any friends they might care to invite could be well accommodated. Madame la baronne v>o».enif .«:,,. imrl hpfin n. handsome woman, but rccci LVCQ merit II-, 1 ••■v.- was now somewhat passe; she was a thorcr.-h aristocrat, aJ- G6 TDE EARL'S ATONEMENT. turni,... ;;.47"' "°«^ then sai.l , ,, ,3^^^' 7 ^'iich she .'OhVancIa^^, . , '""'"• with smU,„g S"i< e I l,ive ,nr.?r S'""!— 1 am so pleased r rt ' Then I win ^ ^^"^^ °° ^ady remember • hi "°n ^f^ ^^>' she r. nlied < T , -ii l and bin. f^^-J' '"•onnd was soL'l "*""■" " '*«'« of Para- endless vISSoT"' "'"' '=«''» "he Len't? .""T'''' "'"> «^er fallen to «?' '^". '^"'"^««t, sweetesThr^ ^^pthafrom shore SIR vane's warning. C7 They drove into Lucerne for the sake of variety ; they went once or twice to a ball, more frequently to the theatre, and they never met any of the compatriots whom Sir Vane so heartily dreaded. * I have never been so happy in my whole life,' he said, one day, to Agatha. * I should like to live here always.' * Must we go away t ' she asked. ' Not yet, at least ; and, perhaps, not for a long time. I must go to England sometime.' ' Never without taking me 1 ' she said. ' Never,' he replied, kissing the beautiful, loving face. It was the month of June then ; they had not been seven weeks at the chateau, and madame la baronne had grown much attached to the gentle, beautiful lady. She found her so well bred, so gifted, so fair, in every sense of the word. Nothing pleased madame more than to take Mrs. Heriot through the beautiful grounds that reached even to the shore of the lake. She discovered at once that Mrs. Heriot did not care to talk about herself or her antecedents, and she never made the least attempt to induce her to do so. A sincere liking existed between them, and, for her sake, Sir Vane was pleased to see it. He was answering a business letter one morning, and it oc- curred to him that he had been away from England more than two years, and that during the whole of that time he had been constant to his love. Never before in his life had he loved longer than two months. He wondered if the time would ever come when he should tire of the angel face and gentle manner of his fair young love. For the thousandth time, he regretted that he had not married her. He believed it was within the bounds of possibility that he might have been true to her for life. That same evening, while they were at dinner. Sir Vane fancied that he heard a carriage driving up to the entrance. Agatha said : ' That must be madame's niece. She was to return to-day.' ' Madame's niece ! ' he repeated, absently. He had almost forgotten that mention had been made of 1 y^ siiph n noronn r Tir/MlIW T\aTTe\ln -f^M^vni* «fc »,^^.«, rT-"if.l XIV rvi iUIjjCU i;^ U.^tilli. * I am sorry our peace is invaded, Agatha. How quiet and happy we have been ! ' 68 THE earl's atonement. Madame is very Zd of her > ''"'" "' ""' P'"""' nx^ra.Hr\r"?^^^^^^ graoe?uTt;r:'of'': t^Zt "rll"" «"!'^",' "^ ="- "■" ""'■ figure that TOS perfec? n k ™hH ' "" ""• ''"'' '"'''-» e/ery graclful c 'r" e t perfect rut\t ;""''' "'"'^ """ ''"'» him. periecuon, but the face was turned from lookinfhke Ivor? rthfvhvlU,''', "''"'■ ''T'^ "'"'P^'l «"d Then she bent fww^rd Tnd frnn^ T'^ aga-nst her velvet dress. long sweep of veJvIm'at lav „„ M """'" "' ^"^ ^'"^ *" ">« of beauty Then the tt.r a '" S™' ""' »•"* P^f^c' line that grew so plenttfullf ^nr**! ^T ^^ *» ''''"'y «<» ™e' walkfd up and down tl'eprett^t'l "'"".J". ''^^ '^"'=^- ^he lake, and he said To UmSZt%ZV« motion-but he did notTee her face ""''^ P'""'^ "' girflterd^est Karl-ir- ^^ "» '-«<" '^» gave som-eTatlfLtrr 'VxZt'thdf ^f/' •'"'^^'^ ^"'' and moved with perfect 'it Si ~i ''" ^ * P«"'f'"" fig""-* niece. Pe"cct grace, he had no interest in madame's EnitSwomenr"'"''' -"--d Agatha ; -but not at aillike the^i2onHght\heVwe„\'rrh "f '^V" '''' ""^ 'h™ by like a sea of calm amVt »« ,?''''l''' "■" '"''^ ">»' '""ked spoke of mailaS nTece agir """""" "' """ "'»"S'" <- A U„„...L:r._i -&".M. '■ "-"""'t tarnrioZi-f -- - -- •'-'^ hair and in ..«i n-muau, witn red her dress, sat talking to madame. SIR vane's warning. 69 These visitors of yours do not make much difference in your life, aunt,' she said. ' Not much, Valerie, but that it is more cheerful to know they are here.. ' Do you never go out with them ] ' she asked. * I have been several times on the lake with Mrs. Heriot.* * Heriot,* repeated the girl, with a scornful drooping of her ful'., curved lips. * I know English names very well, aunt, but this is strange to me. ** Heriot ;" it is not noble.' * It is not ? I do not suppose he is noble, Valerie, but he has plenty of money.* ' That is a very good thing,' sighed the girl. * Oh, aunt, how I long for money.' ' You must marry well,' said madame. * That is just where my character is so utterly inconsistent, and where I shall fail altogether. I love money — I want money — no one can want it more ; but I feel sure I shall marry for love.' * Hush, my dear ! ' said madame, who did not think that at all a decorous word on the lips of a girl. Valerie laughed. 'It is a dreadful thing to speculate about, aunt, is it not 1 But about your lodgers — I thought you told me they were so wealthy ] ' •So they are, Valerie,' said madame, compla' ntly. 'I be- lieve if Mrs. Heriot could eat gold and drink pearls, her hus- band would get both for her. I have seen much of married life, but I never saw such devotion — it is quite touching.' ' Does he love her so much 1 ' asked Valerie, quickly. ' I never knew how much a man could love a woman until I saw Mr. Heriot. There is plenty of money. The strangest thing about them is, that they will not have servants of their own, and do not care to meet English people.' *A long honey-moon, I suppose,' ]auj,;!\ed Valerie. 'The English are queer people. Mr. and Mrs. Heriot must be a small fortune to you, my dear aunt.' *I must not complain,' replied madame. 'One thing, I avow, as need drove me to let part of my home, I could not have possibly met with ulcer people than Mr. and Mrs. Heriot. ' I am quite anxious to see them,' said Valerie. II i 'IS ^ » .-.'i i If 70 THE earl's atonement. And that night when the pretty chateau of Bellefloura lav '^haptj:r XV. 'HIS WIFE MUST BE HAPPY.' I IR VANE enjoying his cigar, was walking through the ) beautiful grounds alone. Agatha was occupied with for madr: ^"she\ad"'^ -rk^something she'rmak.ng S^L U^ ifJ^"^ T f f^ ^''^'^'' ^*'"^'y attached to madnme She had hked Lady Anne very much, but there was a warrZ about the Swiss lady that the reclor's wife lacked. Vane was strolling carelessly on his favorite promenade-^bhe terrace that overlooked the lake, when he Lw the same Vraceful figure that ha Sr. test advautage ; ^sl e k, e^ hit a^i:^i:xji^ a^t^!.'';t;h:j tr t"ldX"r ,!i.tr'- ' . ""P"- 1. ^"J?.' '"»'«. '"Btinrts uf coquetry toheravery„..u,friearth'r^S,rZrddTLr^^^^ HIS WIFE MUST liE HAPPY,' 71 attract his notice, and to please him. She was a great believer in making frien is, and in making them useiul to ht iself. She had decided, in her own mind, that the most beautiful associa- tion a man could iiave with woman was through dowers. If he saw her first gatherin;,' or tending to them, he would always for the future associate her with them. So icco- ding to her own arrangement, ho found her with the basket of blooming roses, which seemed to absorb her whole a*^tention. She started as he came in sight ; and rising hurriedly, the roses fell in a crimson shower to the ground. Could anything have been better, prettier, or more picturesque ? She uttered a low, musical cry of dismay, and Sir Vane hurri d to her. ' That is my fault,' he said, raising his hat. ' 1 am sorry I started y n.' ' I aui )Try to have dropped my roses, and given trouble,* she replied. * They shall soon be back in the basket,' he said, * if vou will intrust it to me.' * Have I the pleasure,' she said, * of speaking to Mr Heriotl ' He bowed. ' I have the pleasure of addressing the lady known to us lately by the title of madame's niece.' 'I am Madamoiselle D'Envers,' she replied with stately grace. And Sir Vane bowed again. ' I hope,' she added ' tl t I am not intruding on any part of the grounds that are appropriated to your ise, Mi . Heriot 1 ' * There can be no question of iutrusioii,' he replied. And he felt that to meet this beautiful, dark-eyed, brilliant girl in the sunlit gardtj s would be a pleasant rarity ; but not too often. And she read his thoughts with wonderful clearrx ss. 'lie irf wondering whether sh'^' 'ore him,' she thought — 'whether I shall come too often, as-i interfere with the honey- moon t^e-a-tetes.' . ' You are very kind, monsieur, ' she said ' but I must not avail myself too often cf your kind ess. It is strange that this terr 'ce is my favorito spot, and it i^ so your- ' It is. But I shall not like to think tuat I havo deprived you of the pleasure ^ ' frequenting it.' ! i I p. ■ ii 1 72 Hi I i h THE EAUL'S ATONEMENT. i™ 'rJblt'' "P ■>' '""' -'"' « f-'k ™il„ that attracted him mo'n'rrlsritt.-"'^ "pportunitieV she said -and go „hea He laughed and began to pick i.n the roaes ^ Jothing co„,d have bee„\:;llK-rel^ht. with a «i^rf":p rr,e fi'^ '» «■» ^-^ -«' •Hi":4l":^^'^ha;^^''°''' '""" '- '^■'' "-•^^-.t Valerie. menUTdt flat^^wS."" ar""'-. ''»- '"at English- short interview she Lve Lf to uZr?"", '" ,<'""'>«"■«' and skill, that she admired him '""^''"'^"''' ""h great tact -id' "™Ttx:aitT:;Veru^s\ti ''?"'^«'-'' «'''' taste. •'^ oeautitul, but far too quiet for my Sir Vane liked ^ hear ^ '' '"''"''' '""«'' "^ hers which youj t said'^^^rde^en wo™, d' dout'l *" ^°" ^-■'' -'>« under similar circu,nstres™1''hat 'TorM™ ''"'' """ ''^» •I J t^fVL--LrB&-ve-^^^^^^^^^ ■' -^- Ihose who are getting tired of lift i.i "'^ ^ who are looking eaSerly forward tn Mi i^' ""^ 1^"^' ^"^ *^'°«« be very happy fogefhershes^l!]'^'^' "^^^'^'' could .ever 1 suppose not,' agreed Sir Vane. enough Keivetharhrs'Tnte'Ttwg'^r '"' f <"•-" -clever to remain after .^^^0.?^^ t. ^^C morMng"' '""' '" ^™' •""•>' ^^ Heriot.' she said, ' and good samf;i:L'±i''^l?.™lf'''.™*-.''>eeasy carriage, with th„ . „ „„u.u „ave iiaujued to a strain of swe^t ' •an angel and a coquette. 7» tausic. Then he went in search of Agatha. Ah ! what rest, what pleasure in her fair presence, what calm and repose I He forgot Valerie, talking to her ; and nothing could show how deeply he loved Agatha better than this fact, that he, who had been so great an admirer of beautiful women, did not think twice during the day of the one who determined that she should always be associated in his mind with roses. CHAPTER XVI. * an angel and a coquette.' ^I^-^^ERIE D'Envers stood before the large mirror in \i/r her room, looking with intent eyes at the face reflected there. It was fair enough surely to charm any man oval in shape, brilliantly tinted, with large, bright eyes, dark '"i°-^i^*' ®"^®^y ^^ *"y ^*ce could win admiration, hers could —brilliant, sparkling, piquant. Yet it had not won any of the great prizes of life for her. She was twenty, and though she had legions of admirers, no one had yet been over to Madame la Baronne to ask for the honor of her hand. There was an in- definable something about her that startled most men ; she was beautiful, polished, and graceful, but there was a foreshadow- ing of violent passions in her ; one felt instinctively that she could be jealous, envious, and bitter. ' Evidently,' she said to herself, as she looked earnestly in the mirror, ' I have not made any great impression on the English people — they have not asked to see me.' Valerie had been three days at the chateau, and as yet no invitation had been sent to her, nor had she seen Sir Vane again. He could not have been much impressed with her never to remember her existen( . She had puzzled herself over it, jut, with her usual skill, had come to the right con- clus.oi? -it was not so much because he had not adm?red her as that he was entirely engrossed with his young wife ; and a sharp pang of envy shot through her heart. Why were fateq 74 THE EABL's atonement. ^rri'^^^uJllT^^^^^^ "f nd, Why should one equally, young and'he^aut^ r^ae^e'd b'v^f 'Sh^ *°' ^"^'^-' imrror, to be quite sure if she were I^ atfr«L-^^^ ''V'^ ^ ^«' ways imagined herself to be TWnl ''^ *' '^^ ^^ »»- assuring one; her face pleLd hS l^' T'l?^^ «* ^«- please others? F c««ea nerseit—why should it not ^r^^o^^^^^^^^ ^- ^ays by the evi- they did not seem even to ^„t JtlS^.^^^^^^^ P^^P^e- monsieur thought that anything wol «1?°«/ If dered it; and to Valerie/accustoZrl . ^ t^^ ^'^ ^'^^^ ^^ ^^' mg of things, this was wonderful T^ 5^^" economical order- envy to that which she fSlreadyA^^^^^ another pang of tion she had been so long expeS t ^^\^^^^ the invita- note from Agatha, askinf if madamrL:5^"'"^J^"«' ^^°^^>^ ^'^^^ join them in spending an hoT,r .fw ^ mademoiselle would declined, but ^as moft dellhted to""". '" ^. ^^^- ^^^^^ who dressed herself with tl! Irlf f ''^^' /^' mademoiselle, best suited to her brill Intfutftn^i l''^'^^'^ «^"'' '^ colors English monsieur had rives to ^^i^'^ ^^''' ^^^'^ ^" the meet friends of his. Valerrhad n-^^' ^ r T*^' *^«3^ "^'g^t plete solitude in which they uL v^'^^T^ ^"* ^^« ^o^n- three. who were so strongly to Sn °'' u^^ ^'«^ ^^^'"e these together. ^^-rongiy to influence each other's Uvea, were The morning was fresh and beautifnl fi,. . clear as crystal, the sky withourJ^ ll * f^T'^^^r^ of the lake odorous with the breath VaCd,etflow^' '^ ^'^"^y ^^^ make even the most miserable happy iir^"^ T'^'^'S to two beautiful women. Agatha?^^!* '"^ T*°« ^^^^^d at the light of a soul to whom nafure w JTJ^^ J^^ll^ '' ^^^h the rose from nature to nature's (^oT v ? ' -^""^ ^^<*«« thoughts that comes from gratififd yanit? an'd w'eH nl' ^'f '^' P^«^"'' ange and a coquette,' thought S^ vflt^^^^^^^^ 'An side m the boat. ^ "^ ^^'^^> ^ they sat side by and^^n^l^rlett'^^^^^^^^^^ -» they agreed, kmd they generally indulge? nS/ ^^ ^'' ""^ ^^'^ "^ ^he scenery around them, of the wa4r« !L i 'f generally of the of all the thoughts to which «trLl°l''^^. ^«««]y «hores,and „,^„^g gj^.g ^^^ Valerie *AK ANdEL AND A COQUETTE.' 75 had just returned from Paris, and she had caught the perfect tone of Parisian salons. She could tell them the latest news of the emperofi, and empress. She could retail, in a brilliant fashion all her own, all the court scandal and gossip— what the emperor had said of the American beauty; and how the emperor distinguished certain noble Englishwomen by his attentions ; she knew why this marriage between a Russian duke and a French princess had been broken off: she knew the whole history of the beautiful young duchess whose ro- mantle suicide had filled all Paris with gloom. Sir Vane listened at first indifferently, but in a short time he warmed to the subject. It was so long since he had heard this kmd of conversation; all the brilliant bon mots that she re- peated ; all the witty repartees ; the piquant stories amused him, and made him laugh as he had not done for many Ion.* "".? u^t ^H * T^."^'' '"'''^^ ^"IJiant world this ™ from which he had shut himself out I He did not sigh foi it. lone for, or desire it ; but this passing breath of it was sweot to him. He began at last to talk himself with some animation • while, for the first time since they had left England, Agatha sat by in silenca She did not mind it in the leSst, she was so pleased to see him happy. The sound of their laughter died away on the blue waters ; there was a ring in Sir Vane's voice Jlow he enjoyed these stories of men and women whose names she had no interest for ! She fell into her old strain of thoughts, and did not even hear the point of the stories untU bir ane said to her : * Agatha, where are your thoughts ? ' bolt^'"^ ^^^ '^^^^^'' ^^^ '^^^^^^' ^*^S^"^S- ' I may say in this 'I am afraid we are monopolizing the conversation; it cannot be very amusing to you, Agatha.' Valerie looked up quickly. 'I beg a thousand pardons,' she said; but has not madame been to Pans ? ' Oh, yes ; I was in Paris for some months.' .'7i!®? you must have known and seen some of these people ' said Valerie. *^ *^ ' A nofk C1U - . . -^""S rememDerea that durine the whole of the time they had been there she had not spoken to a lady. Sir Vane came to the rescue. i'T 76 ' THE earl's atonement. Ah ! said Valerie, with a long drawn breath it in the exp essbn rf her fa^o WhT'' ° u'''^ T"' """^ *«» had she k„o»n there w^noprin^stiTh^H '""^ ''■"y ""'"«'■' would have been proud of the «»,!• that imperial court but before her? ' ^^ attentions of the Englishman ' That must have bean a trial fnr ^n„ > ..j ir i ■ to Agatha; never to have '«n Parfs must be I±';-'i'r'"S have been there and vet n.,t t);i,.,, ■ ?"«'.'>« oread; ul, but to gayeties in the worWrusThrverental"'''""""'""""' for s'ichZngl" '"""'•' """''' ^^"""^ ''' -"W -veroare • Not for court balls ! ' cried Valen'p wif v, „ * • v gen^Hne that Sir Vane and AgaSZhla ght'd'''*"'™'' ^ do n':ri.':L"ttX^^Sif''-«P'-''^'-''^i-and desires * M'^e do,' said Valerie frankly .troulbrofthH"o;ett"„rre''tl/*^ '," ■""'' -' H i^,»,rtaTit Ts-^/rbni- ^^^She wondered why that flurfi rose and fell „n that gentle Is it^^Lr""""* ' "*"■'-"'« "-V whio'h '^''address him. ZH'vi"^*''^'!"P"^'lA8a">a. And Valerie said, musinglvT ^ Jane Heriot. a ve-y E„g,i,h „.„«, ;. j, „„^,__^__^ ^ ^^ 'It is uncommon ' pnr^1.v^ A~-i^i-_ or wUy, 'YOU NEVEB TELL ME OF YOUR LIFE.* 77 She did not quite like to discuss her husband's name with this brilliant stranger. Then Sir Vane overtook them. It seemed quite natural that he should walk between them ; he would make Agatha talk, and show less interest in the Parisian stories. ' My wife knows such pretty legends of flowers and trees,' he said, and Valerie looked up with supreme indifference. ' Does she 1 ' she said. * They all seem to me very much alike.' Sir Vane laughed. * Just what kings, queens, courtiers, court-balls, and society stories are to you, trees and flowers are to her,' he said. ' She is easily satisfied,' said Valerie, and again he detected the faintest accent of contempt in her voice. It amused him greatly ; he understood Valerie so well ; her keen, worldly nature, with its love and appreciation of wealth and luxury, was quite transparent to him. She was the type of woman he had known well and had despised years ago. Yet there was something fresh and piquant about her. Valerie, as the time passed on that morning, became more and more resolved to cultivate these English people, and make great friends of them. She saw that if she wished to please the husband, she must please the wife, and she did what was, under the circumstances, the very wisest thing she could do — paid far more attention to Agatha than to Sir Vane. Of course he perceived it — equally, of course, he understood the motive, iti. CHAPTER XVII. 'YOtr NEVER TELL ME OF YOUR LIFE.' If?' OUR weeks had passed since Valerie D'Envers re- turned to Bellefleurs, and already there was some trifling change in the place. She had given herself up to the indulgence of twn rliffAmnf fnAlinora nna wao AiatiL-^ ^^A ,, . ^ " -" - .. - _- i;- •■:ir:!s.i^v asjL^J. bitter jealousy of Agatha, the other gre^t and boundless admi« ration for her husband. n THE CARL'S ATONEMENT. 1; to hfr:eT£''?P&*^^^^ - «^;^ -uld have made me/ she said She knew and Ldemid^t^^^^^^^^ '-. ""'^ ^"^ ^ «<> Ji"IeT and became bitterr/eSou^^^^^^^^ of Agatha, and even her aunt, she saw lov^dT^u *?® ^^ ^^ ^«^oted with this feeling grew onl'i. ^^*'^* ^®«*^ Side by side and reckless uinfZ Sir Vane"~H ""^"""'^^ ^^"^^^^^ion courtly J she liked the dark hl^ul'f V r "^^ '^^ handsome, so the gentle, caressing mannt'-^^r^ri/"'' '",^ *^« "«»» ^°i««» to women. Of all the men she hid ^^t T ?^;\' Referential best. It angered her that h«Vl!r/^?^' '^® ^'^^^ ^i*" fi™t and Englishwoman, whose looks diff^r^*^'"" ^- *?« ^^^ «f this fa^ Why could not forS have etrt^h?.^^^^^^^^^ ^^' «^°- have given her a similar chance? ' ^^'' ^' ** ^^"^^ bnlhant young beauty; and^ when Sil V ' '°''"'^' ^^^^^ <^he daily papers, or otherwse engaged th^^ ™ reading his many happy hours together ^Durinlfi.'' T^^^ ^^^^« Pa««ed her whole history to Wha H^i "k^I T ^°"" Valerie told in Paris, all theVyetiS of ^^^^^^^ n' '"'"^' '^' ^^^ have been": ver'j'pCalS^.'"'' **"• «•>"»' ^ •»" *' -"at l™g^7that%r:™„''"etdVt "T"';!',/''-- »d 'he wild oU-fashioned vi\C, The 2v oZt!" k"' { "' ''^ '"e, of the with its fair yoang Mint hS, th.^ ? • k*" '"«'*™ "»<''>'>' pie people wJm hfd loved her 1/ '^t''""'''?'''''' i »f'l>e«m. • The Angel of the PoJr ? She wouS'd"^ ""y^"}"- '=»"' ^'-ya ■n « was my love and mVmaX"^'^ '"»«■<'• The only event ' for y:«f. n^fits, t'ri^r »'i!r »<• -»'«^'«. 'you NKVER TELL ME OF YOUR LIFE.' 79 * But your own friends and relations— do you never care to speak of them 1 ' and Agatha turned away as she answered : ' They live always in my heart.' * Aunt,' said Valerie, one morning to La Baronne, ' I should not be at all surprised if there were something just a little strange ^-.bout Mrs. Heriot.' * Strange ! In what way, Valerie 1 ' asked madame. I' She does not belong to the same class as her husband, I am quite sure. They have belonged to different worlds before they came here.* ' I never found this much out,' said madame, dryly. * I have,' said her niece. * I do not pretend to say which was which, but I am sure they were not equal. It is possible ho may have been below her in station, or she may have been below him ; but that there was some disparity I feel sure.* Then some little change appeared. Sir Vane, who had shrug- ged his shoulders at his wife's invitations to madame's niece, said frequently : ' Let U8 ask mademoiselle to go out with us this evening ; ' or, * Mademoiselle Valerie will go with us on the lake, if you ask her, Agatha. She amuses me.' After two years' unswerving constancy, he felt that he was really entitled to some little reward, a»id if this brilliant young beauty could amuse, please, and flatter him at the same time why shoald she not 1 So it came to pass that the invitations were more frequent, and at Ifist Valerie spent so much time with them, they were almost like one family. Sir Vane never dreamed of a flirtation with her ; it was the last thing that occurred to him. But Valerie v,ra8 queen of the whole science, and it was impossible always to avoid the plotc she laid for him. She had a peculiar faculty for finding out when he was alone ; for meeting him in the garden and grounds when Agatha was absent ; and Sir Vane was never very strong at resisting the advances of a beautiful woman. He met smiles with smiles, repartee with repartee. If she gathered a flower for him, he once or twice kissed the white hand which held it. Yet, in justice to him, it must be said that he behaved in the «^me manner to her when Agatha was present as when she was f^sent. She had lost nothing of her charm for him. Insensi- bly they united into a half-seulimentai kind of flirtation, which ighted Valerie, but was the most dangerous and fatal thing 'fM i w 80 THE EAUL's atonement. ff m M i Hi ache/and could no gr S^VaZ woaldtf "■* "T^ " ''.'"'1- sho'l d^I^lj;""'^ *" -«-Se them, she repTied ; - indeed, I */^«n we will go,' he said. ' J-wrifri '^.'-r '•i'i" "«•*". 'he turned to him. ' Why need you have thought that 1 • he asked I ao^thinkTnglisrAXaret"!!!^ ^'''"'"^ ^-^ P-P^ety. i o:t5^;r^;^r:«atTrthei^^ 'I can bear that, and more, from you.'Ie replSd him a d" mutdhrituir "11"""' ^^^"^-^ "^^^^ ^ wit and brillLcy She took I^,r"^ ^''''^^'^d by her ready learning to row and her IM. h. ^ ? t'"! P'^"^' "'P^ce foV «th thdr ahWng jeweiV he .ouM no^^hl '" T*"!'? """^ '"' and while giving her lessons in tl,„ , f * ad-mring them ; more naturSl th!« that he should L?H,.°^ """■e- "■■«' "»» his. She grew more tauVf'rind Ir tZntt h""''^ " more demonstrative in his admiraUon ' '" ''° «'''"' that'weTrgTbtf'IXkr^HrJoi th' r '"'»°'' -"^ he;^eX"r;tl--S»C^^^^^^ theTaf er„u^nt Vall^n S^u ?"' ""' "'""^^ ^^'^ «e looked at her in wonder, ^bhe will always receive it/ he said quietly. -"u V alone iaugued to hide her confusion N In THE MARKED HANDKERCHIEF. 81 CHAPTER XVIII. going THE MARKED HANDKERCHIEF. J HERE wert, times when Sir Vane looked at his young wife and wondered whether it was possible to excite the feel- mg of jealousy within her. Not that he wished to do so ; it was simply curiosity to know whether one so perfect, so seemingly far above all the meaner passions of earth could feel as other people did. He would have been pleased to know that Agatha was just a little jealous; he would have hked those white, tender arms laid round his neck, a faint gleam of reproach m the violet eyes, and a sweet voice ta whisper, ' Did he really love her best.' That was the kind of thing that he understood and was accustomed tv. If Agatha had been inclined to jealousy she had plenty of cause. The time had been when Sir Vane had shrugged his shoulders at the mention of madame's niece, and lamented that their solitude was broken ; but now it was quite a different matter ! he seemed to look with eager longing for her. 'Ask Valerie to go with us,' were the words constantly on his lips, and Agatha never once hesitated. It was natural, she said to herself, that he would like some one that could talk to him about his own world, of which she knew nothing. Sir Vane never meant to hurt her. When they were all three out together, it often happened that Valerie, laughing and jesting, walked with him, while Agatha went on alone. Then suddenly his heart would be touched, and hasten- mg to her, he would say : ' Darling, why are you alone 1 Come with me.' And it struck him with wonder that she always turned to him a face as sweet and bright as a loving face could be. It would have been better for tliera all had she looked just a little more keenly after her own interests ; for Valerie, dav by day, qipliKed her ^ud liked her husband more and mofe, " ' ' ' ^ 82 I I * s THE earl's ATONEMBNT. There came a day at the end of the beautiful summer, when the lovely air was faint with perfume, that they arranged to go for the ladies in the drive. Madame could not go- she wm only too well pleased that her niece should have the opportu! Sr^rt^'el^f!^ '"• ''^ "^'^^"•' '' ^^^'' accepte/aSa- Valerie walked slowly down the drive, saw Sir Vane put his smafl T.^^' ^'i\'' "^ ^'' ^^^^-» '^^' '^^' ^«« "ither too orin^fl f. ^''^S^f ^ .T^ *'''* ^""' ^^"^ * ^^^*« handkerchief fell out and fluttered to the ground. She took it up, and her at- Wt T r^ ,*^ once attracted by a mark in the corner. She looked at It long and curiously. There was a crest, half worn away, and underneath the letters, ' V. H. C She repeated them over and over again—' V H C '— thev were not his initials, they would have been simply 'V H' K« •IT''*^"F-'*'*^*^^y «*^^"^d have been identical'with his, with the addition of another letter—' V. H, C She tried tLr«h!rH K^ '""'V'*" •"'*'^' ^"^ «°"^^ ""^^^ a«6u in silver; auu Here agam on the richly chased bottles, on the ivory-backed hair brushes, on almoat ''I im 84 THE earl's atonement. :[?? every article of valne belonging to him, ahe saw the same in- itials, ' V. H. C She found mrny , f his things marked with a crest, and she admired very much i crown supporting an olive branch. * ' No modern crest that, thought ^^alerie to herself. Then on the toilet table lay a book that seemed to have ben well used—' Keble's Christian Year,' and here, to her great delight, she found the coat-of-arms— an eagle, supported on either side by lions rampant. 'A warlike house,' she thought. And now, if I have any wit at all, I shall find out who he is. The initials are " V. H. C," the crest, a crown and olive branch ; coat-of-arms, an eaglej supported by two lions ; motto, as written here, " Truth Oon- quers— ^tnci7 Veritas." If, with all these landmarks, I cannot make my way, I am dull of wit and deserve to lose the game.' Sir Vane's drawers and boxes containing pri- tte papers were locked ; the locks were patent, and he carried the keys with him, or Valerie would soon have found oui, who he was and all about him. ^ ♦ I will send to London for " Debrett's Peerage," ' she said to herself; * and then, if these initials and arms are his I shall know all about him.' ' She went into Agatha's dressing room. There was a mag- nficent dressing case, far more costly than Sir Vane's ; there were articles of luxury such as she had seldom seen— all presents given to Agatha by Sir Vane— the most exquisite and beautiful toilet appointments j but on no one single thing were either marks or initials. 'Just as 1 thought, she said to herself, with a triumphant smile. ' No name, no crest, no coat-of-arms here. Ah, Mrs. Heriot, you may be very fair, and you are very sweet, but why do you not share your husband's crest and motto ? There is something to find out— and, as sure as I live, I shall find it out.' She searched through everything. On one worn collar she found, marked in red cotton, the two letters, ' A. B.' * I will remember them' she said to herself. ' " A. B."— it may be Agatha Blythe, or Berdoe ; there are many names be- ginning with "B."' tnt QUEST THE SECRirr. 85 She W' better rewarded jr her trouble when ar ;ng some books Bhe iuand a copy ot the oratorio of Samson. A name had been carefully erased— so carefully that, wit! all the skill in the world, she could not make it out ; but she did make out the word * Whitecroft.' • ' Whitpcroft,' she mused ; * t' t is the very name for a country village — 1 shail remember it' And long before Sir Vane and Agatha returned, she had collected information enough to L»'lp her in making out a far more intricate histo ^^^an theirs. CHAPTER XIX. IN QUEST OF THE SECRET. HAT are you poring over there. Mademoiselle? It looks like a large family Bible,' said Sir Vane. He was walking through Madame's garden to look at some wonderful flower of which La Baronne had spoken to him, and came, quite unexpectedly, upon Valerie reading busily. She looked very beautiful as she bent, in the most graceful of attitudes, over the huge book. Evidently she had not expected to see him ; she looked startled and discomposed ; her face flushed, and she drew the folds of her dress over the book. * If I hr 1 unexpectedly found Mrs. Heriot studying a Bible,' he said, * I should not have been surprised ; but you — well, it is rather unexpected.* She di ' not contradict him at first, but drew the folds of her dress more closely over the volume. * I cannot help asking,' laughed Sir Vane, ' to what phase of your character this love for study belongs 1 ' She saw that he was inclined to laugh at her, and ridicule kills love. : T X am uuu j: icauiug more unfortunate for me. ivxr. i 1- cne nuriOb; po/iiaps au I have a profound respect both for I MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I 1.25 1^ tii US 2.8 3.2 113.6 114.0 1.4 2.5 1 2.2 2.0 1.8 1.6 ^ APPLIED IIVMGE Inc =^ 1653 East Main Street r.^ Rochester. New York 14609 USA ^= (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone ^ (716) 288 - 5989 - Fax S6 THE EARL*S ATONEAiEKt Hi .' the Bible and its readers Anv liffin »;«.*• • «clm«l to make on ti.7J:"JfS:,XrZ.!Z 17- '"' .mus«, whe." I feU Vu thtt'nlytZok oT"oV/" ^ receipts. My aunt is verv wrnnH nf iV » "Ook of old family dred receipts for puddi J1^3 » / .V '^ '''''^*^°« ^«"' ^un. ' Why are yoVstud vfni k ? ^Ij^'^^^^ ^"??ber for sauces/ are in your li/e!^aiS S^'^l^e "" ^"^^'"«^ '^^^ «*»««« something quite new ' """"S^, ana 1 am searching for •e;s^?;oMX"".:^r^^^ women, Mr. Heriot"* You nlrf „i/''°"' "'* °'"'*^ »■«» "W ten^HruZ'.'-'S "" P'~'°"" volume enti„Iy, i,^ •mght have auspeoted mef lam sure Wi^.^"*" "'"^'"e- J"* wiU keep it here for the future ' "' "" **^P« ' ^ ally porg°'„:^Mtto:i ''^irt, ™"-? n™"« » '•'«'■ be quite aure wm bHednn^i!. ^ ^^^"'^ '" ?"«'' "''« «-»" .traight through to the iS? ?L if "iti"' '^f' *■"* «<"»« her auspicious, with what .hi !,„ ' ","»«?' "^ any truth in know L aecrel It WM a tirZ™/'^^.''''* »''™''l «<">■> contents and list of abh^vU^ ^ .'J^''' '«"° "" table of close of the voCe She wt »' °, "" 7°"^ '«""' »' *!>« she rested her white arms orfh-tShl"' "' """"t "^'-t m head over the pu JinTpa^es trt ^' ^a^ ''°'" ''" ''«»-'^f''I Fu^ung pages. Her head was aoon in » whirj IN QUEST OF THE SECBeT. m may feel m me.' ntentioQ oi ge of man- >u will be old family I four hun- 'or sauces.* nor sauces the cook •ching for 3ir Vane ; sst.' )ld books, 3 and old must go, absence, f. 'She ng in re- sly, hast- t's Peer- ding, he ape! I in liter- le could i going Sruth in Id soon -able of at the i^nt aa >au*^ful I whirl 87 a";:sw"ered fo tw'T^''' ' ^^ """"« *^«°^ *"' °«thing that answered to what she wanted. Ah, yes, here was an v^v} whose name was Victor Hay CarringtoV' ?he vlry fnitS but according to the entry, he must bf quite sixty A JaTn 8h« rete^tVtK"^'' ^-V«, bdong'ed to'etraltriis Sti]] !hl ?T'' *"^ ^^'^^ ^'*«ch she could not find thjiLwr^ t"'\^'''^"'*S''^^«^^ «^"ld not wade carefuUy »,.:f l^^\l^® ""^f^ *° ^^® ®°d «f ^^is long list of peers She had been through it carefully-she had not missed one sinde hatTfTundotttha'^h"^''^^ disappointed; she wouTd iSet to Ihcf B^^ro^^^^^^^^ ^^ "^ ^" ^^^1 -' I^^t- Then she went jI w!f *'^\^^f ^"^ ^^'''^"''^ ^^''^'' «^« said to herself. aslL K°'^,^' *^^'''' "^"^y «°« «!«« i° the household was asleep ; she alone was awake, vigilant and aotivp ThlJ^ name that those initials filled. Sh^mu^t be rSht "'* * her fan^r^T*'""'^""^' "^ Silverdale.' The'aame took ner lancy. She read on. "Sir Vano tTo«*«* n i • lions rampant. Crest: a crown and olive branch Mnff«^* the Carlyon famUy : Fincit Feritas^TrZ Conquers ^ from ?' r^' \''' T« ^''^< *b« breath came in hot gasps from her lips; her hands trembled so that the book afS ri have it,' she cried. 'I have found him at last.' Sjhe was almost petrified with astonishriont • she had f«If quite sure that he was not what he seemed ob^ a rich En^ hsh commoner, and no great account: but «h!' LTl^T SoubT;rh1s"le^^^^^ """^- ^^^^« -"^^ -^ Se^tl^e 1-t ■II S8 I'HE earl's atonement. bide himself in the 8o"itudr nf 1 ? • ^^^ '^'^ ^^ choose to «ibly have done anytSn. which ^n^^f^'l'^^^ ^""^^ ^« Po«- tive land ? No that w«« ^^J ,/°"^P^"^d ^^m to leave his na- remembered the sayinrof the F^^^^^^^^^ '^t ^'^' '^'' ' '^' at the bottom of evefv^hina tT' -^^^^^^ * ^^°^*« ™ denly that he must be in exfle for I J^'^'^ ^''°^« ^«^ «"d- ,^ Her face sudden ygr^^^^^^^^ anif f I u '"^"-T^"^ ^g*^**^*- that was not pleasant toTee %h«. ^'!,^\^^°^« i«to her eyes and looked at the date it tt Ty!T^ *° *^^ ^^^^ again there was no entry of his marrn .T' y^*"' ^«-- «^d "Heir presumptive ArrhurBlSl^u^ tusT-'Th '^ "^'' no entry of a marriage Yet Aa^thu u- * , There was to her, said it was nfarly three lea^8i^^^^^^^^^^ '^' °^^«^ day How could that be ? Had the mL?« k ^^ '''''^ "^"^«d- Was she below him or aSw« hL • ^- ^^^'^ ^ P^^^^te one t possible such a dreadful thiW couVh/^'^'T-^'^- ^' ^«r« married at all ? She laughed at f h« F^'^^Pl -^"^ ^"'"^ °<»<^ aristocratic man who worlil 5 ^^ notion-this handsome, that could be l^i!:LTo7l:Zit^^^^ ^*^^/^-"^-* ^-^ that he could have stooned L «n!^^~;; ™ quite impossible angelic Agatha, who seemed to b^f ^""^^ ^''^ that beautiful, earth. As wel ™It "h« k i ^°^u *° ^"*^«^ ^^ther than fromheavenlh nThftoneso^rid'' ^^ ^'"^« ««"^d ^»i" wrong. In her own ^nd VaJ-'-^ ^^^'^^^^^^ Agatha was a little too^ood for f \ ^^^,,f^^ thought that the idea was utter norLSel/Jt worldly world. Of course thrust it from her mhid That f^^?"^ ^^'.^ ^''\ ®^« ^^^^^ «ot if it were true. Th^re was no L k. T"^! ^^P^*^^ everything with his whole heartlk,ve3 hi n^"' *^^^ ^^ ^°^«d Agatha his whole life-long for^^^^^^^^^^^^^ live in^exile he not married her ? ^ *^^*^ ^^'"'^ ^'*^ ^'ase, why had There was a flaw in her caR« Tf t,« i i to give up rank,title. posUion knd Iv ^^ ^'' ^^" ^'^ougli he not married ? Or wafr'nlli T^'^^"^" ^«'' ^^7 b^^ marriage-one that he woni] TT^^' ^''^^ **^'« was a private longed'to know th tuTh 2";uSr'''^^^ «»^« had in the world to have f^un^ T ..k*''^ ^'''^" anything she had been privateiymarried «nV ». "!.^^''' *°d ^^'^"- I^ they P ya.ieiy married, and he dare not, for some reas-n Heriot Car^ • choose to uld he pos- Java his na- i^ure; she v^oman was £s her sud- )r Agatha, io her eyes >ook again 18 — , and y, it said, rhere was other day 3 married, yate one i if it were ' were not landsorae, idest love mpoesible beautiful, her than iould fall ave gone ght that )f course iould not erything 1 Agatha in exile (^hy had enough vhy had private fe? She ling she If they > reason IN QUEST OF THE SECRET. 39 wife herself I ° "''^PP^'' ' «^« °^'ght, m all probability, be his shf wtirfiit":.t!^3re';rM ?^' '"^Tt ^- «- been married or not, Ind the?^l ^ ""^'^^^ ^^'y ^^^^ Not one word would she sav ?nt^' ^^' ?^^°« accordingly, but she would watch and lay Lwat?h ' '' "^'"^1- ^f ''''^' and^^e words that .us^SeC ^Z^li^^t^^ ^y^'^eU^^^^^^ 'or I shall lay quiet, fair, fond girl is Ldv ftrl.n , 1 ^^ P°'''^^« ^^^^ that it lies within th^e bounda^^^f ^f2\h.A' "'' '^^"^ '' ' *>»<^ Lady Carlyon myself If sh' t w ^^ ^-f ^^ sometime be his heart-lwin hL to better wa T ^'7/'' ^"^ ^ ^'^^ ^i'^ bask to her friends and T = J.? u ' I '^^" "^^ so. She can go beginning to like me "^""'^ ^' ^'^PP^' ^^r I am sure hels thft'uX t :t:1oofV.^^'P- ^^"^^ ^^^ Sir Vane think story, whose keeTwits had rokTd%Z.^^^^^ ^^^ whose heart was set upon find V^on^r^. ^u f ^'^"^«^' ^"^ whom he loved and hTored wi?h " , t'. ^^ V^'^i'/*^^ S^^^ tnown it, he would havp Wf ^^11 a ^^ ^^^''^' ^^ he had to return. "^^ ^^^^ Bellefleurs that same hour, never couTd ti: iTcb'qtln^^^asto'^^^^^^ ^.^ f "/ ^"-^-' ^^e command. ^'^^«"o«8 as would at least disturb their self- She tried Sir Vane first aTT . ^"^P^''^ nothing.' had too much self-control^ Loamshire, but Sir Vane kn;i;rw^^..Ttr^f!i^^' ^«. -Peated. 'Certainlv. T ties in EogTand.' "' "'" P'''"*^«' ^^^ most fertile counT F 90 THE earl's atonement. very fine.' ^ thought the scenery must be The words made her heart beat, a littlelVb'tfur^' '""'' ^''' '""'"'^^^ ^^*J"«t then she felt hi/'own tunsr KotTmr,' ""M"' T^'^^'y ^^'« ^^ ^«ep swered her^The next^LTmX'Ll^r^^^^^^ V" she was better able to manage. ^^^^*' "^^^"^ CHAPTER XX. " I HOLD HER DEATH-WARRANT." ' T^ O you believe that May marriages are unhappy 1 • asked Valerie, suddenly. She was with Agatha in th« singing togrrfrje':[L^^heTl7tT^^^^^^ bay-windoBT, and V!ihtiethT,llif^ « °^ '^""°S «« *« open May marriages are unhappy ^r"*"""- ^o JO" beheve that no;i?t7"hitvt.Lfr„;{:\ri^yr^ thing about it be unhappy ) ' ^ *^- ^^^ *'"•"'<' '""r- were you marri^d"n,"MrH'elu"' ""'""'• ^'"" ""O"* answeS?""' '^ ^"^f""' """ ""•><•"' «»■« '» ■'efleot, .he ' In June.* ih novel I Y must be her of £he ou should Qd, made- sn she felt le to keep as he an- ha, whom ? 'asked a in the md after the open )r asking eve that d think uld any- fs/ said k month ect, she 1 'I HOLD HER DEATH-WARRANT.' pj Suddenly there ro... before her a vision of that scene in the wood, and her face flushed, not a common blush that cam! and went, but ascorching flame of fire that .oemed to burHo trn Vvalen'"^' ^"' "'^^' ^^ ^^''' ^^^^ supre^m'ertis^ f hli^M ""^'' V '^ ^«P«ated» ' that is a more beautiful month bishop, Mrs. Heriot J • " ^"" """""J ^y » 'No, 'was the brief reply. Mr ' '"' *" ''" ""^ """ '' ■"'«•" -- a little curr; rieAytstp's"" '''"''™' ' """ "» "* P«»P'« -~. IiUIe''r:'S-nV- the mos^h':^:?. lo Pans,' replied Agatha. And this time she spoke so frankly that Valerie saw if f b*>rA ' WhTt : r ""^' *'^ honey-moonVas a sat s'b^l """ What a curious expression it is-" a honev-moon " sL ««;.] fkl^Jr^ \^r^^^^'^' (^ «^0"thof honey) we%af bufi hke the English expression best ; tell me abou your weddL Mrs. Heriot. I am sure it must have been a nr^u. n'! „"% X mus. own to a great weakness in the matter of "weddingr"l 92 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. like to hear about them— who c^^flr^ u,k„ *u • ^ lau.hed-„ho .^e speech., InT^^ 1^1.';;^^? followed it-hoAer father and Jolti:^ ""' ""'' "•»" ■ Vee, many ? but rrtar "' ""^ '" '"" y" ' ' She might have added that she sa^ no smiles eith.r i, * .. knewsolfttleThattosay I?shec«l°".' """•'"«*' '""»'•« so small an account-if she could h/Jii'T/"'™ '"'™ «™f Bucha place-in such IchZo^-IL^'^IuMT "T'''' " vZrafLlt"dT„n-^^3e''^5i?i^^'^-^^^^ service over with h^r and had the„M *1 '''""* "■« "'»"»8« she was his wife-hrw„u,d t a so^tdT'^vSVf'" '"'' woad not understand it, even though Uwere^Um. °""'' ^J^ We nothing to tell. My mlrril^TasfV^S^ like Jalerie's heart beat high with triumph. To herself she I will tradJtwyo'nXri,'?"^ -""'^^^ »' »"■ ""-I'f "0' h ™LrZ wrrthr^Kshetdt" "' ^^■"'.'■t "<">"-<• all proper form and ceremony she would" T T"^ ''"'' tell when and bv whom F-^™. I , ' "* °'"'"«' ••« able to SS/nstVeS- ---=itS^V-t acr&JJl-- ^^f^4:j^. PJ^. she came wro^\7Sn'te -.T.t;t' k^ - 0^^ ^"e riidiatrh^^'-pHS^^^^^^ to any one, where he wa« 3^?f k- ^^ P*^'"^ ^^« addresses -/a, Of w ^nd*:^ sr^rXterheZfiiii!^^ •' '"S 1 1 I a I t] ti b sc 1 'g 'I HOLD HER DEATH- WAHRANT.* S^fellerSft^ and promised to a week of anxrous uspense th« 1« ' ''P'^* ^^^" «""« » three weeks he would be abl« ^^ - ' "^"^ '^^ "^ '^*^ ^" They were three weel«nf f""^ ^•''^'-^ particular. the mo^st of them by ass dlS "T'^ '^- ^7• ^'^^ ™«^« her best to amuse Mm ?n Z ^ J^^''.'"^ ^''' ^*"«' ^^ doing - tion, and she did noTfail "" ^'"^ ^nto a sentimenti flirta^ twenty-eight years of aJI .vf J- 1' Z"^'. immensely rich- ried, nor LdEe been 'anv .f '"^^^ handsome, was not mar- had had many X-m 1 Z."""^ 5. ^^' engagement. He reputation-m^fThl'irr^uined' U^ laf a^hist '^^'^^^^ wasnotaTon™u^^ ,"^^ T^ T/^^^"' ^"^-l^e him of whom noTnl wa'sto ^ '''' '^' '''' ^"^^^^^ ^^^ she rerdThisleVt^^^^ ^"' ""'' ^^^^^ ^-*' -^^ triumph, as wi£^:i^iL^t\rm^rtij: s^ .t/f' ^^^ -^ ^^ ^-i, find out : X'TaLt Wht;^r' t^ W^ Miklevltch to visiting, and to do his W f ^ ' "^^"'^ ^'^ ^^"« ^^d been privately mtried th e ^r wt^^^^^ 7^''^'' he had been from the place. There'™ foh''^ ^^'^^^^ «"« . said to herself. She wouldflL >, """ Tf'T ^^ "^P«"««' «he If she succeeded, she Zuid hT^T ^' n^^l^" ^^'^^""^ «'^ ^^^ die, would matter lit le ennn.i u ^^^ Carlyon-if she failed, it was longer this t^me^n/ ^^^i ^''^"^" °^ ^^'- The answer repaid for t^e wSng '°''°^' ^"' ^^«" ^^ ^"^^ ^«°»e, she was andl4tttrat^^l^ Vf'"^ ^^ ^ important one, himself, and made alf Z S ' ^^^ ^^^' ^^^^ ^« Whitecrof would be useless LiarmteaTrhrH- "^'^ ^K'""^ ^^"d. It the rectory as a footman L ,h^« ^isguises-how he went to tune-tfill«/ o' d -- ^-"^ h« beguiled old Joan a« ,. f... butcher,- wWherrtX'f 51^"/ 7^^, ^^^T ^^^ ^^^^"hie^s «o wonderfully. *^ ^'"^ ^S**^*' ^^o had disappeared 94 THE earl's atonement. .n?? ?? ^'"u"^*^ '"^^ ^^""^^ Abbey disguised as a groom and from the other grooms there learnt plenty of Sir Vanf He did still more-he searched the marriage registers of a 1 the on^whi^h A '^r ''ts';^'--^ ' ^^ ^-"J o^t the exac date covrr^H^h^ ^^^.^ disappeared from Whitecroft; and dis- for a marriige "^ ^''"""^ *' ^'^''^ "'^'^ ^"^ ^««^ °° ^i°^« shi^ner'Lw l"" '"^ ^'''' "^^^^^^e ^'■^^^^ ^«« ^«^«d and wor- shipped , how her memory was shrined among the poor as the TCZ^^J" «aint; how they associated her ^th thrfigure on the stained-glass window ; and how she had been known ZZV^T r '^V r^f °^ '^' P«- ' There was no house he entered where she had not taken hope, comfort, and relief! there was no man or woman who spoke^f her wi'th dry eyes tesabr'fcn^ 1 ?w^' ^^"* '\' ^"^ ^^"^ «« ^«re incon. Stv th»f V ^^ ^^^- r°?S *^" ^^"^g^'-^ <^h«re was a cer- tainty that she was married ; that they had also a sure convic- tion that she would return to them some day, beautiful and Ih^^Z '"''' T^ ^T' ^^^' ^^ ^^^P '^'^' B^t o]d Joan and return Vh'P' T' ^'',f ""\*'^"*^ ^^« ^^^^ *"d would never return. Did mademoiselle wish to know any more 1 It IS still an open question whether the most good or the most harm is done by detectives. They may, at times serve the most useful and honorable of purposes ; agiin they maTbe used m the most^disloyal fashion, and for' the most dirhonor- ?ounl"orSr v"'^"^^' Valerie D'Envers would never have tound out Sir Vane's secret but for them. Now, at least she held the secret in her own hands. She could stab h^r slay her do a« she would with her; at one word from he^- In J^'^'/^ '^' ^^Y}' .^""^^ ^^'^ ^' «"«« i«to ruinsT aTone them ^T" r"^i T/"- '^' "S^*«°"« ^'^'^ and expel them But such words Valerie was not likely to speak. She would wield her power as she liked, and always with the same end m view-that she should be Lady Carlyo^n herself .h^ir'^'i ?^ purity and goodness of Agatha's character she felt quite certain that Sir Vane had deceived her in some Wav nvpr f.ha mai'fia.... Cu . , . "... x^ o^uio wuc vviw wo Keen a reader of charac- •now 1 CAN BEAxt MY FATE.* 95 ter to believe for one instant that Agatha had willingly or wil- fd y gone wron« or that she had been with him all this time without firmly believing herself to be his wife. She pa d W that much respect quite unconsciously ^ HrZ^Tj ^TT '' '' ^^ ^"••^' ^^^ ^««ked at the lovely, re- fined lady, clad in gorgeous dresses and costly gems by Sir strip aer of all this, and bring her down to the very dust • bv one word she could hurl her from this, the height of her social grandeur, to the very lowest depths 'of siiam^'e and dTsgra e Yet she was woman enough to feel sorry that another and so peerless a woman should be sacrificed. She had a stran'e and complex nature ; she would have done anythin-^ to achieve her ends ; she would have trampled the beauty from Acfatha's face brStmyS "'•»'"»'«''"■"- •>«"'. and it muat be 1 CHAPTER XXI. 'NOW I CAN BEAR MY FATB.' |,NE holding a sword in the hand naturally longs to strike ^ Irirrf "- ' ^''^'' '^"'"'^ >""' '^e greatest dm: .v.- .u ?^ ".'''^^'""'"S f™" striking the bloir Ths on. her. Even if hp, AiA «^^ 1 C "" """* «iuusumeni; irom J3.ven It he did not love her so much at first, ii; would ()6 THE earl's atonement. r. not matter— that would corae afterw.r,? r„ .h. InZZr- "'"™"'"" -orshet;re; JlflZZ wh?;t'„Ta;r7 "li"k 's^T" f "T""'™- ^he knew treat, wherto be oy a„d » hen fo h„'^ advance, when to re- derstood the whole »'rf^n..H-.u.*T""'''""'« • »•>« "»- seemed to have left hpr«L-.' ^®^ brilliant spirits and brisht eveS (V„ „ • ^""^ ^'"^"'^^ "'"> kindly words ned aftSheTHe^rfnrhTS^'.T'''" k""' ^'FP'"^ ^« hast- ' Tf if. ! i ""aring his footsteps she qu ckened hers I It 8 to be a race, I shall moat surelv beat vl.,, S • selle ! he cried ' I must speak to you I ' ^ ' '"«''«'»'»- ^ He overtook her, and holdout his hand in kindly greeting 'l^r:ttn!^slXtd'^'''^P'''^°"""^- 'Howisitr £K:^ ferttSSpet Sa-as t-^ a«;fhr„trdii;ir;o^^^^^^ ""^"^y- Have I done .'tk' '?"'P''°'^' 'yonoouid never do that- spenfi' v™y 'tttTol' t" ',f ' ' I' '^- =« '' - meet ) ■ ^ pleasant hours together, and now we never She was silent, and turned away her face. 'now t CAN nEAR MY PATE. 97 and Sir Vane understood that he was in for a sentimental scene and his best plan was to go through with it. ile was rather aniu3ed thathhe gave such evident signs of admiration for him ; It pleased his vanity— showed him that he had not lost his old power over the fairer sex. A little incense burned before him was very sweet ' I have not displeased you, and nothing has happened : then why are you not the same with us, mademoiselle 1 ' She raised her eyes suddenly, with one swift, sharp, m« s- meric glance into his face, then dropped them. ' How do you say that I am not the same 1 ' she cried. * I see for myself. When y«>u see me in the distance, you avoid me. When Mrs. Heriot sends you a pretty little note of mvitation, you find excuses alwayt,. Now, frankly, what have we none?' ' Nothing,' she replied, briefly. ' Then, why do it? ' ' Can you not understand,' she said, interrupting him, 'that there are reasons one can hardly explain— hardly speak of ? ' * No, I do not,' he said. ♦ I can imagine or under^^iand no reason why you should avoid us.' With equal certainty, I must add, that if you see no cause / shall not enlighten you.' The accent on the you caught his attention. He looked in the dark, beautiful face. ' Do you not know,' she said, ' that some pleasures are too dearly purchased?' • I do not know,' he replied, ' I have never counted the cost or a pleasure yet.' Nor had she — of a caprice. ' You will hav3 to count it some day,' she said. 'The day is, I hope, far distant,' he replied. 'Let me see what I can find in your words ; you evidently mean that you find a pleasure in being with us, but that you have to pay a price for it ; now what is that price ? ' * Can you not guess ? ' she asked. * I dare not guess,' he replied, in a low tone of voice. In his heart he cared nothing for her ; he thought her very brilliant and very amusing, he admired her wit and her accom- plishments, but he was not .the least iu love with her. She 98 THE earl's atonement. kind. It was no brel h i » .u ? ""/ '""" ''^"•^"f ">« cause he cJed nothW t Lr "'atThl, ''""^- *° ^«*"'«' '"'■ girl « admire him he rnnl,l nJ k '*"?? '"""' '^ » Pretty ferceive it. He knew noSh „„ !f n "° ?"^''""''' «^ '" ■•"f"^'' »» the girl's breast for Mm he^didtVk™^ Passio,. that filled him the maddest lov. n^„'.. did not know that she had for he might have paused mith^r'-T '""^^ '"'"^ '"^ »"°">er; How was he L CTeas that^thi, t"'. ^'^^f"' ^^d he doue so face, had mastere^d hfs stret knew T^ "?%'«'"'«''l averted death-warrant of his beWd i^u "" • '?'"'''' ^^^' t^W the saw was a beautiVu woman tZ f '" '"' '"'"•*" ^11 he notlatirawa^'^SurelvTorc'"'' '''"' ^""7"' 'o''"- Do being cruel to me so W ^ OoT. ^7" "'\^ ^^^^ ™''"'«' "f'"'' ;l n-ust „ot-I clttT'shered'"™ ""' ""^^ «"-' Agatha, wo"e within hfm"'- •*""'■* ''^ his great love for av:idm:.^'W'tta:ecroflh'"'T' "•' "» -id-, why you whati. the priSeyou'aytlt?- P'""™ °'^»'"S -'"'»'^- her^'^r wafJlfLe'"'"''' "°"-'^''' -" «» --pe for know that he hadtr ost Ss^om' "''^ """■ «« ""-'ed to and here wasanlnsUnce P""'" """' """"''''» ''««'«■ He won it from her at la»t_n,« .„i ,.j had learned to care for him-th^t Wng trSm'so^'ut V 'NOW I CAN BEAR MY FATE.' 99 and finding him so different to other men, she had grown to care a little too much for him. She spoke with lowered eye- lids—a dangerous light gleaming there when they were raised. She spoke with a suppressed passion that suited her dark, brilliant beauty. He did not care for her in the least, but it was sweet incense to his vanity. It was amusement to him it was doath to her. She was determined to know one truth, little dreaming that the man before her thought truth quite superfluous where women were concerned, and never used it. * It seems a curious question to ask,' she said, mournfully ; ' but as we have been talking confidentially, I should like to ask it.' ' Ask what you will,' he replied ; « it must always be a plea- sure to me to answer any question of yoars.' * You will, perhaps, soon be far away from here,' she con- tinued sadly, ' and you will look on the time spent here as a dream — a few words more or less will matter nothing to you then, but they will matter much to me. Tell me this— if— if years ago— you had met me— when— when you were quite free — should you have ' ved me 1 ' What did a falsei..jod more or less matter in a case like this 1 He was really touched by the quivering lips and faltering voice. He knew m his heart he should never have loved her. He had flirted with scores of such women, and had forgotten even their names — but why tell her so 1 ' Can you doubt it ? ' he whispered, tenderly. ' So beauti- ful, so gifted, so loving as you are— can you doubt me ? ' That whisper drove her mad, and that falsehood sealed his fate. She looked up at him, and the expression of her face haunted him for long afterward. *Is that true?' she repeated. 'Had you bean free when you met me— you would have— have— loved me ? Is it true 1 ' He raised her hand to his lips. * It is quite true,' he replied. She grew deadly pale, her heart beating so quickly she could hardly breathe ; her senses grew dizzy with her triumph— he should soon be free— his love should soon be hers. One word from her lips and his chains would fall from him. She stood pale, dazed, and humiliated by the completeness of her victory. 100 THE earl's atonement. hea» -herThr hlfrdre^^ Va-^C .ou|^L7:et?.T4;rul^ r„' .rr^ ^^ t^e f„tur. Of couree I should,' he reXd ^ ""^ ""^ ' ' l-i;ttpor '"*""•""' ^^''^'edWlfto notice how care- h»pp.er all my life f^J CwfJ h^ °"'*''S''^ ' ^"t ^ 8h«ll be rfyou could. Good-by ■ ^ *■'" yo" """W have lovedae srif ^'"^-'■-'^h'e^dM^^^^^ -0; audit She disappeared. ^ ®®® *^« smile on his lips as 1 ' LOVE BEGINS ON EARTH AND ENDS IN HEAVEN.' 101 1 CHAPTER XXII. 'REAL LOVE BEGINS ON EARTH AND ENDS IN HEAVEN.' ALERIE p'ENVERS stood alone in her room, her face flushed, her eyes bright with victory ; her heart beat- „fr„no^ ing». every pulse thrUling, every nerve strained to its utmost tension, t What an easy victory it was after all-he would love her ifhe were free. He should soon be free » In her madness she never stopped to think that the very fact of his declaring hinjself not free in reality proved that he was not so ; she did not bethink herself that if her suspicions were cor- Zl'nf*?^ T.u''''^ "'^"^ ^° ^g^^^^ ^« ^»^ free that moment then and there, to make her an offer if he wished to (to so. Like many other clever people, she overreached herself • in the delirium of her mad love, of her triumph, of her wild hopes for the future, she overlooked the most practical and sen- Bible view of the case. She had but one longing now, and it was to hurl Agatha from her throne and take her place. She was just a little puzzled how to begin. She held the power and the proofs m her own hands, but they would require delicate manage- W th/^^ '"""li ?°* S?.*° ^^S*'*^^ *«^ i»«t^n««. a"d tell ner the story ; that would most certainly be a blunder She must not, at present at least, say one word to madame, who would be overcome with horror at the bare idea of such ini- quity. To go to Sir Vane himself would, of course, be absurd ; ever hid. '''''' '^''^^' ^^ ""^^ *^^ ^'^""^^'^ P"^^^^ ^^« ^^^ She must strike at Agatha, if she struck at all She felt a sure conviction that the girl ha.i been deceived in some way, aIJI!7* u"^*^.'^^ ''^"^^ ''''^ ^"^^Sine. She knew enough of fnf H.ntl I, '^'J'^ '"'® ^^^^ '^^ ^^^ «« hypocrite ; the sweet, wS«dhlT^7 ""^^ ^^^^" transparent to her. She had i^d-e of ^•^jt!'^°'^^'^'- *^^ ™ ^'-^-^^ °-^ -^-e^ freedom from all know- 102 THE earl's atonement. How often she had found h^r in n.^ i de^^y night, with her preUy gil " ra Jr I^^ ?''^T^ ^""^ *h« how often she had seen herV he niS^ r''?^ '1 ^'' ^^"ds ; lake, kneeling there wLn Vh« K i ^ ^*^J'^*^^ ^^^urch by the often, in the fwiligVhad ^he foun7H^^ herself nnseen ; how singing, with her soil on her Z ««'' '"^^'i ^^ ^^' ^^8^°' melodies. She remembered too th« ?-? °^.*^«" grand old the girl's whole life. She hi^ n.' *'' V^^t"*' ^^^^^^^^ purity of lips, she had never seen the fabl^^^'^^^ ? "^^' ^^^^ °" h'^ was always sweet, serene cat^n/^'"^'-"' ^^ ^^^^^^ > «he membered also her wond^rS cCitv Z^t'' ^^'"^ '^' '«' there, m the solitude of the chatau Atfh'/'^V ^^^ «^«» who wanted help and relief. ^^^*"' ^^^^ha found out some Wl^^^^^^^^^^^ ^ -d relying a great deal upon her that Agaiha had, in somTay'lfjJherr^ V"'- 'T'^^'^^ Vane ; that he had made her beHev« fhl; f " "^^"f '^^^ ^^ Sir that she was not happy irthatbeliS^^ belief, and let her know wLt her DroL nl ' """'^ ""^^ ^^^^ in all probability, break her heart ?bufc fh^^'" ""''• ^' ^°«ld must be broken--as well IShl'' '^f° ^""^^ ""e's heart victim and must suffeTas vS. .T ^°^^''«- ^^^ ^a« the ittle sorry for herTbureve ^wol"a^«^,/^ "^^ take care of herself, and iflZhlZT .°^'^ ^°^^ ^ow to was her own, and she muttalce the onl'"'' ^^°" ^°' ^^^ ^^"It She decided that she would not bet tT"'"'* r ter to wait i few days loneer thl f. f . ^"'''*^- ^^ ™ bet- during those few days, shfdeciSd th.^^^ ^"d as possible to Sir Van;, and as nfuchl, n -1^^^ '^^ ^' ^^^tle It so happened tha the dav aLn T''^^" ^^ ^g^*^^' madame's, the Count and CounLf fLh «'' '""^^ ^"^°^« ^^ day with her, and madaL fS S'leshen, came to spend a English lodgers, invTedTh^ l^^f ^^itf ^^^^^^^^ '« her . Ihe countess herself wa. a prettv li^ « K ?' vivacious, animated, and ford^of go ' Th""^' ''"°^^"' ^^^^ t:s:7ht^;t'' ''-'' y^^-^^^^^:t^ ^^':^C^^^:^^,^^ She wore a Valerie wore her most be^Sig^^^^tSr 'of ;L:r^^^^^^^^ I . f4 1 ig and the ler hands ; 'ch by the 'een; how the organ, grand old > purity of >rd on her vity; she n she re- for even out some upon her inclusion d by Sir ^ife, and ndo that It would e's heart was the IS just a how to he fault ^^as bet- 'y; and as little tha. 5nds of fpend a to her n, very Jst the • social ivore a pearls. '. wif.li I I . 'LOVE BEGINS ON EARTII AND ENDS IN HEAVEN.' 103 Jiarechal Niel roses in her dark hair and on her white breast The countess admired Agatha the most, but liked Valerie the best. She was more of her world than the refined, spiritual girl, who looked as though she only wanted wings to make her an angel. The countess and Valerie understood each other bv instinct ; the countess and Agatha rather avoided each other Dy instinct. It was a very pleasant party, and madame gave them a most recherche dinner. The dessert was placed out in the garden, under the shadow of tall trees with great spreading boughs! Very pretty and picturesque it looked, the dishes filled with ripe, luscious fruit ; the glasses, with their long, slender stems : the sparkling wine, the rare flowers, and the beautiful women. Ihe countess warmed to her task. There were several very piquant scandals floating about concerning those in high places. She related one or two, which were received with marked ad- mimtion by mademoiselle and suppressed amusement by Sir At length came one less comical and more tragical than the rest It was of the. beautiful young Princess D . It was well known that she had loved with her whole heart a distant L'l-^rH?^ ?T T^^^' ^° ^^' ^'"^y-' ^""^ ^«^ parents had wished that she should marry the Grand Duke Weinberg, whom she disliked as much as she loved the other. All Europe was sorry tor the beautiful young princess, who was compelled to. do what she was told, and marry the old grand duke. That which might have been foreseen happened-in time the beauti- ful princess hated her lot, and found it unbearable. The grand duke became a jealous tyrant, the young lover appeared upon EuVe "^' '"*'' ^"^^^ ^'^^ ^'"*' ^° ^^^ ^''"'''^ ^* all «.i? ^!i!^^^ \^ *" "??^ '> ^''^*'' *^« ^"«nd« of t^e princess said ; the duke would of course, obtain a divorce, and then she could marry the old love. It was a sorry plight at the best, but she had that one chance of redeeming herself, If indeed there was any redemption. But rnl ^u"^^"^ ^"^' ^^^ ^^"^^"^^ ^^ ^^'"^^Jf- I^iJ they think to woumL "" r '^r^'^^ ' ^"' '^ ^' ^^^^^ for fifty years longer would he^seek a divorce. ♦ As the tree falls so it must lie '- «3 HIS wue nau chosen to disgrace herself, she should die as she 104 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. feTtf^^^^^^^^^^^ hi. Then her f.ends make some kind of compromise wih^r""!? ^^''''' ^"^^ try to stoutly refused. Then tCTvowIdL'^.^H-^"^^' which she from h,m by larce. The result ofit all Z'^'lut "f '^^^°« ^er young princes, poisoned hers^f and ?n tT '^*^*^« ^««"t^f"J beaut, and you.y had been buVL"d' fo^ret l^m'^lfe^lttf eou'Jlp-Vn^uldlr^^^^^^^ then, a^s the young lover killed himself a well TheT' '''^?^''' ^'^ ^he for what was evidently intended as a wlf- ^^ ^ ^*"g"»^ «««"« present seemed to draw a fTpp. 1 ? witticism, and every one Agatha's fair face h7d,roTa%Tr7tt^^^^^ such a story before. ^ ^ ^^^^ ^ «be had never heard Sir Vane had donn Tint. +u done, but he had ^rthe ,ame L'!"^' •''"?« ">»' """W be «pect for her innoUnce .„rr„:pS;."hTh'' .""' «^»»'««' '<- the scandal or gossip of the woHd ./ ' ''*'' "'"■'"' »"»«'ed looked round now nLt uncoXrllh^ T°, ?'" ">". "d he " "as the first story of Jhrifb? I'k''?, \'' ^"''<' «»™ that were darit with horror all hi. -i "* H •'^^fd. Her eves hardly knew the mZing^f^VetoTjl^'''-- '"^<'- ^h^ « wa. unknown; husbands and w"^ wT' i" Y'^i'^croft and were quite content to live to„rfb J T • *"'='' °"'^'' 'here, primitive fashion until they dfed ■ ^, .h ' ^u'"^ «»'='> other in jot W^andyet here th^tfked^^f^^^^^^^^^^ abK ' S^"rrint?edThtott^r ^ ^"^ "-"'f'"'- The two gentlemen walked towa^?, h I'l''" » ''^^'^ «'h him. •nadame had mutual confidencl^!,^ u '"u'' ">« 'O""*^ and and Valerie, wandered to whe'th.*!'' m° T gi"-'^. Agatha the eternal sr^ile on his young fece """' '^'"'' "ood°with i«g/t\lt.e!lrgta*:,«SV 70 Valerie. g.W yo^'thi^Jkr "-^' '-• Val/rietthrhZte., true do Sh"! tew" whaTvJal 1^'^ ^"*' -'"■'^ most of her oreortu^lJjr""''^' ''"<' ^"o ^^ ««dy to make the »1 • WVE BEGINS ON EAHTH AND ENDS IN HEAVEN.' 105 and frightened about it?" ^ "*'"* ^"^ ^""^ »» ''•'ite an;'k:;'?:,u:d'':ffi tv£f'. ' "* =• f™' "- »' -. to me a horrible crime o ma?rTti^S?"° ''""^ '' »««■"» ' What would you thnk then ottCl TT* P'"'J°'7-' many 1 ' asked Valerie ° "''"' '""^ ^o^ <1» "ot be ;';rone°to\wr"^'fo2r"', ^f"'"^ ' "«" «»"» "ever ma^y.' "' '" '*»''»'' »» '0 'ove when they could not wi:h''rir'S:';"hf thinfvo^^H^"?'' -^ ^»'-«. church.' ° """'' y™ had always Jived in a h*;' lS:iitng7e"„l°:j^LS »f We.- f «• Agatha. • I heard such thing! m tCe ' ° '""' *"" ' have never ■ I am daT'l'T" T'\ *'"'' "^'"^ ^»'«™- ^•fetr^^^'^-rbTth^^^ .hoi'n'te '&;«: """ "^^ P""" '^' » heautiful gleam faifspiSlIS^rSdW'",,''^-!''- .,0f "oertainty thi. Jhe t/ed to mf ke heLl?L Lv (hat /wf't^ ''r ^-^ ' """l the eyes so long blinded to the te„th ^^ '^"'^ "^ "P'" 106 THE earl's atonement. if If ' It ; ll > If ! CHAPTER XXIII. DISTILLING THE POISON. she had it by heart it seemid to hlr f "^ ^"°^/^' °«^ ^^''^ was to separate th^m, anT o put Yerse fTnT';. ?^^P^*" He would not dare to trifle with l, l -Agatha's placa P'Envers, belonging tTl\ood nu'^'^\'^r Mademoiselle been to the cour^baHs and Zl i ^'^""'^ ^^"^^y > «he had the beautiful empress then in fh ^^° ''°'' ^^ *^« ^uileries : and popularity, haTCken", """'^ ^^nith of her beauty Emperor had praised h^erlnH^^^^^^^ ^^'^^^^ *»d the of pushing her^fortune at court h; fei? .'h ?' .^'T ""^ ^^^ made a great success there Evpn! i ^^v\^^^ '^^^^^ ^^ve not dare trifle with her 1 count rv i ^"^i^'^ ^*^«"«* ^o"^d was a very difi-erentnLon T^ ^I""^"* ^^^'^^'''^ daughter--. of D'Envers. ^ '''^ ^'^"^ ^ descendant of the old line hea?t7r;^;^SiL'ti'rwr' girl like Agatha Brooke w sb« / 1? !^ ^T* ^^ ^° obscure be needed. If she rnaH« he was walkine on ths t^rZ ^ , ^°® ^ pleasure.' her, ana ,„ddenr/„r'he''rZs" Zfl Z"'?' ""^ P'"" "^ 'Valerie i Valerie i ' ° * '"««' voice, crying : thf ^4Kir?4 it':?e7tr^^"^r-<^« ^-^ -^at smote her; how could she tort„-'. '^'"^^^^"g "^e ;emorse [air ? When a man resolves nZ T. '" «^°'^«' «« «^eet and but wh«n o ,-_ ™*^®^ "Pon torture he is /.^„^i „^_. , ..m«a maKe« such a resolution sh"e isrtho"u7^"4 i ;i ! 1 108 THE earl's atonement. still to watch the beautiful times more cruel. Valerie stood girl coming toward her. 'Why should I mind 1 ' she asked herself. 'Why should I hold my hand because she must suffer ? When a great gene- ral wants to conquer a kingdom, he does not stop to count the slam to count the mangled bodies, the widows' tears, the bro- ken hearts ; he does not stop to speak of the torture, the agony, the pam ! he goes on to victory ; and so must I. I must not stop to speak of the tears she will shed, of the sobs and sighs that will rend her fair form, of the shame that will burn and scorch her fair life. I must go on to victory ' V ^^f "^fi^V*"^ ™®®* Agatha with a smile on her lips— she who had deadly hate against her in her heart, who had planned her ruin— went to her, folded her arms round her, kissed her face, spoke loving words to her. •You look fresh as the morning itself, Mrs. Heriot/ she said. ' Were you calling me 1 ' ' Yes. Madame says that your head was uncovered, and felt anxious about it. I promised to tell you.' * Poor aunty ; she has always shown more anxiety over mv head than my heart,' laughed Valerie. « You English ladies think more of your hearts than your heads.' ' It is to be hoped so,' said Agatha. Valerie's eyes were fixed on her with admiration— the tall, graceful figure in the white dress : the fair flower-like face • the golden hair ; the light of the violet eyes. ' ' It is true,' she said to herself, 'she is more like an angel than a woman. She looks fair enough, and ethereal enoughf if she had wings to fly.' ° Even while she had her arms round Agatha's waist, while she caressed her and talked to her, she was wondering what the fair face would be like when she knew the truth : how the eyes would lose their light, and the lips their smile ' It would most probably kill her/ she said to herself : and the merciful thing will be for her to die. I do not see what is to become or her, if she lives. When a woman acts the part of Judas, she does it far more thoroughly than a man. The hand that was to deal Agatha her death-blow, touched lightly the golden hair. DISTILLINQ THE POISON. 109 e beautiful ly should I great gene- ) count the "s, the bro- jrture, the must I. I of the sobs e that will — she who lanned her d her face, eriot/ she d, and felt y over my ;Iish ladies — the tall, ■like face ; 8 an angel enough, if while she what the ; how the self ; and je what is i far more ', touched ' I know ladies/ said Valerie, ' who would give all they have on earth for such hair as this.' 'If you gave everything for it, of what use would it be?' a&.'ed Agatha. * \ou do not know the value of beauty,' said Valerie. Wait until you go out into the world, Mrs. Heriot, and then you will see what is the value of hair like yours. Pale pure go d, IS thought almost as much of as a crown. At one of the balls I went to at the Tuileries, there was an English woman with just such hair, and the whole court was infatuated with her bhe was the rage for many weeks.' ' I would rather hide my hair under a cap than to be the rage anywhere,' said Agatha. * You will not always think so,' laughed Valerie. * You have the glamor of love in you now ; but the time must come when that will fade, even ever so little, and you will want to see the world you thmk so little of.' tent^ ^'^'^^ ">" "^^^^"^ ^^^h °^«'' said Agatha, with a sigh of con- Valerie's brilliant face paled a little. 'You mean Mr. Heriot— he is your world. Do you think any man ever went on loving all his life ! ' 'I should hope so,' said Agatha, with a happy laugh. 'I know one who will.' ^*^ ° * It is happy for you to think so,' said Valerie. ' I think most men tire of love in a very short time-in one, two or three years, as the case may be. You remember the lines : 'Man's love ia of man's life a thing apart : lis woman's whole existence.' .«,? ?''v,"''iJ'!k^T ^u'""'. "^^P^^^^ ^^^^^^ ' a«d when it is the case I should think there is some fault in the object beloved ' Valerie ''^ ^ "^'' **" ^'^^ ^'''''' ""^ ^"^^ **^J®*'^'' «^'^ 'I knpw to the contrary.' said Agatha, with a happy smile.' thJrfr' '""ff- ^^ ^^^ ""* ^^^^ ^''' companion to see the poison underlying her words. 'I think ' she continued, ' that women are more selfish in ^iVf^r^'A'--!!^. ''^' ™^^"^^f"- ^ — 'or love, h^ 13! ii and give^i her hia name and position. ' If 110 THE earl's atonement. ii i a woman marries for love, she wants her husband to give up the whole world for her, and never i. so happy as when shS ha« taken lum from everything useful and noble in the world and ke, |« h.m all to herself.' ' «,.?I\t^h'^"' ,7* ^,?° simple ana too unconscious to take the words to herself /'he sunny light and laughter did not die tWtt't VrX'' r"',^*'' ^°"« ^«^ 8& understood the sung that Valerie intended to convey. wond«;"^"{ wonder-although you will say I have no right to Tyo7:st\t: '''' ^^" ^""" ^^' "«"^^ *^ «-« -" ^- life ; Why should T not ? ' asked Agatha, ^vith a happy smile. Wh J. ! Tr ''T ^^ "?? P'**"- «« i« «« «>«ver. so gifted, whaf . n r r"!^" ^' would make ; what an eloquent speaker * what a polished orator ; and now he is lost to the world.' ' He 18 happy, sari Agatha ; and her rival had no reply. irJ?^ J"''^ ^^ f^'°S' «" differently,' said Valerie. ' A re- L excdfent w if / "' " ^'"^ '"""'^ ^" * ^"^^^ P»^« '''^^ ^^s 18 excellent, but if I were m your place, I should urge ray hus- best?f\t T '^1 T't I" ''K""^. ^ P««^*^^" and'make the Dest ot bis life. I should be ambitious for him. Now vou on the contrary enjoy the quiet of an existence like thk' ^ ' For the first time the fair face was troubled, and a cloud W V' ffi . ^r ^^ '^ ^' P^^^^'^le- «he asked herself, that her W^rTf 1 rf^'r^^u*'"'^^"^ ^^ ^'' ^i«h to live herein this beautiful solitude she was doing him an injury marrint? the t\fs adr't^^i'^! VaWs^keen eyes nS wXd JigU li hZ7if ^/'' '^' had seen~on that sweet face. He pleased himself ; it was not she, Agatha, who had asked him LT wo rV ^/ ^^ '°^^ ^'^^ '^^' ^« ^*« *ir-d of the brS nnl7? ' ^'?^ °^ ''°''' ^^^ ^^y^^y ^"^d fashion, that he longed for quiet, for rest, and love. And then it occurred to whpnTn^-''?-'".^^' "^" ^f ^^i«^ 8he knew nothing- when he had lived m the great cities- when he had travelled- preseT '^ ^"^ ""^ '^' ^"' ''^"^'^ *^ ^^^^ ^""^^^^y '"^ <^he Was she selfish in loving him so well-in making life so happy to him that he was content to >- i. this quift pLce and never spoke of returning to the . >. : . Tt al ' '?«r troubled eyes sought Valerie's face, b^.r. .h. wa. too proud/too u %^ THE coquette's ADVANCES. Ill delicate to discuss such a question with her. If ever she spoke of it at all it would be with her husb- .,ther Sir Vane was not averse to the little sentimenta scenes • they amused him while they lasted, and he lauSfed .the re-' collection of them- ^° ^o^ --" • "^. • - ® '®' ... .i-cm. .,„ ,0* vTci ufMiug aoouD V aiene, she was 1 Bi THE earl's atonement. the very last kind of woman whom he liked or tolerated ,. amused him and men have lived 'who enjoyereve^the iv^^ „r,in °f ?'rts had conceived a violent passion for him ha not, according to his theory, belong to that class. If ever he thought of Valerie's fSture at all it was with »n wTaS-of't Uler-'U P™'"'"^ "^"^ -- °W X:^ wim a string ot titles and an unpronounceable name a trrp«f Zr ^f/^^^y. ,^«d large estates; he would g?ve her costly dresses and magnificent jewels-would find her|ood carrkees andL that great consideration, an opera-box ^ carnages, He laughed to think what a belle she would be and how ^ha would flirt with the gay cavaliers in Paris The; heart'scon drP^'/f '^' ?' °^"'^"^« '''^''^ ^°d slept. He had known hun bttttteT^bah^/ -^^ - ver. — ^I. -/^^In^^ one told him that she could part S from Aaathi ^.A^V tst^ieTof'^r'''^ ^^^1^^^^^ tridfatto °' t: was not tired of her yet, and he wondered at himself In all his life he had never been constant to anyone foS soW m fact, he loved her better than he had done when he n.V suaded her to run away with him ^^ P^"^' VanJ'%r\^^' ''''^ ^?^^ ^^^^ ^" his life, and this was Sir Sr^i'sLn -rthevl' 'd"'^ ''^' "''^ - thiwtE'tli r jt^^frPerr „ LTn\grof-lfdr tSf aS thought^^that she could ^lart a man like th?s from^the wtin he had gone to enjoy a cigar, he was by no meat averk t«" i! THE coquette's ADVANCES. 113 little amusement. If she liked to spend her time in telling him how she admired him, and in intimating how much she loved him, it did not hurt him, and it amused her. He could have laughed at each little manoeuvre — he knew them by heart years ago He never dreamed that she was serious, that her own infatu- ation was so great she had begun to believe in his. She met him with a coy, sweet smile, and by the expression of her face he knew that he was in for a sentimental scene. She made a step backward, as though she would retire, but Sir Vane held out his hand in greeting. ' Good morning, mademoiselle, he said, in his cheery, genial tone. * You have brought the sunshine with you.' But that was not the mood in which she expected to find him, or in which she wanted him. Dare she venture on one word against Agatha, to see how he would take it 1 * It is rather surprising to see you alone,' she said. * Mrs. Heriot is generally on guard.' * She gave him the benefit of one glance from those dark eyes —a glance which should have gone to his heart and made strange havoc there ; but it failed, and fell quite harmless. ' I am glad you think Mrs. Heriot cares so much for me,' he said. It is very nice to be guarded, as you call it, by a beau- tiful lady,' 'Still,' she said, pleasantly, 'it would be a treat to see you sometimes alone.' ' Would it t Then I must manage it,' he said. And the girl, so clever in all other things, had not the sense to see that he was laughing at her. ' Let us walk as far as the fountain,' she said. ' How beauti- ful the lake is this morning ; the water is quite clear and deeo- blue,' ^ ' I wish Mrs. Heriot would come out ; she loves the lake when It is in that golden blue light,' he said hastily.' 'Oh, happy Mrs. Heriot!' said Valerie. How delightful It must be to be thought about and watched over every minute I envy her.' Sir Vane laughed a hearty, genuine laugh, in which there T>ci!3 n^u oi;e siiuuu ui suntimenc, -ti ' 114 THE earl's atonement. wil?r.:h'o^ryT„ ""* '^^ *"^^ y*"' ''^ <««.' and some one of Sbf"" "'' "'*""'"' "^-^ "'l' "«' "'O'' bewitching air 'I am quite sure about it. Do vou knnw if r i,.j now m life, what I should be V °^ ""^ "^""^ ' I cannot guess,' he replied. any IZironl^Vth ' ll„' f/""''' '^^ ""at rather than yof wouIdr^bJ^e'd'-to'tH'r""" ""''' ''' "■-' -1 ing l"ht:ifTw"t:irand f^^'^"' ' ' '«' ""^^ ""■■>^- Agatha. " '"""^n women were-aU but discuss allVur aS^^witl Vou But one^l? ^°"' ''"'•^' out; no one can choose for C or hersdf iti" '^7lf my choice if I could make one, "he said ' ''°"''* ^ ± ought to be very much flattered,' he said repUeranVtrvt' Z sT? '"^fV^^ «''«-<'.' »"« mLc thathe^LSyruched""'^'"''' '''"'«^' «> '»» <" wond^ttf sttedTr'l'^"'^;Lu"''1''' » =»"»*"» "^ what man is not cratefn? t„, i j j S"° *■* "a^ gratetal • homage of a CS^f wom^ ? '^' "'"' Mattered by thi 1„™ o^ fou1,'[a^ThertSe m3'r ' ^Y^}^ "'^^'^ "-e beauhfd ' I shall ra^t'lZ'^thisporshe'' "'i "* 't™*' '■'""'y- guidly on the earden lit „1. "^5 ' T'^' *« «'"' sank lan- • was here that St ta?keJ ,1 *"'?''g,"'« ""y^le trees. ■ It z{r,iTc-S.£HCi.cS'-iS copied from CleopaLa it was o f""'' f "^'^l'.^^^' been f pawd , ic was 80 fuU of grace thjs beautiful 4 THE coquette's ADVANCES. 115 face, with a look of consciousness; dark eyes that drooped from his, and long lashes thn^t swept the dainty cheek. She wore a picturesque morning dress, with a bunch of fresh, fair roses at her belt, and a man might have gone far before he could find a lovelier picture. * What a diflference meeting you has made in my life,' she said, * How little when I came home did I anticipate anything of the kind. I often asked myself whether it has been for good or for evil.' * How can you be so cruel, Valerie 1 ' he asked : the dulcet tones of that low voice influenced him insensibly. ' It is you,' she interrupted, ' who are cruel, and not I.' * Why should knowing me bring you harm 1 ' he asked. She raised those dark eyes of hers with a gleam of fire, and looked at him long and steadily. * Do you not know 1 ' she said. ' Can you not guess ? It has been the one happiness of my life to meet you and know you, but the pleasure hap become too dear to me. What shall I do in the years in which I shall see you no more 1 ' They will not come yet/ he said. * I have no thought of leaving Bellefleurs. ' Perhaps not, just now,' she said : * but yours is not a life to spend in this fashion — all your energy, fire, action dying. You will not care for it much longer.' * It does not follow of necessity that because I leave Belle- fleurs I leave you,' he said half -laughingly. Before he had time to finish his sentence, she had caught one of his hands between her own, and had covered it with passionate kisses and tears. * How happy you make me,' she said : ' I was afraid that when you once left Bellefleurs I should drop out of your life.' She had roused him to something like enthusiasm by her honeyed words and carressing manner. She bent her beauti- ful head down to his, until the odor of the flowers she wore reached him, and spoke to him. ^ • You made me very happy the other day,' she said gently. * You told me— and the words were sweetest music to me — you told me that if you had met me when you were free, vou might have loved me.' w & ' i)id I i ' said Sir Vane. He did not even remember the words, but she thought he perhaps questioned their wisdom i' 116 I THE earl's atonement. Her voice sepm« *<""™ "ho was quite blind ; she iudseS sW V k"!"' "> *■«■•• '^'''k™ h;^«ustW,;wna-^turh^^^^^^^^^ .0.^ t;: V^'L'.trA7f tt^r -»™' f«e, She consid:i^eitsrurz:^h:t^^^^^^^^^ >iii SIR vane's uneasiness. 117 liant, more gifted in every way than Agatha ; more like him- self a great deal. Therefore, it seemed quite natural to her that he should prefer her and love her best. She did not even understand the charm of such a character as Agatha's ; it was lost upon her. She drew up her superb figure to its full height, as she said to herself : •I shall make a better Lady Carlyon than that fair-faced dove, who has not three ideas outside her church and her Bible. She is not fitted to be the mistress of Garswood — I an.' And from that moment she thought of nothing else. A bright morning dawned ; the sky was blue, with a few lovely white clouds floating over it. So fair a day had seldom gladdened the beautiful earth. To Agatha it was like a smile from Heaven. Her heart went back to the beautiful fields and meadows, the lovely hanging woods and clear streams at home. She wondered how all her dear old friends were (the children whom she had cared for and tended would be grown up), and her father— the dear, absent- minded father ; her eyes filled with tears as she thought of him — this fair, sunlit morning had taken her back to him and her old home. She should see them again, she had no fear of that. When this pleasant dream of theirs was broken, and Sir Vane had to return to the realities of life, he would take her home she felt sure, and when her father saw how happy she was he would forgive her reticence. She wrote to him at inter- vals, and her letters were forwarded through Sir Vane's bank- ers. She did not understand how or why this morning she could not take her thoughts from Whitecroft. The Lake of Lucerne was beautiful enough, but it lacked the clouds of white blossom that made home so fair. Afterward she knew that it was a singular coincidence that, on that day above all other days, her heart and thoughts should have gone back to the dear old home and the gray church. She dressed herself with unusual care and elegance — she felt that she must be in accordance with the day, bright and fair. She took out, poor child, a morning-dress reserved for special occasions— a beautiful white Indian muslin, cut after some quaint artistic fashion, showing the graceful curves and linea of the beautiful figure to the greatest advantage ; the luxuriant I>' ilf i CHAPTER XXVII. A CRUEL LETTER. S Valerie spoke she took from the pocket of her dress a ' slow! ®° °P® containing a letter, which she opened task C t£^:' ^^" "^ ^'^^'' ^^« ^^^^-"^^' ' i* -^-kes my Indignation and anger rapidly took the place of wonder and surprise on Agatha's face. She rose from her seat ; a gentle calm dignity seemed to fall like a mantle over her. ^ ' fi,- -^Z?^ not understand at all,' she said, ' why you behave in this fashion to me. You have nothing to do with me nor can you have any concern in my affairs.' 'None in the least,' said Valerie, 'except so far as concerns ' No affairs of mine can concern you,' said Agatha. 'And ^nI/T I! fT' "^^'^.^^oiselle, we will end the conversation.' JN ot at all, she replied ; ' we have not yet begun it. I have Bomething to say which must be said, and you must listen It concerns you more than me, but the truth must be sifted * You say that you are Agatha Brooke, from Whitecroft, and that you are the awful wife of Sir Vane Carlyon. Now I want you to listen to this letter. Do not think I have brought Tt?o you in an unkind spirit-it is not that ; but having read it I must ask whether the contents be true or not. Pray take your seat again, Mrs. Heriot-Lady Carlyon-or Miss Brooke-I am not sure which name is yours.' Agatha sat down again, and Valerie opened the letter. ' You will believe me,' she said, ' that I am really sorry to read such words as these to you, J J A CRUEL LETTER. 127 * Make no more apologies,' said Agatha, gravely ; ' let me hear what you have to read.' And Valerie, holding the envelope under her eyes, said : * You see the letter is addressed to me — here is my name — " Mademoiselle D'Envers, Chateau Bellefleurs, Lucerne " — the postmark is Paris, the handwriting quite unknown to me, and there is no signature.' * An anonymous letter,' said Agatha gravely. ' Yes ; but it seems also the letter of a friend, at least I can- not help thinking so. Listen, and tell me, Mrs. Heriot. I will read it to you. It begins thus : * " The writer of this letter is a sincere friend of Madame la Baronne, and of her niece, Mademoiselle D'Envers. Madame is quite unknown to the writer, wno had, however, the happi- ness to meet and admire mademoiselle in Paris. * " The writer is averse to anonymous letters ; but this case is so peculiar and so painful, he knows of no other method to adopt. ' " Just before the writer tells his story, he wishes to swear to the entire truth of every word written here. It will bear the most minute investigation ; it will bear every inquiry ; it is true as an eternal truth. This is the story, and the writer writes it out of respect to mademoiselle. If ever the truth should become known, it would be highly prejudicial to madanie, and would probably affect mademoiselle's settlement in life most materially. * " At this present time, residing under the roof of madame, at Chateau Bellefleurs, are an English lady and gentleman who pass by the name of Mr. and Mrs. Heriot. They assume to be husband and wife, but they are not so ; there has been no marriage, and no semblance of marriage between them. The gentleman's real name is Sir Vane Carlyon — the name of the person residing with him is Agatha Brooke. Sir Vane Carlyon is a man of bad character ; he is very rich, and his estate at Garswood is a very fine one. He has never been a good man, but always a roue and a profligate ; he has no respect for women — a woman's honor or fair name is less than nothing to him. He has been famous always for his amours and adventures, hia intrigues and gallantry ; his name has figured more than once in the divorce court. It is said of hiru that he never spared a in ■ 1 .J f ■ •i) f il 128 THE earl's atonement. any man in England Six yeTrs Zt h °^'" ^°'" ^«^^<^« ^^an ful. flighty Lady DunLe -^"hed^S t U^^ ^^"^ ^^'^ ^«^"ti- andit was said that he has foS^^^^^ «ome years since, writer could relate several true sK nf ^k ^- '' ""T^' ^he tion this same man has brouX nnT *\^ '"''' ^°^ ^^^^sta- reigned before. ^^' ^'^ ^°"^^« ^^^re only happmess pardon tnte fdt' ShT ^ rhfrw^'^" ^^^ ^^^^^"^ -- will be. She is no more C ^7^1^' r P^^^^^^g ' °«ver 8be is the Sultana orCkev Th" ' ^' ^'^^ ^^''^^^^^ ^han blance of marriage between ihemT.™ ^'^'' ^^^^- ^ ««"^- which they they came triivetnl?;), ^^ circumstances under ' " Sir Van« Po^i together are these : her ruin ; it is sufficient that h« S?^ ^"^ *■* compassed mded h^r toleave home wtth hit "' '""°'^'^ ''■ "■"* '«' P«- ahe wioToTa g^od bTtI mtsf' "■"'! P^T^^'^ '» «h". noted for her charity for her ^o^H^ e^mplary life. She wa^ was^called the angef'of the p?or "^^^ '" the p„or_i„deed she rtirtthrittfer?^-^^^^^^^^ ' ■: Sir Vane -a^^te dS'ed t:!!he isT" deceive any one : but he cert»inlv Jl 's clever enough to never intended o do so Men ^f ^r "^u""^ •""■' ""'^^'"^y wife from her class Slie wionlv i H l""? ''." ■"" "'""»" « p^thtTe :si-i^^^^'^^i^ wt Ate' vSrwiTo? e^c:^; J:'ar /rf • --/'^- this juncture would spoil all "'^aay- A fainting fit at -i^^'-uri^'z''j^,"^~z:!r, •"''■' "-"^ « "'■"» face, «nd woe thatit was pSdWo/at tC '"t?" "/ «"«"'»'• minutessincesofullofV, and be°autv lo'oS Jl'^^i"^' "/"'^ A CRUEL LETTER. 129 mask than a human oountenance. Valerie saw her lips move, but no sound came from them only a long-drawn quavering sigh, like the faint wail of the winter wind. ' She will bear it to the end,' thought Valerie, ' and then she may die if she will.' Valerie resumed the reading of surely the most cruel letter that was ever written. * " Sir Vane's vagaries, follies, sins and crimes do not concern me, you will say. No, certainly not ; but this concerns me— that he should dare take his mistress, and pass her off as his wife, under the roof of a friend whom I respect as I respect madame. I, for one, cannot in silence pass so great an insult by. I think madame ought to know the truth, so I tell it to you. From what I have heard of Agatha Brooke, I should say that in some way or other, Sir Vane has most cruelly and basely deceived her. If so, you, mademoiselle, ought to tell her the truth ; the longer she remains in ignorance, the more terrible will the knowledge of the truth be when it does come. Some diseases require a sharp knife ; in this case of moral disease you must use a sharp remedy. * ** If she is innocent, and has been betrayed, you are bound to tell her the truth. Either she is Sir Vane's wife or she is not ; if she is, then I have been grossly misinformed ; if she is not, she ought to know the truth — she ought to know that she has fallen from her high estate of pure womanhood — that she can never be classed with the good, the pure, and innocent again — that she is a fallen star — that^^but for the paltry distinc- tion of money and better clothes, there is no difference between her and the woman from whom all other women shrink — that, while she keeps up the appearance of something like sanctity, she is in reality a very Magdalene. As I said before, it is just possible that she sinned in ignorance. Be that as it may she ought to know where her sin has placed her. ' " She ought to know that she has lost her good name, her fair name, her place among the pure and innocent, her honor for all time ; that no tears and no repentance can restore them to her ; that other women will draw aside as she passes by, lest the touch of her dress should be contagion ; that so long as she lives, no woman worthy the name will ever consort with her or call her friend ; she will be for ever a by- word and re- I i {■ m 130 THE earl's atonement. proacli, a shame to all women. If she does not know these things you are bound to tell her; if she knows them and does Z 'w' ^'" .^'^' ""'^^"S '^ ^« b"t insist upon th^ir laving the chateau at once ; if she does not know it tell her • if Z b? sTnU tshTd ^' ''T 't' ^^^ ^^^ ^-^ sinned agafnt^o hate" hp'r ^f "'" ^" T ^^ ^'*^ ' ^"^ ^^^ ^«^^« her sin ; let her dnn. ^^'.y, ^«««i^^;- Let her show her determination to have fcu own'sat"?''' '^'^'"^ ^^"' '^ ^^^^^"^ ^^ ^^ -" this Truth TmS ' rj'"''" °^^ reputation, you must tell l^h yourself fnr' ^^ ^r"°' ^ ^"^ '^ you are ever to estab- usn yourself m the world, you must at once ffivfi nn thp rST:r'ki"d ''"^V^°^ '''' P"^^ estaTof 'w'malood 1 wate this m kmdness. I write it to put you on your euard lolTtoVZr ' '"^r^i^'^^ -y gentlman, LTman of are Yon fn u ^ 'T'f. ^^ ^^""' ^«^« ^^^ ^i^^^^^ed as you and noWp^f f •"' ''^''l^ ^^^^' ^"^^"g^^^S *^« ^^^ ^^ the oldest stlless nlri '' '" F^\"ee-you, of stainless lineage and the mTtress of «"'' °' "^^^^" ^" ""^^^ '^' «^°^e r«^f ^ith and r Sr?: Tw^omeii.^^^''^^^^ "'^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ *^^ ^-- you'lalrjlif h.*? ^t Tl'^""^ ^' ^^^' ^^^ ^^"d^«t <^hi"g that C of ittini h.. r '^P her ^way-help her to some decent i^\ lAnZ ^ ''''"^' ^°d keeping her from a yet deeper ImVouVbirfriS. "" °'"^^ '"^ ' '^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^-^ '^'^ I ' Oh, Heaven ! oh, Heaven ! ' cried the voice sn full nf Stu^' ■' "" ""' ""» " '"'""«' ™'- ™ h. Heave", ll fulf„fr^"JS5,X;f "" ^'"--•-™^ '"e face so ' It cannot be true ! ' she cried, throwing her white arms in s'LTtVuel "orth' n- ''^T'^ could^norbrsfcrueTf "t Thn!! -1 ^ ' ^^^""^ Heaven, I am indeed Sir Vane's wife i Those wicked, cruel words hav. made me forget. I am Sir Vane s wife-who says I am not ] He married me Oh Hmven^ who shall say these horrible thin^^s of rZv ' ^^^^^""^ ' YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN A LlVIlCa LIE ! ' 131 Such bitter tears ! such bitter sobs I — such anguish and woe were in her face, and voice that Valerie was almost afraid to look at her. ' You had better refrain from those tragical airs,' she said, ' and tell me what you mean by saying Sir Vane married yout Explain it to me.' CHAPTER XXVIII. ' YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN A LIVING LIE ! ' VALERIE was half frightened. She had expected that the letter would make a great impression upon Agatha ; she had quite expected that the girl would either weep passionate tears, rave about her wrongs, or grow sullenly silent and not speak at all ; but she was not prepared for this deadly despair. She could not beat back the hands that clung to her with despairing cries ; she could not help seeing that the woe and anguish on that beautiful face were beyond any power to recall. Then Agatha remembered another thing. She had most faithfully promised Sir Vane never to mention the marriage, yet she must either tell the story or she could not tell what would happen. To live as a wife, and yet not to be one, was, she knew, a crime so great, so terrible, that she could not endure the thought of having committed it. In that case it was Heaven she had oflfended more than man, and, during the whole course of her innocent life, she had never once, to her knowledge, wilfully offended Heaven. The bare idea was horrible to her. These thoughts flashed through her mind with the rapidity of lightning, while the dark eyes watching her noted the struggle. * He has told her not to mention it, and she is afraid,' she thought to herself; but I will have the truth.' ' Agatha,' she said. * it is of no use for me to go through the farce of calling you Mrs. Ileriot — Agatha, you had better k lln in !. 132 THE earl's atonement. legal ceremonierofmarrre'T^^^ ^^^ lav. and the judge for you. If tWe W H« ""' ^°"' .'^'^'•>^' ^"^ '^^ me and Sir Vane the wrrtlr nf ?v, f ""..^"^ "'^'"•'*8« between you of misery had passed oZ if ^^^^ed already as though years ' It is true ' Sa J^?J i^™ raised appealingly to hers. He married me ' ^ ''^ '^^^ ^ ^"^ ^'^^^^d Sir Vane's wife, ^JtZ7e 'Z f eVToHrr ^'"".^ °^^^^ ^^^ ^ ^^^^^ really Lady Carlyon 'whv do v- ''^ ^v.^'' ''^^'' '^ ^"'^ ^^^ false name ? ' ^ ' ^ '^'' ^^^ ^^' ^y another name, a r^otp\t'lTJ:^:^ ^or disguise. Why does he No answer came from the pale lips. wiv^Tnfmrt:"dSr«isI'tt^ -^g- their Again, if you are his w"fe whv An /'k""*^" ^^""^ ^"°^°- tude of a Swiss chatelu 1 vL ' u' ^""^ ^^" ^-^ ^^^ «oli. why has he not introduced vlntnT f ''"f "^ ?"^ graceful- beautiful home at GarsTood^?"^>J^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^ his •He know, best ' sobS fh« /• f ^- "^^t^^" "P^^^^ •' ' questioned him.' ^^"^ ^*'''* ^°^^«- ' ^ have never •moItluXls'JLrwitf r ''"'^' ^^'^^^-^^ ^-1-ie; initials, the same tts TheM''' ""T' '^% "«« ^^e same thing belonginrto ShT v!n« i«T .""^^^ '■ ^^^ ^« "«^' ^very- the strongest p?oof to me ' ^ '" ^'''''''' ^^"^ ^^^^ ^^at is *I am his wife,' she repeated. •ittmCTZftt^n^ \ZJIT v." '„*» -"• pose here ; but you aee AMihl T ^ !^, ''?™ ""^^ "" ">»' «" may think it TriJlbtt^iXir"^ ^'^K "> "=y«^'f- You ruia to me. I muft k„6w the ruth "S l""™. " *' l""?'"'' where you were marrie/ '"*''"""'• ^ell me how, when and have promised Sir Vaie n 7u ^■'"' '"''"»'* '«'«''"»« you known now Saf the ouekio^"i"l''rf ^7'>« '""^ ""'^"« to me you will have T 'el? "M^ " ^^ ■»» »?' te" it — ''^^^ Oue else. It 18 not 'YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN A LIVING LIE: I > 133 a^^ you are, aw and the and let me stween you lyed alive.' augh years to hers, ane's wife, an a child f you are name, a y does he ;ive their I known, the soli- raceful — ou to his p here ! ' 76 never Valerie ; lie same Every- , that is he said, that ex- '■ You >mplete en and ise you lust be r tell it < is not likely that my aunt after reading this will remain content You had better trust me I am young like yourself, and can feel for you. Older women will sit in judgment on you. I should sympathise. Tell me and I will help you.' Agatha had fallen on her knees on the white stone terrace ; the same doves were fluttering around with pretty cooing cries ; the sunlight fell on the marble faun and crimson flowers ; it fell, too, on the white, miserable face raised in de- spair to the dark one. * 1 am indeed his wife, she repeated. ' Do you think — could any one ^n this wide world think— that I should be here with him were it otherwise 1 I could not. Oh, Valerie, I have loved and served God all my life. I have always thought of the Christian virgin Agatha, and tried to make my life like hers. She preferred to die rather than to deny God. And I — oh believe me — I would have died a hundred deaths rather than have offended God ; I would indeed. How could you — how could any one — think that I should be with Sir Vane un- less he had married me 1 ' Something like pity stole into the heart of this cruel woman who was torturing the other. If this girl was really as inno- cent, as child-liko, and as simple as she seemed, then had Sir Vane Carlyon done the deed that a fiend would scorn. As Valerie watched that tortured face she despised him. Surely from a world full of women he might have chosen another, and have left this beautiful wild-flower alone. • I do not know much of the world,' said Agatha, in a voice that was so piteous ; ' but I know right from wrong, and I have not gone wrong. Believe me, believe me, I am his wife. Lady Anne and Joan, my father's old servant, warned me — both of them. They said I should know the true love from the false ; they said if he, Sir Vane, did not love me, he would only amuse himself by talking to me, and then, when he was tired, he would go away, and forget even my name. See how false it was. He could not go away without me. He said that he could not live without me, and he asked me to go with him ; then I knew that he loved me.* Keener pain and pity filled the heart of the beautiful woman Wiio held tho fivvord in her baud. It had been a cowardly, cruel thing to deceive such a child — most cowardly, most cruel. f ) f , I'll I I i 1 1 ii 134 THE EABL'S ATONEMENT. ca^e ta/th^i C ''°"^' '^^^ ^^^ ---d first before you his 'ifl T shol' n'etr'haTe' I "^^ TT^' «« made .e him if I had not been hs wif^ ^«\"^«d ^^ png away with ever did such a thing? He would nnfJ^^^^T 1^^^ P^^P^^ away unless he had first ZIZ u^^ ^^^^ ""^^^^ ^e to go her wrong JormatfonT It ^L haJdC "^A', '*»'* •■« '""^ persistent repetition of a fact^.i k. ^ '"'°'^'^'*' *■"* y^' ""is ^. ' Then; she said sWIy MtStrne tlT""' f^-d^^on. Sir Vane before you left hone }' ^"" "*"■' """«<' '» flttS:l:?:*^«,--P^-f Agatha, fac. The^:; "tr b^brt:"™ tr t^'^ ^''" ^r "--^ » Valeria "* ^^^ ^^7 more clearly,' said UjLrjsi^;L?otrr^^^^^^^^ A dread came to hen She hadlir* f«^' overwhelming Vane; no doubt of histrnthhr ™P'«='"y believed Si? sailed her. He had to d h™ L^ Z'A "^"'5^ ''»<' '^er as- changed-that there wi no onLr anv ^.'""/Z "^^^ ^^^ monies and pravera Mnnl. 1, T ^ ^^. ""^ '»' a" 'he cere- doubted the tru[h anfmore thanT ^'^T'^ '»• ^he ne,^ sun. She had neverfin her short it f"^*?^'^" "ght of the but now a horrible fear camrf"^ ' '"* * "''"S; heart like a cold iron band %»„'T." ''"°*'1 *» «'"'«1' hfr ata< iA« vmrriuge f What thZTcl^' "^ m),lhi,^ wrmg 'Agatha,' continued VaerTe.t^Sr'^C ^^at then » ™. Was it in the churTkt WMte?r:ftT' "' ^°" ''^^ ,' ^*? ">" any chapel there?' ' ^a^ " '" * registrar's office I ' '• TniiiWWTr^r— ' YOUR LIFE HAS BEEN A LIVING LIE ! ' 135 before you 3 made me iway with hat people me to go 3uld have Id the de- d he sent d yet this tion. larried to married 1 •ly,' said lips. A Bat more er hands helming Jved Sir ever as- iage had ihe cere- 16 never t of the thing ; Itch her 7 wrong t then ? u were * Were you married in England or in France 1 ' « In England.' And from the tortured heart came a cry to Heaven for pity. * I am afraid,' said Valerie, gently, * that you have not been married at all. The laws of marriage in England are so strict, so simple a cnild could understand them. There can be no marriage without the law of the church or of the land. A marriage must take place either in a church or in a registrar's office ; or if it be in a private house, by a properly appointed minister. Unless you were married in one of these three methods, you are not married at all. * For Heaven's sake, do not say so — do not say so. I shall die. I cannot bear it.' * You must face the truth. Your life has been a living lie long enough. You must face the truth. Tell me where you were married.' It was pitiful to hear the sweet, child-like voice that . replied : 'We were married at Whitecroft — Sir Vane married me himself.^ Triumph flashed in the eyes of the beautiful woman, who was risking her life on one throw — triumph that should have crushed her with shame ; yet she feared and reverenced the purity and innocence of the girl kneeling at her feet, and cling- ing to her with such pleading hands. * Tell me about it,' she said, gently ; * do not be afraid. You have to face the truth sometime — face it now, with me. Tell me all about the marriage.' ' We were together in a beautiful place — in the woods, a place we both loved, and where I often met him. He told me he was going away, and he asked me to go with him ; he said he could not live without me, and I knew quite well that I could not live without him, I loved him so well. He began to teach me about the new law of marriage.' ' What is that V asked Valerie. * I have never heard of it. What is it V Alas, alas ! if she, this woman of the world, who had every kind of knowledge, if she knew nothing of it, what then 1 ■ Ke explained it to me,' said Agatha, lier eyes fixed with piteous entreaty on Valerie's face. * He told me that marriage was really the union of two hearts.' Ml ' 111*' Ill '■ f\i 136 THE earl's atonement. * So it is,' interrupted Valerie ; but even hearts are human, and must be governed by human laws.' * He told me that when two hearts became one, and when two people pledged themselves to each other until death and prayed Heaven to bless them, that they were then really mar- ried, and that the old, cumbersome signs and ceremonies were done away with. « There need be no ringing of bells and strewing of flowers', he said. But I had been to a wedding, and I had heard the prayers. I told him how beautiful they were, and he knelt down. I knelt with hir , and he said them all over ; then he told me, and I knew I was his wife.' ' Did you believe it ? ' asked Valerie, wonderingly. * Yes, certainly I did.' • And Sir Vane taught you that 1 ' 'Yes.' 'Then may Heaven forgive him. He is a greater villain than I thought any man could be,' and Valerie was silent for some minutes. A M; It CHAPTER XXIX. "W 1 A WOMAN CRUSHED TO EARTH. 'ALERIE was triumpnant. She would not speak for some few moments, lest the elation she felt should be shown iu her voice. It was just as she had ex- pected—a mere intrigue on the part of Sir Vane ; a matter of life and death for Agatha. There had been no marriage ; Sir Vane was free to marry, and she congratulated herself on the plot ; yet she could not help pitying the terrified girl kneeling at her feet. She must have known the truth some time : bet- ter, perhaps, that it should be now. ' I am grieved for you, Agatha,' she said. « You have been basely and cruelly deceived. You may believe me— all the more that I am sorry, for your sake= to say it no marriage ; you are no more married than I am.* Kiif iVk^4- ■^..~ --»«v vitav vraa i:'' I ' A WOMAN CUUSnED TO EARTH. 137 * Do not say so. Oh Heaven ! spare me — do not say so ! ' • Poor child ! the sooner you know all the truth the better. That is no marriage, and you are no wife. Listen to me. There are wicked men like Sir Vane, who have no sense of honor where women are concerned ; they love, they betray, they leave them as easily as they throw aside old gloves. Sir Vane has had many loves. You, see, the writer of this letter knows a great deal about him ; he has never had any principle or sense of honor. I do not v .sh to wound you, but ever since he has been here, while you have thought him devoted to you, I have known some one else whom he has admired and made love to in an honorable fashion.' She waited for a reply, but the girl was too stunned with her misery to ask a question. * You must see,' continued Valerie, * that to outsiders every- thing is quite clear. Sir Vane, a rich, unmarried baronet, who has known no other will than his own pleasure, goes out visit- ing ; he meets you, a simple couatry-girl — and you are evea more ignorant and more inexperienced than any other girl of your age would be —he sees you, admires you, falls in love with you after his fashion ; but he finds you good and innocent. Had you been less good, he would have been far more frank ; h: would not have gone through even that farce of marriage. He would have said, I love you, but have no thought of marriage.' He found you good and innocent, so he gave him- self the troubluto deceive you. He tells you all this nonsense, and you believe ifc ; then he goes through the farce of marriage, and you believe in it. He adopts a false name, brings you abroad, keeps you secluded, and never brings any friends near you. Now listen and believe me. In another year or two he would tire of you. He must marry some day, and will marry some noble ci wealthy lady ; he must have heirs to succeed him. This pleasant love-dream with you is but a little inter- lude — do you not see 1 ' She shrank lower and lower, with such a wail of anguish and pain as had never before come from human lips. * It is a great pain to me ; she continued, « to tell you these things, but you must know them. The day would most cer- tainlv f»rtmft •arlion Sir Vana Viimaa.\f twT^,-,\A 1„„. __ J aI. _ - -J ..,,, ,,5,,.„,,ii TTvuivt leave yuu, auu idiaij would be harder to bear than this.' ill m I HI J 1 , '«<^ '''■ fiM ■ ,'( 1 '1 yiH r I' 138 II 'I Hi I'll J : r, ■ I -I THK KARL'S ATONEMKNT. No graceful young tree, with springing green leaves-no fair flower opening ,t8 heart to the aun, and suddenly struck with Iightning-no bright singing-bird, suddenly caught and caged, could have been more abject and pitiful than this hapless girl struck down by the cruel words that declared there was no nope tor her. She crouched lower an i lower, ,intil her face rested on the white stone terrace. All the pride of her youth, beauty, love, and life smitten from her with unerring hands Ah I where were those who loved her ?-tho fair young mother who loved her, and who had named her after the fair saint with the palm branch 1 Where were the kindly father, the faithful old servant, the women, men and children, who would have given their lives for her ? She lay there, crushed, blinded, stunned with her great shame and great misery, and of all those whom she had helped and tended, there was not one in this hour of need and despair to help her ; not one to raise the golden head, with its veight of shame and wn« • r,.f .«. to kiss the face that wore the not one to clasp the cold hands the fair head fell on the white whiteness and chill of death and whisper words of pity, Valerie looked at her as stone. 'It is very like murder,' she thought to herself, ♦ but it will soon be oyer, and she must have known it sometime or other— at least, I have told her in kind words ' ' You must rouse yourself, Agatha,' continued Valerie. * I suppose you will see Sir Vane and tell him this 1 ' 'Oh Vane, Vane, !' sobbed the girl. Oh, Vane, my love, Tr^fM #^7i^^ *°T ?«^^«" y«" had left me dead it White- croft What have I done that such a terrible fate should be mine 1 Vane has always been good to me ; has always loved me. Zj\t\ ™^^''L '*^ ^^? "^"'•^h ^"°^' ^"d he loved me from that moment. He could not be so cruel to me ; he has me LTlfn: ' ' ''''-' '-'''' '' '' ^^" -^« ^-^ «^^^^ed 'I was houU to tell you the truth,' said Valerie, coldly. made" toTud^StT '''' ^'^^'^^ P°^"^^"' ^^^ ^^ ^e But the cruel, bitiuer words naaoo^ o""" *^'' —'-''«? K-- i ^he was tar too miserable to he^d7hem.^%e ^rfck of apin C^ A WOMAN CRUSHED TO EARTH. 139 does not pain when one suffers from a sword wound. The very utterance of the name of Vane seemed to have unlocked the flood-gates of her sorrow, 8he wept such bittr r, passionate tears ; she sobbed until her whole frame shook ; she wept un- til Valerie in stern pity almost hoped she would die. It was the thought of Vane— Vane, whom she loved so dearly in whom she had such firm, implicit faith. It was Vane who had betrayed her ; who had made her a shame and disgrace among woman — Vane, whose beloved face she would never see, never kiss again. In stern pity Valerie let her weep on. She could not check those tears. 'Agatha,' she said, 'you must rouse yourself; it will not do for any one to find you here— we should have a scandal all over the place. You must rouse yourself, and make up your mind what you are going to do.' 8he was not a tender-hearted woman, but the sight of that crushed figure lying there, the golden hair all dishevelled, the grief, such as few ever know, on her white face, made Valerie feel uncomfortable. It was as though she had plunged a knite in her heart, and was waiting until she died. Valerie felt that ■he could not bear it much longer ' Something,' she said, * must be done at once. You cannot remain here; my aunt and I would both be compromised. You must go at otice. Perhaps it will be better for you to t^ 11 Sir Vane that we know the truth, ar -jannot meet you again.' It was something to remember- d way in which Agatha rose from her crouching attitude and faced her accuser, ' You tell me,' shp cried, ' that Vane, my lover ai d husband, to whom I tmsted my body and soul, has deceived and be- trayed me ; that he has leid, and cheated, and made me a by word. Yuu yourself called him villain, and you dare to suggest that I should see or speak to -nch a man again. If I am all you say, it is unconsciously so. i call Heaven to witness that I would rather have been dead a thousand times than have of- fended Heaven. I have not done it wilfully ; but do you think, after -finding out my sin, after knowing all you have told me,' that I should ever see Sir Vane again ? ' Valerie's heart gave a great thrill ni triumph. This was even better than she had dared to hope. If she went away quietly, without any scene or scahaal, then the field was clear L ( ?. ! » t. i M 140 THE earl's atonement. il' I J I! i I ! She would ride triumphantly, as it were, over the for her. course. 'It would be your wisest and best plan certainly to decline seeing him again, Agatha. You know best; though, of course he must make provision for you.' ^ course, 'Provision for me l ' she cried. ' Do you think it nossible knlr' '^" ''^' '"^''^"^ ^''"^ ^^' Ho- m?ryou bet;er%"n5:d"^'''^"^^ ""''''''' '^^^ ^^^ are JJu^v'^ ^"""f fP'"*^'' '> '^'^ ' * ^""^ ^«» «^ust consider the result You must live, and you cannot live without air. Would for°you 1 ' '" """ "^"^ ^'"'^ ""^ ''' ^^^^ ^« ^i" arrange 'How can you speak to me in that way?' she cried with * What can anything matter to me now ? ' she said. ' And you think that I can care whether I have money or none I shall creep away from here and die. Ah, if you or any one else than nothLl.' ' ^""^""^ ""^'^ '^^'''' ^^''' ^^^t Less fhl^^^"^ '^'*^ ^'^ herself that certainly nothing could be better rnX 2 ''"f P ^""^^ ^;^ '^'V^ ^^"^^ ^^ the nicest thing she could do-far wiser than to live on with that horrible nain in her heart, and that anguish of woe in her eyes ^ There IS one thing,' said Agatha, and a flush of color rose for one mmute to her white face and then faded-' there is one thing, I have not sinned wilfully. I knew little of life and I wa. very young. I oved Sir Vane, and I believed what he T i 1 '• A \ ''"''"' ^'^^ "^^^^^^ ^h«*^^«r it was right or wrong I believed It as simple and perfect truth. I thought I was Sir' Vane's wife, now I find that I have accepted the position of a great sinner. I protest again, of my own will, I am no sinner and what you have read in that letter does not apply to me I '^ am innocent of any knowledge of wrong ' wiilS'/vf'^ ^^^^\ * a^*^i»"gh you may be quite right, you will find the world will decide against you. Its laws are atricfc and severfi wli«rA flio !,«««« „„j°..-:^_''./. "'* ^^^^ ^re stnct •-■"^"* ""^ puni.^ oi women are concerned; ! I YOU HAVE DECEIVED OTHERS.' 141 when the same world know what you have been, it will not wait to ask whether it was your fault or not. The very fact of holding such a position will cut you off from the world of good men and women.' ' I will not believe it ! ' cried Agatha. • What have I done 1 I believed the man whom I loved. What harm have I done 1 ' * I suppose,' said Valerie,' that you are paying the price of ignorance. I — ' But she had not time to finish her sentence ; a servant came to say that some visitor had arrived, and madame would be pleased if mademoiselle would go to the salon. * I will not be long,' said Valerie. ' Wait here for me : I have more to say.' * Will^ you give me that letter ? ' asked Agatha. * Yes,' she replied,placing it in her hand, little dreaming what use she intended to make of it. CHAPTER XXX. 'YOU HAVE DECEIVED OTHERS, BUT NONE SO CRUELLY AS ME.' UCCESSFULLY carried out, thought Valerie to herself, thankful to get away from the sight of the white, de- spairing face, thankful to be out of the hearing of that sad, sweet voice. ' Nothing was ever better planned or better executed. I would make an excellent ambassadress ; I could arrange all those little difficulties between Germany, Austria, SpaiL, and those wonderful provinces that people talk so much about, yet no one seems to know just where they lie. I am *Jj^J5*^ful that it is over, and it has been done effectually. I shall never forget her ; I shall always say that I have witnessed a murder. How innocent and simple she is ! How cruel of him, and what a wicked man he is ! ' Yet wicked and cruel as she thouerht him. it madft rrn differ, erence to her iixed intention of be'coming his wife. Even as k II I ' m i 142 THE earl's atonement. she talked to the visitor, she was wondering in her own mind what Sir Vane would do or say — how long he would grieve over Agatha, and how long it would be before he asked her to marry him, and whether he would be vexed with her if ever her share in the matter came out. The visitor dM not seem inclined to go, having driven some distance to see Madame la Baronne. She consented to remain to dinner, and Valerie had to entertain her. There was no chance of returning to the terrace to give the finishing blow to her work there. Once, during the course of the long, sunny afternoon, ma- dame asked : ' I wonder where Mrs. Heriot is ? 1 have heard nothing of her to-day.' * She was in the garden this morning,' replied Valerie ;1 saw her there.' ' Mr. Heriot has gone to Lucerne, Josef tells me. Do you think she is lonely 1 Would she care to join us, do you think. Valerie?' o , j , And mademoiselle shuddered as she thought of the ghastly face and figure she had left on the terrace. * I think not,' she said. * Our visitor is not very amusing. Mrs. Heriot would not like to say " No," and she would most certainly be bored. Better not ask her, aunt.' And the kindly baronne bowed to the decision of her niece. When Valerie left her, Agatha made an effort to go to the house. She had no intention of remaining there until Valerie returned. Grief has a strange physical effect on some peopla In the midst of her horrible anguish a sudden lethargy came over her— a sense of almost intolerable fatigue, a pain in her limbs as though she had walked long miles. Her eyes were so hot and heavy she must close them ; her head ached, her brain seemed to be on fire. If she could but creep away to lie down somewhere, close her eyes, and die ! She almost forgot what her trouble was in the pain of that sense of fatigue. There was a great group of myrtle and ilex behind the mar- ble faun ; she looked with wistful, piteous eyes at the marble face, and rippling watBrs ; and then she could never reir-enib-r how she came to" be there. She found herself on the solTgrass YOU HAVE DECEIVED OTHERS. 143 underneath the myrtle ; she could see the blue sky, and it seemed very close to her ; the wind gently fanned her face, the white doves fluttered and cooed near her. Oh, Heaven ; what was the sweet sense of rest coming over her ! — what horrible dream, what nightmare possessed her 1 A face was smiling above hers— the very face of Saint Agatha in the eastern window smiled on her, and seemed to bless her ; then her white eyelids fell, and she slept. That sleep most certainly saved her life. She awoke after two hours, shivering, cold and seriously ill. At first she could not remember why she was sleeping there alone ! Heaven help those who forget a sorrow in sleep and awake to remember it by degrees — there is no experience in life more terrible than this. Little by little it all comes back to her. She remembered every word of that fatal letter — nay, she held it there in her hands. A long convulsive shudder came over her. She knew that she must never see Vane's face again. She could not rise from the ground until the trembling of her limbs had stopped. She lay quite still with closed eyes and began to think. To try to think — for at first no idea would come clearly to her. She could only keep this one fixed that Vane had de- ^ eived and betrayed her. She was never to look upon his face H^ain. She tried to think it over. Vane, the handsome, ar- dent, eager lover — Vane, whose beautiful face had seemed to her the face of a god, it was so grand and so noble— Vane, whose dark eyes had always been full of the light of love for her. She remembered the sweetness of his voice — his adoring caressing love, his constant, worshipping care ; how could she live without it 1 She cried aloud in her distress, but no Vane answered. Never again would the warm clasp of his hand, the warm loving kisses from his lips comfort her — never more. She was desolate and in despair. To this girl whose faith and love were so great, it was a ter- rible shock that one human being could ever so cruelly deceive another. All the time he was at Whitecroft, when he was in the woods and fields, when he stopped and talked to her over the garden gate, when he was with her at the beautiful church — all the time it was her betrayal he had planned — it was not love. II lU THE earl's atonement. she cried, 1 ' ?""* i*""? •' ^^' ^ane* my lover, not love I ' aloud, and the white doves, scared, flew away ' All men are wolves,' the old servant had said ate: *•"'■ ->^^ii5-i,'irr»s tizx "•"'■". -la .ua« »r"j k;,.'; ft" » those who told it mStadd%t^l. ""{ ''*''?'"« ''"»»">. "" " ^-Ui'-i iiic |juui- woiaeu who 'YOU HAVE DECEIVED OTHERS'. 145 if i had loved her so well think 1 Stately Lady Anne, and madame here, who had been so kind to her, they must all hear the same story —that she had left him at once. She rose, and stood leaning for a few minutes against the marble faun. It was ' good-by' to the rippling waters and the pretty grounds, to the white terrace. Never, except in her dreams, should she see them again. She walked back to the house. It was well that she saw no one, for her face had not regained its color, and her eyes were wild with fear. She went to her room, and the first thing that caught her eye was the beautiful jewelled writing-table that Sir Vane had given to her. She would write to him and inclose the letter ; then he would know why she had left him, and when he thought of her in the future he would see how she hated money, and remember that she left him, dearly as she loved him, the same hour in which she found it out. She took pen and paper. Her heart did not break as she addressed this her last letter to him. Her eyes were dry and tearless, even the very faculty of suffering seemed dimmed and deadened. * I know all, Vane,' she wrote. * I inclose you this letter that you may know it is no longer a secret how you have de- ceived me. You have been away a few hours, and while you have been absent — while the sun was shining and the flowers blooming — my heart was broken. Oh, Vane, how could you be so cruel to me, whom you loved 1 I was so happy in my old home, and I can never be happy again. I shall never see the old church, nor the dear Agatha, nor my mother's grave again — never again ! Why did you not leave me 1 ' If I were not good enough to be your wife — If you were ashamed to marry me because I was a simple country giri— why did you not go away and leave me ? I should have been always content with my life but for you. You have taken away my fair name ; you have covered me with shame and disgrace j you have taken me from the ranks of good women. I cannot write what you have made of me. Mademoiselle showed me this letter this afternoon. Remember always, at once when I knew the truth, I went away. Dearly as I love you, I have not waited to say good-by. 'I shall never see your face again. Vane. Oh, dear, lost love, good-by ! — dear love who has betrayed me, good-by I My u '1 ,.■ i>i !ii9 1' ■ i |- • " I ; i' I 146 THE earl's atonement. ^ntir *^} r"'f ' '^i ^^'^^*^^' ^"<> I «»^«ot part from you in anger— I ha\'e loved you so well. "^ nrn' T''" r^" ""i"' ""^ ""^'y "^^«^- Yc « have beec. wicked and cruel, yet you have eome little love for ^e. You haTe deceived frn^v' ^"' w^'rn'''"'"^ *« ^«- My dear, lo«t7ove, i 'o Ind thCl Zu'^f ""''i ^''' *^ ^^^^ ^' the Judgmen Seat ?P.^S L M'^^ ^? ^^'i ""^^ I'l^ocence and my soul. Good-by ! Remember the last words that shall ever nasg between us are these : P * I forgive you !* CHAPTER XXXI. A LONELY WANDERER. ^GATHA folded the anonymous letter in the one she had just written, placed them both in an envelope, directed It to bir Vane, placed it on the toilet cushion where he must see it at once when he entered the room. She kissed it with trembling lips ; while the world lasted, while suns rose and set, while golden stars stretched over the helving selswhTe she hem 'no ^'^'"'^' ^^^ T '^' ^''' communfcatioi between them ; no more words, smiles, kisses, or tears ; no more greeting or reproach ; eternal silence henceforth, and forever Shf looked 'Ind'alHhrr ''" T'' '^ "^^^^ '""^y ^^d been so happy in^te whpnK T ' '^'^ l^ ^'''^^^' '^^ ^^« ^««" deriv- ing me, when he ki t me, when he carressed me. when he spoke most lovingly lo me, he was most cruel, and molt folse^ She wa. perfctly stunned; every few minuses Te who'e reality seemed to come to her with unknown force, seemld to overwhelm her afresh, seemed to daze and confound hel^o^e fo^taX^atlcr '' '''^ ''' ""^^ ^^ ^^^- ^^ -- fnl^^ ''*'''*'" *^^°"^^* '^,^^'^' ^° ^^^^ direction her wandering footsteps were to go; she never thought of taking monev of i.wv.«ixig lor nerseii; «ne neve;- even went into the room to A. LONELY WANDERER. 147 put on a dress or a cloak ; the hat which she wore in the gar- den lay there, she took it up and wrapped a garden shawl around her ; sne wandered through the rooms, through the pretty corridors ; she had no fixed determination where to go, no resolve, no idea, only that she was to go away, so that she might not see Sir Vane. She wandered through the grounds, down to the shores of the lake, walking always like one half blinded. It did not seem to her that she was walking without an ob- ject — without an end in view, except to get away from Sir Vane. She walked through the long, quiet afternoon ; the sua set and the moon rose. She had gone far from the lake now ; the blue deep waters were left behind. She had made her way into the pretty town of Lucerne, and as she entered it the clocks were all striking one, yet the faintest dawn was not near — this was the darkest hour of night. She found herself in a large square, ornamented with a fine statue and four fine fountains, then with a sudden shock she realized the fact that she was here in a strange city quite alone. She knew so little even of the ordinary habits of life that she never thought of going to any hotel. The only place of refuge that occurred to her was the railway station, and she made her way there. She was flying from Lucerne, but she never thought whether she was going to England or France, or where. She sat for some, time, having walked* incessantly without resting. She would have sat there, in all probability, until she fainted with fatigue, but that a porter went up and asked if she were going by train to Basle. As well there as anywhere— she said yea. She asked if she could go from Basle to Paris 1 He told her, yes. Then she remembered that she must purchase a ticket; then s he bethought herself of money. In her desk at the chateau she had a roll of bank-notes, but she had not thought of them. Sir Vane had always been most generous in the way of money. She could have as much as she liked, as much and more as she could possibly spentl H she had remembered it even, she would not have taken it — she would not have touched it. Now the imme- diate necessity was for money to travel to Paris. When she reached Paris, she could, of course, seek work. She put her hand in the pretty little fancy pocket attached to her dress. r-' ii 148 THE earl's atonement. ll.ll: lend some money to a n„.5t i ^'""T ,'''* '"^ promised to by the lake She was gW to LTuf ! '"''* J?,""/ '- » «''»'»» surprise. Did any one think ZfT ®^^Jooked at him in care for anything Lain? Tf ^^e could eat or drink, or die.' ^ ^ ^"^ ' ^"® ^o'i^d have answered « To sheU^d^TsVZrdLr^^ -^ ^«^ ^^e fatigue of it- the present, with its tSZ Epr^^ It was not so much tinually to the nast ^hTZ. .uT:^^^ ""'"^ wandered con- always^in the woot ifstninAn f J*'''"'''^'' T'^ ^^' V-««' the eager and impetus ZdsTnwh^^^^^^^^ "^'"T^"' *« of the supposed new law TmLireTS' ^1? "'^'^'^ ^^^- at Paris, where he had Wi^f " i " T,^^"- ^^® ^*» ^^^h him it had seemed to Mm t S' ^^k'°'^^^ ^^^' "P°° ^^^> and Then she w^ at BdlefleSrs ft f"''. '^ ^^l^ ^'''' ^^^«- could do nothing but contra J i^-fi ^- ^^ - ' ^' *^** '^^ could only contrVt her £i^^^ ^^e reality; she as they had been then '''''"^^*' °^ ^^"^ ^ ^^^7 were now and entti^glerruf^^ thl 7^."'%^^^^^ -^ had said about him • she Imd hl'o ^ '^"*^*'^ °^ ^^^^ better his first and onlyWe L ha^^^^^^^^ '" ^°*;^^ 3^ ^^^^ «he was all other womel-durinl the whnl A'" ^'t'^^/ indifferent to him she had never seen Mm !,V ^'T '^^ ^^^ ^^^n with and yet ValeTs^K^Ttr^^^^^^^^^ cared for some one else ' Thprl hJ\ Bellefleurs, he had -it had all been a foul schlme and n^''° °" ^"'^ "^ »^°^^r but a crime. ""^ ^''^ plan-not only an error, gray church, UL",^:il-;f-^^^^^^^^ the old -* IT iLu ijer waOio uoaro ana soul A LONELY WANDERER. 149 that this unconscious sin of hors might be forgiven — praying with weeping eyes ; and then she woke suddenly, to find her- self in a railway carriage, with a diill, dreary sense of pain such as words could never describe. The rest of the journey was a dream. When it was dark she leaned back against the carriage with staring eyes, blinded more by pain than by darkness. When it was light she watched the magnificent scenery, the cloud-topped mountains, the /alleys, tae quaint old towns, the rivers spanned by rustic bridges, the green valleys— they were dim and blurred to her, although the moon and stars shone upon them. She sat quiet, without speaking or moving; people went in and out of the carriage and she did not see them. Many looked in wonder at the white, beautiful face, with its expression of agony and woe. What could have brought a blight upon one so young and fair ? At one of the stations between Basle and Paris the train stopped for passengers to take refreshment, and though several ladies went from the compartments, Agatha did not stir. One lady went to her and said, gently : ' You look very ill— let me order some coffee for you.' Her lips were so cold, so stiff, so dumb, she could hardly open them to answer. * I advise you to take something,' continued the kind lady ; * it will be some time before we reach Paris, and the train will not stop again.' * I could not drink it,' she replied. It annoyed her that any one should think she could either eat or drink. Did they not know that although her body wai living, her heart was dead 1 And at last, lat« at night, the train reached the great rail- way station, which even then was full of traffic, noise, and bustle. When the passengers left the train, there was the usual confusion of passengers crying out for their luggage, of porters and guards, of cabmen and coachmen. Through them walked this girl, with the beautiful figure and lovely colorless face, with white, set lips and burning eyes. Speaking to no one, looking neither to the right nor the left, she walked out into the brilliant, evil streets of Paris. Evil escaped her. The bruised heart and crushed soul were aching with pain. She could not understand anything just then but sorrow. If she had met a weeping woman otb. cry- > !:, i 150 THE earl's atonement. pi ¥' i ! I |4 1 1-1 ' ing child she would have stopped to comfort her nr if . k.,^ *k httriT^^^^^^^^^^ them ""*^ ^^^^'■' «*'« °«ith«'' heard nor saw in^f ^n ^^® '^^'^®' ^"^^ pavement came a group of girls sin^ * They are mad,' she thought hrn«H vT*!^^"^ i"" ^''^^^^ ^^^ "*"o^ streets, through the broad boulevards, and again the same .sensation of extreme Srsometh L lit i"T ''""'i "'^ ^"^ «^^«' -^ *h« <>ther he sHfint Hk!! ^ . * ''^"^''^ ''^ g^««n > <^he street was verv lZ?A tu ""*? "°^ * '°"'^^- She came to a large house ^^ could not have been a private house, it was so We Th^r^ She crept into the silent porch ; in the shadowy corner thp™ fr„ff.rr°'''?^t' Solden stari throbbed in Ihe blue skv far off she fancied that she heard the rushing sound of a riwr '■ hl'XWt'rch and ITV"' ""l'" '^ " ^»' «S the ro J ;? Z^ZiiX ins^tto" '"^ """ "'' ™ ""«'- KCs^^rVZitellth^-rnir^^^^^^ f%p;tirs:urttrhrm,e?hei?:rr£S S; 'die^""'! tf "^ "' '"' '^^^y wUtLXTX of the »ftl-'a':2VLT^d\nfi.-^^^^ Fiien mormug came. -.-^ax^ -aw A PREMONTTTON. 151 The golden head that had for so long pillowed on her lover's heart had a hard resting place now, but she was a tired child falling asleep as a child sleeps on its mother's breast. CHAPTER XXXII. A PREMONITION. [ HE mellow, golden, beautiful afternoon was at its bright- est when Sir Vane returned from Lucerne. He had easily found out where the mistake was, and had tran- sacted his business in a short time. It was long since he en- joyed a game of billiards, and at the Hotel Angelo there was a fine table, and always good players ; he went for an hour, but he did not enjoy his game; the same terrible sense of forebod- ing followed him there. It was so strong upon him that his hand trembled and his game was spoiled. He tried to laugh at himsulf. * 1 have laughed at nervous women a hundred time?,' he said to himself, • and now I am more nervous than the most fanci- ful of women.' Yet he could not conquer it. It was all of Agatha — the most depressing thoughts and ideas — sudden starts of fan«y. He thought once that he heard her cry out for him in the most piteous voice. How foolish it was ; yet his nervous terror and apprehension were so great he determined to hasten back at once. There is more in the world than oven philosophers dream ; between these two there was the strongest, deepest love, anJ though they were wide apart, the sorrow and despair of the one influenced the other. Who knows the mysteries that are yet to be discovered in the strange influence people have over each other ? Sir Vane drove rapidly to Bellefleurs ; he was thinking of various little parcels placed in the carriage; he had seen a ■> ti'i ''i!" % 152 THE EARL'h ATONtMENT. bracelet of pale gold, studded with nmgnificent pearls and he had thought It would add to the bea.Tty of the fdr rounded jeweLr^wfth r/^ the exorbitant price demanded by the fn o n • * "^"^ ^''"'^ ^ha<^ wouW have been creditable to a millionaire ; m another shop he saw a cloud of ^r white w:ut"Jo?nd\"h '^ lT' ^ 5^™^^^^ ^- wen if would ook wound around the golden head and white shoulders • he saw Shs tg^ he'Tnf u' P"??^^^ *h«"^' ^''"^ soine phi" ctta pet^mtnrrt ZZ' ^"'^ '-'^^ '' ^- a4's^:Xl^aVer:ftrtre.^^>"^ ^^ «^--«'' '^ -^' * «^« " ihhnLf'''''^ ^"""-^ '\*^^ ^"*"*^^^"^ mellow sunlight, through the finest scenery in the world, with his heart heav; as leld toru'twr'" "'' ""'"^^^^' *^^ presentiment thJtlmeli Ah, there was the blue, gleaming water of the lake there Thl in *^" /^^«J« Of the chateau between the trees. fou^d that L^h^^ »^'^ '•'''"' '' ^'"^ "'' indescribable; he what wonM .1!" *^'?.'^ ^° *^°°^« *« *^he lake, not knowing ne4r Wh7f"P*^' ^"^ ^^«"^^- *« ^^^^^^^^ ^1^^^ he would ?c:yt!rafda;^rdTLai;^^^^^^^^ ^« «^-^^ -- tl,. t"r '■■'' *u '"'"■'. *"'* *''«° •"« s«e8 the beautiful erounda of SDo^wh/rTit """ '"•'''']' '■*•"' ; ••« '^ »"« t» »«o her in the .Zthi-SttutdteTsllir """^ ^'-' '"» «'-' ->«' She was not there. The sun shone on the white faun on the nppling water, but Agatha was not there ' -Wis heart sank with a feeling of awe and fear- she haH ,.^«x« :.-^ tuciu waicing lor iiim. and shfi wa. waicing lor iiim, and she wat A PREMONITION. 153 not. Surely there was no reality in the terrible fear that had been tearing at his heart all day I He threw the reins to the groom, gave orders that the differ- ent parcels in the carriage were to be taken to Mrs. Ueriot's room, then hastened to find her. She would be among the tall myrtles, he was sure — hiding, perhaps, half in jest ; resting, perhaps, for the afternoon was warm ; sleeping, perhaps, and ho fancied the golden head rest- ing against the trunk of a tree. * Agatha ! ' he said, gently but there was no reply. He did not notice a half broken branch of the myrtle and several crushed (lowers — he did not know thac just where he stood was where his victim had fallen when the sword was plunged into her heart. As Valerie had said, * Murder was not pleasant,' and murder had certainly been done there. He called her name again, but there was !io reply ; he a eat among the myrtle ♦;♦'«,:, looking where the shade was deepest ; there was no sig' of h<.:i ; but he saw on the grass a piece of the ribbon she hi d voni ( ■ at morning in her hair. Ah, then, she hi,A beaT here, watching most probably for him. Bless the lov g, iuithful heart and the beautiful face. Then he walked through the grounds — he could hear from the open window of the •afon the magnificent voice of Valerie D'Envers, singing an ItaUan love song — singing so beautifully that he stopped to listen. ' That woman would have made a fortune on the stage,' he said to himself ; and then he laughed as he remembered the scene of the morning, as though it were in the bounds of human possibility that he could care for a woman of her type. * My Agatha is an angel,' he said to himself ; * the light of Heaven is on her face, the stars are not so clear and true as her dear eyes ; the other is a Parisian coquette, a stage queen.' And as he stood listening to the rich voice, he thought of his innocent young love. Ah ! thank Heaven, she would never know he had grown to respect her innocence and purity so greatly that he could not bear to think of the wrong done to her. If it could have been undone, he would have undone it. The only thing that he could do now was to keep her in the same state of ignorance and innocence; i < !• I,i .|;l 154 THE earl's atonement. I Ah ! sweet Agatha, who was like her ? Who had hair of such lovely gold, lips so dainty and sweet ? Who was like her 1 He walked dowly back to the house. She would be in her room. He looked everywhere, but could not find her- he went through the suite of rooms, but saw nothing of her ' He did not go into his own. Once he fancied he heard her foot- steps m the outer hall, and he hastened to her with a joyful It was only the wind stirring the great vine leaves : there was no Agatha. In her dressing room he saw her dinner dress all prepared— the light blue velvet, embroidered with seed pearls, and the beautiful suit of pearls to match Still he could not find her. The inmates of the house were sumnioned and a strict search instituted ; but it was useless. buddeny he remembered what Agatha said she was going iffil*?! ^r\ u'" ^'T'^^''' ^» «^1 probability, if ht could find the book, he should find her. He looked where he had seen it that morning, but it was gone nor coulcJ he find it He went to the spot where the tall myrtles grew, he called this time aloud : * Agatha ! Agatha ! ' There was no reply-no sound, save the evening breeze as it rustled in the leafy branches. But under the garden chair he saw a book, and when he picked it up it was ^ Les Miserahles: So that she must have been reading, and have dropped her book But where was she ? ^f • ; If we were in Greece, I should think she had been stolen by brigands. It is just as though she had come out here this morning, and had never been seen since.' This time he left no nook or corner unsearched, but he could nnd no Agatha. Again as he went round to the western side of the house he heard the rich tones of the magnificent voice singing a popular air. There was something of subtle triumph in the notes I 'YOU HAVE MURDERED ilER. 155 CHAPTER XXXIII. 'YOU HAVE MURDERED HER.' F once during his excitement he had thought of going into his own room, the mystery would have been ex- plained to him, but he never thought of it; be was hurried, excited, eager to have some intelligence of her, so that the envelope, with its inclosure, remained untouched. He was absent with the men-servants for two hours, searching the grounds, during which the sun set ar i the fair green earth was wrapped in silence and darkness, the waters of the lake were hushed and still, there was no sound — look where they would there was no sign of Agatha, It was quite dark when they reached home ; the moon and stars had not yet risen. Sir VaiiO was beside himself with wonder and alarm. Then that happened which soon brought the terrible truth home to Sir Vane. He was going to Lucerne, and he went to his room in search of a warmer overcoat. By this time his alarm and a,nxiety had increased ; now he knew that there was something wrong— something had happened to Agatha-— but it had never occurred to him that she had left him of her own accord. The lamps were lighted; everything was ready for him. Almost the first thing that he saw when he entered the rooni was the white envelope, pinned on the toilet cushion. In one moment the truth flashed across him. A great fear came over him. Surely she had not found out the truth ; if so ? Great drops gathered on his forehead. He took the letter, with a low moan, opened it, and found the enclosure. He read Agatha's letter first. Oh, Heaven ! she knew, and she had gone, she had left him forever ! He was stunned at first, and could hardly realize the words of the letter — that mademoiseiie had shown her the enclosed. Then he UDder^toed thafc he had to read the enclosed. H« 156 THE earl's atonement. read it word for word— his own story, written b^ this cruel, treacherous hand. As he read, the veins upon his forehead swelled until they stood out like great cords ; his eyes literally flashed fire, his strong hands were clenched. * If I knew the hound who had written that, I would thrash his life out of him I ' he said, aloud. ' Oh, my Agatha my beautiful, loving Agatha ! It has killed her, I know.' ' His first thought was for her— her anguish, her sorrow, her desolation, her despair. Reading these cruel, haunting words by the light of her pure and innocent eyes, he knew she could never-look up again ; that they would crush her and kill her. He was a selfish man, but in that moment he would have given his life to have saved her from the knowledge. His own face burned with a crimson flush as he read the words. How horrible they were ! What must that poor child have felt as she read them— what shame, what humiliation 1 so great that she had gone out, he felt sure, to die. Of all the revelations of his forebodings nothing could have been so horrible as this. At first his thoughts were all for her —for what she had suffered, for the shame and sorrow that had overwhelmed her. In that moment he hated and loathed him- self; he saw hiti cruelty, his deceit, his treachery in their true light, and he hated himself. What would she think of him, now that she knew what he had done to her 1 He had killed this innocent child by the most cruel of deaths. He had never intended her to know ; he had meant to keep her in utter ignorance, far from the world, a beautiful flower and blooming in solitude, and bloom- ing only for him. Now she would know that the man she had loved so dearly was a villain, and, knowing it, she had gone out to die. If he could but strike dead the one who had written these words ! Who could have written it ?— who knew his story ?— to whose interest had it been to strike this blow to the fair and gentle girl who had never injured any one 1— why b I it been done? Above all, who had shown to her how fiendish he had been 1 Mademoiselle, of course. This wicked letter had been written to her, and he had taken it to A naf.Via S' \MU-.r „ brought It to him, or have taken it to madame 1 Why have taken it to her ? I YOU HAV?: MURDERED HER. 0/ While he had been away in the sunshine she had been slain. How little he had dreamed that he was leaving her for this. He began to see through the motive ; it was Valerie who had given that letter to Agatha, and the motive wag jealousy. « I must have been mad,' he said, ' ever to have spoken to the girl. I will see what she means by it,' Five minutes later he was standing in the salon with the two letters on the table before him, looking very erect, very proud and indignant ; a darkening frown on his handsome face ; his brow knitted ; such stern determination on his lips as was seldom seen there. * Ask Mademoiselle d'Envers if she will come to me, at once ? ' he said. Valerie rallied all her force, and stood before him, bnght, defiant, yet with an assumption of compassion. ' Dear Mr. Heriot,' she began, but the words died on her lips. One look at his face showed that her cause was lost — at least for the present. Then she saw that fatal letter on the table, and she knew in one moment what had happened. She knew that she ought to have destroyed it when Agatha had read it And she wondered, when ihe stood there, how she could have been so mad as to give it to her. Of course she could not tell how things would turn out. She expected to go back to Agatha ; she had not said all she wished, and while she was absent it seemed to her that Agatha might as well read that letter again and impress it on her mind. She never dreamed that she would show it to Sir Vane — she would rather have slain her a hundred times over than that. What a fatal oversight it was ! She had ruined herself by it, but she must face it now. Those dark eyes of Sir Vane's, so terrible in their anger, were fixed upon her face, and quick as a flash of lightning she decided upon her course of proceeding. ' Will you be kind enough,' he said sternly, ' to tell me what you know of this cruel, foul, treacherous letter 1 ' ' What letter 1 ' she asked, and certainly if ever the face of a beautiful woman expressed innocent surprise, hers did. ' Will you look at it and see ] ' he replied, curtly. 1 158 THK KAHL's ATONEMKNT. •f it: Wnv f.hio iQ ,1.1... i,.i. If 1 actress « wu r, . . """ """"«niy wiiat It was. Heriot, liow sorrv I arnXf ,> h c i *^'? ^'"^"- ' ^^' Mr. ' Vn ,.. iJI. . u "'^'^ ^^ "*** ^^«" shown to vou I ' innocent girl ) • ' "^ """ <''"■'' yu show it to that .et.^:pan;r^^^ «- that Plorin^gly attim" "''''' ''*"'•'■ '"S"*-' ""^ looked most in.. r?SS^Sl;?»-^"'^'^a:t ' J—I— dare not ! ' she said. have murdered her ! ' «"uwing ner that letter '< You * I am 8.)rry,' she said, with drooninff ev^Q < i „ must not be an,"'?" Jithl^.t'rru dT.^° "'^ '"°"«- ^o" Ihe pity ,s,' he said, bitterly, 'that you did not die before.' I HAVE MADK A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. 159 ler. CHAPTER XXXIV. 'I HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE.' >ALERIE D'Envers raised her head in wonder. ' You would sooner that I were dead. Oh, Mr. Heriot, you cannot mean that,' ' I do mean it,' he said. ' What right had you to show that letter to a girl 1 It is no compliment to you that any person, man or woman, could indite such a letter to you. It shows plainly that the writer has no respect for you, but that he or she considers you, to say the least of it, a woman of the world, to whom nothing is sacred, nothing is innocent, nothing pure. Thank Heaven, no one would have written such a letter to her.' * How can I help it V she said. * It is not my fault,' * I do not say that it is ; but it shows the writer's apprecia- tion of you. Had a quarter of those things been written to Agatha, she would not have understood them. You, I must say, have a singular knowledge of that which you ought not even to understand,' The tone of sarcasm hurt her more than any reproach could have done ; she felt at once how much she had fallen in his esteem — she saw that, in his mind, she was far below Agatha, and must regain that place before she could make any progress. * I see now,' she said, with an air of pretty contrition, ' that I have done wrong. I am so sorry now that I did not bring it to you ; indeed 1 meant to do no harm. The letter was most emphatically written, " I must show it to her," said I, "and explain it to her." I thought I was doing right. I do uot see how you can blame me. You cannot ignore my share of interest in the matter. If it be true — and you do not deny it ' He interupted her : ' Why should I deny it to you 1 ' he cried. ' If it be true.' said she. looking at him. with bright, fear- ess eyes, * then you had no right to intrude such a person on my aunt and myself ; it is cruel to her and cruel to me.' j ■ ICO THE EARr.'s ATONEMENT.' i.gKt co,>,pL.:3^*V"„^^^lt''h" "L»r' '" '""""':"T «•«' child.' "'^ *® ^"^ transparent mind of a ierw^atfari tv^L't" mfnt" '"^'^^^ ^^^'^ •^«™«**- women-she has losthers.' ^ ^^''' "'"'"^ P"''^ *"^ 6°«d He restrained himself by a creat offorf i<\ „ v,- • r came white witli rage. ^ '''^ ^^^ •'»'» ^^«- * You take too much for granted ' hp siii^ < ivu.* • i ^ i you to assvi^e th»t this miseS^le lef^erl^^^ V^'" tissue of contemptible lies ' *^ ^ ^^ '"''^•^ ''^ ^ yo.'«r' ••""' **■' °"^'' '"' •="*'»■ '"hat business this is of her here under mv aunt's roof if w ' ," "*^® broupjht I say that you ha'veTalLTn^nw ZnTab^ lib: ^ 'V""" qmte unworthy of an English -entWn n L • ^' ^"^ '^"^ person under my roof ySu wm?U « . u' " ^""g^ng such a own mother or sister ' ^ "''^ ^*^" *^^«" ^^^ *« your ;l am quite sure I should have done so,' he cried quite'as good as youTotlmine'^on mttrh^ -'""J'^ ?T^^ ^« say, much better ; and I havTa riX ^n T • ''^?' ^ ''^^"'^ you have made so little of our Lufe? '" ^^'"P^*^" -^en I find He had no reply to make. .nmill°°il''/ '".°'^?"^:^ ^*^«"«. ' that you have anvf,b,-n„ .. j-._... suuut, i Cniilk i.hf" rirrlif- ♦■« i • i. ' """5 ^'^' ,, . ,_ . ---"'I ""WK juu nave anvthinrr f/^ -.niiiK the right to complain lies' witii^us;' 1 HAVK MADK \ TKIIRIBLE MISTAKK. 161 »nt I am ience and lind of a ' No mat- ind good lips b«- .'ht Liue •fay hii ?i I gentle- t. You )d ; you reduced r. i'ou )elievpd itecroft, on, his 8 is of aess of rou^ht t once, id one such a your ihe in- aily i8 hould 1 find net f/% 'h us. In all good faith my aunt takes you in — she is one of the proudest women in H^vitze^land — and you deceive her by bring- ing a person of that description here. Then I am told of it — told to question the person herself, and find from her it is all true. Agatha Brooke told me the story of her most foolish in- credulity, of her simple folly. If she had not told me, I should never have thought that any girl could be so absurdly and easily deceived.' ' She told you the truth, did she ? And now, I suppose, she has gone to die because she believes herself unworthy to live.' * 1 do not know — I know nothing of her.' * Will you tell me what passed between you 1 ' he asked. Ah I if she dared she would gladly have told him that the woman he loved lay a crushed, helpless heap at her feet. * There was little enough,' she said. ' I gave her the letter, and she read it through. She cried bitterly, and then she told me the whole history of her marriage, and I told her how basely she had been deceived. As I told you before, my aunt sent for me while we were talking, and I went.' * And you mean to tell me that my loving, innocent darling read those bitter, wicked words 1 ' * You should have married her, Sir Vane, if you intended her to keep her fair name.' * You took a base and cowardly advantage of my absence,' he said. ' You ought not to have dared to have shown it to her, but to have waited for me. You forget how indignant and in- jured I feel.' Her whole face changed, her dark eyes grew glorious in their softened light, her lips quivered ; she went nearer to him, and held out her hand. * Ah, forgive me, if I have done wrong,' she said, softly ; * I thought of you, only of you. I did not remember her or any- thing else, but you, only you. If I committed an error, can you not forgive it, when it was love for you ? Perhaps — Heaven help me ! — perhaps I was not altogether sorry to know that you were free.' The voice in which she whispered the words was so sweet, the beautiful face she raised to him so bewitching in its love- liness, he would have been more than moital if he bad resisted her. She saw his softened expression, and she knew that she ' I ]()2 THE EARI.'S ATONKMLNT. ri"j.rpat '"'"'' '"""•"•="■ »'" '"'- ">«' «•>« '.»<) Chen the a L"fb": ™irai::":,r'jLrn'' i„ir r ^°"^^ ' '■«™ """J" my life to undo it-I will S?evi°T, °' ^""v""" ' ''"' gi™ you. I f it were my mln iTthT^l "^ \", ,""' ""'^'^ *» he'P hate and loathe him 'Ah mei""'" T^""',' """^ ^''""W not be angry with lo If Zl <^''""»' ''« P l^ing you ; do be no lighfif, the wSe word Zr/T'' ''"'^"'» '^'">^'^^ »bo had .t been aufc^- ^olnth^tti,™- j^ .no;errhitWai;dor'it's;'rf^ ■' -"'■- able. What am I to Vav tnl,^ first sight ,t seems unpardon- • What you wilv1h?re^,S''''""" ^e asked, abruptly. ■f"To.':'o^'S''^:%V''^ '™"-,' he continued. give an/expCti„„ 'hatL'^^'tJ vl"'h ^ "?'■ , ' ^'"'"''J truth ; my aunt wnnU n? c ■ ^'"'' ''"' certainly «rt the miserableVer wh7e i?feT„^^"«"" ^o"' '""• " ""' "ake her she w^^g^Vto'do"}-''"^™ "'■"•' she was going, „r what noS' ""' ""^ ^"'^ ■' ' ™"'d tell you if I had the faintest ple":yXe«rng7nC?ao:" He'/r V*^"' 'r" »'«' P- what to do. ^- "' ^'^ »»' "1 the least know her^J't^^^Se'relltrhthS '''' -'-'- "f reclaiming me anX day' ■"'"' ' "* '*'" ' ' '' ""y ""^ valuable evidence to ' It is my letter,' she said. A few mor"' tCs'TafdT" ".".' "' y""' 1"""J< h« '"PHed. without her. I shall TnL P " . °? ,''°'— ' ">»"''l "'»' '''e ingforher here. ishS to toTrt-'^J"' ",'' "««'"«'»* agents the secret Ji'.Htl" '°A""» »''<'.«"'P'»y the cleverest "y Whole life ; and when"riind hT7 ^?U r^r^Tr? '' '"''' {' I HAVB: MADK a TERUIULE MISTAKE.' 103 lio«en the ave made will give d to help I should you; do hero will e me.' vith her, ' him, if ould not st know ipardon- bly. d. [ should not the ake her r what faintest nd per- t know aiming >nce to jplied. ed ab- »t live look- verest takes She was vexed at the words ; she had not thought he would take it in this way. She had half fancied that he would be re- lieved ; now she saw that he was the most miserable of men. No arts or blandishments of hers were of the least use now ; the only thing was to efface herself, as it were, for the present. * I must find her,' he said ; * and if it takes every hour of my life and the whole of my fortune, I will find the writer of this letter, even if only to slay him.' She looked at him with startled eyes, and he saw the start. An idea came to him, of which he did not speak then, but which was afterward realized. ' I shall g^ at once,' and catch the express from Lucerne ; and I shall be in Paris soon enough. I will not go by Basle.' * But not now,' she said ; 'you cannot go now.' * I must. I could not stay in this place where my darling has been murdered. If I were to stay here another hour it would drive me mad.' Her face grew quite colorless, and she went to him with pleading eyes. ' Do not go. I could not bear it,' she said, and her voice died with a sob. * Do not go.' * I must. It is your fault,' he cried. * But she may return — she may write to you, and you will not be here.' ' I shall leave my address with madame, who can forv/ard any letters or telegrams to me. I could not stay here ; every room would be haunted by her. I should see and hear her everywhere. I am not heartless enough for that.' ' Do think of me,' she said. ' What shall I do if you g( T ' Much the same as you did before I came ! You have never in your life done a more cruel deed than when you broke that girl's heart with that letter. I will ring for madame.' She caught his hand between her own. * Let me speak to you,' she cried. * Do not be so cold, so cruel to me. I shall die if you leave me in this way. And she fell to weeping bitter tears, which angered him still more. * My time is too precious to waste in these scen<),i>/ he said. * Had you not better retire before I see madame 1 ' ' You will not tell her •? ' she gasped. 164 THE KART/a ATONRMENT. madame. "' "" ™"8 ">« bell and aekod for There was nothing for v.h.rie bat to hasten to her room. i' 1 CHAPTER XXXV. A LADY VISITOR. '"'°™ ^in, ' I am sorry to hear it,' replied madame. greaK:. e"r b,: Zi^ -"tinued -under a mistake-a and t'o'find her ; for t"at rein I T '° '"' '"^■•^"'"■g right • It is .sudden • said madame h..;-*' '""^ '" "^'"•' very much grieWd for ;„TM',''"H'e'r":r """"' "«•"'• '™ had?eft aTtL^f^mr-r^rdrtyrd r^'^f- ■ ^^ -f- room. She tells me whv 1,. , ^ 'l"""' ^ ''™' i"'" "y am going to find her I „ n . ^T' ■"" ""' "^«"; «"<• ' longs toV for we L/JJ,'"";'';-" .-"^thing that be. arrange on; pecuniary CtC now^ ' "'"' ^°'"' P"""^'"". when she saw the amonnT ' ^' 8"™ *''"■'« "^y •^^^■rrerfTi;;:it^':%;LdTsh'oSr,^*'^-«-'^^^ here anoti - year V-ufc for ^Jm V " ^'^""^ remained should like .u keep everythZ ,5 JiXT '"'"'" '^^'•^' ^ will leave yo„ mv addres. Vr • . ' ^°', ^ y^'^"' ^^"d I own hands! ^^^ trurtn -^ ^^ ^"^ T^ '^ °^^ ^y y^"^ grams that maj come/ ^ '''*'"' -^" '^^ ^«"«^« ^^ tele- *I promise,' said madame, ftW^t^tp'^ f.. *„ u_ i • and her sorrow for him. "-^ "'^ g--erosity It A LADY VISITOR. 165 / he said, (i askmi for ler room. ane, when :)efore him iiatake — a hing right -night' :ht. I am 'My wife it into my re ; and 1 that be- srmission, ing. He little cry . Heriot.' femained here. I And I by your 8 or tele- After a few more min 3 of conv.irfation Sir Vane looked at his watch. • I must go,* he said ; ' ' have no time to spare.' ' Will you not w^t to say ^'ood-bye to my niece 1' she cried, aghast at tliis sudden break-up of a seemingly happy party. * I cannot,' ho said ; ' I must leave it, madame, for you to do for me. Pray make ray a Ueux to mademoiselle.' Ten minutes afterward h had left the chateau ; the groom was to follow with the horses and all that he required. The address that he left was : ' Sir Vane Carlyon, Hotel du Nord, Paris.' If madame thought anything of the name, she made no com- ment. Before sunset the next day the groom, with the horses and all Sir Vane'fi belongings, had quitted the Belletleurs, m d the silence and solitude were broken no more. The surprise and dismay did not last long. Everything is excused to a rich baronet — even his sins are known by a gen- tle and tender nan Valerie bided her time ; sht; had over- reached herself, and she saw it now. Her letter w;is n work of art, but her error in placing it in Agatha's hands had been fatal ; she had that false step to retrieve, and she could only bide her time. There was nothing to be done at present ; however hard his words and thoughts, she must not resent them ; she must appeal always to his love, pity and vanity ; then she felt that she should succeed. She bore it for one week, then she could bear it no longer ; she was miserable ; she found that she loved Sir Vane with the whole passionate love of her heart ; that life without him was not worth living. She was bitterly 'iisappointed at the result of what ,he felt to be a ^ery cKver itrigue. Nothing could have been better than Agatha's dis- apiy> .ranee, leaving him so free and unfettered : but all that was nothing while he persisted in searching foi her. He would never find her ; she felt persuadi that Agatha meant ^"hat she said, that she would never look upon his face again. Valerie itlt almost sure that s' lad s )nght and found death. But it was not Agatha of whom ?' ught now, but Viorcalf fiVia li.jjl nloiro/l rtr\t\A r»or""' >•'» unendurable ; tl.ni she c" W tfll: r'\Z 'r "'""'' '"<' jotMiL'i,:^ ^'e'tte?: t;' t\T" r' • «•"' --•" flattereJ herself they meant 3i, ?? "'"' '" '""■• «!'" o.ted wlien he had sLuhem '?,. 'f ,,"»" «"«'•>' "'"i « her thoughts dwell on thHther w„. T "' n"u"'""' '"""d.anU pared nothi ,- that had i^ tt nrstl'" "" "™^"' ""- She wlfiZ t„gtr':e»r''t;'if '"" ''"^™•»»">" -"-■ brooded over them uut^l ^hll ^"l "fO" """" at all. She really loved her He Id u. ''*"?r'''"i '""•"■''' "'«t Sir Vane a- the loss of Igatha b'fihatw"^ 'Pf, '" ''"'»' «™"' »""ol to hiu.. Her pliouite. II isohZed .™"'t'' r''"" »''" '"«- any control. She was Vol tZt^^ '""''' ""* "»"" '"'<""' was living death. «h^could nn\rV''''"^ ^"^ heart a way- it when 8he^hought what the hlf "'•'/'• u^"'^ «^« shuddered loved him must havrsuffered^^^ ''^' ^"^ rapturously left traddrt'^wiu' you/'" '^'^tT^ '''I ^^T'' ^^'- Heriot parture. «< There is a packet 1 \J^" r ^'V' ^"^^ ^*"^^»' ^^^ ^e- and one is marked ' immediate ' st l'? ^'' ^'"^ ^^""^ ^"g'^"d, 'If you will rnvH^nT-: -f' ''Tl I send them for you r lieved^of thTtr^uWe ' "^'^ "^^^^'"^^ only too glad to be re- well for his address. It would hav« l *7 Ji^l^o^^.t reason, to ask |Mly availed herself of Sst^^orS;" ^EZ-a^itt V^TiJ^l'^^!.:^" y" not think i. strau^.. ..... _ ""iS--' ="uuid nav« two names » ' iU .-^^tij- A LADY VIS null. 107 while Sir loved him; Won hi be must see, she would hor. She y and ex- brood, and der, whis- on sense, b all. She Sir Vane le sorrow she wenu ar known 'vhen, for it never hout any i way—it uddered turously He riot • his de- Jngland, rou 1" io be re- ig or so f to ask >ut she ve it to ifWt * I cannot say so,' she answered. ' I never attempt to understand tlui English. I have heard of such things before, though. People of rank often lay aside their titles and travel incognito — it is t9 save trouble, and secure a little peace, 1 imagine. I have often thought this Sir Vane — how strange a name — was an aristocrat. It is curious to think that gentle, quiet girl who loved solitude was Lady Carlyon.' Valerie's face flushed. It was on her lips to cry out that she was not Lady Carlyon, but she restrained herself ; it would never do to let her aunt know that she had any share in the affair. She forwarded the letters, waited a few days longer, then told her aunt that she had received an invitation from an old schuolfelluw who had just married and gone to Vienna, and she should probably be absent for some time. Madame, who never attempted to control or influence her niece, sighed with a sense of relief. After all, she thought, she should not be sorry to have the whole place to herself and re- cover from her fatigue. Valerie went away, and raadame was alone. She thought a great deal of the, fair, angelic girl who had so suddenly disap- peared. She wondered what was the ' great and grave mistake * Sir Vane had spoken about. Every family has its skeleton, every life its hidden side, every heart its pain. Madame wept move than once over the fate of the beautiful girl whom she had really loved. More than once, too, she grew nervous when the evening shadows fell, and fancied she could she a white shape moving between the trees — fancied she heard the wailing of a woman's voice — fancied that see could hear light footsteps along the floor and the faint rustle of a woman's drcss — but never again did madame see Agatha Brooke. ******* Sir Vane had been for some days at the hotel, and already he was beginning to tire. The vehemence of his sorrow was fading. Ho felt the loss ; he was lonely, disconsolate, and would have given his whole fortune to have found her, but it did not seem likely. Knr»U7irnr nrvfVtinr* ^\t' 4-V\^ •-vi-mnn i^ V..>n n^^l.^t. U« l-aJ i~lJ it.- * — "•& ••••••.Ji«jg ---i vLfc p«ioc Hi uci puuikc;*, tic uau buiu UUC elover and astute agents" of the secret police, that she had left %l 168 THE earl's atonement. vt home without money. Then they said if that were the case, she could not have left Lucerne. 1 1?^^ ^^ opinion was that she had drowned herself in the lake. She was so gentle, so helpless, so unfit to find her way he began to feel quite sure that she had wandered down to the lake and was lying underneath the waters. Ah, fair, sweet Agatha, better so, a thousand times, than living with the sword ot burning fire in your heart— better a thousand times. In those days no smile was ever seen on his face ; he wan- dered like an unquiet spirit; he could find no rest, no enjoy- ment, no repose. Agatha's face was never out of his mind ; he could tell what she had suffered. Poor, gentle child, she had seemed unwilling at first to believe him when he told her that by virtue of his promise, she was indeed his wife. He reniembered her anxious, wistful face, and her sudden resolution to trust him in a 1. This was how her trust had ended-in betrayal, and perhaps in death. He had loved other women, and had left them ; but he had never been haunted by any sad memories of them— he had forgotten them * This IS the one love of my life,' he said to himself over h«fpn'f^^'°- i,T^' "'^'^ ^' "^8^""^^ Ag**^^^' *he more he hated Valerie- all his sorrow and unhappiness were caused by her. It was she who had brought it all on him. He hated her; he could not endure to think how she had taken advan- ta^ ot his absence to give this death-wound. Ihere came one evening more unbearable to him than any ™n^ ° ^f "^ ™ possessed by the picture of a InH w . n "'"^[ ^'^ '?V^^ ^^""'y *^« ^^^ hair caught by reeds and waterlihes ; he could fancy a white, beautiful face raised -0 the moonht sky, white hands beating the waters, then lying BO still— wherever he went this picture was with him He wiped the great drops of perspiration from his brow, and he cried out once — ' been^ ^^".^ ^^, ^^^ punishment of a sinner, I would that I had .n^A ""T^ ^1^^^ ""^f ^""^*"* '^«>"' ^'^ P'*"^ to dine, but he could eat nothing. He went to the opera, but left it, he could not bear the music. He went to his room at the hotel a bright cheerful sitting-room, beautifully furnished, on the fiist floor 11 l\ I T WILL GTVK, YOU CAUSE TO REMKMHBR ME.' IGO the case, iU in the her way, wn to the air, sweet ihe sword 3S. he wan. no enjoy- is mind ; 3hild, she told her ife. He esolution aded — in r women, I by any self over more he aused by He hated n advan- )han any iUre of a by reeds ce raised en lying tn. He and he at I had ', but he he could 1 bright, st floor ; he sat there, the very ]ncture of despondency, when one of the waiters came to him and said that a lady wished to see him. 'A lady,' he repeated, * ask her to come here. Heavens ! it is Agatha ! Agatha ! come back to me.' CHAPTER XXXVI. ' I WILL GIVE YOU CAUSE TO REMEMBER ME.' SK her to come up here at once,' he cried, and the be- wildered waiter looked at him, in frightend won ler. Why did he start from his chair in that frantic man- ner, and stand looking so white, wild, and agitated 1 ' A lady,' he repeated : * an English lady, tall and fair, with golden hair 1 Make haste ; do not keep her waiting. Good heavens ! I shall go mad with delight. I will ask her, on my knees, to marry me, and — so help me, Heaven ! — I will be a good man ; I will indeed.' He never thought of Valerie. She was far from his mind. The whole world to him was Agatha — no one but Agatha. The frightened waiter answered. *I do not know, monsieur; I cannot tell. The lady is veiled.' ' It is my Agatha. Good heavens ! how grateful I am. It is to me as though she were given back from the dead. He was blind and dazed ; it seemed to him a miracle that Agatha shouM come back. He staggered rather than walked to the door, hungering, thirsting for one look at her. Up the wide staircase, with its crimson carpets, its marble statues, its wealth of green plants, came a tall, slender figure. He could not see distinctly, for bib eyes were dimmed with tears. Ah, thank Heaven, she was not lying under the dark waters of the lake. He tried to speak to her, but his lips were stiflT, and could articulate no sound ; a blood-red mist seemed to hang over »t: m I* I I 170 THE KAin/s ATONEMRNT. him. He caught her arm, and drew her into the room. He clasped her in his arms, he covered her face and hands with pj^sionate kisses he murmured the wildest words of Jove and we come to her; he was quite mad an-"» * You laugJied at me,' she said, fiercely Val!?rie.''"''' ^ ^''^' ^^'^ "^""'^ have 'laughed at yourself, ' Unfortunately, I did not. But I will answer for one thing -you shall never laugh at me again. I will give you such cause to remember myself and my name-that though you may curse me, you will never laugh at me ' 8 j « iu A snouia nate you more, because of what you have done to Agatha— for that harm— for that I shall always lik« v"" ^^hh rb»r r r yourself and your but you ) and fro, >u. You inst this love, be- Valerie, annot be were en- uth,' he jm, evea got up ; ving her ore than rourself, le thing au such ou may pleasant self. I re your t to be women irs ago, longer. ite you 'or that 3ant no BrSOn I 'I WILL GIVE YOU CAUSE TO REMEMBER ME.' 173 ' That is your real meaning and decision,' she said, calmly. * Yes, '-he replied, '"^nd I should like to enforce it— to make it as emphatic as I can.' ' I thank you— I quite understand— there is no need. I shall waste no time in abuse. But I tell you this to your face, Sir Vane— you are the most disloyal, dishonorable man who ever went by the name of gentleman. Perhaps from this you may learn a lesson not to trifle with women. You have trifled with me. You saw that I was inclined to admire and like you, and you enjoyed the incense oftered to your vanity. I grant that I was greatly to blame in letting you know that I loved you. You were still more to blame in accepting that love and hom- age. Why were you true to one thing for once in your life % Why did you not say plainly that you loved Agatha, and Agatha only, and that no other woman had any interest for you r * It would have been better, I admit,' he said. * You see what it has led to. You led ms on until I cared enough for you to do anything which would win you to myself.' * What did you do 1 ' he asked curiously. She knew now that her game was lost ; that never would her hopes and dreams be realized. Sir Vane was dead to her ; but he should never laugh at her again ; he should take his punishment with him. * You shall never laugh at me again,' she said, 'never. I will tell you what I did. I wrote that letter, and addressed it to myself. She had expected him to grow half-mad with anger and in- dignation ; but to her surprise, he merely shrugged his shoul- ders contemptuously. * To tell you the truth, mademoiselle,' he said, ' I more than suspected it. It was so entirely like you, and so worthy of you. Well, you have done your worst with an anonymous letter. It was a good shot ; and it took eff'ect— right through your rival s heart. Oh, gentle, womanly Lands, that could do such a deed ! Oh, rare and womanly heart that could plan it.' His hps worked nervously, and his eyes grew livid. ' I said that if ovwr T fz-kim/l /mi*- *!»" .„^:».,._ „!• i.i._4. i... -r II , \'. " "•"■' ^'^'-^ '■""■^" "iii-ci ui uuut letter, I would Slay him. You are not even worth my anger; but you have my inflate contempt, as one who stabs i'li the dark.' ;-J. m ,r" 174 Ml ^ I THE earl's atonement. ' It seems to me that your contempt is better and less dan- gerous than your love,' she said curtly. 'So you wrote the letter ? You are a clever woman, Valerie, and the idea is worthy of a French play. Would you mind telling me how you secured your information, which I admit to be perfectly correct? I should really like to know.' She told him in a few words. His look of anger softened into contemptuous admiration. •You are a clever woman, Valerie, wonderfully clever. I admire your talents, I admire your courage ; but I would not advise you to exercise them in this fashion again.' ' I have wounded you ; I have hurt you ; I have reached you at last, she said. ' By a very clumsy weapon— an anonymous letter,' he said ; the fittest instrument for such a deed.' And for several minutes there was silence between them. CHAPTER XXXVII. A WOMAN SCORNED. ND Valerie and Sir Vane seemed to measure each other's strength in that one long, silent glance. The tug of war had come. ' I think/ said Valerie, * that however greatly you may be tempted, you will never laugh at me again. I have more to tell you.' ' You had better be careful,' said Sir Vane ; ' I feel some- thing almost like murder rising in my heart.' ' I wish it were murder, and you would kill me,' she said ; ' I should welcome death from your hands.' ' I would not kill you,' he said ; • I think the heaviest punish- ment for you will be to live. What more have you to tell rne 1 ' 'Onlv this ! Timt T tnn\i mv l»»tt«r Ui i7,iii». foU A.^-.J A ...,Ll.- , •• : — .• j--^i' •'.■^ti-iai.-c-j. jr-..j;a-wua, and 1 read it to her word by word, slowly and impressively, so ! A WOMAN SCORNED. 175 that she might understand it ; and when I had finished, she read it, word for word, herself. It may make you more pitiful to women to know how it affected her — it killed her ! If ever a smile comes to her face again, it will be more wonderful than the standing still of the sun. She fell at my feet, and she lay there a crushed, heart-broken woman. She told me that she would go away from you and never look at your face again. She told me, also, that if you knelt to beg her to marry you she would not now ; so that even should you find her, you will have no chance.' ' You can leave that part of the business with me,' he said. ' If, or, rather, when I find her, that will be all right.' He spoke calmly, but his face was as pale as that of a corpse. If she had been a man her life would not have been worth a moment's purchase. 'I was very sorry for her,' she continued. * I do not think any woman ever suffered so much. Her face became ghastly white, and she looked like one who had a sword right in her heart. I was sorry for her, but it was highly necessary that she should understand her position.* How he restramed himself he never knew : afterward, when he recalled this interview, his great wonder was that he had not killed her ; it seemed to him a miracle. He made no answer to her taunts, but they made him feel as he had never felt before. * Let this be endod now,' he said. ' You have done your worst, now go.' * I go,' she replied. * Women have spoiled you. Sir Vane ; you have made toys of them — they have given you blessings instead of curses. I am of different metal, and I intend to take my vengeance.' 'You are welcome to it,' he replied ; ' and — pardon me if I seem flippant — you can take as much as you like.' ' It seems little enough now,' oue said ; * but I will spoil your life — I will spend mine in watching yours, and at every turn I will spoil it. You remember, perhaps, certain words of Con- greve, the poet : "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.' Keep them in your mind,' 17C THE earl's atonement. * Why should you take vengeance on me T he said. ' It is I who am wronged.' ' You have spoiled my life, and I hate you for it.' she cried, in a fury^of passion. ' My love has turned to hate— I am all hate and 1 bid you beware of my vengeance.' ' ' I am not in the least degree afraid of it,' he replied • and your manner of announcing it is worthy of the stage. And now mademoiselle you have confessed your intrigues, you have ac- cused yourse f, you have denounced me, you have sworn ven- geance,all after the kind of a true tragedy queen ; add to these favors one more— leave me in peace.' ' I will ' she said ; ' but remember, the time shall come when you will fear my vengeance and fear me. Until then, farewell ' She was gone— there was no time for another word He saw the tall figure vanish down the broad staircase, and he went back to his room. He was more unnerved, more unsettled than ever. He had partly suspected that she might have had something to do with that horrible letter ; she was more wicked and desperate than he thought And now he felt quite sure that Agatha was dead : she would be in despair ; she would go down to the lake and throw herself in. No one had seen her since the servants saw ner at the lake-side. • Poor, pretty Agatha, he sighed, deeply. It was the saddest ending to a prettv romance. Still it was of no use mourning oyer a woman who was dead ; if she could ood '"^' ^^ ''''"^'^ ^^""^ ^''''"'^ ^^'' *^^ ^^" ^°d He was never constant for very long together ; this had been by far the longest love of his life ; now it was over there was an end ot it, and it was of no use repining. He knew he had always known, that if ever this knowledge reached her she would die of it. It was a most unfortunate business, and he would have been mora content to have laid her in some green English church- yard, than in the depths of the lake waters. ^ He was very depressed and unhappy for two or three weeks so much so that he considered himself a model of constancy' and then he liegan to cheer up a little. ^' Hu met some English frunds in Paris, and they spent some pleasant evenings together. Once more the love of fast life Itial A WOMAN SCORNED. 177 took hold of him ; its false glare blinded him, and he could not believe that he had spent so many months in the solitude of Bellefleurs. He resolved on leaving Paris, and going home to England. There, in the midst of the whirl in which he had lived, he should forget all the sooner. He was dreadfully grieved and sorry ; but ho did not feel at all as though his life was finished marred — far from it. He had to live it. So, after a few weeks, he returned to Gars wood, and was soon plunged into the midst of business, politics, and gayety. He was even more handsome and attractive than ever ; quite as eagerly welcomed ; quite as much sought after. To be mis- tress of Garswood was still the desire of many a fair maiden's heart. There was only one thing which he could not do. He would not go to the A bbey when Lord Croft invited him. He never ceased to love Agatha, and he never ceased to grieve over her ; but, as time passed, the impression grew less. It had only been one of many episodes in his life — it had been the whole of hers. # # * * * * # The same evening that Agatha found her way to the porch of the hospital of St. John — one of the finest institutions in Pa- ris, a sad accident happened to the young Count de Tiernay. He was returning with his mother, the beautiful and wealthy Countess de Tiernay, from a ball, when their carriage came in collision with a fiacre that was rapidly driven by a man not quite sober. He could never answer for the consequences, for he was killed at once. The collision was of terrible force ; the horses were so seri- ously injured that they had to be shot. The two belonging to the Count were most valuable. The countess was thrown out buf escaped uninjured. The count was flung with violence against the curb stone, and lay there like one dead. A crowd collected at once, and two gendarmes came to the scene. It was a curious sight to see that beautiful lady in her diamonds and magnificent dress kneeling on the pavement cry- ing out that her son was killed. She would let no one raise the injured head but herself. She laid it on the soft satin folds of her dress. Heaven's sake find a doctor ' A gentleman in the crowd went forward, and said : ' if h 178 THE earl's atonement. h. ^uTVi'^'^Y^? ^^'* *° ^'^"^ ^^^^'^ » doctor could be found and brought here, the hosi ta^ of St. John is just round the corner; he best plan will be to carry him there.' Do you think he is dead 1 ' asked the lady The strangpp placed his hand on the count's breast. /He IS not dead madam his heart i beating, thoueh faintly. He may rally if he has immediate ',olp. '>ut not if he waits here until the doctor comes-inthat case he must .lie.' Then, for Heaven's sake, let him be taken there I ' she said and^ it was done at once. ' There was an instant stir in the crowd. A Frenchman sel- dom requires asking twice for help. The door of the carriage was taken quickly trom the hinges ; he was laid upon it. Sev- eral strong men came forward with offers of help, and he was carried quickly down the street to the hospital of rft. John Ihe countess walked by his si.le ; she would not leave him for one moment. The usual crowd followed. It was not an uncommon, but a most picturesque procession-the wounded man his mother, in all the splendor of her ball attire, .he die. monds gleaming in the light of the lamps, her jewelled hands ften'r' ' ' ^^' ''^''^' ^^^ ^^^^^ ""'^^^ ^«"'l«r. There was the deep, old-fashioned porch, with the bright light shining, and the great crucifix hanging in the hall, ihe- rang the bell, and while they waited for\n answer, the coun- tess saw f be silent figure, with iU- white face and folded hands, A 3"^ '' '!f • .^'""T ^h^ '^'^ °^" *^« «^^^d had noL aroused Agatr. .ro«i the deadly sleep of exhaustion. The countess weiif up t,.j her. « Dear Heaven ! 'she cried ; ' what a face !-what a beauti- ful angelic face 1 How did this girl come here V No one knew. 'She is a lady,' said the countess ; ' and I fear she is dying Bring some help for her. Oh, Heaven, what a night --how full of misfortune and accident ! ' In the confusion that ensued when the attendants hastened to answer the bell, they assumed naturally that the young girl yingon the seat belonged to the party. Agatha was carried no the hospital and taken to a room, and m!ny hours elapsed before tho truth yiftka \r,y^,.,,^ ^ » ^»a,|^OCU THE <^'RY OF AN ANGUISHED HEART. 171) The doctors examined the young count, and formed a favor- able opinion of him ; ho was not so st orly injured as had been feared at first ; and when madame la i t^ess, in her delight and g atitude, at there weeping haj p} oars, one of the lis- ters came to iuij[uii what should b( one about the young lady who did not seem to be injured, but who was very ill. The countess said, in surprise ; ' We had no young lady with us.' Then she remembered the beautiful face in the porch. ' Sht^ does not belong to us,' said the countess, 'but 1 am so grateful to He-^ »'n for its mercy, that, if she be in want or in need, I will take care of her.' And that was how Agatha bec;une the protege of Madame la Countess de Tiernay. CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CRY OF AN ANGUISHED HEART. EADAME la Countess de Tiernay was one of the wealthi- est and most generous ladies in Paris. She had been one of the most famous court beauties, and had mar- ried the Count Tiernay, one of the richest and most celebrated men in France. Her life had been one long scene of brilliant en- joyment ; she was one of the most popular queens of French society — no one more beautiful or more sought after. While she was at the zenith of her happiness and prosperity her hus- band died, and the beautiful countess was left with this one son. She gave up the fashionable world then, and devoted her sole existence to her son ; and he, in his turn, was extremely fond and proud of his beautiful mother. They went out together continually ; the young count was far prouder of takinr Ms stately, handsome mother to a ball than ot escorting the loveliest girl in Paris. Madame la Coun- tess was most charitable ; it was one of her favorite virtues and occupations. It was said of her that no one ever appealed to MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I ■ 4.5 ■ 5.6 2.8 m 14.0 2.5 [2.2 2.0 1.8 ^ APPLIED IIVMGE inc i653 East Main Street Rochester, New York 14609 USA (716) 482 - 0300 -Phone (716) 288-5989 -Fax ^ D> Hi m II nil 1^ 180 THE EAUL'S atonement. her for help in vain. So that Agatha had fallen into good liands when she attracted the attention of Madame la Countess de Tiernay. The result of the prolonged and repeated examination of the count was that his injuries were not fatal. Still, the most skilful doctors said it would be better for him to remain at the hospital for some days at least, lest the removal should injure him. The nursing of the hospital of St. John was carried on by a band of devoted sisters called ' the Sisters r ? the Red Cross,' a body of noble women, whose lives were i^evoted to good works. One of the kindest and sweetest among them, called Sister Angela, was placed in charge of the young girl found in the old stone porch. The Countess de Tiernay haa been struck with Agatha's almost angelic beauty, and had asked the sisters to find a nice room for her ; she was not to go into the wards where the great body of the patients lay— she was to be what is called a private patient — to have one of the pretty rooms that overlooked the gardens. She was to have every attention, every comfort, at madame's expense ; and when she grew better, madame would see what was to be done. No one knew anything of her— no one had seen her enter the great stone porcli where the wooden crucifix hung. Two or three of the sisters stood round the bed whereon they had laid her; no fairer picture was ever seen than this— the face, white ai'd still as sculptured marble ; the long, dark lashes lying on ^ pale cheek ; the wealth of shining hair lying li ce a veil around her. They drew near to her, these good sisters, who seldom saw anything so fair. One touched the white hand, so cold and still— the others raised a tress of the golden hair. ' She is English,' said Sister Gertrude ; ' a fair, beautiful English girl ; her hair is like gold, and her face like a white rose.' ' She is so young,' said Sister Clare ; ' and her face— ah, Ma- donna ! how beautiful it is. I wonder if all the English ladies are like her 1 ' * Do you think she is a lady 1 ' asked Sister Anna, who rather disliked and mistrusted the term. Sister Clare raised again the white hand that lay outside the counterpane, ' Look, sister,' she said: I s F THE CRY OF AN ANOTHSHED HKART. 181 Ma- And one glance was enough. The beautiful, soft, white hand that lay there was certainly the hand of a lady. ' Look, too, at her dress,' said Sister Clare. * Everything she wears is of the most costly description ; her dress is torn and soiled as if by long walking ; look at the dead leaves cling- ing to it, but it is of the finest description ; look at this hand- kerchief, of the purest lace. Ah, indeed, dear sister, the poor thing is a lady. ' It does not matter much,' said good Sister Gertrude, * whether she is a lady or not ; that is the last thing we need trouble about. Who or what she is does not concern us much, but what can we do for her 1 She is very ill' ' She looks to me,' said Sister Anna, ' as though she would never open her eyes again,' and then the kindly sisters drew nearer in anxious dread. * May Heaven pity her, said Sister Clare. Surely she will not die without a word or a prayer. We must do something at once. Sister Anna, you will be the best to remain with her. Sister Gertrude, will you find Dr. iiegnier at once ? ' The sisters dispersed, each carrying away with her a vivid recollection of the beautiful English girl lying on what seemed to be a bed of death. Then Dr. Regnier came, and looked astonished at the beau- tiful girl. ' Something serious,' he said, to Sister Anna. He bent down over the pale face, he laid his hand on the girl's heart. * She is alive/ he said, ' but this is a worse case than the young count's.' He looked at the white face, and tried to raise one of the white eyelids. * It is the brain,' he said to himself; 'I feared as much.' * Most probably, sister,' he said aloud, ' this is the swoon that often precedes brain fever. It will go hard with her, poor child ! Nothing is known of her, I suppose ? ' ' Nothing,' replied the sister. ' When they carried in mon- sieur le count, she was found just as you see her now, in the porch. The Countess de Tiernay has taken charge of her, as an ac^ n, gravitude, she says, for her son's almost miraculous escape from death.' ff It! h 182 THE EAFl/s ATONEMENT. Suddenly the fair head stirred, and the beautiful eyes opened wide, with a vacant stare. ' Vane I Vane ! ' she cried, and the doctor looked at the sis- ter. *Vane! Vane 1 ' she repeated, and the doctor, looking wisely at the sister, Laid : ' That is a name — an English name — Vane.' ' It is a droll one,' said the good sister, * but these English, they are just a little droll ; do you not think so ? ' ' You are right, ?(ister ; and now what had we better do ? If we knew anything of her story or antecedents, it would guide us.' ' Vane, Vane ! ' cried the ^\r\ ; and the golden head tossed weariedly on the pillow. ' Vane, Vane ! ' * Vane is a man's name,' said the doctor. « Vane is certainly a man's name. Most probably a love story.' • Vane, Vane ! ' she cried ; and good Sister Anna shook her head. ' It will be long before he hears you, my child,' she said ; but Agatha only looked at her with beseeching eyes, and uttered her usual cry : » ' Vane, Vane ! ' 'Brain fever,' said the doctor, 'and it will be a bad case; but she is in good hands. You ca i do nothing more at present than use ice to the head.' The sister took up the long golden hair in her hand, the kindly, loving heart shining out of her eyes. ' I hope this will not be cut off,' she said. • We will save it if possible,' he replied. * Vane, Vane ! ' cried the girl. A burning flush mounted to her face ; her eyes were full of wild burning light ; the white hands beat the air helplessly ; the golden head was tosse'' 'ucessantly to and fro; the quick, rapid cry of ' Vane, Vant .lever atopped. ' That will be trying,' saiu the doctor, as the voice reached to a scream of keen distruis; * it will be very tij^ing for you, sister.' 'It is worse for her,' said the kindly woman — * much worse.' But the time came when Sister Anna would have given any- thing for relief from that one piercing cry. It never ceased ; at one time it was low and tender, then it rose into a prolonged wail of despair. THE OUY OF AN ANOUTSHEB HPIAT^T. LS3 es opened at the sis- , looking ! English, )etter do ? it would tad tossed certainly shook her said ; but 1 uttered 3ad case ; tt present land, the sre full of slplessly ; he quick, ! reached Living for jh worse.' iven any- $ased ; at )rolonged As the fever grew higher, she began to talk about other things. She lay and murmured something of a church — a fair faced saint with a ])alm-branch — of her mother's grave ; but all ended in the cry for ' Vane.' She must have suffered terri- bly the sisters said. ' She has a fine, though delicate constitution, and the fight will be for dear life,' the doctor said. The countess herself came often to the bedside, and more than once her eyes filled with tears as she heard that ever pa- thetic cry, ' Vane, Vane ! ' Then came the time of recovery, when by degrees the cruel mist cleared away, and memory, mure cruel still, came in its place. Good Sister Anna will never forget the day when the beautiful eyes looked in her own, and the weak voice asked : ' Sister, where am I ? ' * In the Hospital of St. John, my child. Heaven be praised that you can speak sensibly.' * Where ? In what hospital ? ' ' You are in Paris, my dear,' answered the nun. * Paris ? I thought I lived by a lake,' she said. ' Paris ! How did I come here *> ' ' I cannot tell you ; ^ ^e found you in the old stone porch.' Slowly enough the memory of it came back to her. A stone porch, with a great crimson lamp burning. Ah ! and a crucifix hanging on the wall. She could see the white face and the crown-thorne I head. Why had she come there ? Then she was in a railway train, travelling by night and by day with speed ; and then she was standing on the terrace, with Valerie standing before her, and telling her, over and over again, that she had never been married, and she was not Vane's wife. She remembered it all then. She looked in the gentle face of the nun. ' Sister,' she said, ' do you think I am ill enough to die ? ' * I hope not, my dear,* was the gentle answer. ' Oh, pray for me that I may die.' God hears the prayers of good people ; pray that I may die.' ' Death is not always better than life,' said the sister. You differ from the last young girl whom I nursed.' ' Do 1. In what way I ' she asked, interested in what the sister was saying. 184 THE EARLS ATONEMENT. *Ah, my dear, she was a young girl, just like you, but French — not English ; and the French are so emotional, you know, so quick. She had been in great trouble, and the doctor said he thought she would die. In the middle of the night I was sitting with her, and I shall never forget how I was startled at the time. A low voice broke the silence of the night. 'Sister', she said, * pray Heaven that I may not die.' * Why, my dear ? ' I asked. ' There are rest and peace in death.' ' There is something better in life,' she said. ' There is time for repentance. Pray for me that I may not die, but that I may live, and suffer, and repen*^^.' * You differ from her, my dear.* ' Yes,' replied Agatha. But she took the lesson to heart, and never prayed again that she might die. The day came when, to the greatrelief of madarae, the count was able to be carried home. Agatha, too, was recovering then, and had become a great fa- vorite with all the good sisters. The impression that her beau- tiful natural character made upon them all was so good that no one ever suspected her, even ever so faintly, of the least wrong-doing. CHAPTER XXXIX. 'I HAVE BEEN SINNED AGAINST.* 'HE Countess de Tiernay sat alone in her magnificent boudoir, a room so luxuriously furnished that it might have been prepared for an empress. The room was a fit shrine for the handsome, stately woman who used it. The countess wore a dress of rich black velvet, trimmed with rare point lace ; she wore diamond rings on her fingers, and a dia- mond brooch fastened the rich lace. She was thinking deeply. She had received a letter that morning from the sisters, sayrag 'I HAVE BEEN SINNED AGAINST.' 185 :e you, but ofcional, you I the doctor the night I was startled night, die.' id peace in here is time b that I may rayed again e, the count B a great fa- it her beau- o good that of the least magnificent it it might v|fl 'oom was a d it. The a i with rare ■■'.i and a dia- 'M ing deeply. ;ers, saymg 'it that the young English girl was now convalescent, and that her room was wanted for others. Would madam e let them know what was to be done 1 The result of which was that the countess had written to usk if they would send the young lady to her. She would soon decide what was to be done. She was waiting for her now, and in a few minutes a servant ushered her into the room. Madame looked at her in wondering admiration. She had only seen her twice, and each time she was under the influence of the fever. The sisters had done their best for her ; they had purchased a plain black d^ess and bonnet — quaint and old- fashioned, but they made ..v. look the more beautiful by con- trast. The tall, slender figure, and pale, beautiful face were seen to greater advantage than would have been the case in any other dress. Madame noticed the air of distinction, the high- bred grace, the elegance of every attitude. ' This girl is a lady,' she said to herself— * a • perfect lady.' She smiled kindly, and held out her jewelled hand in greet- ing. • I am pleased to see you, dear child,' she said. ' Come nearer to me.* Agatha went up to her. • I should like you to understand,' she said, ger.Uy. the source of my interest in you. I have an only son. Do you know what an only son is to the mother who adores him ] I adore my son — he is the whole world to me. Some time since, as you know, we were returning from a ball together, and by some accident our carriage was nearly destroyed, and he was almost killed. He was taken to the hospital, and by the prompt kindly skill there displayed, his life was saved. You, poor child, had taken refuge there the same night, and when I heard of you I vowed, as an act of gratitude to Heaven, I would make you my special care. Are you willing that this should be so ? ' • You overwhelm me with gratitude, madame,' she replied, with tears in her eyes. ' Nay, I would not do that, dear child. You agree to become my charge— that is well. Do not think that I wish to pry into your life, or ask any questions ; there is but one I must ask, Sinn mv haart or>o»"o»ly, and madame 1 1 ^^ appearance education, and manner, you are evidently a lady, well qualihed to take your place in any society. Now I offer you your choice I adopt you, in gratitude to Heaven. You wi 1 forgive my frank speaking if I tell you that you are so beautiful and winning, that if I introduce 'you into society you would marry well.' -a^vicujr The sweet face grew just a little paler. * Oh, no, madame ; 1 shall never marry,' she replied • 'and your rank is so far above mine-that-I would rather nit If you are good enough to take any interest in me, madame let me be taught to work. 1 do not think n7)w thai I couuf live *I HAVE BEEN SINNED AGAINST.' 1S7 'ti fault r Id b^ just Jame,' she know not. but I am h to stand I any one as hers. ,' she con- i only say in ; but I g mother Id church Im branch ed to die itive lips, question 311, it was ur life in ou are a niadame idently a Now I Heaven. t you are o society d; 'and not. If lame, lot 3uld live eisure bo * It shall be as you wish,' said the countess. ' What would you like to be ? What would you choose 1 — some profession 1 ' I should like to make my life useful to others,' she said ; * and I love children. I think, madarae, and if you are willing, I should like to be a governess.' ' I think it is a very sen^ble decision,' replied madame. She was silent for some minutes, during which Agatha watched her anxiously. Then she spoke. * What are your qualifications, my dear ? ' she asked. * What could you teach { ' ' Music,' replied Agatha, her face brightening—' I understand it well ; and French, and Italian ; and I think I am a good English scholar.' ' A very fair list of qualifications,' said madame, well pleased. * Of course there will be a difficulty about situations at first — you had better take one with me. Come and stay with me as my companion, for six months. You can read to me, write my letters, play to me — for I love music. You need not be seen, you can have two rooms ; and when I have visitors — which I do three times each week — you can always retire. Then, when the time is over, unless you wish to remain, I can give you such recommendations as will insure you a good situation any- where.' ' How must I thank you, madame ! ' she cried ; ray heart is full of gratitude. How good you are to me ! What should I have done but for you ? ' * Thank Heaven, my dear child, which has made me the means of carrying its bounty to you. Thank Heaven ! ' ' When I lay in the little room,' said Agatha, * how often have I wondered what would become of me when I grew well. I did not know. And now you, madame, have taken every shadow of care from my heart. I thank you.' * We must go into details now,' said madame. * Of course, you are quite unprovided W'th dress, and indeed with every- thing else 1 ' * I am, indeed,' said Agatha Madame opened her desk, and took from it a bank note. * That will provide you with two or three neat dresses, and nil t.hnf \Tpii iiTOM* Vwkciirlr^ when you get rich.' nalu, diiu jfOu iiicky Lcyay nic, 188 THE earl's atonement. i -ii A few mure days, and Agatha was installed in the luxurious mansion of the Countess de Tieruay. Every attention was paid to her. She had two very nice rooms, and she had time for herself; madame was by no means an exacting employer. In time she became greatly attached to the beautiful English girl, whose sweet face was always so sad ; she loved her very much, and the more time she spent with her the more she ad- mired her, the purity of her character, the frank, noble sim- plicity that could hardly even comprehend deceit or meanness in others, the fervent spiritual mind ; the way that seemed so natural to her of thinking more of Heaven than of earth, all charmed the countess. ' You like to visit the poor,' she said to her one day, * you shall have carte blanche ; there are over a hundred families at least that I should like to assist. You shall be almoner.' And something of the old light came back to her when she was once more of use to the poor. The intolerable sense of degradation under which she had suffered and smarted, seemed lessened. Once more the sweet face did its work among the poor wounded hearts, brought sunshine where darkness had long reigned. The first day of her residence in that superb mansion the countess asked her what was her name. ' There is nothing in a name,' said madame laughing, ' still I must have one for you — you ought to be called " Lily," you are just like one. Yesterday, when you threw my blue 'shawl over your arm, you looked to me so exactly like one of Ra- phael's Madonnas, I was quite startled.' * My name is Brooke,' said Agatha— while the countess had been talking she had been thinking, and the result of her deci- sion was that she would take no false name, that she would use no more disguises. She had done nothing that compelled her to hide herself. ' My name is Brooke,' she repeated ; then she bowed her head, while a great, fitful flush rose to her face. ' I will not hide from you, madame,' she said, ♦ that, for a short time in my life, I bore another name which I equally believed to be my own ; but I had been deceived. I had no riirht to it." ^ And madame, respected the frank young soul that struggled against all deceit and untruth. luxurious ition was had time iraployer. I English her very e she ad- sble sim- anness in eeraed so earth, all ay, 'you kmilies at ler.' >vhen she sense of 1, seemed nong the aess had ision the ;, ' still I ily," you lie shawl e of Ra- A PROPOSAT, RKJErTED. 189 Ail went on gayly, pleasantly, and happily until the young . count rerurned. He had been in the south of France some weeks for his health, and returned well and strong. He had been in the house some few days before ho even saw Agatha. When they met it was at the foot of the grand staircase, and Henri, Count de Tiernay, gazed in wonder at the fair English girl He made her a profound bow. He was a fine, gallant young fellow, brave as a lion, but vain, and he considered him- self irresistible. A look from his fine eyes was, he considered, an arrow in the heart of any woman. France was the finest country in the world ; Frenchmen the grandest race ; French women adorable ; French characteristics the finest known. Of himself the young count had the best opinion. He did not think the woman was born who could r.j8ist him. He was perfectly good — as moral as a French count could be — the very soul of good nature, but vain as a boarding-school lieauty. He darted one glance at the pale, beautiful face, and then he treated Agatha to his best bow. * That must impress her,' he thought. * It is impossible for it to be otherwise ; ' while Agatha, whose horror of men had reached a frenzy, hastened away without the least acknowledg- ment of the count's courtly bow. He stood looking after her, and he smiled to himself as though his thoughts were very pleasant ones. tess had lier deci- ould use jUed her then she iace. * I a short believed right 10 truggled CHAPTER XL. A PROPOSAL REJECTED. (>^ N vain did Count Henri linger in the halls, on the stair- "][[ cases, and pay the most devoted attention to his lady ^^^ mother — he saw no more of the enchanting vision. Tired ot waiting in vain, he determined to ask the countess about uer. * Mamma, he said, one evening, as he sipped his coffee, ' the other day, on the staircase here, I saw an ang(d ! ' I i $ I 190 THE haul's atonement. • ' She is au angel, my dear, if you mean Miss Brooke.' she re- phed. ' Who is Miss Brooke 1 ' ho inquired. 'A proteffe of mine— a young lady under my especial care and protection.' 'A very happy young lady to be so well placed,' said the count, with another of his finest bows to his mother. The countess gave him the ftdl history of her, and he was deeply interested. Quick, like all his countrymen, to feel and to sympathise, the tears rose to his eyes as he heard the pa- thetic story of the girl's illness. * How sad ! ' he cried. « You are good, mother. I must do something for her as well.' ' No, my son, that would not do. She is my proteqe, and I require no help. She is a lady ; indeed I may say that in my whole life I have met with no more perfect lady than this young The count bowed again. What a most charming circum- stance that this young girl should have taken refuge with his mother ! Another week passed, and he had seen nothing of her. Agatha, gomg to her sitting-room one morning, found there a superb bouquet of flowers, all white, and of the most costly descrip- tion. In one moment her instinct told her that the count had sent them. She took them up in her hands at once, and went with them to madame's room. 'These must be intended for you, Madame la Countess,' she said, ' and they have been brought to my room by mistake.' Madame took them without any comment— she never thought of her son. He did not feel so victorious as usual when he saw his costly bouquet distributed among the vases in his mother's boudoir. * A silent warfare,' thought the count. The next day on her table appeared an equally magnificent bouquet, all of crimson flowers. They shared the same fate. * I will not be discouraged,' said the count to himself ; and the day following she found a fragrant mass of Parma violets imbedded in damp moss. The fragrance filled her room, and sent her mind back to that beautiful valley in Whitecroft. where the spring violets grew. She placed them in the dining-room, so that he should see they were not accepted. ii-.^J. A PROPOSAL RKJRCTFI). 191 Seeing that she persisted in ignoring him, the » ount became more and more dctormined on making a conqiiost. Fortune favored him ; going to his mother's bou(h)ir one morning, he found Miss Brooke there mending miuw of the rare okl lace. lie was, perhaps, a little disappointed that, after all his gal- lant attentions, the beautiful face neither Hushed nor paled for him. Agatha made him one bow — the very essence of dis- cretion -and never even gave another glance in his direction. After that, finding that her protege had a real aversion to the society of all gentlemen, madame never sought to keep her apart from her son. The young count joined tlivS ladies at their work, and read aloud to them. But never, during the numerous times they met, did Agatha ever give look or word to the count. Madame was charmed with her. Such discretion, such pru- dence, such wisdom she had never seen in one so young and beautiful. A few more weeks passed on, and all was peace. Agatha str()v<^ her best ; she beat back with an iron hand the great waves of pain and despair that seemed to overwhelm her. She prayed through the long watch ?8 of the night ; she visited and comforted the poor ; she busied herself in doing everything that was most kind and attentive for ir ;'dame ; but the pain of her terrible wound never stopped — she might hide it and cover it, but it was always there. The time came when the count declared himself madly in love with her. The first symptom of it was a morocco case found on the table of her sitting-room. She opened it, and found therein a brooch and a pair of diamond ear-rings. They glistened and shone like fire. She closed the case hastily — the very sight of them pierced her heart as with a sharp sword. She went to him at once ; she had heard him open the dining- room door. She followed him into the room, and returned the packet to him. ' You have made a mistake, Monsieur le Count,' she said. * I could not take this present from you. And would you be so kind in the future to refrain from sending me flowers ? It does not please me.' ' I am grieved at having oflFended you,' he said. kindly , but these things are not pleasing to me.' 192 THE earl's ATONEMKNT. Great Heaven ! what are these English ? ' thought the young man to himself. ' The most charming of their maidens remains undazzled by flowers and diamonds.' J It shall be just as mademoiselle wishes,' he replied. ' My object was merely to give pleasure.' ' I assure you,' she replied, with a candor that was almost shocking, « that I find no pleasure in it.' "With a look of deep mortification, the count bowed again. • J am indeed unfortunate,' he said. ' I am most unhappy.' A smile, long absent from Agatha's face,came back— a smile that seemed to begin iu her eyes and ripple over her lips— a smile that made her so beautiful, the young man said to himself, suddenly : ' T will marry her ! She will be the fairest wife in France. But this requires thought.' The thought, once having taken root in his mind, he fell a victim to It. Her face haunted him ; he thought of it by day Ia u^J!^^^^^' ^^ ^^® ^^^ ^^^^ serious attack of love-fever he had had ; he had worshipped at a hundred shrines, but never for long, and now he wanted to marry. He thought about it for some time; his mother might say somethmg of her past, which he understood to be mysterious • what of that to him 1 She had no money, true : but she was a fortune in her adorable self. He could not and would not see any reason in the world why he should not marry this girl on whom he had fixed his heart. Having determined himself to marry her, it did not occur to him that perhaps she might not be willing. His chief puzzle was how he should make the offer- whether it should be through his mother, whether he should write, or whether he should seek an interview with her himself. That he might be refused or rejected never occurred to him. ; The English miss,' so beautiful, so good, with the face and vcace of an angel. It would be better— surely a hundred times better— to write to her ; it was more respectful, more like ho- mage. He composed a letter that for eloquence, for description of his love-sickness, was a masterpiece worthy of Dumas. He was delighted with it ; he read and re-read it, lamer-tin" that all the young men of Paris were not there to profit by it^ He gave it to her himself. 'I A PROPOSAL REJECTED. 108 * Miss Brooke,' he said, ' the answer to that makes me the happiest man on earth, or plunges me into despair." Agatha was beginning to feel much annoyed at his proceedings. She liked him just because he was the son cf madame ; she was pleased with his general character, much amused at his vanity. She was almost shocked when she read that most complimen- tary letter. That any one should want to marry her — should think of marrying her — was to her most horrible. i^\e could not think why so young and happy a man as the count should want to marry her. There was a kind of desecration in her mind — she, who had believed herself to be Vane's wife, to receive an offer of marriage ; she was humiliated at the very idea of it Perhaps Henri Count de Tiernay was never so surprised in his life as when he received the answer to his note. She thanked him courteously and gracefully, but was firm in de- clining it. She prayed that he would never allude to it again. The count was furious, baffled. Love and despair raged in his breast. He went to his mother and told her how much he loved the young English girl. * P*--^ will never n.arry, my son,' said the countess. I know but - vde of her past, yet I am sure there is something in it which will keep her from marrying.* The count was inconsolable. * It is just my luck,' he said, ' to fall in love with one I can never marry ! ' ' It seems to me that every wish in your life has so far been gratified. You must learn to bear disappointment.' She was sorry for him, but at the same ' ime thankful Miss Brooke had refused him. She had taken a protege for the love of Heaven, but she did not at the same time expect in her a daughter-in-law. Agatha looked pitifully at her. ' Dear madame,' she said, ' I must go ; I must leave you ; I could not remain here. Monsieur le count looks miserable, and when I have been away a few days he will have forgotten me.' * I am afraid not,' replied madame, slowly. * For many things I SuoUid nave liked luy sod to have had a wife like you. H p,p I il m V 194 THE earl's atonement. You would have such leave me, do you think ? a good influence over him. Must you I am afraid thei e is no othe; Agatha ' " "" """"' ^*'"^'« op*'" to me,' said afatahey. Certainly the mistress of the registry office snX An Endi?hT7^ ""^ best situations on he'books ^ thn^l ur ''^y,^"'i gentleman residing in Paris-and a compStrrSr''' "^" <"'""'"^'' -^'^ -» --'«"- ^ •No" tt?. "" ''''"<'^™ '« t^""!" » ' asked Agatha. Norml'rTu?S™irPari:? """• """ "^-i— 'Mr. and M.. nifl^cent7„"itf w™""- '^'"'^'''1 ^"^ " °«'»^'''». "'""'t as mag. A HOUSE WITH A MYSTERY. 195 Must you me,' said ► lose her t the time i arranged offices in I, indeed, the dozen e did was ice spoke 8 — and a nted as a certainly ion when and Mrs. as mag- mess of servants o the li- er soon, ery pos- ise want CHAPTER XLT. A HOUSE WITH A MYSTERY. GAT HA rose from her chair as a tall, well-dressed lady entered the room. She, who in her simple way was a keen observer of character, was struck dumb at once by the repressed powar and passion of the woman's face. A tall and very beautiful figure. Agatha was impressed also by the figure; it was simply perfection ; and the dress she wore of pale gray-velvet, fitted her like a glove. Every line and curve of that figure was shown by the wonderful Parisian costume. She had the most exquisite white hands, but her face was plain and ordinary, her eyes small and too close togteher, the mouth not well formed, and showing by no means beautiful teeth — 'a plain woman' any one must have called her ; but there was something in her face which attracted attention. Under some circumstances, the face might have been much more comely, but now it was hard and suspicious. Agr*tha was not altogether impressed favorably with her. ' I am Mrs. Norman,' she said ; and the voice was thoroughly refined, musical and clear. *I am Miss Brooke. I have called from the registry ofiica' * Pray be seated, Miss Brooke ; and as you have travelled some little distance, let me offer you some refreshment.' A good and kindly beginning, but Agatha declined anything. Mrs. Norman looked anxiously at her. ' Do you know,' she said, and again Agatha was struck with the bitterness in her voice, ' do you know that you are a very beautiful woman 1 ' ' I am afraid that I care very little about it ; that fact gives me no pleasure.' 'And I would give the whole wide world and everything in it for a beautiful face, and you do not prize it ! Shall you like being a « ' jLLiyaiiixjii f * Yes ; very much,' she answered. ir ua g^m^.-ZTTT p-~--.-. . . I9n THE earl's ATONKMENT. Do you realize the fact,' continued Mrs. Norman, ' that if, Zhi^ fr ^Tt ^""l ^^^'^'^^ ^" «°«'«*3^ here in Paris where they go mad about beautiful women, you would marry at once and narry well ? ' ^^^ny Agatha turned from her with a sick shudder, sick at heart. f«^ . '"^4 ^'? ^«^"^an» ^'ith fierce delight ; that does not deri^ /ul' f T."?" ^« »«t f r« about society-its base lies and deceits. Its fashion of smiling m your face while it stabs you to the heart. You do not caro for it ? ' siblf he/p^if'"' ^^^'^' ^ '"''"^'^ "'''^'' '^''' ^" ^* '^ ^ ^^"^^ P'^^- seetdtoro\"er\tL'r'^^^^" ^^^" ^"^^^- ^^^ 'Did you come direct from the office, Miss Brooke V meant ^' *'*'^' ^^^ '^^^'^'^* wondering what the strange lady * You are quite sure ? ' * Yes, quite sure,' replied Agatha. aske^dTZ No' min. "^ "^"^ ^"'^^ ^^^ ^"«^ ^^^^-S «^ ^ ^ ' she^eplfed^'^^ """^ ^^^'"^ '*"' ^ '^""^ """^ ^^^'^ ^^^^ mentioned,' She saw a sudden yellow fire leap into the dark eyes, and Mrs Norman looked at her with a sweet, subtle smile. One IS compelled to ask so many questions,' she said, ' and some of them are so disagreeable. I must ask this : Has-has myjmsband had anything to do with this-your application But Agatha was too innocent to understand even the mean- ing of the question The insult, for it was one, flowed past her, leaving her unharmed. ^ ' No,' she replied wonderingly. ' It was the Countess de liernay who sent me to the registry office ' Mrs Norman saw that no glimpse of her meaning had been understood by the pure-minded girl. She was pleased. I suppose r^ ^""'"^ '' ''ompanion with her for some time, Un'/l'''. ' '/r ''? ^,^f u^^' ' ^ ^^^ <^h«"«h^ «f returning to Eng- land, but if I should be so fortunate as to clease yon. T shonfd pot mind remaining in Paris.' ' "" i A HOUSE WITH A MYSTERY. 197 ' We shall remain for the present, I am sure,' said Mrs. Nor- man, with a stTfF, disagreeable smile that Agatha understood afterward. * Now about terms, Miss Brooke. Pardon me if I say that money is no object with me. I want a bright, kind, clever companion.' ' I am sure I can be kind ; I could promise to be most at- tentive and devoted to you ; all my life I have been accustomed to take care of others ; but I cannot, I am afraid, always be bright.' * You will be bright enough for me,' said Mrs. Norman. ' As for being clever,' continued Agatha, I can say nothing.' * There is nothing to be said ; I know all about it,' said Mrs. Norman. * Let me explain your duties. You will have two rooms for yourself, and your duties will never begin until noon. The first thing, you will have to take luncheon with us — with Mr. Norman and myself ; then in the afternoon we will drive or walk ; we dine at seven, after which we go to theatre, or ball, or opera ; we never spend an evening at home. My hus- band likes society, and I do not care to be alone in this great house, I want you to take luncheon with us, to dine with us, to go everywhere with me, from the time you join me in the morning until night not to leave me. Should you like that lifer ' As well as any other,' said Agatha. * Then we may consider the affair settled,' replied Mrs. Nor- man. ' The question of stipend you will find that I have made a note of here. If it pleases you, let me know. And 1 must add this. Miss Brooke, that if you go out with me I must find you in dresses. When could you come to me T ' Any time you wish. I am at liberty to-day.' * Then come to-morrow,' she replied. ' I will do so,' said Agatha. Just as they were parting, Mrs. Norman took up a photo- graph that stood in a beautiful frame on the table. She held it out to Agatha. * What do you think of this 1 ' she said. Agatha looked at the face. It was singularly handsome, bright, full of impulse, but not trustworthy—by no means trustworthy. ' What do you think of that face ] ' asked Mrs. Norman, t I! 198 THE earl's atonement. Agatha looked at her suddenly. It seemed a strange pro- ceeding, and not altogether wise to pronounce any decided opinion on a stranger. Why should Mrs. Norman want her opinion on any face ? * Should you think that a face to be trusted ? ' asked Mrs. JNorman. Agatha looked helplesss, first at her and then at the photo- graph. Prudence and common sense told her she had better not answer. She said : 'I do not believe that anyone judges cf character from photographs. I could judge better if I saw the living face. It IS very handsome, but I can see nothing more than beauty.' Mrs. Norman hardly looked pleased : evidently she wanted Agatha to say the face was not a true one. The whole interview left a strange impression on her mind. Mrs. Norman's face was different from any she had seen, the repressed passion, the power, the strong character, all struck her^ When she told the story of that interview to Madame de xiernay, the French lady said at once : ' You must take care. Miss Brooke ; I feel sure there is a mystery m that household. Do not go— there are plenty of other situations open to you.' ^ 'I shall have something to bear everywhere,' said Agatha ; and I feel interested in this lady. She did not look to me like a happy woman. Perhaps I may be of some use to her— I may add to her comfort.' There is one thing,' said madame, * if you do not like the household, you can leave at once ; you will always have a home nere. If the Countess de Tiernay had known all that was about to happen, then she would rather have kept Agatha with her at any cost to her son. Agatha went, as had been arranged, on the day following. Mrs. Norman received her kindly. She was shown to her room, and the rest of the day was given to her to arrange the wardrobe and drawers, and make herself quite comfortable. 'My maid is a Frenchwoman,' said Mrs. Norman, 'and she will do anything you wish. Her name is Aline.' And Agatha found Aline a nice, kind-hearted girl. Ta house with a mystery. 199 There was some mystery in the house, there could be no doubt of that. When Aline spoke of her mistress, her voice changed and grew full of sympathy. Agatha spent the greater part of the day in her rooms ; then, just before six a message came to her from Mrs. Nor- man asking if she would like to go down to dinner. *I may as well,' she thought. She chose a pretty dinner-dress of plain black net, but the white, beautiful neck and arms shone through it with the gleam of pearls, the fair face and golden head rose like a flower from the cloud of net. She looked far too beautiful for her post, and the worst thing about it was this, that the more she tried to disguise her loveliness the more distinctly it was seen. She went down to the drawing-room where Mrs. Norman waited for her ; she smiled when she saw the exquisite face and figure — a curious, thoughtful, complex smile, that would not make any one feel much the happier for seeing it. She herself was superbly attired in a dress of pale velvet, trimmed with oak-leaves, the faultless figure, the superb bust and shoulders, the white," rounded arms and lovely hands contrasted oddly with the plain face. Mrs. Norman went up to her. ' How happy you must be to have that beautiful face. I wish to Heaven 1 could buy it from you.' ' Why should you want it 1 You have beauty enough of your own.' ' Beauty 1 ' she repeated, with a little reckless laugh. ' If I had your face I would have mv heart's desire— I would have my revenge. You must not think that I am mad, but you do not know what a beautiful face would do for me.' A sound of coming footsteps— Mrs. Norman's face flushed, then turned deadly pale ; she trembled with agitation. The door opened, and a gentleman entered — the original of the photograph, Agatha saw at once. Ho spoke a few careless words to his wife, and bowed low when he was introduced to Miss Brooke. His wife was watching him : she noticed the start of sur- prise ; the look of admiration^ It was imnossible to tell whether she was plea^d or angry. As a relief to all embar- .y. I'M, 200 THE EARLS ATONEMENT. « :' I '!» , rassment, the dinner-bell rang, and the three wen^ ■■■> the dining-room together. Agatha looked curiously at the master of the house. He was very handsome, but the face did not please her. It was not true ; there was a shiftiness in the fine eyes, something of cunning in the smile— she did not like them. He was very attentive to her, and, in a minor degree, to his wife. He drank plenty of champagne, and pressed it eagerly upon them. ' What are you going to do this evening 1 ' asked Mrs. Nor- man. As she toyed with some rich purple grapes lying in her plate those white fingers trembled with agitation.' * This evening,' he said, « I have three or four imperative engagements.' 'JSIone of them include me, I suppose?' said Mrs. Norman * I think not. I shall be at liberty tomorrow evening.' ' Will you ] Then I should like to witness the * Sphinx.' It is being played now at the , and they tell me that the new actress. Mademoiselle Freda is perfection.' She looked direct at her husband as she spoke. He laughed, and a flush passed over his handsome face. ' Perfection is very difficult to find,' he replied. And then Agatha knew there was something wrong be- tween husband and wife. IN CHAPTEIi XLII. THE husband's JOKE. T was not altogether unpleasant this first day in her new and strange home. Agatha was an early riser, and her duties did not begin until noon ; she was free to do as she liked. She could wander over the beautiful picture-gal- leries of Paris, over the dim, beautiful churches /she ©ould THE husband's JOKE. 201 eni the ouse. He r. It was nething of ree, to his it eagerly Mrs. Nor- her plate mperative Norman ling.' hinx.' It > that the » laughed, rrong be- her new , and her ) to do as ftturfi-ffal- he 6ould read, she could sit in the lovely gardens of the Tuileries, she could stand on one of the bridges and watch the flow of the Seine. Those morning hours were invaluable to her. Then came the part of the day she really did not like, sit- ting down to breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Norman ; they were either gloomily silent, icily polite, or disagreeable to each other ; there was never any attempt at pleasant conversation. During luncheon Mrs. Norman inquired about his engage- ments, during dinner she sneered at them. When she asked her husband to take her out he generally contrived to avoid it. Once he said, laughingly : ' It has such a stupid, old-fashioned Darby and Joan kind of a look, taking one's wife out in that manner. We shall be called " Darby and Joan," Phillis, if you are not careful.' * ! do not agree with you,' said Mrs. Norman ; « the most fit- ting and proper thing in the whole world is for a husband to take his wife out.' ' Look at the fashionable ladies of Paris ; when do you ever see them at the theatre or opera with their husbands.' * Thank Heaven I am not a Frenchwoman ! * said Mrs. Norman. ' I am not sure that you have much to be thankful for,' said Mr. Norman. « My idea is that people should go out to enjoy themselves— not in fetters and chains.' * I always enjoy myself best with you,' said Mrs. Norman. He laughed carelessly. 'The circumstances are quite different.* * You mean,' she retorted, * that I, being a plain woman, at- tract no attention, and could not expect to receive any, except from my own husband ! ' * If you choose to imagine that I mean all kinds of disagree- able things,' he said, ' I cannot help it. It is quite as easy to interpret people kindly as unkindly.' 'My husband,' said Mrs. Norman, turning to Agatha, * is a fervent worshipper of beauty. A woman may be all that is most accomplished, clever and intellectual, but unless she has a beautiful face, he would not admire her.' ^\ ^S y®l^ *^\"k that a very formidable trait in my character, iniss xjiooke i ' he asked. Agatha answered : i' 'l;l i ;' ' 1 Mr I ] a If 202 THE earl's atonement. ' I think it is a very common one, and that you share it with most other gentlemen.' * That is very cruel of you,' he said, * It is perfectly true,' she replied. ' I think most men are h 1 away by a pretty face or a well-turne figure.' •I like them combined,' said Mr. Norman, with an air for which she could have boxed his ears. *Mr. Norman differs from other people in this respect,' said .his wife, 'that he very often sees beauty where others see none.' No smile came to her face. It was like a long civil war, and Agatha accustomed to the devotion and love of Sir Vane, could not understand it. She sat, looking from one to another in wonder. Was this the peace, love, and happiness of married life 1 There were times when Mr. Norman seemed to hate the very sound of his wife's voice, and when she detested him. Agatha could not tell at the end of a month whether this plain woman, with the beautiful figure, loved her husband or de- tested him. That there was something unusual between them she felt as- sured ; but she was far too delicate and refined to make any effort to find it out. One thing struck her with wonder every hour of the day, and it was the lady's anxiety to make herself better looking. She spent a small fortune in the purchase of cosmetics, powders, and washes for the complexion, but she could not improve a skin that nature had never intended to be smooth and clear. * Do tell me,' she would say, looking wistfully at Agatha — * do tell me how you manage that lovely complexion 1 It looks like milk and roses.' ' I do not manage it at all,' Agatha replied, with a wonder- ing laugh. ' You must use something,' said Mrs. Norman. * I use plenty of soft, beautiful rain water,' said Agatha, and then for some time Mrs. Norman had a mania for the use of rain water. Gradually, but slowly the truth broke in upon Agatha. It was because Mrs. Norman's husband so greatly admired beautiful women that she wanted to be beautiful. When Agatha found out that, her heart went out in wistful pity to I'HE HUSBANDS JOKE. 203 the woman whose plain face waa her one great trouble. The motive seemed almoHt to juHtify the weakness of vanity ; but* before Agatha had been many weeks there shn felt quite sure that even if madam had the beauty of Venus, her husband would never have loved her. One little incident told her tiiot. Mr. Norman was playing one day with a beautiful little spaniel, when by some accident the dog detached the gold chain ho wore, and a pretty golden locket which had been fastened to it, which rolled away to the ground. It fell near Agatha. As a mere act of common politeness she picked it up. The fall had opened it, and though she had not the faintest, wish to see what it contained, she could not help it. Her eyes fell on the loveliest girl's face she had ever beheld — a face with splendid liquid blue eyes and golden hair. She thought nothing of it — a man may wear the portrait of his sister, mother, cousin, aunt or friend. It certainly looks bet- ter when he wears the portrait of his wife ; but then every one does not study outward appearances. As she returned the locket to him he saw that she must have seen the face inside. Their eyes met and his face flushed a little. She forgot the whole event until the next day, when Mr. Norman made a pre- text for speaking to her. * Miss Brooke,' he said, ' I want to thank you for your kind- ness to me yesterday over the locket.' She looked up in quick surprise. * I remember no kindness, Mr. Norman,' she said. ' I do. You picked up my locket and gave it to me.' * That was courtesy, not kindness,' she said, gravely. * Call it by what name you will, it is all the same,' he ans- wered. ' I am grateful to you. You saw the face it had 1 ' * I saw a face,' she admitted, reluctantly. ' Did you recognize it T he asked, quickly. * I — certainly not. I hardly saw it.' * Well,' he said, laughingly, ' you are about the only lady in Paris who would not have known it at once.' ' I have not the faintest interest in it,' she said coldly. •Add one favor,' he continued. * Say nothing to Mrs. Nor- man about it. One may just as well avoid all scenes.' * I am indignant that vou should think such a re'^neat ful,' she replied. ' I am incapable of doing such a thing.' ii rtaoA- 204 THE earl's atonement. • It is a foolish thing of me to wear it,' he said, * but 1 was , compelled to yield.' ' I beg,' said Agatha, with the gentle dignity which suited her 80 well-—' I beg that you will not insult me by saying any more about it, oi I shall feol sorry that I rendered you th< •ervicp, slight as it was. I have no wish for any confidencw on th«i jioint.' ♦ I repeat that you are the only lady in Purls who wouM not have known the face.' ' I have no reply to make,' she said. ')f course,' he cried, impatiently, 'you take madame's side. You women hang together so that a man has no chance.' * If you will be i)leased to remember that I do not even understand you,' said Agatha ; but she was to nude.stand doon. A few days after this Mrs. Norman wanted souie shopping done, and did not feel inclined to go out- iier head ached^ and she was depressed in spirits. Agathi^ offered to go and do it for her. While she was in the PaLi^ Koyal she had some occasion to go into a jeweller's shop ; a brooch that she valued much was broken. To her surprise she saw Air. Norman there, and before him on the counter lay some superb diamonds.' One she noted especially for its rare beauty— a diamond neck- lace, and instead of locket or pendant there was attached to it a diamond cross. ' This is the finest set we have,' said the jeweller. ' They were ordered by a Russian prince for his wife, but she died, and he has left them with us.' * The finest, but the most expensive,' said Mr. Norman. ' That goes without saying,' he replied. ' What is the price ? ' asked Mr. Norman. ' Now say the least you can. Do not ask the most for the time-honored rea- son that I am an Englishman., The jeweller whispered to h'im. There was some slight con- troversy, and then he cried out : * I will take them ; I will write out a check now.' He did not see Agatha, who transacted her business, happy to think that he was making so magnificent a present to the wife who, for his sake, D< d sncli a passionate desire to be beau- ^i.^'^i. /•: comforted by: eW.T]a heart. \''ver all, she thought, she had judged him I«ii;iLij. A man who spends so many THE husband's JOKE. 205 would not thousand pounds on bis wife must have some good in him. Sli" heard him say i^otut^ Uing to the jeweller about sending thorn that very aft^..- u.on— there must be no delay ; and she positively liurried home that she might bt- there to congratu- late Mrs. Norman, The huHband was more agreeable than ever during break- ta t. He told some sparkling stories. He dipped lightly into the floating scandals, but the wife's face was gloomy and lower- ing— evidntly the diamonds had not arrived. ' They will come this afternoon,' Agatha thought, ' and then this dear lady will smile.' But the afternoon wore on, an ■ no diamonds came, li either could she by any charm drive away the despondency mm niadarae's face. * When she know.s what a beautiful present is comi ' t,o her, she will cheer up,' thought simple Agatha; 'and th* gh she has fine jewels, she has nothing like those diamuuls, a I they will suit her well.' But the diamonds did not come, and she began to think that the jeweller must have made a mistake.' She grew nervous and anxious about theiu; she had not distinctly Mr. Norman repeat that they vere to be sent that aften It would be better, she thoug it, in her simplicity, to >. to him. W'liat a horrible thing t would be if they were The sweet face grew quite pale w th anxiety at the idea. I ter to speak to him most certainly. So when Mr. Norman came home, an I was going to hi." dressing room, she sent ask if she could see him for a few minutes. All P iris laugh* next day at the story. He told it ii the most am ising fashion everywhere — at the clubs, on the i oulevards— and very much indeed the gay city enjoyed the jok e. She spoke with admir- able simplicity, and seemed so anxious that the jewels should not be lost. He laughed ; then he s id, solemnly : * Have you mentioned the matter ;o Mrs. Norman 1 ' ' Certainly not,' she replied. * Then do not do so. You have fa en asleep and dreamed it all. I have never purchased diami ids, or anything else for my wife ; and whit is more, I never t lught of doing so.' Agatha was left to make what reflec ons she liked. )te rd in. tk t. 206 THE earl's atonement. CHAPTER XLIII. A WOxAIAN'S TERRIBLE VENGEANCE. !.. s;i if ! ! <»^ VIDENTLY something worse than usual had happened, for Mra Norman looked really unhappy. She had never been bright or cheerful, but now she was some- thing worse than that. Her husband never took any notice of her failing health or spirits. Since the affair of the diamonds, Agatha had quite disliked Mr. Norman ; she would have left but that she had grown attached to the unhappy woman, who never ceased to bewail her want of beauty. She said one day to Agatha : ' If I had been offered my choice of all the gifts that Heaven gives to men and women I would have chosen beauty.' 'You would have been like Paris,' replied Agatha, 'and I have always thought that an ignoble choice. Juno offered him power; Minerva offered him wisdom; Venus offered him beauty, and he chose it. I would have taken either of the other two in his place.' ' Beiuty wins the hearts of men,' sighed the woman who longed for it. ' It may win, but it does not keep them. A man can love beauty in a picture or a statue 1 He wants more than that when he loves. Shall I tell you what I think is the one quality in a woman that would win a man's heart most quickly aiid keep it best.' ' I should like to hear,' said Mrs. Norman, 'Cmstant cheerfulness,* said Agatha. 'To my thinking, that is a quality far before beauty in any woman.' ' I wish other people thought the same thing. I would culti- vate a clieerful face. But, Miss Brooke, nothing could make my face even passable : 1 know all its defects. My eyes are small, and so close together ! breadth between the eyes and the eyebrows is a great beauty, and my husband loves a beau* tiful face.' A WOMAN S TERRIBLE VENGEANCE. 207 lappened, She had ras some- notice of liamouds, have left nan, who I one day b Heaven ha, 'and 10 offered Fared him er of the man who can love han that the one t quickly thinking, uld culti- uld make eyes are eyes and !s a beau- There was such pathetic misery in her voice that Agatha's heart was greatly touched. * I wish you could believe me,' she said, that you must cer- tainly overrate beauty. Some of the most charming women who ever lived have not had one good feature in their faces — not one. Genius, good-temper, power, eloquence, shown in the face, are better than beauty. You will forgive me if I say that yju have little reason to complain. Nature has given you a perfect figure ; you have the most beautiful neck, arms, and hands I have ever seen. To watch you move is a pleasure.' ' You are kind to say so ; but once — once ! ' she repeated, with a sudden passion, ' I heard my husband say that my face was as malicious as it was ugly. He does not know that I heard him, but I did. Another time I heard him say that he could not kiss a plain woman.' She added sadly, ' he never kisses me.' ' I am sure if you would try to be bright and cheerful, to smile and talk pleasantly, it would be different,' said Agatha. * You speak who have never known neglect or indifference ; you who have beauty speak to one without it.' ' A beautiful soul makes a beautiful face — intelligence on the brow ; a clear, frank, pure nature shining in the eyes ; grace, courtesy, and love on the lips, are better than pink and white loveliness.' Mrs. Norman shook her head gravely. * I have seen what I have seen,' she eaid, ' and my experience has not been too pleasant.' ' I know I shall never convince you, but it is a fact that some of the most famous women have been the plainest — wo- men who have ruled the world. Of what avail was her great beauty to Marie Stuart 1 — it did not keep her head from the block. Of what avail was her queenly loveliness to Marie An- toinette 1 How many women whose souls are lost would now be saints in Heaven but for the curse of beauty ] ' ' Still it is power — Marie Stuart's face has come down to us in song and story.' * It has — but it did not save her from death. Beauty may charm for a while, but, believe me, men soon tire of it, while 1 llifcl .U. V. nanus 1 * Has your beauty given you no pleasure 1 * asked the rest- less woman. Ml i 208 THE earl's atonement. . 1 ! 3 ■■ ' None,' said Agatha Brooke. thp^l^l'^^^^^^^ir'^''^ ^'^^ ^' ^^"^^ ^"«nd8 came to dine at the house. Mrs Norman was very kind and considerate. It you would rather not dine with us, Miss Brooke' she Tnfoy i^! "'• '^ ^"'^ "^'^^- ' ^^^"^' *^-gh, that you wodd ;Wili your visitors be French people T asked Agatha. No ; they are Americans,' replied Mrs. Norman ■ ' verv nice clever people^ I think you wo^fld like them. I needTot ay that shall be only too well pleased if you will come fthen the burden of entertaining will not fall upon me ' hi-TnlT f P n ^"^ ^T^\ P^'^^- ^^'- ^^''"^a" ^as in one of cneertul and bright. It was by far the most pleasant evening he had spent there yet. The Americans wei^e cuUivated Z sicians ; Colonel Napier Hudson had a fine tenor voice and^^ fair young wife a sweet and plaintive contralto ' tb. JI!f . f .'"""T'^^'^" ?"""^ ^^^»«^ that struck Agatha the most ; it turned upon the difference of crime in Enfland and France. Colonel Hudson thought the French people more capricious and fantastic in their crimes than the ErSh iA .i-^i."P ,' o^^ murder is essentially English,' he'said • death by the fumes of charcoal or the depths of the river es- sentially French. There is far more fantasUc horror in a French ZrlThirwTfnW^^^"^ ^^ Englishman, wishing o uTwth a^^a^of' charcoal '' ''''' ' ' ^^^"^^^^^ «^""- rr,iif "i ^A- ^r §1"}^^^^^^ argued for some time as to which method displayed the greatest sign of civilization. We have not chosen a very cheerful subject,' laughed Mrs Colonel Hudson. 'Speaking of murders, all Paris! rinS wih the most terrible story that has ever been told.' ^ ^ What IS It ' asked Mrs. Norman. 'Some of the most awful tragedies have taken place in Paris, and if his brthe worst, It must be very bad.' ® 'It is very bad,' said Mrs. Colonel Hudson ; 'so bad that it could not be worse In our country many a ian and woman W It: tt' ''' ''''' ^''^ ^« ^^^ -St horrible thinT? 11 A woman's terrible vengeance. 209 then * And mine,' added her husband. * It seeras too terrible even to mention in this happy home atmosphere,' said Mrs. Colonel Hudson. So far as outward appearances went, nothing could be more luxurious and more cheerful than this brilliant room ; the table itself was a picture — the most costly glass and antique silver, the finest damask, the loveliest flowers, and the richest fruits — a picture to bear in one's mind. Mrs. Norman wore a picturesque dress of black and gold, with wonderful rubies shining on her white neck. Mrs. Colonel Hudson wore a superb dinner dress of blue velvet and pearls ; Agatha a simple but exquisite black lace, with a pomegranate blossom in her hair, the gentlemen of the party were distin- guished looking. Altogether it seemed neither the time, the plac3, nor the society for such a story as she had to tell. ' I do not care for horrors,' said the American lady, • but this story, ringing all over Paris, combines so many elements, and shows how black a fiend a woman may become. Of course it contains love and jealousy ? ' Agatha saw, or fancied she saw, a keen gle'^ a of interest in Mrs. Norman's face. * Love and jealousy are the foundation? of all tragedies,' she said, and her husband interrupted quickly. * They are the cause of a great deal of nonsense,' but no one took up the challenge. ' I have forgotten all the names,' said the American lady. * There is the lover and the lady. He seems to have been a steady, kind-hearted man, and he was engaged to marry this woman. For some reason or other, this lady became jealous, and the object of her jealousy was a beautiful voung actress, at one of the theatres here, in Paris.' Agatha was not mistaken this time. Over the plain face of Mrs. Norman came a strange expression, a change of color, a nervous contraction of the Hps. No one else remarked it, and the American lady went on with her story. * There was no real cause for this jealousy. The man was true and faithful to her, but she brooded over it until she must have gone mad. One evening they went together to the theatre in question. Whether the woman saw any thing vvhicli provoked her anger or not, no one knows. Coming through one of the 1 1 I" k If 1;L SI'; I 210 THE earl's atonement. n ': i :! long, dark passages that led to the street, there was a sudden and most horrible cry ; the man threw up his arms and fell the woman cried loudly for help, and in a few minutes a large crowd had assembled. They thought the man was shot, but ills cries of pam soon revealed the fact that a small bottle of vitriol had been thrown in his face. He lay writhing in ago- nies too great for words. Those who saw him said it would be a thousand times more merciful to kill him than to try to restore him ; but the law does not allow that. They picked film up, burued, scarred— the most horrible sight that could be imagined. Both eyes were quite destroyed, and every one hoped, in mercy, that he might die. He was carried to the Hospital, where he lingered in terrible torture. 'Then all Paris was touched to hear that the woman whom he had f»er as she reached them, and they were—' See lier diamond^' Agatha BUT FOR HER I WOULT HAVE BEEN A HAPPY WIFE. 217 wondered if the piircha the Pa h lioya' had b«c'>me known. She 8aw that Mrs, :>^i»rman could i-" ontn ler- self, her lips were twitchinj^, her hands tit-mb Agath wfUi frightened for her. She was thankful to have lu r alone — n.ank- ful when the last of the pleasure-seeking group disappeared. She w«iut up to her and said, gently : « I can see that you have had a fresh trouble. Do not believe even half you hear. That mischief-making dowager has been talking to you, and I feel sure that she has invented half she said.' That was, perhaps, the most uncharitable speech that Agatha had ever made; but, to her mind, there was something most horrible in the pleasure one woman took in torturing another. Mrs. Norman threw up her arms with a gesture of despair. • Do not speak to me, or follow me,' she said. ' I. must be alone or 1 shall die.' She hastened to her roo\n, and when Agatha, in half an hour's time, feeling anxious over her, wont after her she heard such sobs, such passionate cries, as made her very heart grow sick. She thought of herself as she had lain under the myrtle trees, and her heart ached for the anguish of this other woman. To her great surprise Mrs. Norman appeared at dinner. On her face there was little trace of the bitter tears. She was paler than usual, and there was a determined expression about her mouth that Agatha did not like. Mr. Norman was present,but husband and wife hardly exchanged one word. 'Are you going out this evening, Phillis 1 ' he asked, finding that she said nothing to him. ' Yes,' she replied, concisely, * I am going out with Miss Brooke.' • Ma} the humble individual who addresset you ask where you are going ^' he said. • Certainly.' She raised her head with an air of graceful de- fiance. I shall be delighted to tell you. I am going to the Theatre des Italiens. I hear that there is some^thini; to be seen there at which all Paris is griatly amused. 1 should like to ba amused as well. ' It does not take much to set Paris all laughing,' he replied; but Agatha saw his face flush, and he bit his lip to keep back the angry words. N ni 1 mi li 218 THE EARLS ATONEMENT. 'I hear, too/ continued Mrs. Norman, in a cold, dry voice, ' that the actress Freda ia there, and 1 sliould like to sec her. Madame do Quince was saying hero yesterday that her latest lover is a Russian duke, who has spent a fortune on her.' His handsome face grew livid with rage, and when his wife saw that, her face brightened up with triumph. ' I never took any interest in the adventuress until to-day,' she said ; 'and now I think that the woman who can coax his 'ducats and his diamonds' from a Russian duke is entitled to admiration.' * It would be just as well if you talked about what you un- derstand,' said Mr. Norman, fiercely. * If I understand no other ([uestion on earth, I am well up in that,' she replied. ' Nothmg else was discussed by my visitor.' * Singularly good taste ! ' he said. Agatha saw that she was driving him rapidly to a point of madness ; she dreaded a scene. ' I am told,' continued the daring woman, * that Paris amuses itself by the jealousy of the beautiful Freda's lovers, but that no one has any chance against the duke.' Mr. Norman rose from the table. ' Will you not wait for dessert 1 ' she said. ' I have had quite enough,' he replied, sullenly. * If you wish yourself well, I should have no more of that kind.' She laughed — a laugh that Agatha thought most horrible. Her eyes seemed to flash fire. She laughed again as her hus- band closed the door. *I have made him suffer,' she said; 'but this is only the beginning. Now, Miss Brooke, will you prepare ? I wish to be at the theatre in time.' And she did not speak again until they were driving along to the theatre. ' We shall see the most famous actress in Paris to-night,Mi88 Brooke,' she said. * Who is she V asked Agatha. * Mademoiselle Freda. They say that she has loveliness never equalled. To-night she plays in one of Dumas' tragedies. I should like to know what you think of her.' They found a crowded house ; a fashionable audience, every- thing most delightful ; but Agatha's eyes were rivetted on Mrs. nUT FOR UV.U I WOULD HAVE BEEN A nAPPY WIFE. 210 Norman's face ; it was almost terrible in its hard coldness— like a mask of stono. Huddenly there was a hurst of applause that rent the air ; such a greeting an is only given to the queens of beauty and of song. Mrs. Norman gave one start ; she smothered the cry that rose to her lips, but her whole figure was convulsed and trembled ; the set, fixed, white look on her face was dreadful to see. Her eyes, glittering, hard and defiant, were fixed on the stage ; Agatha followed their glance. 'I'lu-y rested on the beautiful young actress, who stood there bowing to the audi- ence who greeted her so rapturously. Agatha trembled in her turn. She recognized the face at once, it was the same that Mr. Norman wore in his locket, the same superb blue eyes and golden hair. Kound the beautiful white neck she saw the diamonds that had been bought in the Palais Uoyal ; she recognized them, the cross, the necklace; there was no mistake. Then she, too, turned white as death. She was face to face with horrible treachery and cruelty ; she knew that those jewels had been purchased by tlie husband, and with the money of the unhappy woman by her side. A hand clutched hers. I What do you think of her 1 ' said Mrs. Norman, and her voice seemed like a hiss. ' She is very beautiful, but it is not a style of beauty any refined person would care for,' was the truthful reply. * Do you see those diamonds 1 ' she asked again, * should you think they are worth much money 1 ' ' I could not tell the value of a diamond,' said Agatha. 'I have heard,' continued the imhappy lady, 'that the beau- tiful Freda, as they call her, har the finest set of diamonds in Paris, that must be the set- -how they shin(3 ! Ah, how beautiful she is, her skin is like fine white satin. J.ook at the color of her face, it is as dainty as the beautiful pink that lies inside white seashells, and her eyes have a thousand meanings ; her mouth, men would call it' adorable, and give their lives for one kiss from it : and the glittering golden hair, it is like a mesh for her lovers. Ah, me ah, me ! what is ray poor plain face near that ] ' ' VVnrth a. t-.honannrJ fimoa mnifa' cni.l A ~~*U~ 1 _i- - .. _ — _ — 1 .....V-, nttL\x .T-^a-wija, ;t:iu auu won- dered if Mrs. Norman knew the truth about the diamonds ; if she did, no wonder she was so enraged. ii 220 THE earl's atonement. Then the beautiful Freda came forward, and began her song. That voice is lost to the world now for ever more, but there was never like it. The sound could only be compared to liquid pearls ; it was simply ravishing. There was no chance for man or woman who heard it. In its pathos, it wrung tears from the hardest hearts ; in its ringing jubilance it brought smiles to every lip. Mrs. Norman turned her haggard eyes to Agatha. ' What a glorious voice ! * she said. ' Such a woman is a queen, by right divine.' But Agatha would not agree. * Virtue and grace make a queen,' she said, ' a far more royal queen than a voice and a face. * If that woman lost her beauty,' said Mrs. Norman, * she would have no more lovers, no more men would crowd round her ; they would laugh as they turned aside and say : ' She was good-looking once.' I should like to hear them say that about her. Miss Brooke. 1 am quite sure 1 am not a bad woman at heart, but I should like to see that dainty voice de- stroyed, the eyes and th»i mouth should wile no more hearts away — not one. You will not wonder that 1 hate her, when I tell you that is the woman who came between my husband and me. But for her, I should have been a happy wife ; but for her, I should have had a child to love. What does she de- serve ? ' 'Punishment,' replied Agatha; ' but from the hands of God — not man. Do not think of her.' * Not think of her ! Why, she is before me day and night, like burning fire. Not think of her ! 1 believe that when I am dead my heart will burn with hatred of her.* * It is not wise,' said Agatha ; * some women have no re- source but to submit. I think it would be fat wiser for you to turn all your thoughts and energies toward trying to regain your husband's love, than in hating your rival.* ' It is too late,' she replied, * far too late ; he will never care for my plain face now that he loves that beautiful one.' 'If he were very ill,' said Agaiha, 'which of you do you think htj would ask to nurse him, you or Freda? ' ' Me, while he was very ill and wanted plenty of attention. Freda as soon as he was sufficiently recovered to admire her.* THE JOKE THAT PARIS ENJOYED. 221 « Why not leave him, if you think so very badly of him, and you are so unhappy V Then she was frightened at the tempest she ha ' He would forget her in a week,' replied Agatha. 'I wonder what he would do if she had the small-pox, and it disfigured her? Forget her in less than a week,' she re- cited to herself, and did not speak again until they had reached home. Then, looking wistfully at Agatha, she said : 'If he forgot her, do you think he would remember me ? ' bhe longed to be able to comfort the desolate soul, to crive her some consolation, to help her; but she could not say^es to that question. She did not think Heme Norman would ever tolerate his wife again. In one of the finest stores in Paris, a superb set of sables was exposed for sale. Rumor said they had been fashioned expressly for a great northern queen, who, however, preferred ermine, and these were for sale. The price, of course, was verv high, but then sables made for an empress, of course,must fetch a great price. It M-as just possible that the story about the em- press was a fiction; it did not render the furs less valuable Mrs. Norman read of them, then asked A-^tha to go with her to see them. ° The rich English lady was received with even more honor than some French princesses; there would be no question of Hundreds where she was concerned. • I should like them. Miss Brooke,' she said. « The price is enormous, but it is long since I have made a purchase for my- selt. I will speak to Mr. Norman first, just as a matter of And before night it was whispered among the ladies who carea lor such things, that the rich English lady, Mrs. Norman intended to purchase the famous set of sable furs. *' THE JOKE THAT PARIS ENJOYED. 223 " I have longed all my life for a royal set of furs,' she said, and it will be a real pleasure to have those.' A|?atha was only too delighted to see her take an interest in anything, so that she talked much about them. Strange to say, on that the only day on which she wanted to see Mr. Norman particularly, he did not come ; he sent a note to say that he had a particular engagement, and should not dine at home. * I must wait until to-morrow for ray furs,' said Mrs. Norman. ' I need not hurry about them ; being summer time, no one else will hurry.' In one of the loveliest of the bijou mansions of Paris, a very pretty scene was enacted that same evening. Beautiful Freda had a leisure night, and, as a matter of course, had given a dinner party ; needless to say that Heme Norman was there. When the evening was drawing to a close, and the beautiful woman, her neck, arms, and shoulders gleaming like white sa- tin, lay in the cozy depths of a crimson velvet chair, her gol- den, glittering hair and scarlet lips, her bewitching loveliness of features, her brilliant smiles, her languid grace, her biting sarcasm, all maddened the infatuated man. ' Beautiful Ereda,' he said, 'let me sit on that stool at your feet for ten minutes, just while T tell you how lovely you are.' ' I know,' she said, ' all about it; every one tells me ; I need no particular information from you. By the way, Heme, why do you let that disagreeable-looking wife of yours come to the theatre so often 1 ' * I did not know,' he replied. * You should see to it ; it is horribly bad taste of her,' panted the beautiful Freda. * She comes and sits there and looks at me as if I were some strange creature. She does not look — she glares — a sullen, savage glare. If you do not manage better than this, that woman will do me some mischief. She looked the other night as though she would shoot me.' * She would not dare,' he replied. ' I wonder who it is that tells her these things ? ' ' Every old gossip in Paris will help just a little,' she said, laughingly. 'May I come to-morrow morning to luncheon ]' he said ; * I have heard you invite one or two.' f i t ( 224 THE earl's atonement. You must bring a passport,' she replied. And what will that be ? ' he asked. rhe set of sables that all Paris is raving abont. Thev sav they were exr.ressly onlered fur the empress, whose husband presented me with my tamous diamond crown ' ^ And 1 am to bring the sables ? ' he said Yes J you roust not come without them,' she replied And that same evening, so anxious was he to please'her he As'a nial-^^^ ^"^ ''^' '"^^ -^^-^-nt p'resent o her As a matter of course, it was known before noon on the dav following where they were, and Paris enjoyed a vvicked TaS man In F,' ''h Tu' '""' ''''^'^'^'^^ ^^ ^^e molt slafely ^o ^an in Europe had been presented to their favorite actress, result' ^Thtf^''""^". ^"r ^'""'^^y ''''^""^^ «" the cost and f!fX ? atV^'^"^- ^^ ^^' '^^'^^^ t''ey met for the break- fast that Mrs. Norman saw him for the first time since she had made up her mind about the furs. She knew that almost fa futTerTl'ney™ '''' ' ''' ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^^^^ -uld rt rafl^""""^:' '^^ ^^'^' '' ^ ^^^^ «e^^ a set of sables ; the price is rather extravagant, I admit, but they are roya furs^and I have set my heart upon them ; will you give me a checic ] ' No words can express his surprise ; the glass he was iust raising to his lips fell almost to the ground. ^ ^ Are all the women in Paris mad ? ' he cried. V\ flat have I do with the women in Paris 1 ' she said « T It nTtVtt^^i:^'^ ^"- ' '-^ ^^-^y ^^ -" - • said! hSy.^' *""^ ^' ""'"^^ °"^ ^^^^^« '^^' «^--ng/ he 'It is not teasing you,' she replied. 'It cannot surelv be much trouble to sign a check, she said. ' You would do ft at once If the steward or the cook asked you ' morrow7^ """^ '^'' ^'""^ ^^'' °'^'°"'- ^^""^«- ^ ^i" ^^ it to- yolttyri!'''"'' ^'^"'^'^' '^^^^^^- simply asking ^/Itis not that at all,' he replied. 'How ha«f.v von «.« riiiiiis. 1 will sign it to-morrow.' """• •'"'""' ( N ^i.^SS^22S"T^ THE JOKE THAT PARIS ENJOYED. 225 ' I wish for it now,' she replied. ' Very well,' he said sullenly, ' you must have it, I suppose. I will attend to it after lunclieon. How much do you say 1 ' She told him the price of the sables. * You are ambitious,' he said,' ' to want the furs of an em- press. ' ' They will be worth looking at,' she replied, with ill-judged bitterness, * which I am not.' * You know best,' he replied. ' He signed the check, gave it to her, and went out. He did not care to face the scene. She would be. sure now to know that he had bought them and given them to the beautiful Freda. He honestly wished himself out of this dilemma which was about the worst he had fallen into. What a scene there would be. He had known long since, by her comments on Freda, that she was jealous of her, but now 1 He was sufficient of a gentleman to feel very sorry, neither did he forget that it was his wife's money which had purchased this magnificent gift for her rival. All Paris lau|j;hed again at the joke ; it seemed to the Pari- sians that this English household had undertaken to provide for their amusement. It was certainly a magnificent notion that the outraged wife should drive to the fur store, check in hand, for the sables ; it was a finer joke still to know who had pur- chased them, and where they were gone. Mrs. JSorman was disap()ointed ; but the thing she could not understand was the half-frightened look of the proprietor and the laughing face of one of the assistants. * Who has purchased them 1 ' she asked, and could not under- stand why an evasive answer was given to her. When she did know, the wonder was that she did not die of the mortification ; it would have been better if she had done so. Of course she knew before nightfall ; one of the many friends who hurry with bad news came to her and told her, She said little ; she tried even to laugh, but none the less deeply had the iron entered her soul. She told Agatha. * What would you do in my place now 1 ' she asked. * Nothing. I would pass it by with contemptuous indiffer- ence.' * I cannot' she replied, with dry. tearless eyes. * I must avenge myself this time.' f i .'i..? J^ 'I 22G THE earl's atonement. A ' '*7^"f ^""^^ ^^ ™^"®' ^ ^'^^ ^^lt>^y> saith the Lord," ' quoted Agatha ; but it was to deaf ears. ' ^ Heme Norman did the most unfortunate thing he could do • he told beautiful Freda of the contretemps over the furs She was amused with and then quarrelled widi him about it. Hand- some Heme Norman's reign with the famous actress was almost the^su^f "1 ^''^%f^ t^.i^T^f that if by using the sables on now S h ""^f^ T'''^y'h ^'^^ °^ '^'^ »"^» «J^« wanted now to rid herself of, she would do it. Mischief-makers repeated asshthetdT"^ "''""'" ''"^^ ''''' ^''- ^^^'--« f-« pla?'thfr ^%^ ^u-'u""^'^* , ^" '^^^ °^ th« fi"««t acts of a nerlTt^?! ' ""^ ""^''^ ^^' ^^'^ ^" Russia-she had the im- evenin. a r ''''f f ^ '*''^'''^y ^"^^""^ ^«^- ^"d the same man ^^L 5 ^'^'''?^ 7^°^'^ ^^^^ ^^^ «t°^>' to Phillis Nor- Ck in h T^ ""^'^ }'^^^^'> '^" ^^"S^^d- JS^t there was a thp Vr,f r' ^'^ "''^ P^'*'*"* *^ ^««- The next morning, for outalot'^'^Ar'''' ^^f^' h^^^^° ^" ^h« house, she went known tLf t/""^-fpd f painly dressed, no one would have cer^inlt not L71f ^^^ fashionable Mrs. Norman. She was LTwas^^^^^ ^y^« ^^^ ^ -^^^' strange look-her 8ai?^'^^«W/r^ "^i^^ ""^ ^1"^' '^^"^°^' ^^«« Brooke ? ' she W w. -n ? ^i^' *? '^^ ^^°^« famous furs on the stage: you willing V '"^ ^'^"'''' "''^"" ^^ *^' P^^ "^ '^^ gallery-arJ wi6l^d\p^r«Tr "^il^^^S'' J'Plf '^ ^g^tha : but in her heart she wished herself a hundred miles away. CHAPTER XLVII. THE SPELL OF A BEAUTIFUL FACE. HERE was something so wild, so uncertain, so strange in thfi mnnnof r^f t>u;ii;„ M 1 • .1 «»'^'^"foo ^^ th.VA — i\"\' r -^ """°/^"^"ia" auring tne whoio of ^ that day that Agatha felt most uncomfortable. There was no one to whom she could tell her fears. Mr. Norman was THE SPELL OF A BEAUTIFUL FACE, 227 > utterly indifferent to her, and she knew no one to whom she could appeal on the part of this hapless lady. She made some effort to prevent her from going out ; she did what was very unusual with her— she went to Mrs. Norman's dressing-room and asked to speak to her. Aline, the maid, was present, and Agatha dismissed her under some pretext or other. * Mrs. Norman,' she said, * do let me speak to yo\i I I am not happy over you to-day — you do not seem to be yourself j you are not well.' Instead of answering her, Mrs. Norman turned from her and looked in the glass. ' I do not look ill,' she said. Agatha went nearer to her and laid her arm round the beautiful white shoulder ; then, touched by its beauty, its white, fair skin, smooth and soft as satin, she bent down and kissed it. Mrs. Norman started as though she had been stung : her face flushed a dusky red. * Do not do that ! ' she cried ; * for Heaven's sake do not do that ! You would make me human again, and my heart is turned to stone. No one has kissed me for the last two years.' And Agatha drew back in sorrowful sympathy. ' Tell me,' she said, gently, • where you went this morning? ' Another great, dull flush came over her face, then a dreadful pallor. * Why do you want to know 1 ' she cried, suspiciously. ' For no reason in particular,' replied Agatha ; ' only that I was anxious about you, and you have never seemed well since.' ' I am not well,' she answered. * There is a fire here in my brain and in my heart. I wonder if I shall go mad 1 Do peo- ple ever go mad over love and jealousy 1 ' ' I have heard so. But you must not think of such horrible things,' said Agatha. ' Try to think that the sun shines, and that outside of fair Paris the land lies laughing in the midst of sweetest flowers.' But the sad, cold eyes looked at her vaguely and did not comprehend. ' Give up going out to-night. You are not well ; your face burns and your hands are cold.' .1' ' t i 228 THE earl's atonement. laugh."^^"^ ^^' '^^^'' ^"^ ^""P "^' ^^''"'' «*^« ^^i^' with a bitter fK 'X7' at""^"'^ ^^>' '^^''^^'' «^>*J Agatha. «I am a-^'te sure reti ?t in tr.'^ '"'^ ^^^^^ ^"^ ^^^^ ^^-^ ^^- ^ - Her own brightened just a little.' not^e'.J'rit^'t''^ Ah ! that comfort, me. But she does not regret it They say that .she insisted on ii.-ivi.icr this Rus- sian play put upon the stage that she mic^ht disol-w the furs be'sUtrin^aV'^^l'- .^^'^^ --?«' AndVZ^pos^ o whrshSand /r/' Kr^"^' •" ^'"'^ .^'^''"' ''''''' complacency, serve r ^ '"^'^^ ^''' J*^^" ' ^'^^^ does she d'e- ' Forget all about her,' said Agatha. ' She merely holds neo p^e by he si^ell of her beauLiful f^ce and beautiful vie Ktt will fade and her voice die. Forget all about her.' ^ fnn r; r ff ^" ''''>''' '^'^ ^''- Norman, gravely. 'After an tfe brav^" ''?,' 'V'"' ''V'''' ' ^"^ ^ -'"^ ^^ «ee ht Tn all the bravery of her furs. Just this one ni-ht and I wil never enter a theatre again.' ° "^ Agatha thought as her heart seemed to fix on it it would bp ; VVhy do you wish to go in disguise ? ' she asked. Vnn /' "*! f 'S'^se- It is only that I do not wish to be known You do not know Paris as well as I do. If I were seen thlr^ irf mi4Vse"' ? 'f '""' "^ "^^^^^ howcTalmrd t" worM ver^wZ . '• -J-T^^^ "^^ ^««^^" there for the woria, yet 1 want to see if it be true that she brings those no more" ')l '''''' .'^'^ '^'' ^^^ ^-"^-^S' ^^^i«« B X th?n no more. It is very kind of you. There need be no disguise ^0 bto t'bT^r ^-Ir^ '^'''^' " ^°""^<^' ^"d - veil. We v^ i fomewhat out of . ' '"' ''" 't^"^"'^^ "«• ^our face will be Se will not V'^'t people there, but It wlsnmfP / "^^ '""^'^^y ^'^^ ^ tradesman's wife" civinrwhT K ''?/'^"^"^' y^^ Agatha had a certain mis- Thfv Hi w ' '"u^^ "^'^ '^P'^"' °^ understand herself. . They dined together. Mr. Norman was frnm home and du- ing dinner there was very little conversation ' THE SPELL OF A BEAUTIFUL FACE. 229 til a bitter {i-'te sure '"' ; I can she does this Rus- the furs, pposed to placency, '8 she de- cjlds peo- . Beaut} 'After ee her in will d I vould be ord, and known, en there md care- s would 3 for the (s those ie, then lisguise. We will will be re, but ife." lin mis- IP. nd dur- ' You will not take a carriage 1 ' said Agatha. * No ; we will walk to the cab-8tand and take a cab.' There was a strange, quiet intent about her that really frightened Agatlia. She wished with all her heart that Mr. Norman had been at home ; she would have gone to him at ..,.j risk and have asked him not to let his wife leave home. She was astonished herself at the difference dress made. Mrs. Norman did not look like a lady when her elegant figure was hidden by the heavy cloak ; she looked, as she said herself, like a tradesman's wife. • Do you not think,' she said, bitterly, to Agatha, ' that nature has been very cruel to me I ' ' No, 1 do not,' re})lied Agatha. This constant discontent and rebellion against the Great Creator angered her more than she could say. Then they started. They soon found a cab, and drove to the theatre in silence. It was crowded even more than usual ; there was hardly a place left, hardly a seat. It was only by dint of a heavy bribe that JVlrs. Norman succeeded in getting in. On all sides they heard the same ejaculations, : ' Crowded house ! ' No room ! ' * Beautiful Freda ! ' Russian sables ! ' ' You hear,' whispered Mrs. Norman. * Even these people, the very caiialUe, have the story to laugh at. The outraged pride, the bleeding heart, the wounded love of a wife, is but a jest on the lips of men and women. What does she deserve who has caused all this ? ' * Fjorget her,' said Agatha. ' I will, alter to-night 1 ' was the grim reply. The oidy places they could find were two seats quite in the back of the theatre ; but they were fortunate in this one re- spect, they could see all over the house. The boxes were crowded ; it seemed as though half the aristocrats of Paris were there. • Look,' said Mrs. Norman ; * you see all those women crowned with jewels, fair and gay, fluttering their fans, coquet- ting with their bouquets — among them are many of my so-called friends. There is Madame la Baronne, who meets me always with sympathetic eyes, and looks quite three volumes of sym o iady ^idn u _ W IIU V ,1,1- -„,. IIUJUCS III}' patny lOr iiw ; iiivm is lauy oiuiJuy, wwu xiujucs my nanu q tightly while she tells me the latest scandal about ray husband ; 1 f|. .; 'Ill I . 'i, ii,. m 230 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. Il L tn Do you kno«r „hy they are all l,ore ) ' ^ """"'"■ ^ J.0 see tlie play,' replied Agatlia. over .„"" WlTi. i' '' T"^'. '" '"'™ * '""«'' '''■■d » gossip of ouHVienI ? Wl rt?„ » ""•' """•^^'■"g 0' the misfortunes has been latyoTmav can diT" '",» P''""-'»''Wng -vife, wl,o know .,„„ pi. uS r/irr is bl"' Tt is 'I'ht""';'"' '"^ ' ^ tinngs mysol/; but I am Tpr ud tlan a^d rr„l'r'' eaten into mv soul T'.pv ivJii i ,""''"'' ,^"^ t^he non has Freda ; they will "au J Sn ^^ ^ ^"^"^ ^^"^'^^^ ^^^"tiful when they Le the/wiTl aV ''Cr^V'^M^'^ '"^^- '^^^^"^ sad thir.g it is for her bne TLT^yf^ ^^''' ^.^''"''^" ' ^^^^^^ a f, la loi ner , out then she is so terrib v niain " ' AgatbTf. P.ZlTj^'l^'^rrZ "' '^-1V 'sighed a„^ true\vl;T;,er„;t'''„Xrs!^"" "*"" '"""" ''""'^' taily !heVd°id tl°"' '""' "' ^"'^ ^-- ''— - -^ most cer- shol'rrof^Twetfafd^tSerthaf ^d t """' "f -'--. btL^TsLteTlrdttjst^^^^^^^ picture of womanhood thTto ' " '"*' ""'"" " •^''■""• no; "Jiir r ::tsTht ;rrro£?u\e^g:r,?er /.^^t^, r ^^ was rea„y lost in admiration atlKiS^.-f^, tt\':^: wilUhTnr"i '""^ P'''P'* '°™ ■'"'' saw Mrs. Norman ' When applaudingfnot herself ? ^''' ^'"' ^'^ " '= ^'' f^^ *hey are the 'SS's Zkett'he"rtt7.''Z P'™" »' f"'' ^ '^"^P""" ^ a& hrikeTth'e ^^^J^^^-r'"-' '» h- l"l THE SPELL OF A BEAUTIFUL FACE. 231 As beautiful Freda stood before her audience, the most su- perb picture of perfect womanhood ever seen — her tall, grace- ful figure, the magnificent neck and shoulders, the white gleam- ing aims bare to the shoulders, the wonderful face with its ex- (juisite coloring ; its power and passion, its gleams of tenderness and love ; an irresistible face — no one who saw it ever forgot it. No wonder that thundeis of applause shook the very walls, that enthusiastic cries of * Freda, beautiful Freda ! ' rent the air. No M'onder that the plain-faced wife shrank back, pale and tremb ng when the superb woman bowed her queenly head and smiled in return for that magnificent reception. ^ The play, or rather operetta, was a very beautiful one. In the first act the lovely Freda appeared as a queen, and it was a treat to watch this accomplished actress ; the audience held their very breath in wonder and suspense. There is no need to give the whole story. In the second act she appeared still a queen, but in disguise. She flies from her husband, the king^ and from the kingdom. She was traced by her ermine, left in a peasant's hut, and beautiful Freda, in her interpretation of her role, had changed the ermine into sables. The first act was, superb in its beautiful grandeur. 'She looks like a queen,' whispered Mrs. Norman. ' Ah^ how I wish she had been one ! It is a sweet face, but it could soon be destroyed— a fever, a burn, a scar over the white brow„ a furrow on the chin, a great stain on one of those beautiful cheeks.' * Dear Mrs. Norman, do not go on in that horrible way. Youi do not mean it ? ' She drew back a little, and her pale face quivered. ' No, I do not really mean it. It would be a horrible pity if anything ever happened to her. A beautiful faca is the work oi God ; no one should destroy it. See, now I ' * Now ' meant that, in accordance with the play, the actress had placed a crown upon her brow. * I am the queen ! ' she said, with a grand, simple dignity ; and her impulsive, excitable audience almost went mad with enthusiasm. How she was recalled ! How the name of the beautiful Freda seemft(1 t.n ho on pvpru lin t HrtnT flr>MTQ».c. nnrl iV>.r»)» fivli at her feet. And as she looked at that moment, she was never seen again. I fr • i; I' 232 THE earl's atonement. CHAPTER XLViri. A DISFIGURED FAVORITE. HEN oune the scene which half of the ladieH in Paris hadcrowdf,,! to see— the queen in a p.asaur/s cotta-e, with none of the iiiHignia of royalty about her, nothinij to show she 18 not a peasant, except her r..Hn.d, queenly beauty! her white hands, and the imperial furs, the value of which she had quite forgotten. Shn had looked lovely enough as a queen • she was far more beautiful as a peasant. All the glittering' golden hair lay liKe a veil over her -boulders ; her white hands laid in a picturesque fashi.ai on the sables, were wonderful to see. I here was a perfect storm of applause ; her beauty mad- dened the people as they gazed upon it. It was a grand act, wonderfully played, powerfully sustained. Ihe hard, cold eyes that watched every movement grew harder and colder— they gleamed with hate and anger Mrs JSorman watclied the graceful, wreathing arms, the movements ot the exquisite hgure, the play of the superb face, and her hate grew. When she saw the sables on the sta^e, her face became hvid, and was terrible to see. 'Those are the sables that should have been mine,' she said And as she spoke, she knew quite well that the same remark was being made by almost every lady in the theatre. As the play proceeded and the enthusiasm of the audience grew wariuer. her face grew every moment more set, more riaid iiiore tembl^^ Agatha was grieved to the v(.rv heart for her • It seemed to her a needless prolongation of sufiering ' 'You have seen all you wished to see now,' she said, gently Lome home ; you need not remain here." ' Do you know hovf many more acts there are in the play 1' she asked. ^ ^ hanls-Hhree''^'^'^ Agatha, looking at the programme m her *I will un' HM'd M'-q "W/Awrv,^^ i — 1 ii , I -1 , - 5-7 1 -^!-.». 4.,vfiiijau, wuuu iim iwo are eiiueJ. A DISFIGURED FAVOIIITE. 233 Only Heaven knew what thoughts pissed through the mind of that unhappy woman as she sat in gloomy silence watching her beautiful rival. Every now and then a great sigh came from her lips — every now and then a convulsive shudder seemed to thrill her — every now and then the white hands were clenched, and great largo bruises left on the fair skin. What spasms of pain passed over her face? — what bitter thoughts made her lips tremble ! There was pain enough in that one 8ad heart to have made the whole audience miserable if it could have been shared among them. That glittering loveliness was more bitter than death to her. When the two acts were over she rose. * I have had enough,' she said to Agatha ; * we will go now.' But when she rose she staggered and reeled, almost like a man who has taken too much wine. • My brain whirls ! ' she said, and she was compelled to stand for some few minutes before she could walk. Every detail of that evening was impressed on Agatha's mind forever. She remembered the crowded theatre, the sea of faces, the glitter of jewels, the waving of fans, and the sheen of rich dresses ; she remembered the scene on the stage, as the glorious face of the actress turned to the people. The next moment they were out in the cohl air, a thousand stars throbbing in the night skies. Th^y stood for some minutes under the w' > portico, then Agatha said : ' Would I . like to ride or walk home 1 * Mrs. Norman looked up eagerly, as one wakes from a dream. 'We will walk,' she rep Id. Agatha understood it afterward, but at the time it puzzled her. They walked for some distance — then suddenly, and as though she spoke without knowing it, Mrs. Norman said : • I wonder if the play is over.' 'I should think it is just finished,' said Agatha. They walked on together ; there were plenty of people in the streets, and as they passed one group A gatha, turning suddenly, found that lier companion was no longer by her side. She thought, naturally enough, that she had passed on the other side of the group. For the first minute she felt no uneasiness. It w»a aor 4ti unusual thing to lose sight of a person in the I m ! i I ; u2 m ^j 234 THE earl's atonement. streets at night. She said to herself that she should be quite sure to overtake her on the way home. Yet, remembering her strange manner all the day, she had a vague sense of dread and uneasiness. Could it be possible that done it f °'^'' ^®^* ^®'' P»T>08ely 1 and if so, why had she She reached the magnificent mansion that was so unlike a home at last but the mistress of it had not arrived, and Agatha felt sick with dread Where had she gone 1 What had become of her? Agatha thought of the Seine amlothe morgue. She was quite at a loss what to do. She waited for some time near the house, but there was no sign of Mrs Norman The best thing that suggested itself to Agatha's mind was that she should go back again to the the theatre ; in some ot the streets she should be sure to find her. Mrs. Norman would walk on, thinking deeply, without the least idea of where she was going. She could not have absented herself purposely : she had wished to go home. Agatha started off again. It was some distance to the theatre, and she walked slowly through the streets looking to the right and left for the dark-robed figure she hoped to meet. She was in the busier streets at last, and there seemed to her some unusual excitement going on As she drew nearer to the boulevard on which the theatre stood she found a crowd ; as she drew nearer still, a crowd so dense she could not move. ' What is the n.atter 1 ' she asked of a respectable-looking man. 1 . ^^\?''t ^''''"^ ' ' ^^ ^"^^- • ^h. <^he beautiful Freda only to-night the very joy of the people's hearts, and now ' Agatha turned faint with dread and apprehension. • And now what ? ' she asked. a cannot tell you,' he said, with a passionate cry. 'Ask some one else.' -^ He turned away. On all sides she heard exclamations of horror, of dread curses, imprecations. What could be wrong 1 Is Freda dead she asked another man, and a cold, iron hand seemed to clutch her as she spoke. 'Dead 1 Ah, no, madame. It would be a thousand times better it she were.' The cries deepened. It seemed to her, on the edge of the crowd, that some one came out of the theatre and spoke to the people. Whatever it was, what was said seemed to amaze ii A DlSflGURED FAVORITE. 235 them, to drive thera almost mad ; the cries and curses deepened, until they became frightful. * Would you tell me what is the matter 1 ' she asked. But in the midst of that deafening noiee, no one heard her. She never forgot the scene ; the sky above, with its myriads of stars, the tall trees on the boulevards ; the theatre with its brilliant lights still burning; the dark, surging, maddened crowd. They parked to let a carriage pass through their midst, which drew up at the theatre door ; then Agatha found herself close to a young girl, who was weeping bitterly. * Oh, the beautiful Freda ! She was so kind to me.' ' Kind to you,' some one else said. * When ] ' * I am one of the ballet girls,' she said. ' I was close to her when it happened. She was kind to me last year when I had a fall and could not dance. She kept me till I was well. Oh, the beautitul Freda 1 * * Will you tell me what is the matter with her 1 ' asked Agatha. * I have been waiting here ever so long and cannot get any one to tell me ; the people seem very much excited.' * They are not only excited, they are mad,' said the girl, ' and if they get hold of the one who did it, they will tear him or her limb from limb.* Again that terrible sickness of heart came to Agatha. What was it — this terrible deed t * What is it 1 ' she asked. * Do you not know 1 ' was the reply. * Some one — some fiend in human form — has thrown a bottle of vitriol at her.' * Vitriol ! ' cried Agatha, in horror. • Oh, Heaven, how ter- rible ! Are you quite sure — vitriol 1 * * Yes, and they say her beautiful face is all burned away. She was so kind to me.' For some few minutes Agatha could make no answer ; she was motionless with horror. fFho had thrown it / * Is it not a horrible thing ? ' said the girl. • To-night she was singing in the theatre there, with her beautiful face, and rr#\l/l An Vtoi«« ot^W r\r\r*r 4-V\aw^ oo«t *V»o+- r\-wr^.tr\ 4-V» a ^^^tv^%»rt v-btI^.a dressed her wounds turned faint at them. Oh, the beautiful face ! ' ' Will it not kill her 1 ' asked Agatha. i i I Ml i.j 'ii.' t H !! 236 THE earl's atonement. I i and a nu;ae *' """^ **»"'""' ^''^''a, two Actors liie lights of the theatre were extinffuishpH ih^ r.o«^i j- enemies— every one worshipped her As A^r,tLZ\t ?l ? : :«!' atsr "^iT\'? ""v-tt wdt^^ with DM In .!^;i „ T '"«' »P™<>. the streets were filled Da8sS?v"!hT^ 1°™"'' f" o™ "<"»«» » " roup who • head ' ^' * ""^ "'"' '^™'<' ''»'■« hurt . hair «'Te° ' Jealous !' said another ; • no one van i«»l,>„. »» -v stars are not jealous o( the sun ' ''*" J*»'»«» »' ^^ -ue on?°'Nli'!l^ 'V^'i''* ?"""■*''' """* ^«« "ot inown of the guilty .u«:n':'Vh:trirn::Ti'Sd ':^:^i:^ ; -^t actress had been taken from them!ithev*wer*wiU L^T'! a beautif,., ,h„„y ,^^^ ^ ^^^JJ««^w^d, too, that outriglrt" ™ '"'"' '"• """^ ""^""f"' "» h*™ killed her thrt^^h'^herltsTomr ^ "" ^' °™' ««»- - »>■« -'"ed . sCdrtrdrdrro:^!?'' ^«r »^!''!.^-.---. ^d cl what she Might hear orsee.^"shrhadT.U°n.onl7r i'il flow IT WAS DONE. 237 With a sudden desperate opened the courage, to collect her thoughts, resolution she pulled the bell. She need not have been afraid ; the man who door looked as usual ; he had nothing to say. * Mrs. Norman is at home, misa She came very soon after you went away.' Aline, the maid, told her that her mistress had gone to bed. CHAPTER XLIX. I HOW IT WAS DONE. GAT HA went to her room at once, and took off the cloak and bonnet. The terrible fear that in its vague outline, had been far worse than any reality, v,as dy- ing ; how terrible it had been she could tell now from her shaking limbs and white face. She had not put her horror into words even to herself; she had not dared to give it a shape. Now she could see that her ideas and thoughts were all wrong. Mrs. Norman had entered the house almost ' directly' after she had gone away again ; and those words had given her such a sense of relief as no words can describe. And yet why should they 1 What was this black weight upon her ] What had she feared — what dreaded 1 She stood there in her room, unable to move, her face white, her lips trembling — trying to steady her beating heart and trembling nerves, before she could speak to any one. A few minutes, and she was more herself] but this vague, monstrous fear was still hovering over her. She rang for Aline, who cried out when she saw her ; the kindly, gentle maid was de- votedly attached to the beautiful young English lady, and she looked now in wonder at her pale face. • You are not well, misa ; you look cold. What shall 1 get for you ? ' 'i t« 238 1 THE earl's atonement. She returned in a few minutes, »ud siid : her, Aline r ^ ^™ '^ ^°'' """"Sh' I could go to see r^a-^hit- u"hU r Lr - -- -i'^eTJ"^^ /i.Trt^roirhi^r^ss?';^^'^:- .^.t >» > about seven minutes afterward ' ^ ' *^** "^ '"^ ^iZniVT °^ ''!^'^ ^"°^ ^° intolerable fear. 1 do not think my mistress seems well to-night ' said AHma • rffeerorZiltTssr' ™'^ ''-''^- WiCu^akl"?,:^ ' I will take it, Aline.' She could not rest until she had seen Mrs. Norman and she It was not so much white as livid with f hp mr^ef * -ui f the eves wer^ nnf l.t^ v, '^^ ™°^*^ terrible palor ; can^doloT yt'i.'"''"""-'^™'"'"' ™^y '"-' »"» --J. '"l"" so.' 'l"/^^-:?,*.'" "■' '-'— >y »y »-- would say 4^r7,^s:,^tLt„T;h1^^^^^^^^^^ man had never spoken to her in%hat fashion Se Mi.. V *T ' ° unnerved,' she continued, ■ it is your fault Miss Brooke ; you should not have left me. I dn V,n, w.^. ' but .t was strange you should leave merthe street If ffi ^ Agatha was too gentle ; too grieved for the °n W„° ^*™- oe.ore ner, to make any remark that could imtoie'her THE DEPLORABLE CONSEQUENCES. 239 * I was very sorry, ' she said, gently ; ' I cannot think how I missed you.' « You own that it was your own fault, that 1 did not go from you, but that it was really you who lost sight of me V ' « Yes,' rei)lied the unsuspecting girl, * I am afraid it was so.' * You understand that I was in the house within a very few minutes after you had left it. Miss Brooke 1 ' ' Y'es I quite understand,' said Agatha, gently ; and then a great relaxation came over the fixed intensity of the pallid face. * I am glad you know it,' she said. * One might have thought it queer that I should have been out alone.' Her head fell back on the pillow, the trembling hands clutch- ing the bedclothes, the burning eyes wandering idly round the room. ' Try to drink this coffee,' said Agatha, in the same voice she would have used to a suflFering child. * Coffee 1 No ; I do not care for it. I am not ill, but I feel weak and nervous; strange, altogether. I should like some brandy, if you will ask for it.' CHAPTEE L. THE DEPLORABLE CONSEQUENCES. ^NLY too L'lad to be of some use, Agatha went herself to get what was required. She was glad enough to see any change in her — to hear her ask for something ; that dread terror which seemed to oppress her was horrible. Mrs, Norman drank the brandy, and it relieved her. Some little color came back to her face, and her eyes grew less wild. Agatha sat down by her side and debated long within herself whether she should toll her what had happened or not. ' Have you heard any news 1 ' she asked, suddenly. ' Yea/ was the reply. ' I heard some very sad and tragical news this evening— news that will grieve you, 1 am sure.' * What is it r asked Mrs. Norman. 240 THE EABI/S ATONEMENT. ! f palid^^'^bk ?fe7: '"''''"""« '^'^ «"" '»»■''<' »'» tors I the shf hir/. ""' "J" ""^ "P'^^'ion of Mrs. Norman's face for wtetteadf!;lro",feH'?o^;^La?::r^'^^' '' ; Thrown what ? ' cried Mrs. Norman. ful sloryof Sl tutt' ' '' "^'^ "^^ ^^^^^ ^^ ^^^^^-d" tofh"e\^Si^:r""^''^ "'"P^^' nor did she turn her face 'Tell me,' she gasped, in a few minutes, 'more about it ' I do not know much,' said Aeatha • « hut lu ^ ■ ' roused as though it were a 'revolution.' ' ^"' "" ^""^ ^« ^ leJJ me more about it,' she replied. onetrd"! '"■<''""'-- ™-. 'tell me alf-allTdo not mis. How was It done?' asked the saie hoarse, low vo^ce pretending Xr. J 'I'f greenroom, and slie hastened away n'?„';hft''„i^ :tThapprer''sh "-^ "' '"■t,''«''»- '' usual .row'TS- Ji.4 J— g« ^««r. «Pen in his hands, the ^ ^^ "'" i-crouiia wailing to bee her go of. .'f'^f THE DEPLORABLE CONSEQUENCES. 241 ' It was done in a moment, and so cleverly done that no one knows whether it was done by man, woman or child. No one knows, no one saw it, and the one who did it must have mixed adroitly with the crowd. It was horrible ! The bottle was thrown in her face, and they say it was burned almost away.' * She will not stand on the stage, and look like a beautiful queen again,' said Mrs. Norman. 'No, indeed, she will not. But what a horrible thing to do ! The people round me were saying that her screams were so horrible, strong men fainted when they heard them.' ' Will she die 1 ' asked Mrs. Norman. ' No, not at once. Poor Freda ! to think how lovely she looked to-night, and now she is lying in such anguish that death would be a relief.' ' She will not sing again,' said Mrs. Norman, ' nor drive men mad with her beautiful voice.' ' No, never again,' leplied Agatha. * Poor, beautiful Freda.' * I should not think you would be sorry for her,' cried Mrs. Norman ; ' all the fire that could burn her could never inflict half the pain on her body she has inflicted on the hearts of others.' ' Do not say those cruel things, Mrs. Norman ! ' cried Agatha. ' I cannot bear to hear them. Surely that which has driven Paris mad with sorrow and anger is worth a sigh.' * Who did it 1 ' she asked again. ' No one knows, but whoever it is will meet with a sudden and violent death, if the Parisians have their way.* * Why?' she asked, briefly. * Because the people have resolved to tear the guilty one limb from limb, they said ; they would tear down the Bastile itself to get at the one who did it.' ' They are curious people, these Parisians,* said Mrs, Nor- man. • ' They loved Freda,* said Agatha. * Why was it done 1 ' asked Mrs. Norman. * Does any one know the reason 'i ' ' Every imaginable reason was given among the crowd. Some said it was professional jealousy, some said a lover's jvat\r\taj, j. uaiiiiuu LCil wiJiViii v>i rr iiau uiicv lucatsv. * Will you stay with me to-night. Miss Brooke V said the unhappy woman ; * I am weak and nervous. I cannot tell why ♦■■'I ^■1 1 242 THE EABLS ATONEMENT. fiur? and I^J^kn 7"]'' ''P^^'^ , "^^^^^^ ' ^ ^^^ «<^y ^ith plea- sure, and 1 can read you to sleep.' *^ tn .n^H f^''"^^'^^ "f*"* ^°"'' '^^^^^ ^«"r' *^e ^eary head tossed to and fro, a,.d no sleep came to the burning eyes «nph H„r It ^^^ """^^PPy ^^^^^'^ ^«Pt her room, and two woman%hl '^"^uT' '""''^^ "^^^^ ^«" '« ^^e lot of any •lam not ill,' she would say: *I am nervous and triahf ened by shadows. Stay with mV Do I loorwSLr strS^ It 18 fancy. Stay yourself ; do not let any one else near ' ^ her but WW V^'°?f ^ '"° ^'^' ""^ *"« "^8^'«' ^«-er leaving forVofc tlrm T^ ^'^ ^'^'' ^^^ ^^** ^ig^*«-' She neve? forgot them. Tie nervous clutch of the burning hands the ^^.Mr n:' '""^ -u^d; and Agatha had lo chance of mness H« n ""' ""' *^"'"« ^'"^ ^'^y^^^S ^^out his wife's mness He never came near, but sent up twice each dav to know how she was. Neither had she any chance ofknowC what he thought or felt over beautiful Freda. She waa stTuck by the avidity with which each -day Mrs. NormL asked for PaTL?' ""A7- ™^ °^ ""^'^ she devoured. The people o 11? /r • u^ vengeance against the one who had so crueUv maimed their beautiful singing-bird. ^ The accounts given of her were very deplorable It was not true that the beautiful face was burned aLy The briZ E intred tT' "^' "^" ''^. '^^^^« °^ «° -any, had t been injured. There was a terrible scar on her white brow and another on one of the beautiful cheeks. The hateful fluid seem to have vented its fury on the white neck and shouldeS ; tin?L„Jl h'°.K^ t^' -^^ ^'^^ ^^ despaired of, and the bulle- IZVTl J}^u P^y«^^^°« were read with far greater anxiety readtlr^h ""^^Wr^^^, The people were troubled to Ta? r might r '""""' '^^^"^^ ''' "^^^^^^« ^^^ P-y-g ^ Then the attention of government was turned to the outrage »«u a rewara waa otfered for the apprehension of the oflfender; li-y THE DEPLORABLE CONSEQUENCES. 243 ' Penal servitude for life — nothing less the sentence would be.' And Mrs. Norman, reading the comments on the aflfair among other things, read that. ' It is a worse punishment than death,' she said, slowly, and Agatha answered : ' It is a worse crime than mnrder. It is a dastardly crime, — one that is the outcome of a weak, dastardly, horrible nature.' Mrs. Norman shrank and shivered at the words. She raised the most piteous and frightened eyes to Agatha's face. < Why do you say those things to me ] ' she asked. * For no reason except that we were speaking of it ' she re- plied. But from that moment a great and terrible dread fastened itself with certainty on Agatha's mind. Could it be possible that, after all, this miserable woman had committed the crime ] She had feared it at first but the spontaneous evidence of the servants, that Mrs. Norman had returned within seven minutes after she left, had completely destroyed the suspicion ; in that short time she could not have gone to the theatre and back. Just now it occurred to her that she might have driven there and back — might have hailed some passing cab, and have driven to a street near the theatre, and have returned in the same fashion. She looked at her steadily. Ah, yes, there was guilt, deep horrible guilt, in that most miserable face ! Her whole soul recoiled with horror ; she could not endure to breathe the same air. She knew well enough how much the unfortunate woman had suffered, and could make every allowance ; but this was too horrible— no one could forgive it ; it was the out- come of a miserable, depraved, morbid mind. The pure and gentle nature of the girl revolted from any contact with such a criminal ; and Mr& Norman read her thoughts in her face. It was a strange coincidence that, while she still stood look- ing in hopeless anguish and dismay at the guilty face. Aline came to say that Mr. Norman wanted to see her at once. She hastened down and found him in the grand salon, pacing up and down with hasty footsteps, with a face ao stern and white she hardly recognized it. He turned to her abruptly, and closed the door. He stood directly before her. I , ■it 244 THE EABI/S ATONEMMT. W t J"J,f :5: ?? «"«". • What the people i„ p„i. .„ „^ ill, he repeated. ■ No woolr r> ^ '""""'"""y- ' violent,^. '«'■' grown e„Me„, .„j '^'^ ' grief. ° '""' "«™'- seen a a,a„ i„ . , .^, 'WhatsWado?' -^ "> such ternble X WISH to Heaven I was fu^ „-. ^T?" ■"»»">"» been nTad'""'^- ^ """-"t bear it The His head droonp^ ^r. u:^ ^ ^^^ . And he stTod brfo," Zr ^ ''' '*'''• «°n and distresa '" "■" ''«••>' P'otm-e of shame, oonfu. Then h ,„„^^ ^^ j_^__^ , oonfu. THE DEPLORABLE CONSEQUENCES. 245 Paris wife has been intly. ' 5w that there )red Some one • it ? ' "he trembJed ^h, for Hea- Jt, tell me, fie gave him so unutter- ! what will r dreamed ath of her. >'oman she ;h terrible it. The mad 7/ou 9| confu- Dger.' atha. < ) viie If We police should get to know, and anything happens, it is your evidence that would convict her.' * I would not give any evidence,' she replied. * You could not help it ; you would be compelled. The only thing for you is to get away at once ; go where you will, but let it be a safe hiding-place. Leave France to-day.' 'I will, if you wish it,' she answered. 'The only servants who know anything about it are, of course, the man who opened the door, and her maid. I can manage them. It will relieve my mind if you go at once.' * I do not like leaving that poor creature up stairs,' she said. ' It is to save her I wish you to go,* he cried. * I will go at once,' said Agatha. * I will provide you with ample funds ; you will do the only thing that can save my unhappy wife. I will make it all right in the household. Go at once. Miss Brooke. If the police make only one inquiry, you cannot go. Try to leave the house in an hour.' * 1 must go and say " good- by" to that hapless, wretched lady,' said Agatha. *I think you had better not. If she knew you were going away, there is no knowing what she might do ; she might break out into some paroxysm or other. The greatest kindness you can do to me and to her is to go at once. Let me tell you how to destroy all traces of where you are going. Take a cab from here to the Rue d' Amsterdam railway station, take a ticket for some distant place — Genoa, Milan, Trieste — then take your seat in the carriage ; get out unnoticed at the next station, and go across the country in any direction not abso- lutely public, taking good care to burn your ticket. No matter how much they try to find you, if you carry out these instruc- tions they will never succeed. Will you do this 1 ' * Yes, 1 will,' she answered. * Every sound I hear, frightens me. Do not let me Gen- darmes find you hear.' * I will not,' she replied. * You are quite sure that I can do no more for you — nothing better than this 1 ' 'Nothing,' he said. 'Your evidence — and you would be coiupelled to give it if you remained here — would convict her. It has convinced me. Good-by, Miss Brooke.' M •■ M fit ill 246 THE earl's atonement. 1 1 hi» fare'."' ''" '■**''"''• "'■' "-- — -netting .ike emotion i„ She went to her room before shrnnf^ T^ ^^'* °"^« "^o^**" She found Mrs. Norman crouchpT J"' '•'*"""•"« ^^^i^-^- while Agatha lived shrnever ?or ' t h" ^" ^»'?dow-8eat, and her tender, womanly WtbLdfi^i^-^ of her face. • greatness of pity '^°* *^" "'^^^^^^^X ^^ ^^^r crime in the so "gLrclreV" ^^' '''' ^^^ ^-^ - the two that were aslj Son7J:;uSrS^^^^ ' to those who and Agatha went in silence ^ ^'^^ ''®''®' °'«^^ed, fre^h^fr'^tttalrslLTe^^^ - the free. «he said to herselithaf she JoZTf ""^,/"^««,7 ^^^ stifled her anything more to do with such ii'' '1^'' ^^ t^^^ «^er have as she wts told ; she t^ok a t^oL^ f o""^ P^'P'"" ^^« ^^^ J^s* it. She made her wav to t' . ? ^u"^"*' '^"'^ then destroyed Tiernay, knowinrt^af she wn, U K ^^ house of the Countess de to madame. who jc^ned herlt onc«' "f Tu' '^'''- «^« ^^ote ^e wttr '^« ^'^^^^^^ ^°"^' "" '""- read tTXL':;rS^^^^^^ that she ested in. After all it h«d K ^ , ^^^ ^^^^ «° ^^eply inter- way. the evidence il'^MrNrm^^^^ ""'1'^^ '^' °'^ °^" t^^ The trial had p«S L ^^^man was too strong. France, bul „\tr ZtlrofET^'o'^Tt"' "«" ^'^ <>™' the P«p:rf^dTournari?;t ^' ''"^;''"/ "'=«• '' fi'M -" sole topic, then it wasfoi^ottlr- 1*""""? << ,5 '' '<»■■»»<) the one before the nine days ^S"? ' S..'!!".!:^';^^ ™''.'^» "■« died "bie thmg; beautiful FrecUUnger;d'form:n;^e:'i:Strrible ter than you B emotion in Id not leave le would not ^■er conduct once morfc. Iling attire, ^-seat, and of her face ; cken, deso- lime in the that were those who er cleared, the free, tifled her; ever have 9 did just destroyed >unte8s de ihe wrote ot return that she 3ly inter- It of the r aly over e cekbre illed all the one aat died >st hor- terrible IN A NfeW HOME. 247 torture, then died, and the world lost one of the finest singers it had ever known. Mrs. Norman was sentenced to penal servitude for life. The real criminal — the man who had driven hib wife mad because be slighted and heartlessly abused her — escaped, us such crim- inals generally do. And Agatha longed tu ^eave the country where she had witnessed such tarrible scenes. CHAPTER LI. IN A NEW : OME. NTIQFITY has a beauty of its own, but there is also a great charm about a uewly built, magnificent mansion, such as Lord Penrith had erected for hii\ self in place :i the tumble-down castle where his ancestors lia." dwelt. The Penriths were a very old family and veiy wealthy ; they had been, quite content living on their fine estate, with the season in town, a month or two at a fashionable watering-place, and a few weeks' yachting in Lord Penrith's fine boat, ' The Curfew.' Not a family about whom the society journals troubled them- selves much. They held the first rank in their own county, and they were not ambitious out of it. When they went to town they met with the greatest respect, but they did not mix in any very exclusive set. They were simple people, more than content with the sweet home life. They were famous for their kindly hospitality ; Penrith Castle was always well filled with guests ; and the sing- ular thing was that these same visitors were not all famous for rank or beauty. Lady Penrith had one of the kindest hearts in the world ; if she knew that anybody was in reduced cir- cumstances, wanted change of air and scene, but was quite un- able to get it, she was at once invited to Penrith. How many poor ladien liv*^^ AriH Aiail hloooinrr hor I The present Lord Penrith succeeded to his title very young ; he was a man of sound practical sense, and the first thing upon ?:■■ !. > ill ■■?:■ ' s,i-<; •.^1 ''' 9 1^1 :i 248 THE EAUl's atonement. i'ifnt':^'^^^^^^^^ the old castH o, rathe, buiM- -as designed b, theTnr'r chS TEnl^ ''/ ^"^i^-^- I* modern iuxury and improvement if f^^'^'^j '* ^^^ ^^^^y luxury with due attention to Th« • . •^°'"bmed comfort and completed, it was one oTthfrno^L^'T^''^""-. ^" ^««^ ^^en It stood on the brow of one nTfl ^f^°^ "mansions in England -idat of one of the n.ost p^rluanZ^' ""'"^^^^ ^"^«' '^ ^^^ tind-sunlit vaJlevs and nnT ^^''^^''^Pes i scenery of every the luxuriant mea^oVTa'ds thzCHr' V'^ ^^'^^ sea^ • broad beautiful river rX wb ch rf';. ^'""^T '"^^«' ^"^ ^^e into the sea. But if the hoise va« T 7" '^" ^"' ^^^ fell The portraits and pictures in thrion',/*' ^'''^^^^^^ ^^'^old. the Chippendale furn ture '^.*f^^°°» g»"ery, the antique plate grand oli family heTrLmsalTr".' ''/T' *^« « '--> 'he modern magnificLe.Cha7eL;j'r'''"^."^^^>^ ^^^^ the . sr^s^^;- !^ room s^^^-^::;:-:::^ son and heir: for man v lot •. ^^^^ most earnestly for a not be gratifi^dl'^rdaC ersTrel^'^^ ^i!^-^-^^^ tiful, dark-eyed girl with a"? h l, ^°^«- Beatrice, a beau- and Clare, /ho r^emW^d Lad^ Pe"f ri^h '''"^^' '^^'^ ^' ^-- Penr^hStr^dVirrp^ -^ the Lord of his delight and astoSrnVia::n1enrh^^ '"' '^"' ^^- *« ful brave boy, who was worshinnplK T ^'? ""'^-^ ^eauti- was followed bv a littl« ZT ^l ^^ 'he whole family He Penrith said of^e'n ^ if was' Hk^ f^-'^^'"^^ ^--. ^ Lady' Beparate families. Beatrice was seven^r'"°n/"^° ^^«^^"^t and Bertie was but nine, and Laurn sev^n 5' ?^^'« «'^teen, while debut ; Clare was loUnl for ?hrH r*""" ^^^ "^^^e her hers; Bertie was soon" to^ooEUand"?'" '\^ ^°"^^ "^^^e ness at home. That fmvt?! *. *°^ ^^"^a had a jrovern- l! I; iff IN A NEW HOME. 249 ther, build- lilding. It had every mfort and fact, when 1 England. iHs, in the '' of every istan.t sea, s, and the I and fell I were old. que plate, fmor, the with the ment and y, was at bonie ex- been a England. ly for a Sfs would a beau- f face — Lord of when to beauti- 7. He Lady ict and 1, while ade her I make jovern- at the 1 three itable would at the same time be a companion for the elder girls and a gov- erness to the young ones. She found all that she required in Agatha Brooke, who came to her most highly recommended by Madame la Comtesae de Tiernay. Mias Brooke had been three years at Penrith Castle, and the whole family had grown so warmly attached to her, it was doubtful if she would ever leave them. She had made but one stipulation with Lady Penrith, and it was she should never be asked to meet visitors or go to the drawing room in the evening. Lady Penrith kept her word, and never asked her. A happier hcjusehoid could not have been found. Lord Penrith was a kind hearted, genial, accomplished gtjntieman, proud of his magnificent house, pleased with him- self and all his surroundings, passionately attached to his wife and children, a good friend and neighbor, also an excellent sportsman. J ady Penrith, without being absolutely beautiful, was a most charming and fascinating woman. Beatrice Penrith was beautiful — the Vwauty of the family — with dark eyes and hair, a Spanish type of loveliness altogether, at which Lord Penrith never ceased to wonder. Clare was pretty, bu' had nothing like the brilliant loveliness of her sis- ters. Bertie, the only son and h<)ir, was a handsome, promis- ing boy, as full of mischief, and in a general way as tiresome as any boy could be ; and Laura was a bewitching little ^irl of seven. ' A fine fctmily,' the country people were accustomed to say ; and it was perfectly true. The parents were noble, kindly, generous people ; the children all with good natu red disposi- tions. The three years that Agatha had spent there was full of calm, and as far as possible, peace — not that she had ever forgotten — not that Vane was ever out of her thoughts. She had learned more in the six years since she had left him than she would have learned in a life-time elsewh'^re. That ter- rible tragedy in Paris ; the horrors that she had learned there ; the light loves ; the faithless husbands ; the coquettish wives ; the tragedies and comedies she had seen in Paris had opened her eyes to the world. She was no longer the sim})le, trusting girl, who had read the marriage service by her lover's side, and believed herself to be his wife ; she was as innocent and pure as an angel in aii her troughts. words and deeds ; the dinerenoe was that in those old days she did not know that evil existed — I. « , ^ m. 250 !!' THE earl's atonement. ™s a very common one Thirrf, ""'' '.'""* ""« "h^mcter rrfogotoher; while they pasS lt„ ^''" '?''' ^^ '"^e a ing. noon ornght praying for SfrVn'T ""''"'' ""^ "orn- thing to her wL tEa7Z^:dtvlTea^d 1°";, • ^'''"'''"'S-t bhe searched the newspapers for. tLj.lV''""g "•'out him. found any. She fanS he '^^1 'k ?*'"''■''"' °«™>- season she looked in the C»"« T ," ''^/°'^- during the but no mention was made of h™ r "" """^ P"'*"- Carlyon never appeared ' ""^ "™« »« S'"- Vane deatrtrr"L~:ar7xlTthat sh %''^^ t^"^'' " S-' she had done anv harm Sl,« k ., ' t .■ """'"^ "<>'• see that be a sin it must be wTful tnd she"t ^ ''="'"'' "■*' ^'"' » "" *» on the contrary if thi „L? I , ¥^ '"""" wilfully sinned ■ oflending «o7akd'dXhe wot till dlfd^^l "^'"'^ understood in its full enorraitv f f.« nff . \ • ®''^ ''"^^ and been guilty, and the vIS fe I'd btn" Ih"'"' «i^ Vanehad whole heart for her fault so fir ITlT^ ^m ^"^^'^ ^^^^ ^^^r . braced with her whole Wt so Ltsill^/^l'^' '""^ «^« ^'-- chance she had of doina anod L l 1^ ^'' P°'^^''' ^^*^^y was delif^hted to obtain the ^i. ° r ^"^ '*'"?" ^°^ i<=- She she felt that she could Zjod tW T '* ,?*^""'^ Castle, four young souls for Hlvfn she cou d «n ''"^^. ^"^^ *« *^-« young n.inds, and if by gooj teachTnl Z ^""""i '^'^« ^^ <^he good example she could drrw one «inf ^°"^ ^"""^" «°^J would have'^done good service. "'^''' **^ "«^^«"> «he Agatha found that she had secured nn« «<: *i able homes in this world ThT.T« • ^^u*''^ ^°'<^ ^^'"fort- the grace and sweetne^of Clare deliZ7h ^''"^ f ^'^'''^''' Laura she was more than pleased mL^ n ' '''\'^ *^« ^^'^le as though measuring her strength '''''^ ^' ^"^ ; Are you our new govern.s?? ' ^e asked. i^es, I am,' replied Ag'na. 'I am going to Eton soon : vou will nn^ i. with me.' ' ^ ^"^ °°* have much to do ' Eton is the best place for boys,' she said decidedly. »il IN A NEW HOME. 251 She believed ihe character been like a I one morn- he strangest : about him. e, but never During the iJy papers, f Sir Vane M & great so fooJish, >t see that for a sin to ly sinned; f between knew and f Vane had d with her 3 she em- iver, every it. She b Castle, to train is in the "icil and iven, she comfort- Beatrice, the little ed at her h to do hangs in * You are very sensible,' said the little heir, * and I hope while I am at home things will bo comfortable between you and me.' * I hope they will,* said Agatha, gayly. Already she delighted in the bold spirit of the boy, * I should think,' he continued, * that you would teach wisely ; but some of the governesses we have had have been awful.' * Perhaps you have been just a little bit " awful to them," ' she said, laughingly. ' Ah, well ! I may have been ; but I shall like you. Do you know that your face is like a picture] I say, Clare, look at Miss Brooke. You remember the Madonna that the gallery. Miss Brooke's face is just like it.' ' So it is,' said Clara. * How rude we are to speak in such a fashion. Miss Brooke ; but you are just like that picture. I will show it to you.' Her welcome had been of the warmest ; her beautiful angelic face and graceful manner charmed them all. Lord Penrith said they had a treasure. Lady Penrith treated her far more like a friend than a paid dependent. As time passed on she became the beloved friend and trusted companion of the two elder girls, and the very idol of little Laura's heart. The whole household saw and respected her desire for privacy. When no visitors were present she spent the evenings with Lord and Lady Penrith, but as that seldom happened, she had plenty of time to do as she would. Now that she was once more in England, with English scenery around her, her heart turned to VVhitecroft. She longed to see it once more to look upon her father's face, on the old gray church, on the stained glass window, and the fair young saint ; she longed for home, but she knew that she would never dare to seek it again. To be at rest was something, and she was at rt^t here in this magnificent home, with the gentle mistress and the lovely chil- dren. She never dreamed of how that rest was to be broken, she never imagined the curious tragedy that was to change the sunlight of Penrith into darkest gloom. •'i n t f 252 THE earl's ATOxXEMENT. I'll CHAPTER Lii. 'TO LOVE, TO SUFFER, AND TO DIE.' off dead : no friend LT-: ^^® '^^'''^^ *« ^^ cut remained to her e^cepTLZZZTTT"' '"^ T"«P°^^^"^ often and long what had W "^^^^f ^^j ; she wondered woman, but th^ttltest inraronlfte ''f^^^/^^^^ reached her. From that horri 'if past ^h il%h^^ '''^'' Ties, its cloud and shado>/ of dark dCLl ^ */ ^'"^' "^^'"°' dering horror ; she tried neve^to S o/ > '"'"'^ '"^ ^^"^■ but to devote her life to those'sLe^ived w tV' " ""^"'^^ ^*' No one m the household was so loved as ?h. Ko .•* , governess If any one fell ill she^as the ^""f f"^y°»«g nurses; if the children were not wellTvf f ™°^* ^^°*^^^ «^ her than to their gentirmother ^ '^'J^ ^^^° "^^'^ *« i..to trouble of any kL thev «n. .Hr^^ *^'^ servants fell Penrith ialked over all W^"^^*.^''«« Brooke. Lady liked to conslhe^ lot hr:^^'\"^'.^^^^' ^^^^ Pe«"th for benefiting all The poor on Mr"'.''.^'' ''^'''^'^ ^^« P^ans household would havebeeTauTte«t «7 "'''• '^ ^"«'' *^« ^^^ie Her quiet, gentle influencrrlhed e " "^''°"' ^^^« ^''^^^'^ everywhere. The time came at S i7 ".? *°^ Penetrated was to be presented and rath. «! ^^^"^ ^'*^"^« ^^nnth April mornlg on which thf^mito^To^T^f *'^ '^^'^^ nth Castle looked beautiful in its snrwt rb tl K^' •^'^■ were peepmg in the green grass th« 1 i,' *^« ^^"e violets ing, the birds were oS the Enut t J '^f ^'^ '^'^S' faint beauty of the lovelv 8^1'' n^^ ^agrance and Lady Penr;.4 was in he hi^^^,, :^r «" <>--- the land, and elegance of her daughters chtS her '\^'T>^^^'y^ saw, in the future, a series of briiwlnf ^ ^^"^ *'''®*^-^ ^^^e- by an equally brilliart marine "^07^"''^ ^ be followed At all v,'.,-on/«.. XT_ "carnage. J>for were her anhVinof,- "" '''■ ^^" ^^""S '^^^^^^«^'« ever broke onthewo;^ I *T0 LOVE, TO SUFFER, AND TO DIE.' 233 of fashion with such a blinding light as did Beatrice Penrith ; her dark, beautiful face, the great dark eyes with their rich fringe, the lovely mouth that had the sweet laughing grace of childhood, the dimples in the beautiful cheeks, and one, when she laughed heartily, in the middle of the perfect little chin. She was like a vision of delight to the somewhat jaded peo- ple of fashion ; she positively enjoyed everything. If she went to the opera or the theatre she was not at all ashamed to laugh or look sad ; when she was in the row every one saw by her shining eyes and bright face that she enjoyed the whole scene — the number of well-dressed people, the fine horses, the grand green trees, and the fresh, bracing air. Many wearied eyes followed the girl's graceful figure and lovely face. It was the same at balls ; she entered into it con amore. She loved dancing, and it was a pleasure to see her. The bright, happy, young fpce — the shining eyes — the slen- del', girlish figure, the air of thorough, complete, perfect en- joyment, drew quite as much attention as the loveliness of her face. It was considered a great treat to dance with her ; the light heart, the flying feet, the shining eyes were everywhere. She hardly needed dress or jewels to enhance her fair, girlish loveliness. It was some time since the gay world had rejoiced in the smiles of one so young and fair ; the beauties had of late been of a far more mature kind. Beatrice was quite new, and she had a most wonderful success. Lady Penrith was somewhat bewildered with it ; she had always thought Beatrice beautiful, and expected that she would make a grand marri- age, but she was not at all prepared for the great furore that her daughter's bright young beauty did create ; she was quite as much surprised as delighted. She founa that there was no need whatever for her to be anxious ove rher daughter's marri- age. In her heart she hoped the girl would not fall in love just yet ; she was but seventeen and her bright, fresh young beauty would last for many years ; but mothers' propose and fate disposes. Beatrice in her first season, in the loveliest spring-tide of her girlish beauty, in the fairest flower of her youth, fell in love. The Earl of Kelso was some years older than herjelf, but that did not matter. He was certainly one of the handsomest ^ ! i »:■.: (JiP 'I a i i 254 THE EAHL'S ATONEMENT. »iid wealthiest men in p„„i.„j ht . fortunes h,.l been lef hfm^ Honor^'i. w"? """I ""^^ different He was ■ first at eourt h^h T„ .7^ '""'' ''^" ""•"»' "pon him e-gerly songht afterf l™!','^ o Ih'eT"'' l|f "" "'^ "■°™' tess of Kelso was the amhi.i™ f "J'^- T» •>» «ie Coun- ""Xhe e" "*' ^'- J»»' « ""^ ^°'"'» '^<^tiTo( know'wto'rj^otur' it'tJ?"?"^ *'■*" he could count or several very mam i.Vp.* .,7,'"^ '"™se3 and landa He had ton Park, ii K?n r^i^ard :i.';r "-fj""' •■"''eritanoe 4, beauty ; every rich -iff, ^rh n ""t''i''"s in antiquity aid «ot look lik,. ; hapi,; „a; .We";';''''' w ■""■' y' *« <<" People .aid he had Ive^Vild in Zt u'^T""^'' ^^ l^<^- We ..n someth., more thil wildts^^ise^lfrdo-T ~iirr,^ S^-Ci.tprr ^-» *- - ^eart, her g^y sp ,it.. h.-r hwI TiiFT-'^"^' ^^«^ ^^r light have even a greater ^hairfo'n-mH '""r"°^ «^«-«^ ^« choly d.a,.pear.d when he JS wS hef ' "'""« ^"^ ^^l- n^an for one of Xlrittl'^n?^ f ,^ ^^^^^^^ed, sorrowful seen. Then it ^va. plain ^^,1 °'^'' \'*"^^^»l children ever him that she was Jiay^detktert'o ^^"\^««*"ce cared for tnved always to kp«p the W i /^^ *'''"' *hat she con- was present she for^oLtr'te'rr '^^ '^"' that when he The world smiled approval on ^K' i «weet; no one knew what Ih! 1 , ^u' ^T "*°^y' "'"Ple and the beautiful y oun^ »e every nifhf ^l!.' ;Most be,„, J -V4 -^^^^^^^^^ , f^ -«^^ -d The jfxrl seemed to thinklharf A' * T*^'" ^'"iJe. that had eyer heen written ' '^'' ™ *^« ««ly love-letter An, weJi may the birds sinrr I ^^I , * ^^^PP^ g rl I am f hHppy and so blithe as I. ^iss%*r^ "^^'^ ^^« ^ heart^o t^e roses and listen to me. iZsfZ^kV'' t"" ^«'« '*'»ong T^ill break, it is so full of We n« ^°"'' ^^'°' «'' ^y heart been so hnppy as I ?' °'^'- ^° ^«" 'hink any one hL eyer CHAPTER Lin. •ar HEART WENT OCT TO HIM.' continued. ^ ' "^"' '^«>' ^ am sure yo„ h«.,. !!! f*"?** 'MY HEART WENT OUT TO HIM,* 257 i-letter ' Why are you bo sure ? ' asked Agatha, with a faint, sad smile. * Because if you had you could never bear this quiet life. You know those mettlesome hounds of papa's — do you think, after the excitement of the chase, they could be content as watch-dogs 1 When one has drunk of the champagne of life who cares for its lees ] ' Agatha looked dreamily at the young girl. ' It seems strange that you should know so much,' she said ; ' I did not when I was of your age,' * When you were of my age. Miss Brooke,* said the girl, ' you must have looked like an angel.' < I did not act like one,' thought Agatha, with a keen pang of self reproach. * I often say to mamma,' continued the girl, happily, * that if you took the pains over dress that we do, you would be hand- somer than any of us.' * I am glad you think so kindly of me,' continued Agatha. * It is good to be young, and it is good to be beautiful,' sang out Beatrice. ' Life is full of good and beautiful things ; love crowns them all.* 'Yes, love crowns them,* sighed Agatha, and she wondered what this blithe, happy girl would say or think, if she knew the perils and pains that love had brought her. * When I was quite a child,* continued Beatrice, * I thought a great deal about the future, and what it held for me, but I never thought of anything so fair as I find it. I am quite sure that in the whole of this wide Moxld there is no other creature so blithe, so happy as I.' Agatha never forgot the scene. The brilliant morning ; the hundreds of roses, all in bloom ; the singing of the birds in the trees ; the ripple of the sweet green leaves ; the laughing spray of the fountains, as the water rose in the sun-lit air ; the odor of the thousand flowers that bloomed ; the bright, beautiful face of the girl who had taken her out among the roses to tell her the story of her love. * Do I tire you, Miss Brooke 1 ' asked happy Beatrice. Ah, me! I hope not. It is en >- .eet to have some one to telL Mamma is so kind, but she is a great lady — stately and gracious; but she would not undei-stand. I should not think that great ladies like mamma ever fall in love, do they, Miss Brooke ? ' l|! ■h i 268 I ■ rft m > II THE EAUl's ATONKMENT. grand ambassadors I S, i , "" "'°<'«' by proxv-bv • girl, aud nTa7;,J,:5;f S'^J. » "-"nkful, Jt'i a.n^n^j: ■Co„„°L"fK:,:«.™" """^'"""^ ""^^ -id Agatha, slow!,, •I do not care for th« fifi^ xl Hay the ear] is very rich that he 1 «1 ™''?>'' *'*^^"«^ P^ople he caroe U> this, ^t is himsel ot' '" ''^'*^' '^^^"^^ ^^^^^ Uat ,s right/ said Agatha. Ah, me ! How lone wL if oir, u , , green w^ods, thinking^the sal 2?U V^ \"* ^" *^« ^««'^ie - -"^ B.me ^ip,.m%88lhoTwf^^^^^ heart filled with Bere as the dead liives which TafeutuL^^" ^"' ^^^^* -*« nanitj?^-rti;Ct;';i?i^^^ -^tl have heard the one ofThe v:rofd::t;^;\^^ ::^^;'<^- m Eng^d^ he spent the greater part of \Z m^lu 7Ty V'""'^ °^^ ™an ; for more than thirty vea.s h. ' r^^" '^' "^^^ ^^ Athens Mamma says that Lo7d Kelso Z^^l^''''^' ^^" «--"*"«. withahapiiy lauah ' did nn?~^ ^^'V ««»tir,i,ed the girl although /tVas made hirfonTofZ/^r^ "^•°"* ^^« «-'^<^o^.' yoi. know, Miss BrookJ,',° eontlnt!? V" ^" ^^"^^^°^- '^o I hke young-that is, v'ery younl Ten' T "^ ^V ! ^" ^^^^ ^^'"^ young; he is not in the least oK; i'°' ^^^'^ '•'' °*^t very than 1 am. Mamma .ays tt a \T,^-' '" ^-'"^ >' «^« older up to your husband, f had man v 1 *^"^ *« ^ abl, to look during my one .^ason in tow^ bTt' J^'* P^' ' '*^"' '^'^'"i-rs And none w... half soJcJas LTt? f ^ r 7'' ^'°"^'^'- No ; non. There «^as a /o' n^d er °' ''"^^" ^*^«- ^tha.peated the na«^^Xt^^-.^S^-^^^^ i^uch:; t'hetay of EnpM"^ ' ' ^"* '^^^ ^ have not been win his or.s« ^v ^- ^^'' -ew papers. In what v.... a:/11 •my HEATIT WENT OUT TO HIM.* 259 Her face brij^htened, as it always did when she heard or dpoke of noble deeds. ' He said it was simple enough, but every one els seemed to think it very grand. He says that many such deedw were done during the war ; he was out in the trenches— if you know what ';hat means, Miss Brooke, 1 do not — attending to some wounded jien, and as he stood speaking to one of them, a shell, fired by the enemy, fell in their midst. If it had exploded they must all have been killed, but he mised it in his hand and flung it away, coolly, calmly, as thouj. n he had be<^n raising a cricket ball. It injured him terribly. Some people think be will never have the proper use of his right arm again, but he saved count- less lives. I heard that when the (|ueen distributed tho crosses, she was amazed to see so young a man, and she spoke so kindly to him ; it was enough to make all men heroes. How grand it is to be young and brave,' said tl e girl, fervently, and Agatha looked with admiration at the bright, beautiful face. * And this young hero— what of him?' asked Agatha. * He liked me,' replied Beatrice, shyly. ' If I had never seen Lord Kelso, then I should have liked Gerald Leigh. Perhaps,' she continued, naively, * you never henrd a soldier make love 1 ' * No,' replid Agatha,' I am quite sure that I never did.' 'They make the best lovers in the world. There is a romance about them ; they are so brave and fearless. I thought, once upon a time, that I should like • soldier lover ; but now ' * What now 1 ' asked Agatha. ' I prefer an earl. Gerald Leigh was very fond of me. Mamma would not hear of him ; although lie is the eldest son and heir of Lord Swansea, the great [tolitician. J shall always think that, fron. ^he first mamma wish>.'d me to be Lady Kelso.' ' How fortunate that you wishesi and Lady Penrith's should agree,' said Agatha. And looking at the bright, beautiful face, she did not won- der that Captain Leigh, Lord Kelso, and many others had lost their hearts ; it was beautiful to sit and listen to the simple, earnest confid of the young, loving heart. All the charm of youth and r ..aut-^- s on the girl. •Gerald Leigh ^ -ii me all about his campaign,* she con- tinued ; 'hut whenever mamma aw him talking to me, she took me away. H« was what she caUed ** a detrimental." I thought it rather cruel it her, unti' I saw Lord Kelso.' 1^ '^ it ! ill* ieo ' I ^»E EABl', ATONEMENT. Then you rlM . . , "k'd Agkhl'^ " ""■« '"'out thi, brave v ,,>'■'. that w«,. , '•""■«y°-'« captain,. '■^-'™'lt%7' -■''' -""""a!?:,;'''' "'"'^ ""^ I .n. ,, ^'Jour.ge;Bea.n!''"P'''-!»in*d.' '''^''' from other men ; own ,„•„, r.' .t;^^^ X-ord Kelso, \Z^^,o you tha„ the cliv d«t.nguiehed.|„.°k 'I' ,*;7'''"' ^igh wi vert , *!i»'^ "' "y that disfieure,! fc: ?' ' '''""1 him all T?f u ^ ''andsome and ."^ fair tf /:' '' Va:'"'''- •»" 'he :^',;!!,^^«'^r for the aoa^ ',»"'t5 my life would b« "'"".'''"*'* 'ometime, 'A'' ^'■""''«- ho hor life »aa over mT""" '^^'''yon ; and ?„i''i'"" ^^o- like jng to the sweet .,f I T"' '"«"(? here in ,l ""', ''o"""'" of have a T 't'"''' Mi« Brioke .°"''' "■'' '» '«"=« « " "°"" K^^Xv:-,^^"SY"hld''t,^,^^^r^^^^^^^^ F^&titf- **«'• " You JonlfT 7*^ no chance. M«J, f^ «« miserable ^ad nothing to do but ETES AND LIPS. 261 ^^g captain 1 ' n ; but I am Ke iove as h,. "^'ng them so » other men ; 'aJ'i Agatha ; ''fch the Vic- an the earJ.' haif of my fidsome and 3r the scars Brooke, he continued, ?n him. J lever have lite.' »vondered. 3 thoughts been like )mance of fit, listen- >w Would 'that we I read a ize what fe Lord «• heart, duchess d> than serable me to There :h had shing. o but \fatch people, and I saw' — she paused for a f*"^ minutes, as though the remembrance were very sweet to h( r — ' I saw a tall and very handsome man standing and watchi'.^ '"i dancers; he did not join Ihem, nor was lie watching any O'Oj in particuiai*. It struck mo suddenly how much he was like my dream of a great hero — tall, with broad shoulders, and a princely figure, with a dark, handsome face. I think — nay, 1 tim sure — that in all the world there is no face like it — dark, proud eyes, that softened at times like the eyes of a woman when she looks at one she loves, and a beautiful mouth. I know you will think I am foolish, but I declare to you that as I sat and looked at him my heart seemed to leave me and go out to him. I for- got all about the ball-room and my partners, mamma, Gerald and everything else. I only saw him, and I only knew just where he stood. My heart went out to him, and it never came back, Miss Brooke, and it never will. Does my love-story tire you 1 I have not much more to tell.* It was as sweet to hear as the -song of the birds in the trees, or the drowsy murmiur of the bees under the limes. CHAPTER LIV. 'your eyes tell me one story, and your lips ANOTHER.' j^NE thing,' continued Beatrice Penrith, * struck me very forcibly ; the tall, handsome stranger looked very sad and melancholy ; there was no smile in his eyes, and none on hi« lips. Something happened in the ball-room ; I tor- get now what it was— some absurdly comical incident — at whicli every one lau;.hed, but lie did not even smile. I won- dered it he had had any great trouble, or if by naiurti he was inclint-d to be melancholy, as some people are. I asked mam- ma, at last, who he was, — she knows everybody — and she toid me it was the Earl of Kelso. I think he must have noticed ' ^' ill fi I 262 THE earl's atonement. : il quite distJti; aTcCy TkT ""'"°"' *"<* ^ ''«'«<' «■» ! T ]^?** ^® ^^*^ beautiful child ?' >' , t ^,*,*J' indeed, Miss Brooke.' Who IS that beautiful rihilfl ?" » „«j i givenTn i ,„"; on bafi T'T ""'^ '^'> "■»' f»^i""« know I amtaH CrRrnl 'j't''*''"''*™'^*^™- fou that he aCid see me sunll' .f'' f,''»« '""gi-g i" my heart chUd again. How" mnlTit «?1 / ' *••*" ''«.'"»'W not call me ' tMuk s7 """^/-d beautiful r she S "^• tiful • '"' '""^ "^S"""^ ' ^--uth will make it most beau- something, and mamma introdu'oed hLttt ' ' "'' '''' ^^ a faf'th": seteVroruuSi^^vr^'^''' "^ "-^.r"" »f heart whirled, as it were awav fiL - ^°'" -"'' ^'"" it or not 1 When mv Ih L?. t° J"^ "'""'«'■ y"" ^'"ed l«red his firsV t™rdTo me lZon£rtlt7Z'""f ""<' l"-"- frtultrsa^vis(r-'^^^^^^^^^^ b4 t Jpe !.rS^^^^^^ wMle I five hands and caressed all the fio'wers Sh^Hn'r^^^^^ *'«"^ ^^ " Yes "Tlir "7,'", ^^". ^' ^'^< and" when I answered yes, he sighed and looked sad, as though he were thinking EYES ND LIPS. 263 of some one else. I believe I was jealous, for a horrible pain pierced my heart, and my face grew white and cold. What would he have said had he known 1 I think he wanted to know, even then, how old I was, for he asked me so many questions about my first season and my first ball. He bent his handsome head over me and said — " Do you know that you have the happy, glad eyes of a child. Miss Penrith 1 Will you tell me how old you are 1 " And, ' Miss Brooke,' she added, with a happy laugh, * I tried to crush him with my dignity when I told him seventeen. He did not laugh, his eyes clouded over with the expression of melancholy I could not bear to see. I wondered again — how jealous I am — if he were thinkiifg about any other girl he knew who was just seventeen. He asked me to go through the rooms with him, for the Duchess had a mag- nificent collection of flowers. Mamma seemed delighted. * He seemed to know everyone — all the beautiful women had smiles and bows for him, all the meti a cordial word. He pointed out to me several new and most beautiful flowers, but he did not ask me to dance with him. I saw Gerald watching me with troubled eyes ; I, myself, was like one dazed and in a dream. I remember wishing that the night might never end ; that I might wander with him through banks of sweet blossoms for ever. At last — you know how tantalizing that waltz music is, the rythm of it seemed to pass into my feet — he looked at me as though he had made some strange discovery. ' " You would like to dance 1 " he said. * " Yes, with you," I answered ; and I never stopped to think whether it was right or wrong. ' He laughed. ' " With me ? I have not danced for years," he said. * And why not, Lord Kelso ]' 1 asked. * ** I cannot tell, I have not been light-hearted enough to care for it." ' Have you had a trouble in your life 1 I asked impulsively ; again never thinking whether it was right or wrong. * " I suppose most people would call it a trouble," he said ; and I saw that he was speaking more to himself than to me. ' I looked up at him without any fear. trouble, and be liiihtheartef" Try '•get agaii I can hardly keep from flying when I hear that music. ,-l !l m M ;■ 5 ■ 1 1 1 I 1 ■ 264 i t THE earl's atonement. he 'ilw"""" ''"'"^ """P '""» "yi'g '"•en I wa. seventeen," .' f I!'*j"'™ "" »«l'zed together. da^ceJuki you'?''' *" '''"' '"'»' ^' ">« ■»» -h" go to balls Iaug'hU,t?;. ' "'"'"" '"'™ ''° '^™""^' °™ ""'"'■" •>« '^P'i'd th^ ;?;t'tion° aCrd rif'"™"'^^' » ■ I a-ked ; and he said an^'/S: hoteTtiror^Cf'lf V" ''T'^ ^''|•'■ alept that night under thHigt of the ml/''''"'" «"' "''" CHAPTER LT. ' ANVIHING CAN BE rOKO.VEN TO A MAN WITH SUCH A RENT- KOLL. ''Z"Srn"'i,!-:,f:Siri^t ''''■' "r-^ '^ , ; had done , She pr:;"^ Ve"t Clfd Zt " """ suddl'l^.''''^"'"'""'^^" -" ^-^ Kelso .r'tSr she said Beatrice laughed. birthday.andJheis'^oin./ ««^enteen the day after my old and-and hor "ble h^e 1'"*''''^ '^'r'!' ^'^^ ^«^ «*'' « he requires J iZethnr. I "" ^'^^ ^"^ ^^' ^^^«« ^eeth. and lieve that he is quSe a vln! '""« ^^.^^^^^ ^^^^ry one be- tallra^ -i.^... - /^""® * ^o"n« m*^n. When Gin^vra ««,. t _„. — "«- iovei^, Bhe always said " the earl," "aid I h i A MAN WITH SUCH A EENT-jROLL. 265 always said " my earl ; " and now I am quite used to the title. I have thought of him and spoken of him so often as '• my earl," that it has become part and parcel of my love. Do you not think, Mks Brooke, that so noble, so handsome, so grand a man in every way, that it is a most marvellous thing that he should have fallen in love with me 1 ' ' No, that I certainly do not,' replied Agatha, who thought the girl's grace and beauty, her candid, sweet nature, more than an equivalent for an earl'ti coronet. * He did fall in love with me,' she continued : • he came con- tinually to Penrith House, and mamma was always delighted to see him. After a time I grew shy of him, and when I heard his voice or his footsteps my heart beat, my face would either flush or grow cold, my hands be^'in to tremble, and I run away. I remember one day— ah me I what a dreadful day it was ! I was in the library of our London house, with papa ; he was taking iced lemonade and asked me to hold the plate of ice. Just as I had taken it into my hands Lord Kelso was anounoed, and I dropped it— plate, ice, all went rolling away, and I thought in my distress I should have fallen. My father, you know, is rather impatient ; he gave a little cry, but when he saw ray face he was quite quiet, and said, gently, " poor child !" That made me more frightened than ever, and I avoided him lest he or any one else should know how much I really cared for him. * He caught me one day. I was sitting alone in the great drawing-room. Mamma was out, and I heard his voice in the hall ; he was asking for me. Without stopping to think, I hastened through the room into the conservatory, feeling quite sure that he did not know I was there. To my delighted dis- may he followed me. ' "Miss Penrith I Beatrice," he cried. * «' I want to speak to you." * I was obliged to go to him, but I dared not look up, and my face was burning. I tried to look careless and indifferent. ' Good morning, Lord Kelso ? ' I said. I am sorry mamma is not at home." m very glad," he replied : ' " it is not mamma T want, -you, sweet Beatrice ! Your eyes tell me one story [• lips another. Which is the true one ] Your lips ( « H hi 266 THE earl's atonement. i »peak_oar.lessly, your eyes tell me that I have not Bought you her f^ir ?a e ,*h h^r K '"i"' '""SV^^ 'hat Agatha had overed .7™ ^'l^rufd'hr'^ =" 'r '-'.'trJiertTe'Tre" been a Ue a base? Zlt, wellttrii'eT '"™"'' *'"' '' "'«' "" sweetl '/e Xn Hfp5':fif;, -^''^'- «'«' «-' - .our Do'uglt'"of the:id'lot' h'^if ;!nd"'"^- ■ / ""^ l"" '""'^ ""^ nobl? as his face is be^uHfuI J t»,? '™! ' "" t™" " "« Brooke.' oeau.itul. 1 want you to see him, Miss thaYa''si»t°S°'" *'!''" ''"-'''•'' '" '°^"' '""^ ^'^ fi^'y convinced that a sight of ncr lover must be pleasing to every one else dom!J^nst:: r ^ rr t zt ^^^::t • "^.r r "<• 1 ao, but then 1 have only one vo ce. I wish all th^ lifH I- a' upon her fac. ^ Snat^iii otiv^.r^^ee';'::;";::^^!:':^ sought you ke a beauti- ed to wake, him, and I eft the con- ed to be his ded.' lad covered ter despair- innie green face of her iis voice as d it had all nt to your is like the heart is as him, Miss convinced le else. ■ felt some earl, who has grand d values; Heaven ; ittle birds I crowned i' life had what the h Castle. countess bile Bea- II to look I ever on A MAN WITH SUCH A KENT-ROLL. ^67 her lips. She did not walk as ordinary mortals, but it seemfed rather as though her flyin^f feet carried her at her will. The earl was expected in Sei»tember, and the wedding was to take place at Christmas. Lady Penrith was not much delighted at that. Why not wait until spring ; a wedding in winter was neither so pretty nor so picturesque. But then the earl said he wanted his wife ; and did not caie to study the picturesque side oi a wedding. The eldest daughter of the Earl of Penrith could not, of course, be married like a mere ordinary person • there must be great state and ceremonies ; nor can an earl be expected to prepare for the great event of his life without great festivities and royal bountias. Philippa, Lady Penrith, was a proud and happy mother ; her beautiful young daughter, after one season in London, had carried off the best match of the day. That, in itself, was triumph enough, though she tried not to be unduly elated. ' But that was not the best of it ; Beatrice, her lovely, and beloved child, was marrying for love. Never was there a marriage made in Heaven if this were not made there. The girl loved him with her whole heart, so much so that the statelv parents laughed at her graceful follies. Lady Penrith would have been much better pleased had this wedding taken place in the midst of the season, at the most fashionable church in town. She did not like winter weddings. 'How could they,' she asked, plaintively, 'how could they be made nretty 1 True, there were plenty of evergreens, and those, wiih an abundance of exotics, were always beautiful ; but there was a prestige about a wedding during the season. Roy- alty itself had often been present, and she would have delighted in that.' " So Lady Penrith talked iu a plaintive, sweet voice about ' dear Lord Kelso' and his taste. She liked to hear her ladv friends admire him for it. She liked to make the complaint'- It showed that her daughter had really been sought after, that she was eagerly beloved, and that the marriage was not sl match made from worldly motives. Never was anything more complete than this happiness of Beatrice s. She w&a so earnest, so eager in her de-Are to fit herself for him, that no one could help growing intensely in- terested. When she found ihat Lord Kelso lilted music, she t lli MX :X|, nM w W m 'J9 i 1 i 1 1 I !'■ H a -1 1 268 THE EAKL's ATONEMExVT. 1 (J H studied hard ; she begged Agatha, whose taste in music was perfect, to help herj she had books that she thought would fit her converse with him ; iu fact, she laid out he"r whole life to please h.m He was to come in September, and thrwedd ng was o be celebrated a few days before Christmas Day ^ T^««h"'u"'''[^ ^' a mariiage-bell. It was delightful to see Beatrice when she received a love-letter: how she read th«m and cherished them! No word from o^e of hose pre L^^^ letters was ever wiiispered to any one P^euous a ha^p^py wlfa ' ' ^'"^' ^"^^'' *^""S^*^ ^^atha, ' and she will be Up to this time she had never had the faintest doubt • but a ittle incident happened which made her anxious. Two' of tlie 'county ladies,' both friends of Lady Penrith's, called durW her absence and as they had driven some distai ce. they wen? nto the castle to rest. The day was fine, and the^ went Tn o the gardens. Agatha, who knew them both well, went to see If she could do anything in the way of amusing them Is she drew near to the garden-chair on which they were seated Ihl heard, and could not possibly help hearing what thy 'were saying. Lady Tree had a loud voice, and Mrs. DarwL was '1 would not give my daughter to him if he were twenty times an earl,' Lady Tree was saying. She lowered her voice but Agatha heard the words ' a terrible scandal-a great sS face— years ago— always a bad man.' ^ Could they possibly be speaking about Lord Kelso ? Her face grew pale, and her heart beat with sudden fear. It could not be of him ; why should she think it? The world was full of men, and, unfortunately, there were very few good ones Lord Kelso was not the only man going to be married ; sure'y surely, it was not of him. If it was -if that bright, beaSl girl were to be made miserable; if that blithef g ad younK life were to be wrecked ; if that loving, gentle heart wJre to be broken, then there was no justice on earth, no mlrcy n Heaven. She could not, would not, believe it. Was there ^o truth ?-wa8 every man false at heart ? She raised her face in passionate appeal to the blue skies ; they were blue and bihid ^ . ^ .,,..„ ^„iuii. ouc.iuuguu CO asK Liiem ifthpv were speaking of the earl, but she knew that neither of the jl man with such a rent-roll. 269 music was lit would fib whole life he wedding ►ay. itful to see read them 36 precious she will be ubt; but a Two of the led during they went went into ent to see ». As she eated, she they were irwin was re twenty her voice, reat sacri- 80 ? Her It could I was full >od ones. I ; surely, beautiful id young were to mercy in there no er face in id blind- ui if they r of the ladies would have answered her. They condescended at last to notice her, and, in answer to her inquiries, Lady Tree said she would like a little fruit and a glass of milk. Mra Darwin de- clined taking anything. The two great county ladies considered a governess of no more importance than one of the rose-bushes in the garden. Lady Tree murmured, as she went away, that she did not approve of beauty in a governess ; and Mrs. Darwin said she would certainly not keep any one like Miss Brooke in her house ; no good ever came of it Beauty was quite a mistake in the lower classes. Then Agatha returned, with a fine bunch of purple grapes lying in the midst of green leaves, and then they thought her of so little account that they went on talking before her, just as though she had not been there. * Did you ever hear who it was 1 ' asked Lady Tree, in the most confidential tone of voice. * No, never,' was the reply. * Some insignificant person, I fancy. The whole matter was kept very quiet, but Lady Penrith must know of iL' ' Of course she does ; but an earl is an earl. How long is it since it happened?' * I do not remember. Mr. Darwin was in town when all the clubs were ringing wiUi it. But there! anything can be for- given to a man with such a rent-roll.' * Should you think he cares for her 1 ' was the next question. 'I should say not — merely a caprice. She is a most beauti- ful child — not very strong, or very wise ; and he must be tired of worldly women. She will be happy for a few months, and then ' 'Then it will he like all other marriages, I suppose.' And the two great ladies laughed. A broken heart in the gay world is looked upon as something almost comical. They did not notice that the governess shrank away, scared and frightened, with a world ot trouble on her sweet face. ' Surely, oh. Heaven ! ' she cried, ' it cannot be true — so hor- rible a fate canr-«t be in store' for that loving, beautiful girl! Is there no truth ? Lady Penrith loves her as the very centre of her heart ; it is not likely she would allow her to marry a man such as these ladies spoke of.' Yet a lingering cloud of doubt hung over her. Better for the beautiful child to die than to live to see he„ I f , M m ■f^rr 270 THE EAEL's atonement. : I possible that evened he been ^UW^^^ IT'-.^* ^*« j"«* he might reform-turn on^Z ^^^\^^.^y ^ad said, and worse, 1 hey are most beautiful,' said Agatha Agatha looked up, with some anxiety in her face 1 do not know whether it be wise or nnf K„f -^ • pleasant,' she replied ' Do nnf h! f -5 ^ ^"^^ '^ '' ''^^J' Agatha spoke then, without reflection. T--K!- ' Are you quite huvp. t.haf V,^ ,» „ ui_,_. ,. , , . r: 'LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.' 271 * Only from my great affection for you/ she replied ; * I beg your pardon, though ; it was a question I should not have asked. What should you do, loving him in this fashion, if any- thing prevented your marriage ] ' * 1 can soon answer that question,' replied Beatrice. I should die.' But Agatha knew death would not always come when one desired it, and she knew, besides, how much one can sutFer be- fore it is time to die. Beatrice was looking at her with a shadow on her bright face. ' Miss Brooke,' she said, ' I bring you to sympathise with my delight over my beautiful present, and you turn my pleasure into pain. Why are you so strange ? ' * I can only repeat that it is because I love you so much, and marriage is always a lottery.' * And my earl is always a prize,' she retorted, laughingly. Then they discussed the pearls and their beautiful settings. Agatha resolved to say no more, it was quite useless ; it served only to make Beatrice uneasy, and she evidently knew nothing of her lover more than she had been told, but she resolved to be on the watch. ' If,' she said to herself, with bitter tears — * if there had been some one to watch over me, how different my life would have been. I pray to Heaven that this loving, beautiful child may die rather than suffer, as she will do if she is deceived in her lover.' ii:' CHAPTER LVI. * LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.' |§) EATRICE PENRITH stood at the school-room window, and for the first time in her sunny, happy life there was a shadoTf on her bright face. Agatha was busy w'.th the curly-haired children, and Beatrice was waiting until lessons were over and Miss Brooke had time to attend to her. A i 272 THE EARL'S .. . ONKMENT. the , »tle. Ureat „re„rr^,; '' [""^ u *"<' '^"^'^ « l,o was St Beatrice .,.d Cr/TZtL'^:.-', Z'" '"' !'''■ «" »'• arrived one eveniru' ^hen tL. •'^ "/ expectation. He voice a,,d phr,::,;T„r:;K:i,e'"Tt'V''''' * "-»»' ™ile. -Mamma says tint I »„, °*' ""i" " '''"^'''''K. h'PPy mth him before d nner 1 h„ " "*«°r'' fP"""! ^alf an hoSr • -really nice. I eo^U not t™tTl "''' ■™" " ' '<">'' "•« very ftsHdious-mammasa, hi .•.?'V"" .'"'"'; and he is dress that she knows • ■ ' " "'^ ''™' J"-lg« °f « lady's * Then he cannot fail to hf «lc„ ,«^ xl •It is perfect ; and you ooHdi ti.?'' y'""?'\^i'i Satha. happy.' ' """' """' oecause you look so perfectly so/emrin'Te^'mltf "'tL^cl^r ™ '""^"""^ «'-«' then, in my dress or flower^ issTro" ke"^' '"' ""'"'«''»' Asatha went up to the bekutifnl, 1,"™; lirf litti^ :ry:s z t^'^^^r'^^i i^ ■■ v-' *»■<» a Jookatthemto see at onU„rucK^;:^ .^^^^-nj. to ini antbi:S"g?:;'':;e7;j«" 'J,-f / -" «-'»-- '-gh- always be too slTy to utter ' '""' '''"' "^ "P« "ill ba:/ii';r„^:,"'i;i;:,ft™n:,':re^''i;tr'''v"f'''*"« read the same Jove and ereet^^^Tn K ^*"^ ^*^^'^"° ^^^ .ook^ better. Beatr.ce, TS^roX^ T^, S^ ^^- of ^ compin-:!^ ^'i^'x:^^-^^;:x :^,. 'LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.' >73 u for sympathy there was in the girl's heart, kissed the fresh young face. ' Now go i '^f^,' she said ; ' Lord Kelso will be quite im- patient.' She watcht the slender, little figure ;ind the pretty, grace- ful dress ; her heart and thoughts followed the young girl ; books had no charm for her that ev< ing. It was th»! oil story over and over again. She wondered that the sun which shone at noontide, and the moon and stars which shone by night, were not tired of it; she ' ondered that the tall trees diil not shake their branches in utter contempt of it. It was so sweet, so en- trancing, j et so vague and empty. When did love end in any- thing but pain ? The sweeter it was in the present, the more bitter > the tcjture. ■Sh( d the books, the restless fever woke again in her heart nore quiet reading or study for her ; her heart beat in gre. painful throbs, her face flushed. She must go out in the fresh, sweet evening air. It was not an unusual thing for her to do. A door led from the schoolroom to the grounds, a pretty, quiet spot, where the children played under the shade of the great green trees. She went out now ; nothing but the voice of the wind and the rustle of the river, the light of the moon and the stars ; nothing else could comfort her when these fev«rs of unrest came over her. It was a lovely moonlight night, and as sh(; walked quietly to and fro under the shadows of the great trees, her mind went back. Ah, me ! the repressed passion and pain of that loving heart. She was back once more in fancy at Whitecroft, watch- ing the moon shine on the old church, and on her mother's grave; she knew just how the shadows tell over the old house, and in the woods ; she was back again in the grand old chateau, and saw the moon shining on the mountains and lakes. Where was he ? — the man who had drawn and absorbed her whole life in himself — where was he 1 — the man who had t iken the light of the sunshine and the beauty of the moonlight for- ever from her — where was he 1 Looking, perhaps, in some face fairer than her ovrn, loving some one for v.uom he cared riiorc than ho had cvi r cared for her. She had been one of many to him, he had been the c.dy love of her life. She raised her eyes to the quiet night skies. f!^ t \$ MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TESF CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I 1.25 2.8 1^ !t IIIIIM !f IIIM ^ 1^ II 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.8 ^ APPLIED IM/^GE Inc ^FI '653 East Main Street r*.j: Rochester, New York 14609 USA '■■^= (716) 482 -0300 -Phone ^= (716) 288- 5989 - Fax 274 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. the reSVeveT'Hea^ef Lows T^^^ '^' words stilled t^te .Iff i 3roi;r- - rt; nth. She was with her W nl^' ^^PP^,^«^ ^^ Beatrice Pen- . at him, listening to him CZZn^'^^fu ^^ ^'"^' ^«^king at tell. Would it all endTn mSl ^oTw ^^^P!^^^^ of wordt to who were to be happy on^lr,7; Z T' ^'^*"'^ «"« «f the few on, when the night^g^ew chfll anT? happy ni Heaven ? Later to her room, shf hearSthe dear sweet'v"^' '^' -^'^ ^^"^ ^''^ the house, and she knew thai RpJf "^"'-'^ "°g^"g through She did not see her during Sew^^^^^^^^^ '^ ^^^ ^over. of visitors had arrived LfdvPrnH^ *^' °'^^ ^^^-^ Party the lovers to grow tirtd ofeLh oTht "" '" '^° "^^^ ^« '"^- and Ja'tX t^^^:, ^^ ^ttgTh^-, ^%~' ^tfthTe^nrvSr^^^^^^^^^ well, so that Lathers Lti&7"'"'\'^^'"' all would go the school-room, anTAgathrh.dnn^ ^'\^'' usual visits to on which she had lookX briUhnt nTb ^'' '^"'-^ '^' "^^^^^ she stood by the window w,>l! ! ! i! ? ^^PP^ ""^^^ now that ' Miss Brooke!' rai^ B^atT e 1 1 '.^"^"^ "^ ^^^ f^««- whether those dear chi dren Icniw /iT'^^' ' ^^"' ^^" ^' °^^"er verb «To be," to-day or to J^'r'o^f Pfl ""'"'''i^^' '^ '^' minutes and talk to me T b«vw ^"^ ^^^""^ ^^^^m a few the only leisure timeT^hall havp f ^"J "' "°°"' ^"^ this is Agatha fancied she fetollT' , ■ 7^°^ *^ ^^^^ ^^ you.' the sweet voicj She gave he ^MM '"""'^ "^ "^ ^^^^^^^ ^^ themselves with, and wf^t to featf ''\'°°^'^^^"g ^« ««^P>oy a sigh of relief. ^'^ ■^^^*""^' ^^^ <^urned to her with ^ro2%r/o ^^:a'f^^^^^^^^ me. Miss no one to whom fcan spe Jk of my e ybuTvl"'\^"^^ ' t^' mamma understands love as you or I Hn I \ ^ ^"^ "^*^ ^^^^^ marriage as " contracting an Snce'-'^nw/^-^^^' '^'^^' °f the giri's lips. ' I believe for hpfi . ? ""• *'"' ''"^^^ ^"^^^'i a heavy heart, and iT^t Zt A' ''"' ^^ ""^ ^^^^^ ^ ^^^6 .- - ..„nt j-ou tu luii me li it is so.' * LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.* 275 'ords Stilled do wrong.* it. " the night* 7 past, her atrice Pen- looking at f words to of the few n ? Later gone back ig through her lover. ' — a party e to allow lusement, daughter 1. would go i visits to the night now that e. it matter le to the m a few d this is '•ou.' ouble in employ ler with le, Miss I have t think eaks of I curled I have ' How can I tell you, Beatrice ? ' asked Agatha, half smiling at the girl's utter simplicity. * You know everything about love, and pain, and happiness,' sighed Beatrice ; ' I know you have heart-ache, because I have seen you when I am sure you have spent hours in crying. I am afraid my heart is heavy, and it should not be when my lover is here. I do not feel quite like myself, I am more in- clined to cry than to laugh ; there is something wrong with the sunshine.' ' And what is the cause ? ' asked Agatha. The girl laid her forehead wearily on the cold glasa * T can hardly tell,' she replied. I talked a great deal with Lord Kelso last night, and there seemed to me such a distance between us. I can hardly explain what I mean, but it made my heart ache.' 'A distance between you 1 I hardly understand, Beatrice. In what manner 1 ' * You see, Miss Brooke, my life has been so simple ; I have lived under such love and care ; I have never been away from my parents. There are sins and troubles in the world, but I do not even know them. I am such a child,' she continued, passionately — * such a stupid, ignorant, foolish child ! while he knows everything. I wish I were more like him.' * What you call ignorance is most probably your greatest charm,' said Agatha. ' However worldly a man may be him- self, he likes an unworldly woman.' Her face brightened.^ * Do you think so 1 I am so glad. I hear him talking to mamma — she seems to understand him — and they laughed. I could never amuse him as she does. Then I asked him why his eyes always wore that melancholy look, and what do you think he said?' * I cannot guess, Beatrice.' * He said, ' I did not know that I looked melancholy, Bea- trice ; I shall not do so when I have you near me,' * T persisted. Miss Brooke, I said to him, ' It has nothing to do with me ; the first ni^ht I saw you the same look was there. Why are you so sad when you have everything this world can give you ? ' And this was his answer— this was what puzzled me so. " I have lost something out of my life," he said, " and life will never be the same agam." ' I :ini )?i ill 276 THE earl's atonement. seemed to reTpeaki^,^™ 'f'^'^t ^'"^ ^'' ^^ok at me and u-hai he had losrouroVhi^rhe'r^^S "^^^^ ' ^«^"d hTm nonsense, sometime, Bea ice"' he Z7"^ ^^^f ^^- " ^ talk say any more. What do you thh.k hrr^^' ?"^ 1?^ ^'^"^^ «ot -M.SS Brooke ] My beautifj:? Wr !^ j^^^, "« ^^^ ^f-m his life, Who can say ? Peruana a fr.- J T- ^*" it be ? ' CHAPTER LVII. ^I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM.' I^S^S^S j^l^^ that I ^^ not wonder muVia'he' Si ve'a T."^" '^^*' ^"^ ^ ^^ould ting them- they are to L ml X h "^'^'^ "^""^ '^^'^^t- jewellery and ornaments, and T had n^LdT" '" '"'^ ^^^"^ niy ear] -always wears a locket-it iJlu!^ '^^ ^*«^« ^^at diamo. I asked him to et te Lok at^i ' t^''' "j^^ ^°« confusea at first, but I insisted ^ V ^ ^e seemed rather locket I hr /e,' I said, * why hould I I?l ""f^ ^""^ ^^ «^«^7 ' Then he took it from hi watnh i ^''^J' *^ ^^^^^ ' ' opened it. and inside thL wis llo J^? ^^ ^'^^, ^' '« "^«- I golden hair. I could see at once that ifhyrP"'"' ^^^"^iful, head of some fair woman I ask4 him ^\^^«^«"t from the —^^ '• ^ ^^^-^ nim 'whose hair is this ? ' he he head of some fair ^vomTn la k4 him '^T'^-' f-^ th and he answered-' it beloniw tn u"^^^'^ ^^^'^ i«t»»si angek' ' D^^ad do - ^ ; ^""^ "^^^ ^^ now amnn- t'l ' do ^ou mean i ' I asked. ' ^es, d"ead^' h at me, and asked him • ^'Italic would not •m his life, ^ cherished not let it i^aiting for HIM.' I'ealous ? I should hispered a quan- t n-set- t about me that ith one I rather ' every me. I autiful, am the tins ? ' ng the td,' he 'I SHOULD L[KE TO KNOW ALL ABOUT HIM.' 277 replied, and his voice was sorrowful — ah, as the sighing of the wind when the leaves die. Then an idea came to me — he said he had lost something from his life ; he said also that this hair belonged to some one who was dead ; it seemed to me that he had loved and lost some beautiful woman, to whom that hair belonged. I can understand what it is to be jealous — a pang like no other pain that I have ever felt went through mj heart/ ' You need never be jealous of the dead,' said Agatha. * I could not help it — I — you will think me selfish. I know, but I could not bear to think that any one else had ever had a share in his heart. I could not bear it — living or dead. "No woman must have any place in his heart with me.' And it seemed to Agatha, as she had listened to the passion- ate words, that in a few short hours Beatrice Penrith had changed from a simple, loving child, to a passionate, loving woman. ' I am afraid I am not as good as I ought to be. I know that he loves me, and I should be content ; but I am jealous of that part of his life in which I have had no share. I should likj to know everything about him from the time he first began to walk, until now. I cannot bear the past in which I did not know him, in which he had loves and hates, all dead let- ters to me. If there were so many faults I would forgive them all ; but I cannot bear to remember he has had a past that I shall never be part of. Do you understand. Miss Brooke ? ' * Yes, I understand perfectly,' she replied. ' I knew you would. If I were to talk in this strain to mamma, she would think me insane. I have told Lord Kelso every thing in my life — not that there has been very much, except, perhaps, about Gerald Leigh. He laughed about Gerald, and said he was the finest young officer in the Queen's army. He was not in the least jealous, as I thought he would be; but when I had told him everything about myself that I could remember, and I asked him to tell me all his life, and everything in it, he looked —well, I must say he looked 'per- fectly miserable. ' " My dearest Beatrice," he answered, " our two lives have met now like two streams, but the one is a clear, sweet, trans- parent brook — the other is a muddy river ; the brook will purify the river." ' Now, what could he mean by that.' a 'Hi \n f ■HI ■ii % \ iii j||' % T- il ■ 1 1 % m THE EARL*S ATONEMENT. he had no particular meanL Von P t^-^'^^ '^^'^^V^ nothing but the beautiful holv lif« ' a'T'^' ^^""^ ^''<'^^ ear has, perhaps, like other nL' Vr.' «^ ^^"^^ > ^he little, bet and lost ; and no^ ^nTh ' ^^T^^f ^ ^^"^«' ^^^nka sweet as yours, his^ errors Wk",^^ ^ '^ 7^ '' P"^^ -"^ the muddy river, in fact * ^ '^ *"^ '^^^^^'^ indeed- sympathy. Agatna s neck, and thanked her for her persisted. ^ ^^ ^^' ^ad any love save me t ' she .'My dearest Beatrice, how can I t^II ? t i, ,j tamly say that whatever has been hVlol ^ ^ '^^"^^ «^««t ^er- any one in the world • and if T w« ' ^i'" now better than him-I would not even think ablt hr"' .^'^S^ ^ ^^"^^ *^"«t all ; think of the present, and how to7?\- ^'"'' ^'"^ "^^ ^^ never mind the past.' ^'^ ""^^^ ^^"^ most happy— noUhink ?rom wt^tVh^eT^^ Brooke-you do loved any one else but me ?' ^ ^* ^^ ^*« ^^^r really f. J d^^ori'ao^rg in""':& ;^ S^ '°-/°» beat „„. , abe asked. ^ ®^^^ ^^^^ ^ave you, Miss Brooke ? ' 'wh.n''*^'y''P^*^^ Agatha. i-TJ «'-.? xri;r. tosts Agatha laughed. TJ^V^^"^*'^^ well as it is,' she replied ■ " """" ^'«'^' ""« ">»"git ' la alUhat ahetZ m^ 'I WISH I COULD ALWAYS BE NINETEEN.' 279 about Lord Kelso is something from which my whole heart rebels. I wish she had loved Gerald Leigh.' Some few days passed then, during which she did not see Beatrice. The castle was full of visitors ; there were con- tinued gaieties — balls, pic-nics, parties of all kinds. Beatrice had only just leisure to run in and speak two or three words. * I am so happy ! ' she would say. ' Thank Heaven for me?' And ii.t3e few words always brightened the day for Agatha. The marriage Avas one of the general topics of conversation, and several paragraphs concerning it had been published in the papers. Few people were ignorant of the fact that the Earl of Kelso was to marry the beautiful young debutante of last season — the daughter of Lord Penrith. The preparations for the marriage went on steadily ; Beatrice forgot her doubts ; the earl no longer wore the locket, w'th the single diamond that held the pale golden hair. The happy days passed on, and brought with them no clouds. * I wish,' said Beatrice, one morning, ' that I had studied music more carefully. I had no idea that the earl enjoyed it so much. I wish I had your talent for it, Miss Brooke.' § iil' ■ ,t CHAPTER LVIIL I WISH I COULD ALWAYS BE NINETEEN. yti ^l THINK it is a good sign when a man loves music,' said % Agatha. * Does he sing himself 1 ' ^"^^'No; at least, I have not heard him. You know that we went to Liscom Priory yesterday, and dinner was delayed for an hour in consequence. It was the lovely time that poets call the gloaming, when I went down, and finding no one about, I went to the piano, in the oaken room, and Lord Kelso followed me.' * That was very natural,' laughed Agatha. . It f I ffp 280 THE earl's atonement. talkn.. so„.e iittJe tia^e to me he sa7d / '"' "'^" ^« ^^^ ^-^ over when o^ hLr^ 1^;;!^; gS. .^"^ ^ -- twice but /XT at 7::'^,^"]^ ' '^' - ^^"^ to hi. n^»ch, indeed, I have Jearued^hem f "'"''"" "'''^ 3^^^" «ke To Bilent, and I f.Jt sure that he e„ I'd ^^"^ ^'"i .^^ ^'^^ 'l^ite lay back in J.is chair with h l eis^.? ^^^ ^'S!?^ ^^^ airs, for he one you Jove so much. I for Jt f h '''^- 7^'" ^ Pl^^ed the J^ith It : - While I have eves ^I^^ /'""'I'- ^."^ these^^wLrds go ber It, Miss Brooke?' ^ '' ^ ^^^^ no hght." You remem- ivemember it I Sho r.nni^ i, »chi.,g of her hearr She aw rt! "'^^^'o-d with the sick foof ; the great window^^ith the L K "^T^' ""> "» "'ken asa..; the grand roll of'tle organ ^'V;,"'"! '"'»'' "''« ^^^d Would Heaven, in Hi, „r„t 3"; ^''»' .fh* remembered it. Beatrice Penrith contlued ^' ''" """"' '"'" ^ '"'get. when\:Ve°ned't ^T £'' l"" I ^"" "P '» "•■>■. »<> tears. "J'"' 'hey were heavy with tears-lreal 'SeTook''ed™t"'m''7""=^/''I»ri^d. know me-as though'^' hal 2^"^^^°"^^ ^^ did not dreams m which I did not dwel/ The?!""* ?""" « '»•"! »' ; ^Is It you, Beatrice 1 " ""^ *"* '^'d : ?.ade"yVsad7'l 'said. 'a^^ltSM" V' "" ' "^ "»"« "as singing.";.'"' ""' -<'. "i' « - though I had heard the angels '"^SlS"^^-ke^^^^"^""""-^-^' great tal™t, a„d you a;e youl""" ''° ^"""^ "est. Fou have 1 shall trv har^l ' ooJJ T> *• what pleases1,im T But M^:f C„ ''r^J" '"' P'^^^'d '» know look very pale, and your l3s t^l^^ ^'"^ "'"^ y»«- You Of yoX-! ""ird^' riS Jj"'^ *» '■- ^- »Peak ^Ua. ed Beatrice, he had been music twice 'ing to him, you like so e was quite airs, for he played the e words go ou remem- h the sick » its oaken she heard 01 be red it. forget. him, and Jars— real e did not land of lusic has 5 gloam- e angels hink he 'u have know You 1 speak *I WISH I COULD ALWAYS BE NINETEEN. 281 How little the beautiful young girl, whose heart •vas full of her own love secrets — how little she dreamed how much pain and sorrow these few words brought back ! It was strange that this great earl, the lover of Beatrice, should have the same taste as Sir Vane, whom she believed to be her husband. How often he had said to her, when the shadows of night were fall- ing on the mountains, * Play my favorite airs Agatha,' and if she omitted this one, he would say always, 'Now the one you played for me in the old church, Agatha.' How many times she had heard him murmur the words, over and over again, ' While I have eyes he wants no light.' Well, its only natural that many people should love the same piece of music. * I shall rise very early in the morning,' said Beatrice, ' so as to have plenty of time for my music. I know I am jealous now, for I should not like any one else to please my earl so much as I pleased him then. You have not seen him yet. Miss Brooke ? ' * No ; not yet,' said Agatha. ' Penrith Castle is so large I might live here twelve months and never see one of your visitors.' ' Will you come down to the drawing-room 1 ' said Beatrice, eagerly. Mamma often wishes that you would.* ' No ; thank you. I should not like it. I must be patient. I am anxious to see him, and without doubt I shall see your earl soon.' The words were a prophecy. * A Fancy ball,' cried Beatrice Penrith ; * of all the beautiful ideas that ever emanate from mamma's brain that is the most beautiful ; a fancy ball ; it is the one thing I have always wished to see — it is the only kind of ball I have not seen. I am so pleased, Miss Brooke.' And, indeed, Beatrice was at that moment so entirely happy that it w. refreshing to look at her. Mamma Siys how pleased she shall be if you will help me to choose a costume ; do find something that will please my earl ; the costume of some one who was very young and who loved some one very much — just as I love him.' * I will think it over,' said Agatha. my Ui-iU J.— ■ ■iLuuuy II the uii c ;;\vcu ^y continued, ' and as it will be my last at home, mamma said I SI R 1 !i". i; 282 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. desire of my life ha8 been o eee n L Z^ u'^u"^' ^^'^ ^'^^^ wit eno.,gh to 8„8tain the charactlr^ ^ ,^'^ ""^.^'^ P^'^P'^ had to do that. We are to senci o^ff 1 1 ^^""^ ^f '''•'^" *" "^«"age I wish yon wonM col MirBrnol'^' ""'"^^^ of invitationl n;uch.and I wonid fi dVou , ,^^^^^^^ wonld enjoy it so always refuse to join in every h in/ wl ^ '""'^u ^^y do you 80 welcome V everything when we should make you 'Do you not see, dearest Beatrice th« Ai(r -yo„r life is beginning, mine is ending ' ^'^'"'"'^ ^^'^««" "« wiiat nonsense,' laughed f!-atrire ' Vnn says, who sees you— oneOf thl ] v' . ^^ are—every one and no matter h^ow wi^'you ry' to look r"^'" ^" '^"^ ^^^'^^ We than twenty.fou^. and Vditi ^b^l^ Th^^r ^ Stuart: TZ^i^^^iei:ri^j^^Ff ^r ^-^« women.' ' ^^ ^"3^ o^ those beautiful queenly daylrii-^Lnf ^:r; ritif i^Vdl- '^''■"/'■^' ""^ -«' '■■« King Misrule.' "" "'' delivered into the hands of The invitations sent out evten^o.] t.if one of note or celebrity wafinduded l'/'' '^' '"""*^' ^^^^-^ ^hy the ball was given there wpI' '/' f '''^"^ «°« ^"ew people were very Lomi of Beltri. "p"'^"'?''' ^^' ««""ty beauty, and of the V^'d marrTa'' h'""'^^^^^ °^" ^er crowded to do' her honrr tTS .•'^*'™'*^'"^- They tastic fancies, and wh Ht astJ] 7.'/ p ™'-f P^^"^' ^^n Agatha, than she had ever do, f 'Mi^ ^ff'"L''^ '"^ "^^''^ «f so amiable, ready to do any h n^ for «n ^'°°^\^^« ^^^ clever, a pleasure to ask lier to So anvthin? ^t'T J"^^^^' '' ™ ways going to the schooI-rnL {flll'^V.^f^^^ ^^"rith was al- . " -11 ^.iieicnes and suggestions; I WISH I COULD ALWAYS BE NINETEEX. 283 it — private The great People had ill manage ivitations. >"joy it 80 liy do you make you 3tween us very one le world, u cannot you are Agatha, 18 Marie queenly e great 'ou will ike the ntil the ands of , every knew Jounty of her They . fan- 3re of lever, it was as al- tioDs ; ghe entreat««l Agatha to go to the ball, hut she as firmly de- clined. She said to herself that she had finished with the world, and she would have no more of its hollow gaieties ; she would do anything to help any one else. 'The costume of a Swiss peasant is very picturesque,' said Lady Penrith to her one day, and Agatha trembled at the words. During this time she never saw the earl. The children spoke of him, they showed her the presents he had brought them, they talked of all the games they had ; but, by some strange chance, she had never seen him. The whole county seemed to be alive with preparation.s, and nothing was t dked about in the country-houses but the fancy ball at Penrith Castle. Every one had agreed over Beatrice — she must be * Jul '^t,' the beautiful, passionate young daughter of the Capule i ; Juliet, who gave up her heart at one word, and never counted the cost of her love. She was delighted with the choice ; the dress would suit her girlish style of loveliness, and, above all, it suited her frame of mind. It was the only character, she declared, that she could have thrown her whole energy into. Lord Kelso laughed; his beautiful betrothed should have her own way, of course. If she were Juliet, he must be Romeo, and that, he said, was almost equivalent to a marriage. ' After such a very pronounced affair as that, appearing in public as Romeo and Juliet, there could be no getting out of the engagement for either of them.' * Do you want to get out of it, as you phrase it ? ' asked Beatrice. ' Do you 1 ' asked Lord Kelso, by way of answer. * That I certainly do not,' she replied, with a blush and a smile, and a look in her eyes that touched his heart. ' After all,' she said, slowly, ' Juliet and Romeo were un- fortunate lovers; they both died. If 1 had thought that, I ' * What,' asked the earl, with some little amusement. ' I would not have chosen it,' she replied. ' It is a bad omen, and I thought it such a good one.' ' I will not let you say that it is a bad omen, there can be no such thing for you and me, sweet Beatrice. Now smile, and be happy again, my beautiful Juliet' ■ ulU 284 THE EARL'S ATONKWKNT. i; loota/ttr^^^^^^^^ ^ouM not have on the night of her birth7a/',^i^r"^^h*"f '''«'' ""'' '^« ^'-S with 18 vesture of pearls suite jh ^ '^?'' ^^ ^»»te satin "ever looked so wel • but thl I ^ admiration: she had wonderful brightnes 'and beautv^rf?''.''^"™ «^ *» wa«tKe the bright eyes, the love thaUeemij^^^^ '^'' tenderness of r J^^rfs^t; ^e P-X7X lUtte tet ''to!^;^?reraS^^^^^^^ gVVel,„,,H, i^eat;!;e"pU^^^ttrer ^-'^ ^« ^iniself. She had everything that heaven anJeartr T> ^'' ^'•''hday. had bpauty. youth, wealth and We f k'^'^'-I^/^" ''*^^- «''« more beautiful future. She hlrl nf ^ * beautiful past, and a on the dawn of that birthdav ^1,"" * '""^ ""' ^ ^'"ouhle, and girl under the sun. L ttei^^'J^" „T 7"''"^^ ^'^« »^^PPie"t *nends. but she valued most that S"r' ^!T '^""^ ^'^ her --a superb diamond ring and tht I ^^^^ ^^^^o gave her day was the one she spent wifh K ^'^"?^ ^''"^ of her birth' her finger, and whispered t her^ o/^noTh '" ^^ ^'^^^^^ ^' o" P ace there soon. The woWd was aM W h?/'?^ ^« ''«P«d to 8 e seemed to tread on air It !' f J : f ^' '^ '^«'' after that ; true love in this world. ^'^'^"^ 'o see the waste of The ^^:i/Z^^^t^ '^ r- - - this day. when kings visited the old castleL^'^ f^ banqueting hal «tead of the modern room bulk VoT.h"''^ ^' " ^^^'-^oom in- enormous length, lofty and beautifnl /"'P^''" ^' ^*« of had been spent in its decorltion? f^ ^ decorated ; no pains blossoms rose round the wl til nal^r ''''' ^^ ^agnifiC grandeur, fountains of fragrant 1^ '"'' '^''^^ ^^ solitary the lights were brilliant E/f' ^*^« * "musical rinnle pended from the loftrc^^^^^^^^^ ^^P^' -mTs' 1 leaves. ^ ""&' others hidden among the green sue; VSdl7^;t^i; i« BeatHce. < There never was Mamma.^eo;ild'wenorroet'w,>iX' ^ were time to begin' ^ord ft^eiso laughed. ' '''' '*"^ oegm at once ? ' I •I WISH I COULD kLwAYS BE NINKTEEN.' 285 % and * 1 do not think your programme would he appreciated, Beatrice,' he said. ' You will find dinner a very important event I v/ould sooner have a in the lives of most people.' • I should be as happy without, dance tlian a dinner.' As he looked at her, be wondered how long she would be so happy — how long she would wear the same brightness on I.c ' beautiful face — the same j'outh in her heart. It was a moonlit night, and the roll of carriage s was some- thing v/onderful to hear. The cistle was a blaze of light, the servants all in holiday attire. The ceremony of dining had been attempted, but none of the young people could eat, even though it was a birthday dinner. The important hour had ar- rived when the ladies of the household had gone to dress. There was a murmur of admiration when the beautiful young Juliet appeared. Agatha had been in the dressing-room. Beatrice would not be satisfied unless she were there. The girl lookti as beautiful as a dream, her face slightly flushed with the consciousness of her own loveliness. Just as the laf unishing touch was given to the dress, there came a rap at the dressing-room door. A maid, with a bou- quet from the earl — but such a bouquet as seemed to come straight from fairy-land — and with it a gc'den bouquet-holder, set with finest pearls. Agatha smiled when the girl bent her beautiful head and kissed the flowers. * He is a princely wooer,' she said to herself. ' Now my happiness is complete,' said Beatrice. * Miss Brooke, have ever you seen a perfectly happy human being before ] ' ' No,' replied Agatha. 'Then look at me now,' she continued. * I am perfectly happy. Kvery flower in this bouquet — every leaf in each flower tells me the same story — my earl loves me, and only me. Oh, beautiful life, and beautiful love ! I wish I could always be nineteen, and just going to a fancy ball ! You have pro- mised to come to the gallery, Miss Brooke 1 ' ' Yes, I shall be sure to come.* uust as she was leaving the dressing rooui lariohing face to Agatha. she i. J tUiliCU m it mil 28^ THE earl's atonement. 'It^^reVtot^^^^^^^^ She said, over the costumes- there oS 7fon tC^^ ^'-'''^' ^^«<^*ke has ordered a box of costumes from tTa ^««^?«"8-and she red room. If you should chanieTn.^'^''^^ ^^'^ "« i« the to come, you will ii„d sornetE I \ °'"'^' ^°^ ^« t^'^Pted up in the gallery for y Jf^^^^^^g ^o please you. I shall look wenuotr^tr^^e d'" tl7 f^' r^-fi-ce. Agatha gallery, but after i ?'t le le^^ und' oTt"^ *^ ^' «-« tf the' then It seemed to pass into her veil Sh"^"^^^ ''''^'^ ^'^^ gallery ran around the hall SMrll,! k u-. ""«*^ So. The lars or the statues she could finW ^ .^^^'"^ «°"^« «f the pil- without being seen ^ ^"^ ^ P^«^« ^^ere she could ?ee s '; ,' i in U: i 'ii ^i CHAPTER LIX. 'HE HAD SLAIN HER, BUT SHE LOVED HIM.' roi^ud the whole length of the ro2 t. , ^^"'f^' ^^^^^ ^^n the view of those beW bv the oTHnV ""IT"' ^^^^^'^ ^^om greens ; the musicians themselv^.r ^^' °^ ^^"°^^« ^"d ever- forest of evergreens and caS^^^ crrH^>^ *««^*ii that Agatha was in the 'alTer! .L k i ^'■'*^ ^""^ ""^""^es and bnlliant, that she wAwildered ^hT^ ^ «« "^^^^ one of the great twigted piUarT hat !« f ' ^"''^ ^ ««^^ "^^^ groined roof-so near it she wat aimo ^ u-2 '^'S^^^^'Y to the perfect view of all that was gofn ' nrLw ^ t?' ^'^ '^^ ^^^ ^ people lu the gallery-the ftewLdl w 7'. J^'"" ^^'« ^^^^^^^ the principal tenants on the esTate win h ^ ^''? "^ «««^« «f to see the matrnificfinf. si^^^ - ' "^T .^^^ Pegged permission wuh their friends rao tfaJf^t^^C^rar''^' "^^^"'«' she said, e mistake —and she are in the 5 tempted shall look Agatha en to the 3hed her, ?o. The the pil- iould see I Paris was as ulmin- ch ran 1 from I ever- small inutes novel ' near 'O the :)ad a Jveral me of :ssion ants, ' HE HAD SLAIN HER, BUT SHE LOVED HIM.' 287 After a little her eyes became accustomed to the brilliancy and novelty of the scene. Lord Penrith, in the dress of Henry VIII, was the first she recognized ; then Lady Penrith, looking very beautiful as Marie Stuart ; and after a time she saw Juliet in the sheen of white satin and pearls, looking as lovely as a dream, a vision of fair youth and loveliness, the queen of the brilliant / thing about him. She saw some of the most curious combinations that history- could tell. Amy Kobsart, a lovely blonde of eighteen, was talking to Queen Elizabeth, Lady Jane Grey and tue quei-n of Scotland were on the most intimate terms, peasants danced with kings, queens with friars — it was a motley, charming group. Ah, there was a gleam of pale blue velvet ; a tall, stately figure carried the dress with royal ease and elegance— a figure that had some strange charm for her. He was standing— this tall, handsome earl, with the stately manner — before a young girl dressed as ' Snow-drop,' and cer- tainly one of the loveliest girls in the room, her face dainty and delicate as her costume. The stati-jy head was bent beiure her. Agatha could see that the girl hung almost entranced on every word that cam« from his lips. •V:^ i 'n m H In 1 288 THE EABL'S ATONEMENT. «■ B.Se^y?;"« """^ >-.' ">o»ght Agatha. -What w„„,d She looked to see wh«» R„.» • once more at the end of the h!ti u ''^' ""^ "hen he g»,ed doublet had stood. tWlatd'tilt^'''? %"->.• ' ^ -Ivtt In vam she searched asain Ir ,'^'''''°P ''"'I c, .appeared .ght of rare jewels; theSfi entf'T "' "* "ri 4e the rich, fantastic dressenf tt laHr'""'' "/""> gontlemen! ^..a..thont.t--,r^^stS^^^^^^^^^^^ herstooda VenetTarUd" W :„,rh?''' '^P'^ ' "Pp""'^' to >n the same square stood prettvC« ,f'' ''''"='' """^ g"" 9^»iss:^at4€S-«^^^^^ and made her Ions tn II j ^ "'"' *'"« through her v.i„. could hear the murl^", o'f^dmTrar" f '" '"» ^''■■'«"- S gallery, and the light lau»h^^?i i "•*™'° 'he people in the «th the music, afd maSf ot "' """'^ '""^ ^^"^^ -"^»gled W seat's; t^eSg'-J'i^ir '^»'' /'>« fell back on What was it ? ^' "'"" ""« pain of death in her heart anlteSeHlfr^'nieti??''^ ^'-' rose-color. gold ^ away She saw the donWef „f hi °" '^?""""- "«"> to fl„a Beatnce; ^he saw Beatrice turn „Uh a h™'?' ^^ ">« «de o -denly he turnfd his heir'anl st^ th^^J^ £ Oh, merciful Heavpn i ,%■ u anguish rose to her brow it was Tt^' J^'"''■ ""'J di-ops of i^ .?''<'„'""• '■e-'t and held rstni^V'*"'* of "Old iron -d the pallor of death had'^on! iZ Z^'L^^tlJ}^ «'!'" ., — .wa.cu again. 'HE HAD SLAIN HER, BUT SHE LOVED HIM.' 289 ^hsit would '^e gazed ye velvet 'Appeared. messes, the gentlemen, ering, but her, and ion of re- '6lf, won- much.' posite to ind gold ; 'tte, in a J of this and the >r veins, fs. She ' in the mingled )ack on r heart. r, gold, 'O float Jide of elcome whisper Then Vane 'ops of i iron 3 chill »gain. He had taken Beatrice half way down the room, and they were sitting together in a pretty little alcove formed by a group of large camellias. With difficulty she repressed the cry that rose to her lips ; she left her seat and clung with trembling hands to the railing of the gallery. ' I am mad ! ' she said to herself — * I am mad ! My eyes have played me false ; they have deceived me. That cannot be Vane, my lover, who is, before Heaven, my husband ; it could not be ! ' She stood there, her beautiful face white with anguish, her eyes full of terrified wonder, her whole frame trembling like a leaf in the wind. ' Oh, Heaven, be pitiful to me ! ' she cried ; * let me see aright ; take the veil from my eyes — let me see ! ' It was Vane's face. Could she ever forget the proud, patri- cian beauty — the charm of the dark, straight brows — the fire, passion and tenderness of the eyes 'i Could she ever forget the beauty of the mouth that could utter words at once so sweet and so false 1 She knew the very attitude. How many thousand times had he bent over her with that same air of deference and hom- age — with that same courteous grace and tenderness 1 A bitter sense of desolation and anguish swept over her. Ah, Vane, so well beloved ! ah, beautiful young lover, who had wooed her with such passionate wooing ! She could have stretchd out her hands to him with a great, bitter cry. He had slain her — the loving heart, the pure conscience, the angelic innocence, the fair name that had been held in repute as the name of a saint. He had destroyed all that — he had slain her ; but she was a woman, and she loved him. Her heart rose to her lips in a long, low moan, drowned by the clash of music. * Vane ! ' she could not help the cry, but no one heard it ; that brilliant ball-room was not the place for a tragedy. * Vane ! ' and this time the word came like a wail from her lips. The last time she saw him he had held her in his arms clasped to his heart, he had kissed her a hundred times, he had whispered sweetest words to her, and now — the same looks, the same words were for another — and yet not the same. The Vane who had looked in her face and kissed her as he mur- mured sweet words to her had no shadow in his eyes, no deep lines of care on his brow as this Vane had^ — no shadow in the li! MJ: '■I U ' ; 200 THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. brightness of hh smile Ti • \t courteous ; l,ut he did n'ot 'ook )T ""^ ^^a^dsome, brilliant you.. g,rl by his side-^otrapp^»' ^^«" ^^'^ ^^at lovely i^ado;^^i 5':~ J^:;^l~ ^^« ^-, there were deep of the Iresh young riornrg i^ h «'f '"' ''!''' ^™d the I ght Whitecroft ; he was cha fed and 1' '" ''^" ^^"«^« ''ood!ot' sorrow had char.ged him? ^ ' ^"^ ''^^ «^^ that some great ^*' cannot be Vane I' W • j. coula but be a striking resembLn ^ l¥ ^^' dreaming !-it such liow could Van! Sr,;^^^^^^^^^^ rfad o \My earl I ' the words seemed f u ^^""^ "^ ^«^«o^ mh with the rush of a mSryliv^ tl^' '^ff ^^^ ^^-"' ^^ etrl f Great Heaven I i^W wl« K ^^^ ^^' «*^«- 'My i^an sitting there by the ^de of ft u' ^^' ^^"dsome. kingly , . Now let her calm her tiembl n . ''"'^^"^ young Janceef b\%' imlse and the madlv b^^H l^i ^''''"' ^"^ ^^^^ the throb- while she was in that Ifer o/^^i. ?"'' ^ '^^^ '""^^^ »«* S and tried to think- tried to d ivtthtmii//" "f ^«^" ^^^^^ Help me. oh Heaven, to seecleaHv i^ * ^''''^.^^' «3^e«- the nu.t from my eyes.' " '^^^^^^^^^^^^ •' «he cried again-* take di..;a%rrj-;S.!L7nfui:hr ,1- ^^' ^^« ^^^^sgrew -ch at s^^k^'Tot^ ^.r:: iihr d^^^ ^'--^- - - senses grew calm and clear ^H?^^ ^^'^''''^ ^han life. Her nioment the proud face of the hand" '^^^ "'^^^^ left for one the best part of her h« » V'tp^"*^««™e ear. He had slain h«r_(„r that she must, hll T. u ^'f ' "' He»ven against t" '"m ; .he couJd re dltis' w^ If ^'^ •""! given herC o(lus hands, the to^AZ\u\t "T 'r-u*" ^""^ ""e clasp bo-ed U had all beeu false h-hT-.-'''^ ■'?"'' *'" '•'■"'^■»- ' "■" •" "«eivea her; hi. love for me, brilliant, ' that lovely le were deep ied the light me woods of some great saming ! — it ten read of Iso? er brain, to 3ar8. < My nie, kingly 'i fiancee ? the throb- not think own again eyea tin—' take ghts grew ' over her, re was so ife. Her t ibr one iiad slain i spoiled I against ler heart ssionate She re- y sweet 'han his 's heart le clasp remem- ave for SOME GREAT WEIGHT ON UIS MIND. 291 her had been a mock love, his marriage a mock marriage. The young, beautiful, high-born girl by his side was to be his wife, not she, and again from her white lips carne a low moan that was drowned in the sweet, clashing music. CHAPTER LX. ' AS THOUGH SOME GREAT WEIGHT WERE ON HIS MIND. [HEY were gone, the earl and Beatrice ; Agatha had closed her eyes for one moment to keep back the hot, smarting tears, and when she opened them again the alcove was empty ; they were gone, and the vast hall was filled with the * long drawn-out sweetness' of a dreamy, German waltz, so sweet, yet so sad, it seemed that one must dance with tears. She bent over the carved rail, and then saw thenj. They were waltzing together, the handsomest pair in the room — he so tall and stately, she so fair and graceful— the blue velvet and the white satin, the dark head and the fair face presenting such a contrast — a contrast that was yet all beautiful harmony. A fierce pain stabbed the gentle heart ; she had borne much, but she could not bear to see his arms round Beatrice — to see his eyes bent on her with admiring love — to see his face touch- ing her hair. She had talked of jealousy — she knew not what it was. That was her place — had been her place for years — and no one should take it from her. ' Vane, Vane ! ' But the sweet, sad music drowned the sweet, sad cry. Then slowly, and by degrees the thought of it all came over her. How could she stand by in silence and see this innocent, loving-hearted girl sacrificed — how could she allow this marriage to go on ? If there was any truth, any justice, he was her hus- band j and if ho were not, then he was so stained ana snameu by his sin, he was unworthy the love of a pure-minded girl. ill J; w T ''fl 1 1 pi fl Hi fl U 1 ^m ■■ 1 1 ■ \ 1 jH 292 I 8. THK EARL'S ATONKMENT. she hrdWdTf T^'^^^'l'ng the dancers shp th i ' Iflh^ih 1 ^'""'"^ ^«^«o, of all S T l^^""^^'^ of all that said o W3eir "fi^ "^"«^« f should a5esus27'.' ^I^^ ^^^<^ ^«r rememb^theVv .""^^ «^y hair he carS !'^ '^ ^^^o^-e/she brfore bun 1^7" « ^"e, and ? o„,,t"?„";'"'* I""""' »» Suddenly she r u '^'''"^^' ' ^^ I "i^eher. 'r. I" '\\»'-°»'dnoo„e would Ih LTiu^^he could come of it, ZTlZTpfV^f " ">e thougKlf "^ "'' ""°«- .-». of the'tu *' The'rird-' "p'^--^' "'"-"om '» the west 'hjj-neef S '^'- -^^^^ ^•elieved when Th "^ "^^^'^^^ ^ad worn mJt "" !^'^« ^Jack «ow; shrconiH '7^'^^°^^ ^here Would n.K ^^"^^^ ^^« — oa xor a lew laia- SOME GREAT WEIGHT ON HIS MIND. 293 'Pht of all that J had told her. It before,' she the locket, r re. My hair, »fc he had lost lost~-then lie =e played my they were i'or '■e doubt, no ve known it aii, and the erself, «orI d about the She could 'er or recog- fiarm could here. She 'emn warn- know who ould make tie Western ' Ifindness 'y hapless ^ her cos- 's, every- had been '> on the *nd then ee black ttha was east fear vv her. arrayed led, like ■w min- utes like one rooted to the ground. She saw in the mirror one of the moBt beautiful women in the world — a fair, queenly blonde. Of late years she had in a great measure forgotten her own beauty— the charm of it was gone ; she had never thought of it except as a barrier to a good situation ; she had dressed plainly, and had not studied either grace or elegance ; she had lived so long away from the gay world that she had forgotten she was beautiful, and she stood now looking into the mirror with tLe utmost wonder and surprise. The dress she had chosen, without looking at it, was a Venetian costume, with rich, hanging sleeves, and square-cut neck. It was made of rich, dark-blue velvet, and covered with seed pearls. It fitted her to perfection, and she looked so beautiful in it that she dare not go down stairs— her wliite neck and white arras, with their rare perfection of shape and color, must, she knew' attract attention. If she had gone down as she was, she would have been by far the most beautiful woman present ; Beatrice by her side would have been as a star before the sun. She dare not go. She had seen enough of the world to know that men will follow and admire a beautiful woman whether she shuns them or not. Then she bethought herself that she might oover the white neck and arms, fold a black lace shawl in picturesque fashion over them, which she did ; and fixing a mask, such as the dancers wore, over her face, she made her way to the ball-room. Her heart beat, yet she knew she had nothing to fear. If Lady Penrith or Beatrice saw her they would say nothing : they would be only too pleased to find her there. ' I must see him ! I must speak to him, or I shall die ' ' she said to herself. In after day^ it seemed to her like a dream. She crossed the hall, and went to the alcove where she had seen the earl and Beatrice. It was a quiet spot that no one would be likely to invade. No one gave much attention to the dark figure, and she, with her whole soul in her eyes, watched for the pair! There was Beatrice seated near a pretty fountain, and the handsome earl standing by her side. He had just brought her an ice, and with an amused smile, he stood by her side while she ate it Near the alcove were seated two young lovers, and they were • * If: ii 2f)4 THE EAliL'H ATONEMENT. carried her heart in h '''"^^ed the ladv nf ,Tas'=;HiE'i~aS"£r:::; She went f P'ercing an aching eir What shou d I care ? M^ "''CKecl 1 am I ' she said fn fi'iffprs anH r 1 , **^ smooth those d«rt t. ^"® remem- I SOME GREAT WEIGHT ON HIS MIND. 295 ' drowned moat vnat they said. the boy-lover.* he lady ; then er; 'his face ff ^ ever a girl r her heart ! discuss him ? should have 'se she knew be his wife ; d hear them* very proud possible to ? an achinw vers were ; The group form one f held out itrice, she the dear, m to turn her die. le said to red me i ' 5 remem- with her 1 tint^of aile that always •icolded him, telling him it meant nothinji^, it had no charaoter. She thought of this now as she stood near him, but he had no eyes, no thoughts save for Beatrice. Once more the notes of a beautiful, inspiriting waltz were heard, and the group dispersed. Some one came to claim Beatrice, and Agatha saw that the earl was unwilling to let her go. She drew back to some little distance — not that she feared he would recognize her, but tliat it was better to be on the safe side. He stood alone for a few minutes — he never even saw the dark figure ; but Agatha noticed that when he was alone his face changed, the light went out of it, an expres- sion of deep melancholy came over it. ' He is not happy,' thouglit Agatha, as she watched him. * That is not the face of a happy man.' He sighed deeply, as though some great weight were on his mind, and then two or three gentlemen came up to where he was standing. ' Alone ! ' cried one. * What a success the ball is ! ' said another ; * but how melan- choly you look — more like a rejected than an accepted lover.' I know what is the matter with me,' said Lord Kelso, ' I want a cigar.' ' Well,' said one of his friends, ' I would not leave the ball- room with so many pretty faces in it for all the cigars in Europe.' ' I would,' said the earl. How well she remembered. He had always care 1 so much about his cigar ; he had told her once that neither ball, party, opera, nor anything else pleased him when he could not smoke his cigar. She knew that he had a fashion of going out every evening for five or ten minutes, for, according to his theory, the only place in which one could smoke to i)erfection was in the open air. Her heart gave one great beat. If he went now, she could follow him — speak to him — warn him — and he would not find out who it was. So she watched him steadily, and at last, when he thought himself unnoticed, he stole out quietly, and she knew that he had gone hoping for ten minuie.s' happiness with a good cigar. She followed him quietly and at a distance. V [ I: 200 THE EARf/s ATONEMENT. sil CHAPTER LXr. A SOLEMN WARNING. shadows on the c^rass \ I / ^'g''^^^' and threw stra.Z Whole front of t^l^ZseX^;, :^ ^T "^"^^ ^'-^' "'- a white marble balustrade went th?l , **', * '"f°"^ ^^'''•^^e. hat balustrade in summer wis covered w7h' "''^'^f ''^ ^"'1 roses; even now, this warm Sepirirt P'T? ^°^^^« «"fl their beautiful heads over the Ihifr^ "!!? *"'^''^' ^""S fairest picture ever seen Le«nin ""f ^'^' *"^ ™ade the ;ng the purple and crimson b osTorL'^ 'h^'^'f ^^^'^«' -"«h- the landscape, of the gardens wilhfh ^^^ ^ ^'^^^^ view of blooms, of the broad beaut^fnl I- ^^'', countless variety of woods beyond. ' '^"'^^"^ "^«^' ^"^ of the deep green To-night the moon shone over all • th. • band of silver, the trees stoo.I on ^ i "T^^^ ^'^^ ^ broad a picture to see the handsome ea" witT 'h^ ^'''^"^'- ^^ ^^^ the dark face and picturesaue dr.i t ,*''? ™''^» '''bining on as he leaned over the S- f T •' ^^ ^^'^'^^^^ ^ ^ery Ro7neo of.the river, the blue r n^^^of '^''^ '"^ ^^^^'^^^ the rush His dark, handsome face Tas houl'r T'"! ^^^"^ ^^^ «W say what voices came to himTn the .f. ^^^'^^ ' ^^° «ball cries he heard in the riverT-what reZ! f '^' "'^"^^ ^"^bat him in the moonlight skies reproaches were written for ^^pl^oTl^:^'Z:r':l^^ ^^^-^^ wished he couM head he threw all suf^h^S awat " "I '^ ^'' ^^^^^^«^' A shadow falls over the^^rar {"T^'n^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^hey ? nois^elessly ui:. to him, a woman whn««^"' t',^ ^8"^^ c'-eeps "1 the moonlight, and whTse flee ^' t-Z" ^^ ^"^^ '««^« black niask. *= "°«e *ace is hidden with the fanciful A SOLEMN WARNING. 297 3 night was great hush nrls-they are I e^asily decei;ed ' ^' """''''' ""<• '""ooe-t , /-u.7:avTy:;''pretd'r I' ^ '."■"* '» -^'-•■ "■ght on which a in S^ y bare hk h ' f ^^ f '■"• ' This is a own his sins. And ask yZrself i'v!. r' *"""" "«aven and you should fear to mar thkln ' ^ '"l'"' ""'ason why you '"any oaths and vowThave vo r"^/""* """"=<"'' life- How r».ned lives lie between y^rd hTr r '" ""'"■^ ' How maj; , ' Shame""on"t"ro:l;:r"r;f T- '/ -^' -'"enly. think they were like you" ' " ™''- ' ' ''•""W he sorry to a tlm?" ^" ^°" '^'^ »f -0 that is so had , • he asked, alter Do (o'u' JMnk"T'i';l^:,^t?otir'''''^V" ""^ -""J I -e, yon has never cursed y™ with her''^ '""^ ^r"'^^""' "'rough think that for love of you and bttr (-^'"S '''<"'"' ' Do you has ever ,,n,no..led to Heaven a Jaip°Lr"' ?^"^' "" "»'^a judsment npon you ?' " ^°"' """1 eried out for its ' Wc„n,„ fic these thinm for t.;fl„. . i. . " «, no sneered. von created mm to He 1- V 'le cried. that young Mdignatiou, you have attempt to enough to i»rith, and nt life one I shameful )w you do lughingly. man, you innocent ain.' This is a aven and why you 3. How >w many sorry to 3d, after I I see ! hrough Do you woman tor its A SOLKMN WAKNTNG. 299 ' Mm often give to crimes the name of trifles,' she replied. * !'u» .ere comes a reckoning ;lay. Lord Kelso ; one will como tor you. I would rather be a murderer, my hands reeking hot with human blood, than you with those lost souls on your hands. They will cry to H*'avt4n lor vengeance against you ; when you want mercy for y(,ar8flf, they will ask what mercy you showed them ; when you stand at the bur of judgment, they will cry out against you. Ih yours a soul to mate with the white soul of an innocent girl 1 ' He shrank back, trembling. Who, in the name of Heaven, are vou,' ho asked, * that you dare say such hings to me 1' 'Take warning,' she said. 'You v^'ll never know who I am ; it does not matter. I could aoones see a white dove in the talons of an eagle, than a girl hJct Beatrice Penri'' married to a man like you.' ' I shall do my best to mak her 1 r>py,' he said. 'Happy!' she repeated v\ ith sco n. 'How can you be either happy or make any one else happy. You cannot have a good consci'^nce.' * You are a very plain-spoken persoi tioever you may be,' said the earl ; ' perhaps you mean well have not been quite all that I sh( ild be — I acknowledge it . aid, strange to sav, I was thinking to-night, as I stood watct ng the moon on the river, that if i had my life to live over ; a— I would do dif- ferent — I wouM indeed.' His voice sta tied her ; her heart seemi ! cling to him. Great Heaven, how she lov that he was wicked, yet she loved him ai herself. 'Do tell me oi. 3 thing,' he said. ' Is it from interest in me, or in Beatrice, th t you have sought me to tell ne this 1 ' ' In Beatrice,' .^ le replied, faintly. ' Then be happ about Beatrice,' he said. ' I will respect her youth and inn< cence ; I will make her happy. She loves me, and she shall i ver hear one word of the past, which I own is not what it ough to have been. Does that promise content your She manP. nn nnav^ at Knf ati-{\f a f/mr to leave her and him ! She knew d could not help 1:: * ' - f'M n to him minutes i?he whispered 300 ^1 THE earl's atonement. As you stand in the presence of Heaven J nr^ v } • there no other reason whv vm, ^hLiA "^*^®°' ^ord Kelso, is < T !,« e '*^*''"",wny you should not marrv Beatrir.« «' I know of none,' he replied, briefly ^ Beatrice ? Is there no one living who has a claim upon you ? ' JNo — no one livme ' ho rftnliori ♦ rn. ^ -^ " ' is dead.' ^' '^^P^'®^- ■'^^^'^ ™ one, but she * Dead ? ' she repeated. 'Yes, dead. It is evident to me that you have hp«r.^ . of the many stories told of mv nast lif« q 7 u ^"^^^ true, and some are false. Th^Je^fs one whoTshl l^Tu''' hvmg, would have had a claim on m« k ?' u ^>®,^ad been not neglect it.' repent and atone— do ' I wish I knew who you are ' he sairl « ne There was no answer. ' May I r repeated Lord Kelso. Again no answer. hJ^f^i.^ ^"""^ ^^^^^ ''^' ^« ^^^'•e it from his face and b« hold ! she was gone— gone anH ha u^a T ' *°"— De- colour of her dress or St one dimnlofh''^'? ''''' '^' and he never heard her footsteps ^ ^ '^ ^'' ^^''Sone, For a few minutes he was scared and half fri^h^Pn«^ •. surely no earthly visitant,' he thoughr WhtS he h?? —where was she gone ?— she whn tL^ , ^^® ^^ ^ and what, he wondied, « she knowT S^reri '^a™' ?'^ ' old story about Ladv Di r Tkot l^ ' '^'^ »»' '■'"' other men ha"' thing about Agatha-th^wifcost cruel bw' the""""^; story, but no one knew anything of it ™'*' himsdf ;t ^LSLr "' "•' ''^"'^■^-'■"f. »d '-ghed to fiod'ht '0"'"^°"^" '""'•' •"> -" '" "'--'f- ' Now I shall r^?'' *"?8 *''»J' ■■'• »*g" "th impatience, anrt l„„u.j pn«i. mere was no markof -"- '"• ' ' ■"" '"' any kind upon it— it Ills was a plain Hi! THE WHISPERING VOICE. :^01 rd Kelso, is teatrice ? ' 1?' •ne, but she heard some f them are e had been dead.' f. *I will en the life atone — do rse, if you ihouid like U and — be- seen the ce — ^gone, J ; it was i she be 1 out hina ; s not the bad, but now any- he worst ughed to V I shall d at his a a plain I -. square of finest cambric, with a deep border of fine lace. If he had but known it, it was one of many dozens that he had pur- chased for Agatha himself. ' I may trace her by it,' he said, as he placed it in the pocket of his doublet ; * and if I find her * He did not finish the words. CHAPTER LXII. THE WHISPERING VOICE. lUZZLED and bewildered, the earl made his way back to the ball-room ; the cigar and the moonlight had lost their attractions for him. Who could this be — this mysterious lady, who seemed to know so muc i about him, who oouli speak to him of his past life with such clearness, who evidently knew all that had befallen him— his history, his fol- lies ] He would go back to the ballroom, and see if by the conscious look of any lady there present he could make out which or who she was. It had scared and startled him more than he cared to own. He had never thought of hiiiiself as a wicked man. He knew that he had been guilty of great follies, that they were in themselves almost crimes ; but then he had not meant them as such, nor had he in his own mind ever given them that name ; but to fiad that some one else gave to his career a term that characterized it as criminal, to find that he was looked upon as a wicked man, and that there were people who rose in rebellion against the notion that he should link his life with the pure and spotless one of that young girl, struck him as noth- ing had ever done before. For the first time in his life he be- gan to think. * After all,' he said to himself. ' I have done no worse than other men. I am sure that Crawford, in the Guards, and Templeton, and half a dozen others whom I could name, have m H- i *. i 302 THE earl's atonement. ItiJ their wild oats ' "' •'""^ f'*"»"'». "'ho have sown in the light oJthf next Tf it"w re ? i hit'.?'''*' ?^ ™« 3aM^3iqt;7/^-l^^^^^^ " ^*"- •'^"■' ■•« had never troubled l^mfelfin?! 7"^,* f" "' P'"'^"''' ^ he pearances-he had nrer L nnM f *" *^'" ''*'«''"'. »' ap- either to hi^selt or^tLm^'Ind ""''^^'''"''''"f * P'*»™™ language, that these d eas^if 1 ''° """' '"'"^ '" P'ain him downward. The r rhT ™ ?° "'^''y ^"f^^ •"'. »•>. had been pitiless vhinr. I ^f.*^ ■""*' ">»=« '» ''hoik he homes, fair", ^^^I'sTaJ^lstl „T«^Hf tT"l Irn'"""'^ asked for justice i Fair v^n j ?! '^* "onfronted him, and Heaven < if he could iTvJT^ "'■ "PPfa"'*'! '« him. Great And one face fairer than al^If. "«'""• "^'^ ''^""''1 """«■• be! in golden hai harwas Tike a 11'' "'"A'""^ '"'■^"- ^a-ned the depths of silent witer ll ? '°"?'* "'"""^ *" him from deceived most and m„«r^ n "' T^""^ he had loved best, knew this-so sure tas ": of"]! ^, '""''T''- ^^' """- h repr^oh him ; othe.;''^,^^- l^aThf' ^"^ '^""'^ -- timeThpdrvrrde''a%::d''L^^^^^^^ ' -y '^'^ tho'ug'irts''^ wVhaf aVairt-r- ""*' '"' »-' ^'>'"'« off 'hese wealfhthan he'kn'e:Zw°to'' Lfr.^^j'' V""'?™ g-ter nonoreu, and flattered, if conscie'iloe werrall^wrdTsS^gTe' THE WHIi-f^ElUNG VOICE. 303 'icked men have sown ' thinking, d, and one o through not know 7 ball,' he ' is not so sure ; he 5n, or ap- ' pleasure in plain dragging r but far a that at Q he had but, oh, v^hom he Q happy fen, and im, and Great ver be. framed m from 3d best, ell, he i never By this F these greater B, and ag, re- proach and torture him as it did an ordinary man 1 It was strange, but no thought of Beatrice came to him in that hour and he, the brave earl who never faltered, stood for a few minutes before the entrance to the ball-room with a beating heart, actually hesitating whether he should go in or not, be- cause some one in the room knew all about him, and could give the whole story of his career. ' It must be some woman whom I have flirted with, or, what is more probable, who has flirted with me.' He went in. It seemed like a dream : everything the same — the dancers, the music, the flowers. There was the same laughing, jesting, and flirting, but nowhere did he see any one looking at him with a conscious face. How bright, and fair and careless the faces of the women ! Some looked at him with bright, some with careless smiles, some with admiration, and with a feeling that was even warmer ; but nowhere did he see the face of a woman likely to have spoken to him of the Great Day of Judgment. Was this a dream, and was that half-hour under the cold light of the moon, with the great boughs of fuchsia hanging round him, and that low voice in his ear — was that a dream 1 Both could not be real ; it was like going from this world to another. Ah, well, there was the pale, beautiful ' Snowdrop,' to whom he was engaged for the ' Lancers,' evidently looking out for him — a welcome distraction. Now he should, perhaps, forget those bitter words. He hastened to her. She looked up in his face and shrank back, half-frightened. ' Are you ill. Lord Kelso 1 ' she asked. though you had seen a ghost.' * I believe I have seen one,' he replied, dance ended he asked the pale, pretty Snow -drop to go with him in search of ice and champagne, then he carefully intro- duced the white lace handkerchief. * Is this yours 1 ' he asked. ' I found it.' ' No,' she replied 'it is not mine.' She took it from his hand and examined it with some little care and attention. * What beautiful lace,' she said. '• Is it — is it costly, do you think ? ' he saiu, eagerly. * It is the most beautiful that could be used for the purpose,' she said. * You look as And when the J t|; I' 304 THE earl's atonement. head-it was a lady ^ ° P™"^ handkerchief round his of Uco^bS nore^wletirtTo f."'^ T^' *- *•>« P-« ' I have had the S fortnn» f « i V^^ to Beatrice, yoa any idea to whoTft Woirgs . • ^"'^ ""'' '""' '^''- ' ""^ alway:-I„,"g'L™;^s in"lJrl„^'' "plied: -bnt people are the floor ofl balfroon. islr^^- Ji^h/^'d^ammasay ■^S, ^°»-"' never li^dt%^n:trttat "''''' "«"'«'" ^. And he fonnd that her words were p^f^ true, he never eveTfre£:drad\SteTarf o'; H T " P""'''' *» te, but he did not recogniie aTv of fh ^ ^ ^^""j^^ visiting had seen no one ^mZ^the ^ItlllV"'"'^ "^^•''^^ he was pueiled. The folemn^wntl " he ought to know ; ing in h^ear, beating in hrhT^,,? "'"'' '"]'" ""^ »^i". ring' they dazed h n, ; he conld not ■^' """ """^ '"'e'' "«»*" until the next day he;por""L4''Crir"'He''™r'l- k^^^^ the ladies in the neiahborhooH ,IT , ** ^^"'^ "'">»' al' ones ; he asked especiaUv ah„,'./*h ""'^ """^'^ »■"» «'n«le but he could hear notS He 111^.''^"°^"^ [" ">'"'°4 who lived under the roof with him '^""'^ "'"' '' ''^' "^ CaS:.'*"Cy?:nrit1rThl'r r " ^ovemess at Penrith not see much^of ZtwoTwidren' ^IT '"" «' ™itorsd d better in the schoo .room L„ri K.^"*." ."°"''" ""^y "ere or twice when they weHut S ,?'" """^u""" ">«» once sleepless night!.?t seemed™'!^ *"'»'■-'' ""> "^'"'^ ''"'o spent a never sleep Igain her he^rt be^St""* "' ^''^''^b she Should soul waa sick with paTn ' " ^^'^ ''"ned, her whole THE WHISPKRING VOICE. 305 e thought to him on one tiad had the ef round his Jw the piece Beatrice, id. « Have people are namma say n the fight e, he never iz»ied than I's visiting of his ; he ' to know ; still, riug- igain until During about all md single the house, it was, or t Penrith sitors did hey were lem once yed with had not believed spent a B should ir whole It was like an evil dream — how, unconsciously, during these bright September days, she had been living under the same roof with him. How little she had dreamed that the earl of whom Beatrice talked so enthusiastically was the man whom she be- lieved to have been her husband, and had loved with her whole heart. And Beatrice — what was to become of her 1 How would it end 1 What a terrible tragedy it was ! She wondered if it were fate or Providence that had brought her there. Of all the world it seemed so strange that she should have gone to the house where he came wooing. She half believed that it was the will of Heaven she should interfere. She tossed rest- lessly to and fro, there was no sleep for her on the white pillow. She dreaded to see Beatrice again — the hapless, innocent girl, for whom so much suifering was in store ; she dreaded her questions, dreaded even hearing her say how happy she was, or speaking of the earl in any way. Knowing what she knew, she felt it would have been far better for Beatrice to have died than have met with this fate. But on the evening following the ball Beatrice found half an hour's leisure in which to see her. She was slightly tired, but too nappy to feel much fatigue. ' Miss Brooke,' she cried, ' I am longing to know if you went to the ball after all.* * Yes,' replied Agatha, * I went to the gallery, and was there for some time.' 'Then,' said Beatrice, with a light sunshine on her face, ' then you saw my earl ] ' She was silent for a few minutes before she could answer her. Then she said, quietly. * Yes, I saw him.' * Tell me what you think of him,' she cried. * I longed for you to see him ; now you will understand better when I talk to you. What did you think of him ] ' * He was, without exception, the handsomest man in the room,' said Agatha, slowly, 'the handsomest; and I liked his costume best — it was most picturesque.' * I knew you would think so. I am so glad,' cried Beatrice. ' You thought him handsome, did you not notice how noble he i^f^ , i 'III i II 8 t i 306 ( .xM-i§ !:■ THE earl's atonement. IS ? His face and his fearless eves arH TmWL> n so ? 1 cannot think how raspTT .^ i ^? ^"" "^^ ^^»"^^' quite ; and LoM Kelao was "ery^ l^ind VL^T.^TX' beaut, ul handkerchief with suS flLe ace arouni r ""'' " which he co:i,i;:Sy"trloe heT "" "° ""'' "P°" '' "^^ CHAPTER LXIII. LIKE A DAGGER IN HER HEART. iug to M ss Brooke'" '';:,"1X »' P'"^. ='« '-"aiued talk- Lord Kelso's nle Vi\r nToned a„1 y 7% ''""r '"""«• him more at length than she h:dl:"ritCr%St "f iiim very much • shp f-linno-hf h. u j , oeiore. i;>he liked was so f^d ofBea ric tht wast ''rtt"' '^''»'^' "■"! ''« .^. and that ^tll' hi^Tha^^^Lttit^w^rhat'S T.!i?pI!:,?'-^^"^ ^"^:^^°" ^'-^ I first knew hin,.' ..id --. .....tn, una Beatrice was in the school-room '/but The LIKE A DAGGER TN HER HEART S07 ou not think k^e&een him.' 3 continued, again — not vas a splen- went off 80 Iso found a uld see the indkerchief, Jre ]ie saw jpon it by her — how 'lained by 'he school- nd always asked for ned talk- re liking, spoke of She liked 'S, and he r beauti- rhen she of Kelso ave been inij' said but the Earl of Kelso died, and then, after long research, it was found that Sir Vane was really his nearest kin and lawful heir. The old earl had a large family of his own once — sons and daughters but they are all dead now ; not one remained to him.' She paused, but Agatha made no remark ; she was quite unable to speak. Lady Penrith continued : * I think he was much happier* as Sir Vane. Since ' e. has borne the title of Lord Kelso he has been more melanc )ly. I have heard many people say the same thing. Indeed,' ad fd her ladyship, smiling, * the first thing that drew Beatrice's attention to him wao the quiet sadness of his face ; he looks better now.' Still no answer. Agatha's sweet face was bent over her work. Lady Penrith continued : ' Sir Vane has a fine place at Garswood— I was there once, some years ago — not to visit him, but a party of u h went to look at the place, and ve'-y magnificent it is. I never thought then that my little daughter would grow up to be its mistress.' ' How long has h*^ been Lord Kelso,' asked Agatha. * Not quite two years,' was the answer ; ♦ but tho e two years have changed him considerably.' For a few days Agatha stood by passively, as it were, to see if any notice would be taken of her warning ; but everything went on just the same, with this exception, that Lord Kelso showed more curiosity about the neighbors than he had ever done. It was easy for Agatha to avoid seeing him, the house was so full of visitors, and gaieties of some kind or other were always on foot. The preparations for the marriage went on, but Agatha was wretched. She could not see her way clear at all ; she could not tell whether she ought to prevent it or to let it go on ; whether she should interfere or remain passive. She was so puzzled, so unhappy, so uncertain of her duty, that she grew pale and thin. She could not see what was best to be done. It was not surely righi for Vane to marry her— that could not be. He h id sworn, over and over again, that he would have no other wife, love no other woman, except Agatha. Was it right that he should break all those oaths 1^ Was he^ not bound to her by every tie most sacred, before God and man'? Yet, if she told what she knew, if she prevented this marriage, i ! H l-l 308 THK EAFJT/S ATONKMKNT. made miserable in vai.i ^' ^ Beatrice would be Pe^ttt!?td?tt'roLe'^^^^^^^^^^ L-d and Lady to them whether tlTeyTvf2ir,"*'t'''' \"^"' ^^^ '«*ve i^ could not decide ^ "" '" daughter to him or not ? She kind to Beatrice and mail t^tprf/ ^ffTh^^^ ^^ T^l^ ^" be the case, then herintfrf..r!L ^^"^Ij ^"^^ ^^''^ ^'kely to than good.' There wrSr^^^^^^ warn them, and they might rXse H ^''^f^y^ ^''^ "^■^^'^ pect and blame her.^ It was ^rtl ^f 1 '"^^ lier-might sus- herself, but if this hanneZf "?^^'^'*^f''« <^^red so much for thar nothing • and Sn n •' ^'"'"^ Y""'^ '' ^^^ ^^^ ^ Less inv-ain-^all^quiTe i„Ta ' W? ''"''^ ^^ made miserable She wanted t'o do what was the rHit'tlL'"^ T ^° ^"^^'^^• her own share of praise or blame ° ^' ^"^""' ^^^'"S ^^^ own son she could 2 love L^'^tTe^ T 'I P "T ^^' never happier than when un T- If ^ f'"'"*^ Penrith was love him Vnough/andStrSti' ^y^'" '""'^ "°^ ' I am like the^e pen in tl^^^^^ to live. herself; and even Be^atr ce^io^(WedT^ ^l ^""' '^' '^''^ '^ come over that beautiful lovWl! f /^^ "''^"^^ ^^"«h had ways been so kind to her ^"^^"^■'^^^^'^'^ ^^man who had al- tairt'Xtb^uf thitf M^^^^^^^^ r ^- ^^PP--' to and unhappy; she had no mo cterful J^if '^ tired languid, no more warm symnathv tt!,^^^.*, ^™'^^« o^' bright words, wrong ofwhatsh^iK' do raTn^tr '^ ''^ "^^^ ^"^ suffering; she loved him still thf^ J ^ °"^^ °^"'« o*" her his best to ruin her sl could n off fT "^^7^° ^^'^ ^one cause he was unworthv of T\l ? ^'^^? ''^"'^ ^'"oni him, be- She was a tendeZhearfed WJ ^'''' '^^ ^"^ g'^'^« *•> him. great wrong, buTthrwronrdTd^rS "^ ^^ ^^^^^^^ ^ tnat iie nu. mere under the same roof with herV" "' ^"^*^"'S LIKE A DAGGER IN HEU HEART. 309 It was a fever — a torture of jealousy — that seized her, when Beatrice came, with flying feet and flushed, happy face, to tell her that she was going out driving, riding or walking with the earl. She could not always control herself, and give the sweet, warm sympathy that the girl sought. Her heart would ache ; her face grow pale ; her eyes darken with shadows of pain. She loved Lord Kelso, and he had been more than the whole world to her, and she could not endure the thought that the same love and gentle words he had given to her now belonged to another. There were times when, after she had seen Lord Kelso ride away from the church gates — she so happy, fair, and smiling ; he so stately, kind, and handsome — she would go into her room, shut the door, and fling herself with her face on the floor, there ' to sob out her woe and grief with bitter sighs and bitter tears. * Shame to me,' she cried, * that I love him yet ! I love him yet ! Oh, my one love — my dear love 1 Would to Heaven that I might forget you, or might die ! ' It was wonderful to her how she forgot her injuries — forgot the great wrongs done to her, and thought only of him. Beatrice came to her one day, knowing that Agatha was very clever with her pencil, to ask her to draw a design. * I want it to embrace Lord Kelso's motto and crest : not the crest he uses now, with the Kelso arms, but those he bore when he was Sir Vane Carlyon. I like them best.' * I will do my best to please you, Beatrice.' And the young girl leaned on Agatha's shoulder, as the white, slender fingers deftly used the pencil. * What is the crest ? ' asked Agatha ; and her voice sounded cold and chill. * A crown, with an olive branch,' replied Beatrice. It was with difficulty Agatha kept back her tears. How well she remembered it ! How many hundreds of times she hp ^ seen it and kissed it. /Vhat is the motto 1 ' she asked, gently. ' "Vincit Veritas," ' replied Beatrice, smiling over the words as though she loved them, ' and they suit him. Miss Brooke. He seems to me always the very embodiment of truth ; it shines in his eyes and in his face — do you not think so ? ' I \ '1;, m m m ♦ ii.' 310 THE EAUL's ATONEMKNT, iSSs- ~•i^=- vr. i:.r CHAPTER LXIV. AS SHE LOOKED THEN SHE NEVER LOOKED AGAIN. ^ fen^'^r/ k"? "'"'' '^"^ y«^ «^« ^^d come to no I would not -crani [ for iha In .r'T^'"^^?'^ ^"^^- ^"^ "«^ day later. I am Sillivfi ^«[[d-;I would not have it one for so sh^rt a time ' '''" '^'' ^' '' S^"'^ *« ^^^ve me Lord'S:'.l!f "'"?' i"""^^^"^ ^"' ^°"Jd not utter one word he^' a torture of .^penllS \f ^^'^"^^^ ^^^^ ««««^«d to way was dai^before her/ '' '""^^ '" °" decision-the weeS'^afd^Ln^T '' ''^"'" ^^ ^^^^ «" 'KKD THI SIfR NKVEK LOOKED AOAIN. 311 She evaded without be- iGAlN. come to no —going to •riage, and n. first when not sorry, lardly had But now ave it one leave me B word. )ut praise seemed to sion — the for a few wedding- r. ging her er every face was d happy, Agatha airing — lav mar- king her better every day, trusted li >, - uid nu> She talked to Agfttha of her future, of that futi w which f- uied so bright to her ; of what she would do when slie lived a'. (Iiirswootl, until there were times when the brave, patient spirit broke down, and Agatha turned away with a moan on her lips. Nearer and nearer — every day now brought boxes and chestH to the castle ; every day brought some portion or other of the elaborate trousseau which might have been prepared for a prin- cess. Nothing else was spoken about ; it was always Lord Kelso and the wedding— the wedding and the trousseau — until even Lady Penrith laughed and said the subject must be changed. What was she to do 1 She had no one to help or advise her ; she had no certain rules to guide her ; she coidd not tell, as she generally did, at tiie first glance what was right and what was wrong. If any one had ever prophesied to Agatha that the time would come when she would liesitate as she was doing now, not knowing right from wrong, she would never have believed them. Now she would have given much for a ray of light to guide her on a dark road. The chill, sere month of October brought the earl back again to Penrith Castle. It was like a real coming home, for he had forgotten no one. Lady Penrith raised her hands and eyes in amazement at the number and splendor of the presents he brought with him. The children were in ecstacy— they wished that such a lover came every day ; and Beatrice was happier in a qniet fashion. She said less, but Agatha saw that she loved him more. Her loving heart could not rest until she had caught one glimpse of him. She went to one of the unused rooms of the eastern wing, that she might watch him from thence as he mounted his horse. He looked well and strong, but there was no happiness in the dark, handsome face. She could have stretched out her hands to him with a loving cry. Ah, if she dare ! If that beautiful head were turned to her but for one moment, and the dark eyes flashed recognition into hers. ! ' I shall drive myself mad,' she said, as sho turned resol ll»i■y away. She saw little of Beatrice for the next few days, only at times she caught sight of a glad young face, beautiful in its '. I < ■ 111 1 [It 312 THK KAULs ATONKMKNT. love and hope. Then, suddenly an a thunder-storm breaks on a sunmier .lay, a shock came to her, an event ham)en«d npr haps th. most terrible and the most unlikely '"'^ f'^"^^' P"*^' L\u^ wlude party-it was a mild, warm (lay in October one of thos. winch come at rare intervals-and the whole uartv of Kues s, w.th Lonl and La.iy l>e,>rith. had driven over to ^one lunctr ' """^' "^'""""' "^^^" "^^y --« -Poctid to take On such occasions, when the beautiful, stately old mansion was empty, it was Agatha's delight to r^am over it, To visTt the p.cture-gal ery an.l the drawing-rooms, so full of beZv and uxury. Many little things that she saw is morS toucheci her heart deeply. Some music belonging to Beatrice writr';., n nV" ']^':'^T-R^oom; she' sal hernar Wd if 'r«r "^J,f"/«. handwriting. She bent down and kiss H It, her eyes hlled with hot tears. Just then the sou of footsteps on the terrac. ttracted her attention • surdv tCv had not returned yet. She went quickly to tie window She knew that the earl and Beatrice had ridden togeTher If ^v unforeseen incident had brought them back agaiS-Z must gl But a strange figure was there. A carriage, evidently hired from the nearest railway station or hotel^ tood before the grand entrance, and a lady had just descended from it and was walking up to the hall door-a tall stately fi.'ur" clid^n t'oSitrF^' K ''''•' ""? "f ""-^ ^ ^'^^'^ --^^> qnit^ r^trang r to Penrith, tor by mistake she had turned to the terrace on the lef -a stranger yet there was something almost erribrvfl miliar in her style and carriage. lernoiy fa- The lady went up to the great hall-door, and then Agatha into1e'-?t''fine1 T'' l^ TV^^"^ w'ay it struck horro nto her-it hlled her with dread, and then she reproached herself for being weak and foolish yet some impuKd her A sudden horror, a dreadful trembling seized her-the tones of that voice were quite familiar. A half sharp, half-impeHous still ' a'^cLilf £^^\T' ^T'^' .T^"^- ^^'^ ^^^' almost stood !!:11j t '}^'^!l'f'i^^ ^ '^^ ««ld of death came over her. What wttiu. iti uicutt t miraiir .^^ i.;.,. i-„: . . . ^ , : --— «• »-a.uic uvtji u«r. vvnat oureiy a« she was living, surely as the bright I ,• n breaks on opened, per- )ctober, one olo party of over to one ited to take Id mansion it, to visit of beauty is morning to Beatrice her name down and the sound urely they dovv. She r. If any le must go itly hired )efore the m it, and re, clad in I stranger ice on the ;rribiy fa- n Agatha 3k horror proached 3 led her nan talk- ihe tones onperious 3st stood '. What le bright AS SHE LOOKKT) TIIKN Sill-: NKVKR r.OOKKD AiJAlN. '.iVi sun shone in a blue sky, that was the voice of Valerie d'Envers. She stood for a few moments in horrible distress and suspense ; then she heard the same voice, but this time in far more im- perious accents say : * 1 have travelled some distance, at groat inconvenience to myself, to see Lord and Lady Penrith ou very important J usi- ness, and I shall not go away until I have seen them. If they are not at home, I will wait here until they return.' It was Valerie— brilliant, beautiful Valerie. What had brought her here 1 Valerie, who had slain her with cruel words ; Valerie, who had robbed her of her happiness, her life, and her love ; Valerie, whose cruel, perfect face had bent over her in the agony of death. Looking neither to the right nor to the left — never deigning to let her eyes fall on the Hgure stand- ing so silent, Valerie swept through the great entrance hall, and Agatha anxiously following her with her eyes. ' Show me into a room where there is a fire,' she vsaid. * If I have to wail some hours, I shall feel the cold.' Agatha saw a peculiar smile on the servant's face, as he opened the door of one of the anterooms, where a gooiJ tire was blazing. She swept in, and the man closed the door. Agatha, with a white, wild look on her face, went up to him. ' Who is that lady, John ] ' she asked. • I do not know, miss ; she would not give any name or any card. She wants to see my lord and my lady — ami see them she will. I thould think she is a French lady, by hor accent and manner.' John had no more to say, and Agatlia knew that io would not be safe to indulge in any curiosity, ft was Valerie, there could be no denying that — no mistake ; and jiidying from her manner, Valerie in her most haughty and determined mood. At last Agatha felt quite sure that it was to seek her that the French woman was there. She must have heard that she had made her way into the world of pure and good women, from which she d;^clared her shut out. Slie had come to be- tray her ; to tell the story of her fatal mistake ; to ruin her by driving her from this haven of rest, where she had found peace. It must be that — there was nothing else to bring her here. Yet, why should she persecute hei ? Why, after this long in- terval of time seek to do her harm 1 Valerie could know T ir i ill •fflr WI ^ :ipii ! 1 ^ M' '1 ; ■ ^ \ M i, 314 THE EARLS ATONEMENT. nothing of the Penriths. It could be from no interest in tliem that she was anxious to betray her. Another thing was how could it be possible that she should have traced her there ? Then another, and even more terrible idea came to her — one that made her tremble. It was, perhaps, not for her that Valerie had come, but for Lord Kelso. She knew nothing of what had passed between Sir Yane and Valerie, but she was wiser now than when she lived in the beautiful castle by the lake. She had thought it all over since and had to come to the conclusion that the part Valerie played had been suggested by jealousy. Could it be possible that she had come to harm him 1 And the woman whom he had wronged and betrayed felt her heart warm and her courage rise. Valerie should not injure him — no one should, no one should hurt a hair of his head ; she would stand before him, if need should be, and receive the sword-thrust meant for him. He had betrayed her, wronged her, inflicted the deadliest injury upon her, but no one should ever hurt him. She would give her life for him cheerfully, as she had given her heart and iove. And the woman who should have hated him, found herself weeping hot tears lest harm should come to him — never while she could avert it. Then, again, she could not see what harm could be done. It did not matter to Valerie whether he married or not, or would be married. One thing was certain, he could never have had any thought of marrying her, or he would have done 80. She was miserably anxious. At one time she thought of going to Valerie, and asking her what she was there for. Then the fear came to her that she might, perhaps, be doing more harm than good. She did not know in what manner her rash interference would end. She stood at the window when the party returned, and the first two who came up the long avenue were Beatrice and the earl, riding side by side— she smiling, blushing, happy, as she would never be in this world again. The sunshine fell upon her face, on her figure ; they seemed to have found a home in the radiant eyes raised to her lover's face ; and as she looked then, in the light of the sun, in the light of her love, she never looked again. Tliey rode up to the front, the grand entrance, and, with jsome little confusion of laughing and talking, they entered the AS SHE LOOKED THEN SHE NEVER LOOKED AGAIN. 315 im — never house. She knew afterward all that passed, when time had healed the bitter wounds. At first no word was said of the strange lady; then the footman came to tell Lady Penrith that a visitor was waiting for her. ' A French lady,' said Lady Penrith. ' I have no idea who it can be.' She went at once to the ante-room, where Valerie, tall and stately, awaited her. She rose in silence when the mistress of the castle entered, and made her most stately bow. ' You wish to see me,' said Lady Penrith, quietly, wonder- ing who this brilliant, beautiful Frenchwoman could be, 'Yes. I have come some distance to see you. Lady Penrith ; I wish also to see Lord Penrith, and — and a gentleman who is staying here.' ' I do not quite understand,' said Lady Penrith, haughtily. ' You will understand afterward, madam. I cannot explain. I must see Lord Penrith. Will you kindly allow me to ask you one question ? Have you a gentleman visiting you called Lord Kelso V ' I do not understand the question,' replied Lady Penrith. * I do not feel inclined to answer it.' * I know that I am doing something quite unconventional, Lady Penrith, but I feel quite sure, when you know the motive, you will say that I am more than justified. I have a carriage waiting, and my time is limited. May I ask if I can see Lord Penrith ? ' • I do not know wiiat to say. This a very unusual proceed- ing. Would you tell me to whom I have the pleasure of speak- ing?' ^ ' You will not know my name when you hear it. Lady Pen- rith ; but I will tell it to you with pleasure. I am Valerie d'Envers, and Lady Penrith, in her turn, bowed. She knew the name was one of the best in France. That slightly changed the aspect of affairs. A noble lady would not be there on a trifling errand. ' I wish,' continued Valerie, * to make a communication to you and to Lord Penrith : but it must be made in the presence of Lord Kelso.' Then Lady Penrith began to fear, began to woadei _U-4. ruab t m 1 ' '^^^1 1 H ^J il ^^^1 1 w ll \k > ■' 1 1 \f^ Mr fi I 316 THE earl's atonement. was coming ; her face grew pale, and she rang the bell with a trembling hand. ' 1 wish to see Lord Penrith at once,' she said. * Ask him not to delay.' CHAPTER LXV. A FOLLY OR A CRIME. I T was not easy to find Lord Penrith ; he had gone to speak to the head p;ardener, who was waiting for him, and the two had walked together to some distant spot of the gar- den. Wiiile the footman was looking for him the two ladies sat in perfect silence. At first Lady Penrith had felt no alarm ; true, the proceeding was rather unusual, but the lady herself did not look commonplace. Yet as the minutes passed, and those dark eyes, with their sombre depths of passion and power, watched her with that silent, intense gaze. Lady Penrith began to feel sick at heart What could it be 1 Nothing, surely, which could hurt her husband or hurt Bea- trice — beautiful, happy Beatrice — surely nothing that could hurt her 1 Yet the thought fastened like a serpent on her heart, her face grew pale and still ; the dark eyes of the other wcman never wavered, never oook their glance from her. It was a re- lief to her when she heard her husband's footsteps. * Here is Lord Penrith,' she said ; but no change came over the solemn gloom of the beautiful foreign face. The very sight of him, when he opened the door, gave to Lady Penrith a sense of protection ; nothing could go very far wrong when her hus- band was near. He looked at Valerie in wonder, quick enough to see the sombre beauty of her face, and to recognia© from its expression that she was there on no peaceful errand. He glanced at his wife. ' You want me, Philippa ? ' he said ; and then the strange lady rose from her seat and stood before him, tall, erect and stately. h t r A FOLLY OR A CRIME. 317 bell with a ' Ask him le to speak aa, and the of the gar- two ladies no alarm ; dy herself with their with that k at heart. hurt Bea- ;hat could her heart, ler woman t was a re- came over very sight ith a sense n her hus- 3k enough d from its be strange erect and * No, it is I who wish to see you, Lord Penrith,' she said. * I have come from some distance, and at some inconvenience, for the purpose of seeing you and Lady Penrith. Would you kindly see that the door is closed, and that we have no inter- ruption. For an answer Lord Penrith turned round and locked the door. ' We are quite secure now,' he said ; ' no one will come near us.' ' I am a stranger to you, Lord Penrith,' said the stately lady ; ' let me introduce myself to you. I am Valerie ^'Envers ; the name you will recognize as one well known in France.' He bowed low, feeling, as his wife had done, that there was something unusual and extraordinary to bring this lady, in this fashion, to them. ' You admit the fact,' she asked. ' Do you doubt ray iden- tity 1 If so, I can prove it to you in many ways.' * I do not dispute it,' said the earl. ' I should like briefly to say a few more words about myself,' she continued, ' so that you can rest assured of my respectability and responsibility. Unlike most French unmarried ladies, I am perfectly independent. My father left me a good fortune, and I have been accustomed to spend one-half of my time among my friends in Paris ; the other half has been spent with my aunt, Madame la Baronne d'Envers, at the Chateau of Belle- fleurs, in Switzerland, and it is in consequence of what I saw there that I am here now.' ' 1 must explain that my aunt lost the greater part of her fortune, and that in order to make up her income, she, during the spring and summer, lets the greater part of the chateau to the rich English who go abroad. You will understand soon why I tell you this. In what I have to say, do not for one moment imagine that I am speaking untruthfully. If I did you could find it out and punish me, but every word I have to say to you is as true as it is that the sun shines in heaven ; therefore, as I tell you my story, do not seek comfort in these words — '* it cannot be true." It is true. I should not have come all this distance to tell lies.' She looked suddenly up into Lord Penrith's face. * You have staying here with you now the Earl of Kelso, who was Sir Vane Carlyon some years ago, tl h \P\ 318 THE EAKL'S atonement. but who succeeded very unexpectedly, and through some ter- ribly sudden death, to the Kelso title and estates.' Lord Penrith bowed. This was a true statement, and there was nothing to be answered. 'I have read,' she continued, 'in papers which should be well informed, that Lord Kelso is about to marry your eldest daughter, Beatrice Penrith.' 'Oh, Heaven! Beatrice,' cried Lady Penrith. It seemed as though her fears and doubts were to be realized ; she stretched out her hands as though she would ward off a blow. ' Bea- trice,' she repeated, and l^ord Penrith went up to her ; he knew how she loved this beautiful child ; he threw his strong arm round her. * Hush, Philippa,' he said, gently ; ' wait and hear— there are always two sides to every question. Listen ; perhaps we can reply.' ^ * I am sorry for you,' said Valerie to Lady Penrith. ' If I could do my duty without stabbing you to the heart T would, but I cannot. You have accepted Lord Kelso as a suitor for your daughter, therefore you consider him an honorable man ' ' I believe so,' said Lord Penrith, stiffly. He did not like the lady's manner, or the triumph that he saw shining in her dark eyes. If wrong had been done to Beatrice, great Heaven i how he would avenge it. 'You would not take a servant into your household without strict inquiries as to character, honesty, and integritv, would you. Lord Penrith V ' Certainly not,' he replied ; ' although I do not see what that has to do with the question.' ' Only this,' she replied, her lips curling—' only this : that if you had made as many inquiries about your daughter's lover as you would have made over a housemaid or a groom, you would never have consented to his becoming your daughter's husband.' ° 'Oh, Beatrice ! my beautiful Beatrice, bright Beatrice ' ' wailed Lady Penrith. And then her husband spoke sharply. 'We have hpard nnhhintr that afF^.^tc, T)«of„:^^ ..-.4. > u_ -_.-j Had you made inquiries about him,' persisted Valerie, ' you would have found out that he was not fit to marry a young, ■> f A FOLLY OR A CRIME 319 innocent child like your daughter ; that although he l^eajrs the name of a ^reat man, although people say there is no real harm ?n him, and that he is his own worst enemy, there are deeper darker crimes to be laid to his charge-crimes that have blackened his soul, until, I repeat, the white, pure soul of your daughter would shudder at contact with it. « Assertion is not proof,' said Lord Penrith, coldly, a can give you proof.' she said. ' Ml the world -that is, all the fafhion'able world of London-knows and wUl -men:^ her the terrible scandal about Lady G . She wa« young and beautiful ; her husband was many years oMertl. an herself; she had three little daughters-baby girls. Sir Vane was a young man then, handsome enough to win ^t^e heart °f any woman-he won hers ; he took the P^^^^l^^pless lady from her husband, her children, and her home ^^^^^fave up all he world for him. He tired of her in a few months, the love that Tas to have been immortal died, as -cked/ove always does as she has been lost ever since. Do you call that a folly or a crime. Lord Penrith 1 ' , , . v .. t „ri„ "a crime,' he answered, in a loud, clear voice ; but Lady Penrith laid her hand on her husband's shoulder, and cried out again for Beatrice, her beloved child. , °'You are right,' said Valeria; 'it was a crime, -^o honor- able man could give his daughter to a man whose hands were red w!th the heart's blood of another woman. There are peo- Sin the world.' she continued. ' who profess to think highly of such things, and will tell you that a young man must sow his wild oats. You are not one of those, Lord Penrith 1 a am not.' he replied, proudly. , , • t v, \.^.r.A « I thought not. I pass over many such stories I have heard, and I wm^relate the one I know myself to be true, and in which I must, unfortunately, take a part. Lord Penrith laid his hand caressingly on the head ot his wife. It was some comfort that whatever they had to bear, they could bear it better together. , , -, t j ;fU vr,,r '^I have told you,' continued Valerie, Hha I lived with my aunt, Madame d'Envers, in the Chateau Bellefleurs an^ that \t W5« her habit durins the spring and summer to let part ot the castle and grounds.' I think it is about tive years since a young Englishman wrote to her, signing himself " Heriot, and I I » -1 f 1 *■ ! 320 THE earl's atonement. SS K . Z' '''''"'^ ^'^^ *^^ *^^« ^^^ «^ateau, not for a few months but for a year or two. There was only himself, h^ wife, and their servants. The terms he offered were so libeiS that my aunt saw at once she had to do with the rich English who do not count money. They agreed, and the Englishman chateau. ' ^""^ ''"^'^ ^"^^ comfortably at the ' '^^'^y ^*^«^ ^ave been enormously rich, as my aunt said for the'^ l^iT^. "" ^"""'^ i '^'y ^'^ everything in the wid wo rid they wished, carriages horses ; they went where they would and months at the chateau I found my aunt enchanted with h^r HeS ' '"'^ '^' ^"^'' ^^"^'^^"^ ^'^ '^'y «^Ji ^^r«- ' It was only natural that I should be very much with them • we were all young, and Mr. Heriot, one of the most charmh^ and fascinating men-no one could resist him. I did not think at first there was anything strange in the matter ; it seemed to me quite natural that a young husband, devoted ^s Mr. iTerio? ^BeUelZfl "°^'^/f »f"y Prefer the beautiful solitude ot IJellefleurs to crowded places, where he would have less ime to spend with her. There were times when I envied her and thought how strange it was that she should have every thing, and I-nothmg. She was unlike anyone else ; she was fair as an angel and, what was more, she had the fair, wM?e soul of an angel. I must bear this testimony to her-that she was, without exception, the best, the purestf the most perfect woman I have ever known. She had the most spirituafsoul When I have looked at her I have often thought that her hear ived in Heaven. She was so kind, so charitable, so good to the poor, so tender and loving to every one. If I tried I could not 'p^Sk of her.^ ' '^" ^^ '''' ^^ ^"^^^'"^'^^^ ^°-g' -" asl 'At first I had no suspicion, but after a time we talked as fif! \ about love and marriage. My suspicions were first aroused when I found that she had not been married in a * I need not go through the details, nor worry you by tellinir you how I found nut fhp f-ith "n^ ^'- --,-' f "/ ''^^".^"g and revolting. " "'" ' ' ''"' " ''' ""^^ sickening fill -A ' LET HIM DENY IT IF HE CAN.' 321 or a few TQself, his so liberal, I English iglishman at the said, for ide world ould, and nd some with her jall Mrs. th thern ; harming lot think Bemed to '. Heriot solitude ave less v^ied her, B every- she was ", white ;hat she perfect al soul, er heart ?ood to mid not iv, as I ked, as ere first 1 in a telling kening ' Mr Heriot, whom you know as Sir Vane and Lord Kelso, had most cruelly deceived this girl. She was as mnocent as an angel, and he had taken advantage of her innocence. He had deceived her in the most heartless fashion, and, while she be- Heved herself to be his wife, she « as no more married to him than I, Lord Penrith, am married to you.' , , j A low wail from Lady Penrith, and again her husband goothed her with loving words. « Do not forget that we have heard only one side, Philippa , there are always two sides to every question. Let us wait be- fore we judge.' . i tt i • 'You shall have every chance of judging, said Valerie ; you shall bring us face to face.' CHAPTER LXVL 'LET HIM DENY IT IF HE CAN.' She persistent, quiet, methodical manner in which this ' story was told did at last touch Lord Penrith. It ^- must be true, or she could not enter into such details. His brown, handsome face grew pale, his eyes were troubled and a curious faint sickness of heart came over him. What would happen to Beatrice if this were true ] ' T found out,' continued Valerie, ' that Mr. Heriot was really Sir Vane Heriot Carlyon, of Garsweod a rich English nobleman, and then I understood it. The girl with the fair white soul of an angel, had been betrayed. I hesitated for some time what to do ; to tell her seemed cruel as murder— oh, murder would have been more merciful, ten times more merciful ; but I knew that she must know. I did not dare to tell my aunt, her anger and indignation would have been so ereat. Then, I must confess -I must tell a weakness of ray own from which I shrink-I-I loved him ; he made love to nie — he wooed me, he naitercu uiu m-.^i uompir,=,e.. !••-"—, he won my heart. He said this much to me, than if he were free he would marry me ; and I knew that he was free. Ill rl II iir !|i|^^^ -u III f I 1 11 ^' : (; i ' '■ \ :..■ ; \ k ' 'X \f- fl A %sIL 322 THE EAUL's atonement. Shrwenronf '''^ '""'^' '""^^ ^^"'^ ^''^ P«""th. her "^T l",f, V^^"^,^"'^^" ^'"^^-^'^ ^^« ^ < ^"^l fitter truth to h«.:^l ^-Ji^ '" language strong enough to make her comDre ^ZiT ^^ff«^«"«lbetween herself and'other women whoTero" classed as good You may believe me ; I do not think thitf am very sensxtxve, nor so tender of heart as otit women ^Z but I felt when I was telling her that I was slaying hen ' . ^^« y«°t away, no one knows how or whithe? Mv own DTyrralfttfa^fii^^ '''' '^ '""'r '"''''' of Uke wL^ i^o you can that a folly or a crime, Lord Penrith ? ' ^ A crime, he repeated, solemnly. f 1. .u"*?^'' ®^^ ^*^^^^' '^orse than murder. Murder onlv takes the human life from the human bo.ly, a crfne like tS h r Zth "as I be!''' ''^"r^ '' ^^^-«h« went aw yo ner death as I believe, and he after a long search for her gave up all hope of finding her. He had told me that h^ would marry me if he were free, and I know now t^at he had but hr^'h R°^^ ]fP'^''^^ t^^« fulfilment of his proi but he-ah, Heaven ! how I hate him when I think of i - st:i^itlke%l^' 'T;^ i "^' ^"^^^^ -« because! ad ]im fl of 1 ^ ^'^^ *''o™ ^""^ > c"^'sed me with the same lips that only so lately had spoken to me of love and T I swore vengeance against him-I told him thatl^ould pu7 th^J' ^'"^ ^' ^ li^:ed-that I would haunt him TtH S —that my vengeance should never fail thii '^ 'u ?f o^^^^nce with my vow that 1 am here Do not W \i:::^\r^ r^'*™ "> *>- -^ole worM what I Know. It IS possible,' she continued, ' that you mav not h« ' lleve the story, it is possible you maf believe^°t? "f because' he IS a wealthy earl, you may still consent to your dauSs ■narnage, or perhaps that because you know ™, r dSle, JJL , ,^*'?.y?"r^'"'. love, if you were only here, lieside me in this mellow lij^^ht, AnTfr li^ *''" I'itter winds should blow And all the ways be choked with snow, 1 would be a true Arabian nijjht ' r„":fpXtrtS^'^""'^"'"'"^»'*''-'-^<'-g voice ' I am here BBatrice-you have but the one love T suddosp ' you-e^.,;T„raira^rLTirrrHT;p^?^^^^ tl I a r kw 'LET HIM DKNY IT IF HE CAN. 325 scenes were thinking about I say to myself often it can never be true. I cannot realize it. When you have been staying here and go away again, it is just as though sunlight changed to darkest night. I am to live- always in brightest sunshine, am I not] •Yes, always, my darling,' he said, 'always.' Just then a footman came to the door with a message that Lord Penrith would be much obliged if Lord Kelso would go to him at once, he wanted to see him. . That is unkind,' said Beatrice, 'just the only few minutes I have to spend with you. If papa knew how cruel it was, he would never have sent for you.' , , ,. ,. She smiled as he bent down and kissed her lips, whispering some loving words to her, and no one living ever saw the same smile on her face again. . , , • ^u i ««.,u He went, wondering what particular business the earl could have with him just before dinner, and regretted that he had not spent the half hour with Beatrice-it was too bad. He had no more idea of what awaited him than a laughing child has ot ^"^ome in !' said Lord Penrith, who was longing to be able to speak his mind, but who was restrained by prudence for a ^'Tord Kelso went in. They knew he was guilty, and that she had spoken the truth when they saw his face— as it looked when his eyes fell upon her. Lord Penrith left his wife's side, and advanced to meet him. ' I want you. Lord Kelso,' he said. ' This lady, Mademoi- selle d'Envers, has come here expressly to make certain charges against you. I would not believe them, but she chal- langed me to bring you face to face with her. The woman loved hira-her face changed paled, grew cnm- son and quivered ; her eyes glowed and darkened. Lord Kelso, who had quickly recovered his self-possession, turned to her with a bow, which she retmned. * This is your vengeance,' he said. ' Yes,' she replied, ' this is my vengeance.' ' Will you answer some questions, Lord Kelso, she saia,^ 'questions which I shall ask on your honor as a gentleman 1 ^■r-r 1-11 . J.-- 1— ««■ V»^». \\\^^■. Tntk.fifK TIO FeDlV. iie iooKea contempi/uuuaiv «v; li^^x, v<<- > - ■• --, .. ,11^1! J !«-•,, n t.riifi or not asked Is the story told of you and Lady G true or" not 1 ' she M i J ! i f »lP 1 326 THE EARl/s ATONEMENT. ' Of what consoquonce can it be to vou 1 ' ho r^nU^A « t i j not condescend to answer you.' ^ ^ ^*^' ^ "^^"'^ 'Nol I felt sure that you would snfiftW fl.« f,.„tu t . Lord Penrith, who wishes to know tlTtruth h.H k / "°^' the question himself ^'"'*'' ^^"^ ^^"^r put You see that I was risrht I ' nr>i^A \r 7 ■ • forsorne ,.„,«, believing herself to 'bo hCJal Is th^'tru 'r plilI°iT[stru:r' "'''"'' '""""• ""<• "--de-nation, hero- There was a dead silence for one half minutp fV^on « • You see now that I have spoken the truth.' CHAPTER] LXVII. DOOMED TO A LIFE-LONG SORROW. Ifj^^^^r^^ ^^t"" r", ""^^ ^ hardened man-he recoiled with P pain when Lady Penrith turned her whit- face hll „ ,^,^^ „j^g ^^^^ Qj emotion as he said : a=r-» nOOMKl) TO A TJFF.-LONO SOUROVV. 327 !lli i 'I would th ; if not, better put own. tie replied. deem it, it » triumph, )f the most made her 9, and took with him his true 1 ' ition came on, he re- 3n a mut- and again led with ice, hag- has she Heaven I « Ladv Penrith. I do not know in what words to atmwer you. I wish that I had been dead before I brought this trouble to vo^ and to Beatrice. I wish, indeed, that 1 had died. Wdl you Cu to me lor a f.w minutest 1 cannot make any excuses or myself ; 1 do not wish to make less of my sm, but let n.e savUm much tor myself-it 1 had my life to live over again, I wou act differently' 1 say it, with tears and sorrow o con^ Son that I have never studied anything except myself, and my own pleasures. Only Heaven knows whether it will be any excuse fir me to say that I was never taught. I was born the he r to great wealth, and 1 always thought 1 could do as I liked, ammft all bad. 1 believe that if any one had ever said to me that self-control and self-restraint were noble, I ";;^»»\1'^^« ™ied to be noble. As it was, quite naturally, 1 thoijght of nothing but my own pleasure, i have never done what the world would call a mean thing. I have been generous- 1 may Tven say charitable-but 1 have not respected the claims of wo~ men 1 am doubly ashamed to say it in the presence of such a woman as you, Lady Penrith, but 1 am afraid 1 have merely Tooked upon them as toys. I have found out my mistake-they have the Virtues of angels, the vices of devils. 1 love Beatrice 1 feel tliat my lips are not worthy to mention her name, i love her because she is so much like an angel. He turned to Valerie. « ^^ou can say what mor. you will,' he said, quietly 3 you Via lad vour revenge.' . . . 1. » . Ves, 1 have had it, and the taste of it is sweet to my lips, she said. , , Lord Kelso turned to the unhappy parents. ' Whatever you have to say to me wait until this woman has gone. She has had her vengeance, let her go. 'I have Tuore to say before I go,' said Valene, ' It is easy to deceive a foolish woman-it is easy to ^^^ray "inocence or simplicity-but it is not so easy to deceive ^ndbetray a t rer^ch noblewoman. I told you that my revenge should last my 1 fe. Every time you attempt to make any woman believe m you or attempt to make any woman marry you, 1 will repeat what I hav.' done thiS time.' , , . ,. He made no answer-a contemptuous smile curled his lips. A. woman's threats would never move him. -It! \ I \ ; S ffl 328 THE earl's atonement. ;*! ; * I will not retaliate upon a woman,' he said, * or I might, in my turn, make certain revelations not very pleasant for Mademoiselle d'Envers to hear. Out of contemptuous pity I will keep her secret. She has told you some of the truth, but she has not told you what a snake in the grass she proved her- self to the girl whom she drove to her death. I tell you honestly that I loved that girl with my whole heart, and I would have married her legally and properly long ago but that I was ashamed to let her know I had deceived her before. If that woman, with her horrible treachery, had not come be- tween us, in all probability we should have been married. I love Beatrice because she resembles in her purity, her inno- cence, and sweet gaiety the girl whom this woman murdered with false words.' ' Hush ! ' cried Lord Penrith. « You must never mention my daughter's name again ? ' Lord Kelso's handsome face grew deadly pale. • Is it so ! ' he said. ' I cannot complain. You see, Made- moiselle, your work is well done — your revenge is very com- plete. You have doomed a bright, happy, loving girl to a life- long sorrow. She, whose name I may never more mention, need never have known of my wrong-doing; hundreds of men have done the same thing, but they have settleddown after- ward, have married good women, and have so become good men, I might have done the same — living with one so good and pure would have made a good man of me. I could have protected her from all evil, and have made her very happy. The recollections of what she had been saying when he left her came back to him, his voice faltered and the tears came to his eyes. * You have had full vengeance, mademoiselle ; I scorn to retaliate. If you wish to know whether you have succeeded in making me suffer, yes, you have done so— I do suffer, and I shall suffer all my life. You need hot be proud of the feat you have accomplished. Lord Penrith, when this person is gone, we will speak together.' Lord Penrith made no answer ; thinking of Bedtrice, it was with great difficulty that he refrained from taking the man be- fore him by the throat and ending the life that seemed to him 3!f accurs ^ftd. Lady Penrith read his thuughis in his agitated face and trembling frame. DOOMED TO A LIFB-LONG SORROW. 329 • I might, sasant for )us pity I iruth, but oved her- I tell you rt, and I • but that ifore. If come be- rried. I her inno- nurdered mention e, Made- ery cora- to a life- mention, Is of men i^n after- •me good ) so good uld have 7 happy, n he left came to iselle ; I ou have 30 — I do 36 proud 'hen this e, it was man be- 1 to him bted face . * Nay, dearest Hildebrand,' she said, that will make mat- ters worse. Be calm and patient — blind, hot rage will not help us.' Valerie made a sweeping bow. * My mission is accomplished,' she said. * You know Lord Penrith, if any one attempts to win your consent to this mar- riage what will happen. I shall be there. I shall stand by the altar and the priest to denounce him, and your name shall be associated with the greatest scandal that has ever been known even in this land of scandals.' ' Threats would never deter me from doing what I thought right,' said Lord Penrith. Then, without another word, he opened the door and held it — a hint that no person could mistake. * I must express my opinion of you,' he said to her, * Lord Kelso does not shine in the stories you have told, but the most contemptible person I know or have heard of — is yourself.' Lady Penrith said no word as the woman who had marred her daughter's life passed out of sight ; but she stood there with a look on her face that hurt Lord Kelso more than any- thing else in this world. ' Who is to comfort my child 1 * she said to her husband. 'Who is to tell her]' Then Lord Kelso went nearer to her, and bowed his head before her. * Lady Penrith,' he pleaded, ' will you listen to me 1 Need this cruel deed be done 1— need Beatrice be told 1 My follies or sins were all over before I ever saw her. Since I have known her I have been true to her in thought, word and deed, just because she is so sweet and innocent. I would respect her innocence, and shield her with the best strength of a man. Could you forgive niie 1 ' The passionate sorrow in his voice touched her gentle heart. ' I could forgive you,' she said ; * but I could never give you my beautiful, loving child.' * Think better of it 1 ' he cried, with passionate energy. * I own my crime — I have done wrong ; I am heartily sorry for it ! I would undo it if I could ; I would make any atonement 1 could — no man can do more.' u li ill ;i \ ^i^! 't'l i li 330 THE EARL S ATONEMENT. ' That is true ; but what you have done quite unfits you to be my daughter's husband. I should never rest for thinking of ber — I should never be happy about her. I am one of those who consider the destruction of the soul as far worse than the ruin of the body.' Lord Penrith looked at Lord Kelso. . ' If my wife should give my daughter to you, I would not. I would sooner a thousand times see her lying dead ! ' Lord Kelso uttered a cry of despair. * It seems unmanly to plead against your decision,* he said, * but do, for Heaven's sake, stop and think. If you send me away, you make Beatrice suflFer for my sins. What has Bea- trice done ] ' * Nothing — that is the cruelest part of it,' said Lord Penrith. ' She may suffer, and she will suffer. Better that than to link her life with such a life as yours.' ' You are too hard,' groaned Lord Kelso. ' I do not think so,' said Lord Penrith. Then they were silent, while the carriage wheels — of the woman who had come down upon them like a whirlwind, rolled down the avenue, * We have to consider our name,' said Lord Penrith. * Even, if my wife and myself were willing now t o're our daughter to you, you remember what that woman ^ -that she would denounce you before the priest and the people, and that such a scandal should hang round your name as has never been heard before — you remember.' ' She would not dare to do anything of the kind,' he cried, indignantly. * She would both dare and do,' said the earl. * No such scandal must attach itself to my beloved child. The matter is ended, and forever. My strongest condemnation and re- probation rest with you. You have wronged Heaven and man, your soul wants washing in tears of penitence, your life re- forming ; but under no circumstances whatever can you be per- mitted to see Beatrice again. The proper and manly course will be for you to leave Penrith at once.' Even he, in his righteous anger, was struck by the keen pain ou the handsome face before him. A low cry came trom tiiS earl's lips. DOOMED TO A LIFE-LONG SOKROW. 331 ' My little love 1 ' he said to himself. He looked up at Lord Penrith with haggard eyes. ' Do you know,' he cried, ' that I left her half an hour ago with loving words on her lips, and that she was waiting for me. She asked me not to be long, and I promised to hurry back to her. You cannot be so cruel as to say that I must not see her again, my little, loving love ! ' and the strong man— the man who had thought so little of the sufferings of others— covered his face with his hands and wept aloud, such tears as men weep only once in life, and that is when their dearest hope is slain. Even those who were incensed against him felt sorry for him in that hour, * I must see her once more ! ' he cried. * I shall go mad if you forbid it. Just once— oh, Lady Penrith, you have a woman's heart, and it must be a kind one, let me ses her once — only once.' Lady Penrith held up her hand. ^ * * I shall look upon you always as my child's murderer, she said. * Beatrice will never be happy again.' ' But you will let me see her 1 ' he pleaded. ' Once— only once ? ' * It must rest with Lord Penrith,' she replied. ' It must rest with Beatrice herself,' said Lord Penrith. ' If it will lessen her sorrow, and she wishes to say good -by to you she may do so, but— it must be good-by. "What do you propose to do 1 I wish you to leave my house at once.' ' My punishment is hard, cried Lord Kelso — harder than I can bear.' * I wish you to leave at once, said Lord Penrith. * I will send word to my daughter that you have been compelled to return to London on particular business. Do not give either Lady Penrith or myself the pain of looking upon you again.' « But you will let me see her once again to say good-by 1 You will not refuse me ?— it is the desperate prayer of a des- perate man.' * I will consider it. If my daughter asks me I shall not re- fuse her, but I shall take her out of England at once. In silence Lord Kelso quitted the room. 1 III 1i! .1^ if/ JijI I I mi' 1* 1 ' ■ '. i ■ i 1 J 332 THE earl's atonement. CHAPTER LXVIII. THE father's explanation. (>-i«_. VERY fashionable newspaper in London had the same paragraph : '• PosTPONKMENT OF THE Mabkiaqe OF THE Eap.l OF Kelso :— The mar- riage of Lord Kelso is postponed, owing to the very serious illness of Miss Penrith, whose condition is a source of great anxiety to her relations." Those lines did not tell much of the tragedy which had taken place at Penrith Castle, but that told all the outer world ever knew. In one of the grand old rooms overlooking the river with its rush of waters, and the woods — a room, large, bright, and lofty — a young girl lay, doing hard battle with death, lay like a bruised flower, like a broken lily, her fair head tossing wildly on the pillow, a wistful, hunted look in her eyes, as though the pain were too great. She longed to die, while all in the house moved with silent footsteps, and the sound of a laugh was never heard. It was as though the sun set, and everlasting night reigned. That bright, beautiful Beatrice should be lying there, the golden hair all down, the beautiful face either white or worn, or flushed and fevered ; sick unto death — with that one fever for which there is no cure. She looked at the doctor who came to attend her. * Do not try to cure me,' she said to him. * Let me die ! ' — that was the bnrden of her song — " let me die ! " She had not said much when they told her. She listened to all, and when Lord Penrith had finished, she cried out : ' You say I must give him up. I cannot ! I cannot ! ' She wrung her hands with a low cry, a despairing gesture. * I cannot ! ' she repeated. * I am sorry he has not been a good man ; but good or wicked, I love him and I cannot give him up.' .._ .._._.. She listened with a ghastly face, while Lord Penrith told her the story, in the best and kindest words he could find. THE father's explanation. 333 * If his own sins did not lie like a great gulf between you, Beatrice,' he said, ' you could not marry him. That fair youn<'name of yours must not be blackened with calumny, and that woman will keep her word. You must try to forget Vxim * <■ Forget him, papa ! I will— when my heart forgets to beat and my eyes forget to see. I will forget him— when the sun is darkened and the moon gives no light, when my body tor- gets my soul, and Heaven forgets me— then will I forget my earl— my earl ! ' . j * ' My Beatrice,' said her father, gently, 'you are too good.too noble to love a worthless man.' * He is not worthless,' she repeated. ' He may have been wicked, he may have done all these terrible things you say, but he is not worthless.' She listened to him with a face so ghastly, and with trem- bling hands, with such anguish in her eyes, that Lord Penrith said to himself it was worse than slaying her. Every now and then the white hands were clenched, as if the pain were unen- durable. ■ ^ - When Lord Kelso left the room that evening, husband and wife turned and looked at each other in silence. Lady Pen- rith was the first to break it. With pale, trembling lips, she said to him : . ,i , « r ' What shall we do, Hildebrand— who is to tell her 1 1 can- not. She will die, my beautiful, wounded dove— she will die ? ' Ah, no ; grief does not kill so quickly ; it would be better if it did.' *I loved you, Hildebrand,' she said, gently, 'and I am quite sure that if the eame thing had happened to me, it would in- deed have been my death.' Lord Penrith kissed his wife's troubled face. «We must do the best we can for her, my darling,' he said, * and the best, Heaven knows, is bad enough. I will break it to her; she will suffer less with me, perhaps, than vrith you. Heaven help me ! If ever I meet that man again, and there is no restraint upon me, it will be his life or mine. Philippa, dariing, cry to uiieer up ; ii may noi. uu au u^u. -"^ i= ^'u"° * she may soon recover j she may not take it so deeply to heart Mi W \ nsBi 334 THE earl's atonement. i' ' Time heals all wounds, even the wounds of death. In three or four years she will have foi gotten him, let us hope.' But even as he spoke, his heart was heavy, and Lady Pen- rith only wept the more. * I feel,' she said, * as though I had been stabbed to the heart ; I feel as though I could never leave this room and face life again. * Go to your own room, Philippa. Yet, no ; for her sake we must keep up appearances ; we must not let the servants sus- pect anything ; we must go to dinner as usual, and endure the ordeal in the best way we can. I shall tell Beatrice that Lord Kelso has gone to town on important business ; then you can go to your room, and I will break it to the poor child. We must shield her ; we must think for her. It will never do to have any of this known. The least hint of it would be the child's ruin. Remember how much of her future depends on your self-control now ; ' and those few words gave the unhappy mother courage to help Beatrice. She would bear and suffer much. All was done as he wished. The news soon spread through- out the castle that Lord Kelso was suddenly summoned to Lon- don, and no one had the wit to connect his sudden journey with the appearance of the foreign woman who had demanded to see Lady Penrith. Husband and wife left the room where Lady Penrith had heard what she knew to be her daughter's death- knell. She went to her room ; he sought his daughter. He heard her now in the music-rooji ; she was sitting where her lover had left her, singing over and over again to herself the beautiful lines of the sweetheart song : ' Oh, love for a year, a month, a day. But alas for the love that loves alway.' He stood for a moment and looked at her — that peaceful, ten- der expression was never to be on her face again. He thought of an innccent lamb with a knife at its throat — of a white dove with the cruel bat that is tearing its innocent heart ; and^ strong as he was, his iieart grew sick at the thought. Sud- denly Beatrice saw him, and she sprang from her seat with a joyful cry ' Papa I why did you send for my earl ? How cruel it was of you, That one half-hour in the music-rooni is the only time *,.' NIGHT FOREVER MORE. 335 we have just before dinner ; and we have so much to eay-I '^A^rtSy smile came over her face and in the fulteffis of her heart she kissed her father's hand ^"It was strange that he made no answer, but looked at her "^tST^fX^TpI^aluht^S -He saidhe would ""Wha't™ as he to say to her, when he knew that in this life she would never see him again 1 CHAPTER LXIX. NIGHT FOR EVERMORE. Y dear Beatrice/ he said, gently, you must tiy «ot to be disappointed. Lord Kelso has been suddenly IZ corr^fon'l ^Shf sorted as though she had been sho^ thetvei; color died from her face, leaving the very hps white ; a dark shadow came into her eyes . To London I Oh, papa, it cannot be rue You are je^t^ ing ; but it is a cruel jest- a horrible jest ! I^et me go to mm^ ? My dearest Beatrice, it is no est, and he had ^^ tune to see you the was compelled to go by the next tram, and he had "'^CaT'hfcrL^^^^^^^^ at him with great, solemn eyes herl'e growing mo;e ghastly in its pallor.-' papa, tell me the ''"Dead ^'oi:f Lord Penrith. 'No, child, certainly not it is as I tell you He has been obliged to start suddenly for London, and he had not time to see you. She laid her hand on her heart. , .T hav. a «t,ranae feeling here,' she said, quietly- sue a 8tra;ge"feeling;papa, as if "something had happeuea .o mm. 336 THE earl's atonement. * Why did you ask me if he were dead ? * asked Lord Pen- rith, who had hardly recovered from the shock of the question. ' I did not think he could leave me without one word or one kiss,' she said slowly. ' It is so unlike him ; he never forgets me, no matter how great his hurry is. It would not have taken him one moment to have said, ' Good-by, Beatrice, I am coming back to-morrow. It was cruel of him,' she said, in her soft, gentle voice. * He said he would not be more than a few minutes away. What shall I do, papa 1 ' And she looked wistfully in his face. What could he say, who knew that she would never see him more. ' I cannot help thinking there is something wrong,' she con- tinued. * It would be better to tell me. He is ill, perhaps, or there is some misfortune. I am quite sure he would not go to London without speaking to me.' * It is not pleasant business that has taken him away, and he was certainly much put out.' ' That would not matter,' she said : * nothing but death would make him forget me. If he had unpleasant business, he should have told me, and I would have comforted him. Papa,' she continued, eagerly, * if he has lost all his money, you would not let that part us 1 ' ' No, my darling,' he said, gently ; • money should not part you.' * Was it about this same business that you sent for him, pa- pa 1 ' she said, and something of relief came over her face. If her wise, kind, good father knew it, there could be noth- ing wrong. ' Yes,' he replied, * it was business that came to my know- ledge, and I sent to tell him.' * Ah, then, it will be all right if you know, papa ; you are so wise, so good, so clever. You can do anything. When will he come back 1 Will he come to-morrow ] ' She laughed, a curious, wistful laugh that he never forgot. * I hope he will not be long away. I do not know what I should do now, papa, without him. It would be like living without sunshine or flowers, or anything else that makes life bright. When will he come back again 1 ' ' I do not know, it is not certain— ah, there is the dinner- NIGHT FOR EVERMORE. 337 bell ! I am a very poor substitute for Lord Kelso— let me take you into dinner, Beatrice.' And so long as he lives, Lord Penrith will never forget that dinner, will never forget the effort he had to get through it Lady Penrith came down, and they contrived to get up some kind of conversation, but it was easy to see how great the f^f- fortwas. Beatrice grew more and more sure every moment that something was wrong ; how great and terrible that wrong was she little dreamed. When dinner was over, Lady Penrith went to her own room and Lord Penrith took his daughter to the drawing-room to tell her the truth. ., ., . ,• if ij Never again in his life. Lord Penrith said to himself, could he ever go through such a scene ; it was over at last, and she knew that she would never see the man she loved so dearly again— except to bid him farewell. On the whole, she had borne it better and more quietly than he had dared to hope j she had finished speaking, she had said the last word, and she was sitting in the easy-chair he had placed for her, pale and silent, her hands folded, her eyes half closed. Lord Penrith took her in his arms and kissed her. * You cannot tell the torture it has been to me to tell you you this, Beatrice ; and your mother, she feels it so keenly that she is quite ill. You are a good, brave child, and you have borne it well. Your mother, I know, is breaking her heart over you. Let me take some message to her that will console her and cheer her.' i^-i. r There was little enough to cheer or console in the white tace raised to his— little enough. She tried to smile, but there was only a quiver on the white lips. ' You are very kind to me, papa,' she said. ' Very kmcL Tell dear mamma that I have heard it— all— yet that I am not He bent over her in infinite distress, the simple, pitiful words went through his heart, for they hinted to him a state of dis- tress greater than he could imagine. He made her he down on the couch ; he begged her to try to read ; he found for her an amusing book, which he opened at an amusing chapter; he left her with cheering words, hoping in his inmost heart that the worst was over. "He went to Lady Penrith, and told her the very words. in il ' 33a THE EARL'S ATONEMENT. ' Did she say that she had heard it, yet is not dead : Ah ! then it is worse even than I feared. Go back to her. Hil- debrand do not leave her.' But when Lord Penrith went back he found that Beatrice was lying where he had left her, but cold, white, and senseless; at first he thought that she was dead ; after a time he found that her heart was still beating ; still, for her sake, desirous of keeping up appearances, he went at once to Lady Penrith. ' There is one person we can trust, and trust entirely,' she said ; ' that is Miss Brooke; go and bring her. I will go to Beatrice.' Lord Penrith found Miss Brooke in the school-room trying to read, but really ill with suspense ; she, with the rest of the household, had heard that Lord Kelso had left suddenly for London, and she, knowing that Valerie had been there, felt certain that something terrible had happened. Lord Penrith was too ill and too anxious himself to notice the condition in which he found his governess. Lady Penrith wants you, Miss Brooke,' he said. ' We are in great trouble ; will you come to her 1 ' In silence he led the way to the drawing-room, and in silence she followed him. Beatrice lay there white and silent. Lady Penrith bending over her in a passion of tears. * It has killed her, Hildebrand,' she cried. ♦ I knew it would.' * Hush, Philippa ! ' said her husband, as he carefully locked the door. * Remember that her whole future depends on your self-control now,' * She will have no future ! ' cried Lady Penrith, with falling tears, * She is dead ! ' Agatha knelt down by the white, silent figure ; was there ever anything so like a broken lily 1 ' she said, quietly. * Beatrice is not dead, Lady Penrith ; she has fainted. I do not even think that she is going to die. Is she ill 1 ' *Tell Miss Brooke, Hildebrand,' said Lady Penrith; 'we may trust her; she will keep our secret' ' You may trust me Lady Penrith,' said Agatha, gently, * 1 will do all I can for you or for Beatrice,' I Ti. ir. ^ V./xxniUla fViinr* in foil VOP Mia" Prnnlrft ' QJlirl Tinrd Penrith ; ' but like my wife, I have the most implicit confidence NIGHT FOR EVERMORE. 339 in vou You know bow the poor child loved Lord Kelso. We have heard that about him to-day which has caused me to dismiss him from tbe house-to forbid him to seek my daughter again, and, of course, it has entirely put an end to ^XaH tat so quickly, she feared lest they should hear it This was the object of Valerie's visit then. . « Do you think it true]' she asked, with white, quivering ^^'^'l know it— he admitted it,' said Lord Penrith. ^ « Would you mind very much telling me what it was 1 sue *' Sh^e could not help the question, and it did not strike him " ata'nnotTu you all. There was a little story about some Lady G , which I could not repeat. There was another of some good akd innocent girl, whom he had cruelly deceived. For a moment a great mist came before her eyes, and she feared lest she should fall dead at his feet It waa of her he was speaking ; it was her own sad story that had almost killed Beatrice, and had parted her from her lover. , ,, , ^x. „„ 'in fact,' continued the earl, ' his character is not that of an honorable man. I would not trust my child's happmess with him There was something about herself, too— the woman, I mean, who came to tell us-hehad promised to marry her, if ^'ne wandered why she turned from him with that sharp, sudden cry. and knelt down again by his daughter s side. For a few minutes the whole world was chaos o her ; he was even more worthless than she had thought. If this were True, Iven while she was still with him he had been making love to Valerie, and had promised to marry her-ii it were ^'''' The woman told us frankly,' continued L. .d Penrith, 'that her motive was not to save Beatrice or to warn us, but to take '^tC It ras't^ue, he must have made that promise to Valerie even while she was with him. A low, bitter cry came from her SL h^A not believed it possible that she could suffer ;( t: Sore, i^t this was harder than all to bear. Then her thought^ 840 THE EARL S ATONEMENT. ili* left herself as she looked at the pallid young face, which was as the face of the dead. It was the same sin — the same man. * I know it will kill her/ said Lady Penrith. ' What must we do, Miss Brooke 1 ' Agatha thought of the time when she had lain under the trees, her heart broken, her life crushed. It was the same sin, the same man. She remembered that nothing had soothed her pain, and nothing, she felt sure, would help Beatrice. They had all the remedies they could think of, and the eyes that were never more to shine with a child's glee, opened at last. She only woke from the trance of pain to fall into such a passion of sobs and tears as frightened them all. * Leave her to me, LaJy Penrith,' said Agatha, at last. * She has told me all her love affairs ; she made me her confidante. I feel sure that I can manage her better alone.' Father and mother were only too pleased to do anything Agatha suggested. They left her alone with the weeping gir. The saiT)' sin — the same man — was that the reason that AgatI a drew the golden head to her breast ? * Cry, my darling,' she said ; never mind if your tears scald me — cry, it will take the sting from your pain.' And Beatrice did cry, in a hopeless fashion that was pitiful to hear. Once she clung around Agatha's neck. ' I do not care what he has done,' she said. ' I cannot give him up ; tell them — they must send for him, or I shall die. I must see him — I must look in his face, or I shall die.* 'There are some things worse than death,' said Agatha, ' shame is worse, and sin is worse.' Even in the midst of her terrible pain, Beatrice wondered why Agatha's face was as the face of an angel, so full of compassion and love ; why she soothed her with skill and tenderness that no one else in the world could have used. She wondered, in dull, dreary fashion, if Agatha had ever gone through a great trouble. At last Agatha was able to go to Lady Penrith and tell her that she had taken Beatrice to her own room, and was going to sit up all night with her. She did so ; and Agatha will never forget the night. There were times when exhausted by her passionate tears, that Beatrice seemed to fall asleep, and she would make such despairing cries that Agatha's heart NIGHT FOB BVEKMORE. 341 hich was ime mau. hat must nder the the same d soothed ice. I the eyes •pened at into such 3t. ' She ^nfidante. anything ping gir^ it Agatt a sars scald as pitiful inot give II die. I Agatha, ered why mpassion ness that dered, in I a great [ tell her as going itha will usted by eep, and a's Ueart almost stood still ; but toward morning, whea tbe red dawn came in the sky, she grew restless, her face was flushed, and *^'' fkn?w?st said, ' that it was too bright to last It was like livTng a ways ii the auushine. I told hm yesterday I ould not'realize'the happiness of being witl^^ua always ; ar^ now I am not to see him agam. I toW him so 1 «^t«^J"| my hand, thinking I must see h^.m. 1 cry ^«"^, .^« \\™' ^^^^ think he will answer. H- seems lo be standing there, ana h re ; buTwhen I go to h.m he fades away-tadesqu^^^^ away Lrl thfl dark beautiful face is so sorrowful. I told you, am i ^ot hltte'firrtime I saw him I was struck by the sadness in his eves 1 That shows he was not a wicked man. VVickea men do not look sad; they do not, oare enough to look jad. Ah?my earl-my earl Vfith the boa^.liful eyes, come back to "" And then Agatha tried-but vainly-to teach her how much better it was to be patit it and bear. "you would not think so if he had been your lover. You cannot tell what he was, because he nevor .oyed you ; but he loved me. He loved me, and I cannot loso him. Tholme sin and the same man ! Yet Agatha ^-l^^^^l^' ' her so-dared not tell her that she had suffered before every tiane that Beatrice was suffering now. ^fiWce raised her flushed face and bright eyes from the ^' a^'am quite determined over one thing,' she said-'I will not let^pa or mamma see how it hurts me ; the more they see me suffer, the more they will dislike l^"^'. J*, ^^.^^^^i'^^^^^^ morning soon ; I shall get up and do everything just^ I hav^ been accustomed to, only'-and a great dreary sob for a tew minutes choked her-' only^ there will be no love to thmk about, and no wedding-day.' . , , «I shall not complain,' she went on j 'and then, it they do not see that I am very unhappy, they will think less unkindly of him. What a long night it has been, andjiow good you have been to sit up with me. It will be night now with me forever and forever more. No more sunlight A t,n hftT that when the sUn snone no darkness quite patiently for a Heaven. IDl lUUU more on earth, and one bore t time, there would be a glorious sunlight 342 THE earl's atonement. * Ah, in Heaven,' sighed the girl, drearily. ' Do not think I am wicked, Miss Brooke, but do you believe that for me there can be any Heaven without him ] * * Yes, everything in this world is as nothing compared with the life to come. You will understand that when human love is dead in your heart.' CHAPTER LXX. A LAST REQUEST. )HE resolution that Beatrice had made she tried to keep. Although the next morning she felt very ill, she would rise and go down as usual, take breakfast with Lord and Lady Penrith, go about her daily avocations. ' It was better for his sake/ she repeated to herself, when her strength failed her, * they would blame him less.' But there was something so wistful, so pathetic in the girl's face, that both parents felt it much worse than if she had spent the day in weeping. When Lady Penrith asked her to drive out with her, she was willing, and during her absence, Agatha, by her mother's wish collected everything — every souvenir of Lord Kelso, and they were stored away in one of the f^reat wardrobes. All the wedding trousseau, the dresses, the laces, the furs, the jewels were locked away j all the books he had given her, all the music, the numerous presents, nothing was left about that could in any way remind her of him. If she noticed it on her return, she said nothing, she made no remark or comment ; she never inquired where anything was ; but that night her face was so white and death-like Lady Penrith was alarmed. • She cannot keep it up,' she said to her husband ; * she will break down and die.' Lurd Penrith was more cheerful. She was making a great effort, he said, and he thought she w>uld get over it. n A LAST TOKEN. 343 she No one knew that there was anything wrong-every one knew that Lord Kelso had gone up to town on sudden and '""PThe marriagrsettlements, my dear,' whispered one dowager to another, 'I hear they are magnificent.' Lord Penrith had made up his mind as to his course of action He wished the whole matter to remain in abeyance ?he next two weeks, during which he intended to make arrangements for taking his family abroad until the jrWe affair was forgotten. He did not wish one word to be sa^d until they had started, for he knew well his proud, beautiful Beatrice would never bear the comments made-never bear the remarks and condolences-he must take her away from ^Wher ,hey had left England, then there could be an announc^ ment in the papers that the engagement was broken off and the anticipated marriage at an end. Beatrice would be out of each of gossip then ; the could °ot Jiear ^he «>°^°^fll,l^^^ curious, and he would take care that she did not return to S' nd until it was forgotten. He confided his plans to no one except Lady Penrith, and she quite agreed with them. People said that Miss Penrith was not looking well. She kept out of all observation as well as she could, but if she had to see visitors or go anywhere with Lady P«°"^^^^^;^^^f,?^ * call, she went through it bravely. It was only afterward that the; knew what the effort cost her-afterward when they had found out that she had worn away her strength even to the kst remnant of her life. She grew paler and thinner every Z ; it was marvellous to see the change that came over her brfght young loveliness; the color left her face, and her eyes were always dim and heavy with long weeping AU the pretty, girlish graces were gone ; she did her best, but her heart was crushed. r „„„i, jo« «,Via How she lived through the long torture of eac^^^^^y f^ never knew ; the only comfort she had was in gome t^ Agatha. Agatha grew accustomed to seeing the pale, wistful face at the school-room door. Whatever she was doing or might be her occupation, she instantly put it aside and hastened to her . w;n .rL r>.aA t.n mfi. Miss Brooke]' she would say , '1 I iii am so tired. 344 THE earl's atonement. She would lay her burning head on Agatha's knee. ' I am always so tired,' she said, ' and your reading soothes me.' So Agatha read in a voice sweet as music, but she knew that the girl never heard one word ; she wm thinking all the time of her love and her sorrow. And Agatha noticed how thin and pale she was growing ; her hand was almost transparent, and a great fear came to her lest the girl should die — should fade away, and no one realize the fact until it was too late to save her. It was only ten days since Valerie's evil presence had overshadowed the house — only ten days, but it seemed like an age. * Beatrice looks very ill,' said Lady Penrith to her husband one morning ; * let us get away as soon as we can. It is not that she has lost all the color and her strength, but for the last day or two her eyes are quite wild, and they have a dazed expression in them that frightens me.' * I am using all the speed possible,' said Lord Penrith. But something happened that same day which showed him all his plans, arrangements, and precautions were quite in vain. He was sitting in the library, after luncheon, busily engrged in writing letters about the journey, when Beatrice came into the room. The sunlight from the window fell full upon her, and he was horrilSed at seeing how terribly ill she looked. He could hardly believe that she was the brilliant, beautiful Beatrice of two short weeks since. * I have come to sit with you, papa,' she said. * Lady Ghavasse is with mamma, aches. May I stay here 1 ' ' You look very tired, Beatrice. I would do you good.' She shuddered at the word. * I dread sleep, pnpa,' she said. ' Si ip means dreams, and dreams mean deatV He drew the couch near to the fire. ' Eest, my darling,' he said, * here is a soft pillow for your head. Close your eyes, they look quite tired and strained, dear. Kave you been crying, Beatrice ? ' ' No, papa, my head aches, it has a queer burning pain. and they are talking ; my head should think sleep :lll A LAST REQUEST. 345 sleep Do not let me interrupt you j I felt nervous, and I wanted to be near you.' And suddenly, it seemed to him, she was fast asleep. She looked like a beautiful statue, there was no color about her, except the gold of her hair, the dark pencilled brows, and her sweet sensitive lips. How white and worn she was ; her hands were quite transparent ; the lovely dimples he could no longer see, the face was worn and thin. < Good Heavens ! ' he cried to himself, * the child is dying before our very eyes, and we have not seen it.' He watched her in silence. If the man who had taken that young heart had been there in that moment, it would have gone strangely with him. Lord Penrith was a strong man, by no means given to sen- timent or emotion, but his eyes filled with tears as he watched the silent figure ; he had not realized till then how desperately ill and changed she was. She was muttering something in her sleep ; he would not listen, but he heard the words. • My love, my love ! * and then, to his infinite distress, she was awake, and clinging to him with bitter cries. * I fell asleep, papa. Oh, do not let me sleep again ? I always see him in my dreams ; he comes to me and tells me it is all a mistake — that I must wake up and talk to him. Then, when I wake I remember.* * My darling Beatrice ! ' cried Lord Penrith, * what can I do for y(tu r * Kill me ! ' she said. * There was a father in history who slew his daughter — slay me 1 ' She bared her white throat before him. ' Kill me ! ' she cried. ' The only kindness left for me is death. A knife here will not hurt me as much as the sword in my heart does, papa. I knew I could not live without him.' The words came slowly, the last one dit . away, and she fell on her face with a cry that he never forgot. That was how her illness began and the end of it, for a long time, no one could foresee. It was not fever, although her mind wandered, and her lips never ceased the low muttt ^ of unintelligible words. The doctors who came round her ,.. 1 .J .1 U ;11_»~n w^n v^n.v^n Kilt- fVtOtr CIOUII1U/4 t.l\ t H 1 M If aVtQ COUIU give llCi liillC3i3 11'/ llOtllf, 'j-t-tv •^■if-j -T- - — - - ^ would never recover. Agatha seldom left her— the duties of i . I M:l , {| S46 THE earl's atonement. ii the school-room were placed in other hands. Agabha found that the most painful part of the watching was this, that whenever the hapless girl fell asleep she had the self-same dream ; it was that her lover came to her, told her it was a mistake, that there was no truth in those foolish stories, and that she must wake up and talk to him — always the same dream, The doctors could do nothing, and rumor said the beautiful Beatrice Penrith must die. Then paragraphs filled the papers, and the county people told each other how sad it was that so brilliant a marriage must be postponed. Many a wise old dowager repeated to herself the proverb, * A marriage delayed is a marriage marred,' but no one seemed to think it strange that Lord Kelso did not go to the castle. Beatrice had read the opinions of the doctors in their faces. ' I am to die,' she said to Agatha. * I am so glad, so thank- ful I I shall rest there without these cruel dreams. Tell him, my earl, if you see him, that if he comes to my grave and calls my name, I shall hear him. Do you think they would let me see him before I die ? ' But Agatha could not answer for her fast-falling tears. That same evening Lord Penrith went to see his daughter, and with one thin, pale hand, she drew his face down to hers. * Papa, I want to ask you a favor — the last I shall ever ask you in this world. Will you grant it ? ' ' I will, my darling, if I can,' he replied.' ' You can, dear, if you will,' she said. * I am going to die. No one says so ; but I read it on the face of every one who comes near me. Let me see him before I die, will you 1 ' • My darling ! * he cried, * can you ask me no other favor than that 1 ' ' No,' she said. ' You must grant it. If you do not, I shall not rest in my grave. I must see him. It is not as you think,* she added. ' I do not know how long I have been lying here, but my illness has changed me. It is not that human love now. I will tell you why I want to see him. He did love me — ah, do not shake your head, papa, — he did love me, and I think if I could see him and talk to him, I could make him a better man. Are you willing, papa '? ' ♦ Oh, child, it tears my heart ! ' he cried. 'I TOUCH THE HANDS OF MEN OF HONOR' 347 ' But you will say «' yes?" You need not see him and I will not keep him long. If you say " yes," papa, I shall sleep '"nfs^id'J^^^^^^^ following Lord Kelso received a telegram asking him to go to Penrith Castle at once. ■1 CHAPTER LXXI. ' I TOUCIiTHE HANDS OF MEN OF HONOR.' HERE was nothing thought about on that day but the coming of the earl. Lord and Lady Penrith had op- vr^ posed It at first, but now they believed her to be dying and as this was the last prayer she would ever make to them, '%?u win not let me see him, Hildebrand 1 ' said Lady Pen- rith to her husband ; * I could not bear it. « There will be no need,' he replied, 'I must see him myself, but you need not be tortured by the sight of him. There was one other person to whom the coming of the earl mean much, and that was Agatha. She had J.^fi^^^^ greatly ; she found that in her heart great love for him lived still She knew it by the infinite pity that was there-pity for his sor- row-and greater pity of all, for h s soul. A longing to see him to console him, to try to lead him to a higher and nobler S'came over her, as comes to all good women over the men thev love. Yet it could not be-she could not see him. Lady Penrith had gone to the school-room on the morning of the earl's expected visit. Beatrice was exceedingly ill, and l"st Sy prevailed over he. She told Agatha that Lord Kelso was coming, and that she dreaded the day. « I do not wish the children to see him. Miss Brooke, she continued, ' they were so much attached to him, and he was so S "f .\:.r.. Vnn will keep them in the school-room, and XVtfSJ. vri v.. - not let them know anything about it. Ijjj 348 THE earl's atonement. n * I will do anything and everything your ladyship wishes or desires,' said Agatha. If she could have done so, she would have borne all the trouble and sorrow for each one. * The fair loving child ! ' cried Lady Penrith. ' Oh, Miss Brooke, why should tliis stersy, strange, horrible fate have over- taken her 1 Wb;:,t, a 'oving jicart ;8e iiim. She Lof, like a broken lily, no pain on her face, but a:ixio'a8 wailing ;, her face quivers at every sound, yet ahe kno'vnhe cannot come until noon. It is a thou- sand times worse than standing by to see her die. I feel all iiei pMia ; it seems to pass through my heart as well as hers. Ah, me ! what ruin, i/hat havoc one man can make.' Wh . ku'V/ thut better than the girl whose heart had been crushed i * I wish,' crind Lady Pcunth, in desperation, * it had never happened ; and I wish that horrible, malicious Frenchwoman had staid at home. It was all malice, all spite. I am sure he loved my daughter, and he would have made her a good, true husband.' * That I honestly believe,' said Agatha, and Lady Penrith was pleased with her fervor. ' I shall go to uiy room,' she returned, * and I shall remain there until he is g^^ne.' * Lady Penrith,' asked Agatha, * do you think there is no hope for Beatrice i ' * I am afraid not, and I do not think those who love her best could wish her to live. Her life without him would be a living death.* 'Like my own,' said Agatha to herself, * like my own.' Then Lady Penrith went away, and the school room doors were shut. He who had been life of her life, her lover, the lover of her heart, was coming, for the last time, and she should neither see nor hear him ; it was bitterly hard. The children were told their sister was very ill, and that the house must be kept very silent ; they were not to go down to the dining room, as usual, but to take luncheon with Miss Brooke in the school-room ; childreu are always pleased with novelties, and this was one to them. *I TOUCH THE HANDS OF MEN OF HONOR.* 349 It was a beautiful day; there was morning on the sweet face of nature— the sky was blue, the sun bright and warm, the air was sweet and odorous, the birds singing, the lovely flowers holding up their heads to greet the sun ; the bright, deep river was flashing in the light, the trees were like little green realms of sunlight and song. u„^ «f All the thoughts, the interests and love of each member ot that large household were centred in the room where Beatrice lav— the same room wherein she had shown the suit ot pearls to Agatha, and had told her aR about her happyy love— lotty and bright, with large windows that overlooked the river and park ; a room just suited to a beautiful young girl ; furnished in light satin-wood, with hangings of pale blue silk and white lace • a carpet that looked like forget-me-nots covered with snow, a few choice flowers and favorite books, a few favorite engravings cuKi«yx»go , and in them one read the character and tastes of the gracefuJ girl whose heart had been so cruelly broken. There was the ever fresh and beautiful engravings of Dmt@ and Beatrice,' with the lovely upraised face ; there was bchetter s beautiful ' Christian Martyr,' the fair, virginal body floating on the dark stream ; and on the wall, where the sunbeams tell warmest and brightest, was a copy of the world-renowned pic- ture of 'Christ before Pilate,' a picture that Beatrice had always liked and admired. The light fell on the Divine Face, so full of love, so grave in its simple splendor, contrasting m its kingly dignity and Godlike meekness with the halt-tright- ened, half-arrogant figure of Pilate. ♦ What is truth 1 ' Pilate had asked, and as the once bright eyes of Beatrice Penrith lingeredon the picture she sighed the same words over again to herself. . , , , ^ ' What is truth 1 ' She had not found it in the heart of man ; she had not found it in love; she would find it in Heaven, where the light of that Divine Face would shine forever and forevermore. „, ,.„ , , She did not wish to live ; the spring of her life was broken ; earth had lost all its charm ; neither love of parents nor friends could suffice for her,' since she had tasted the sweetest and brightest of earthly loves. She had looked into the Jong stretch of years that people call lite— into the future -anu siie saw in it nothing but the chill of desolation and despair. Rather death 350 THE earl's atonement. — rather a green grave under the old trees, where he would come sometimes and feel sorry that his love had killed her — rather the grave for her body, and Heaven for her soul, than life with the never-ending pain of losing him. She had lain still, watching that Divine Face, with its promise of pardon, until in some measure the human love had grown weaker in her heart, until she thought more of Heaven than of earth, until she thought more of her lover's soul than his love. Day after day, week after week, she had lain there thinking. As the line of the coast fades from the eyes of the traveller sea- ward bound, the lights die and the cliffs grow dim, so it was with her — the lights of the world, the line of life, the coast of time grew dim, and before her lay the great boundless sea of eternity. Her simple, child-like faith shone out with the clear, bright beauty of a star on a dark night. She had always been what is called a good girl — had said her prayers, and had carefully refrained from anything she knew to be wrong, because she would not • make God angry.' She had always hoped to go to Heaven ; but now, as she lay with the receding tide of time beating in her ears, she thought more deeply still. She hoped to go to Heaven, but she wished also that her lover might be there. She felt sure, in her simplicity, that even in Heaven she should feel pain over him if he were not there. He must go. She dared not think of what she had read about torment for the wicked ; he must not be classed among the wicked ; she must see him, and tell him how willingly she would give her life for his if he would be sorry and try hard to go to Heaven. After all, time was short and eternity long ; better to be with hira for ever in Heaven than for a short time on earth. So she la} with her eyes fixed, first on the blue sky, then on the Divine Face on the picture, her thoughts bent on one thing — how she could persuade him to be good. Were they true, she wondered, all the things they had said of him — that he had betrayed the trust of the innocent ; had spread ruin and devastation where he should have given happiness 1 He had been so bad. her father said, that he could not speak of his crimes. Ah, well, many and many a poor sinner had knelt at those Divine feet. If he would not kneel there himself, she would ' I TOUCH THE HANDS OF MEN OF HONOR.' 351 kneel for him ; and, weU, after all. she loved him. J'^aenaibly thTiteoTherloVe had changed She- -ge^ him as her noble, handsome lover, her earl, but as ot one whom she had lost in this world, but wanted to see m Heaven. Her prayer was answer'ed at last. She had said to her father on the evening before, that she was growing weaker, and would likltolee the earl while she could talk to him; and it was then Lord Penrith telegraphed to him, and the earl came. Lord Penrith met him in the great entrance hall The earl held out his hand. Lord Penrith frowned darkly when he '^'J'uouch the hands of men of honor,' he said, « not such as yours. I will finish my reckoning with you when my daugh- ''tL' words went like a barbed arrow through the heart of the ^"^rKaven'8 sake spare me ! ' he cried. ; I have enough to bear. No one strikes a downtrodden man. Lord Penrith made no answer. When they reached the cor- ridor he pointed to the room-door. Tv,nrrlerer «My daughter lies dying there, he said. 'If a murderer would see his victim, there you will find her. Lord Kelso's face was white and haggard with emotion. * Will vou not come with me 1' he asked. < No • repUed Lord Pearith. ' I am afraid if I saw her near you I 'shouCdo you deadly mischief-I could not help it. The nurse is there— I- 20 ! I cannot control myself. Go ! He rapped gentl/at the door. It was opened by the nurse, who looked at him witu <,uiet intelligence in her eyes. * Can I see Miss Penrith now 1 he asked. And the woman looked pityingly at the dark, handsome face, from which the light and pride had gone for evermore. 'Miss Penrith is expecting you,' said the nurse. And then he heard a faint, sweet voice say : HeTaVexpected anger and reproach-he looked for accu- sation and tears, for hard words ; but no, a thousand times no ! A sweeTface, ^:^ eves full of longing, was turned to him- ^;!^!wT- ^"1^ oi nain they pierced him ; two fragile, ten- derimVoutetretched to him ^aid a gentle voice said : \ % 352 THE IARL's atonement. ' Oh, my love I my love ! Once again ! Just once again ! ' And, before he knew what he was doing, he was kneeling before Beatrice, with her head pillowed on his breast. The vices of our youth make lashes for our age. As he knelt with that innocent face and dear head on his breast, Vane, Lord Kelso, would have given his life to have un- done his crimes. :t.. — ill ti ^ CHAPTER LXXII. THE VICTIM OP A MA.N'S SINS. ) ORD KELSO tried to raise that pale, sweet face and dry the raining tears, but she clung the mure closely to him. She had forgotten all they had said about his ■wrongdoing in that hour— she remembered only how she loved him. Until he died he never forgot the words she whispered to him ; they were sacred to him — no one else heard them ; it was the girl's loving farewell to her love. Then he laid her head back upon the pillow, but she said : 'No, while you are ih me, let my Ue&d rest here. It is for the last time — oh, my dear love, for the pst time ! ' ' Yqji are very ill, my sweet Beatrice, said. ' Yes ; I am going to die. J could not have lived without you. You have been my life from the firsf omtont I saw you. Do you ren; mber it 1 ' ' Oh, Heaven, forgive me ! ' sobbed thu unhapr -aan. Oh, Beatrice, T never meant to give you one momenta jrrow. I leant to make you r ) happy, and I have killed you ! ' ' I am happy to die,' she said ; ' I could n .t live without you. I have been much happier si .ce I was ill ; before (,hat, I was mad ; all the air around me seemed like burning fire. I u' ed t go out ii ) the woods where no one could see or hear me, and cry out for you -stretch out my arms and cry to you. Ah, iBv !ve, my love i nothing ever answered me but the rustling of the bou'^hs and the leave*. I used to throw my arms round THE VICTIM OF A MA.n'R SINS. 353 . the rueeed trunks of trees. I must not tell you all ray misery ; all my madness none can know. The nights seemeu to me as long as years ; the days— oh, Vane ! I tried to keep up. * My darling 1 ' he murmured, with tears. * I tried to talk and laugh, to make mamma happy, and then CO to my room and pray I leaven to let me die. Oh, Vane ! the sharp anguish, the bitter misery, the pain in my heart was so great ; and now that is all over— I have but to die. « My darling ! ' he murmured ag lin. ' Yes, your darling— al- ays yours. Oh, Vane ! I was so thank- ful when they said that 1 must, die— when this peace and quiet and rest came to me and I had no longer to ke-p up appear- ances ; when I could he and mh my heart away. Is it true, dear love, are all the terrible tales they tell of you true 1 He would have given his life to have answered ' no, to have bidden that loving, innocent child look up and believe him, to have kissed the sweet face .ind tell her it was a sla xder and * Who says wrong-doing is not punished, even in this world 1 Lord Kelso knew. , , ♦ Mv darling, it is all true,' he replied, with bowed head and trembling lips. ' I humble myse' before Heaven and betoro you • it 18 all true ; but let me idd this-m those, the wicked days' of my youth and folly, I did not know you. ♦ Poor Vane I ' she said, gently. ' T am sorry it is all true She laid one hand gently round his neck, until his dark, troubled face touched hers. • I am sorry,' she repeated, most of all for your sake. I would sooner die now and be with you forever in Heaven. I ^hall be with you, shall I not 1 No one else 'as such a claim as mine. I shall have died for you. He remembered ano her fate fair as an angel s, and he thought of the white lily he had beaten to the ground. But no one naa died for him, and he could safely say, « No, no one had such a claim.' ^tLTt Im more content,' she replied. ' I would sooner lose my hold you hare and have you for ever hereafter. He could OF . ry out that she was his darling, and that he would give iiio iif'e ror ners. i.«ij . «,/» ' I wish,' she said, dreamil) , ' that no one had ever told , we should have been happy. I need never have known it. You 354 THE earl's atonement. would have been kind to me, and I am sure you are good now. I sent for you when they said I must die, because I wanted to see yon. I am dying because my heart is broken ; not crushed and aching, but broken, and I know, who know you so well, how you will grieve after me. I know you will ; whatever you may have done, you have always loved me. You will never show it to the world, but you will suffer. I want to make my memory pleasing to you, and full f hope. I want you, oh, my darling, to pledge yourself to me again, and to promise you will come to me in Heaven. People say they do not know what Heaven is like; but I know how good God is, and He will let us be together if you will try to come. Will you 1 ' He could not speak, he could only moan out his passionate jspair. I Then, instead of thinking of me as a poor, pale-faced girl — dying — you will think of me as a radiant Beatrice — like that,' she added, pointing to the picture ; ' always watching, and wait- ing, and praying for you. Forget all about my illness and death. Go from the happy .ioatrice, whom you left so short a a tima since, to the happy Beatrice waiting for you — waiting for you where the gates stand ajar, I want to speak to you, Vane ; it is the last time — the very last time. Closer, dear, let me feel your face. They told me you had been a wicked man, and you say it is true,' she continued, one little hand caressing the troubled face. * My darling, do you know that a wicked man cannot go to Heaven 1 Heaven hates all wickedness and sin. I want you to come to Heaven — waiting for you there, time will cease to be. But you must be good. Oh, my beauti- ful love, whom I have lost on earth, will you try, will you be good, will you come to me 1 ' ' I will try,' he said, gently. * It will not be difficult, Vane/ she said. * First and fore- most, you must be sorry for all these faults and sins of yours.' ' Heaven knows, my dear, I am sorry for them,' he replied, ' with all my heart' Her pale face brightened. ' Are you really sorry ? I am so glad.' * I do not want to make excuses for myself,' he replied, ' but no one ever taught me to be good ) I was spoiled from the time I lay in my cradle.' THE VICTIM OTT A MAN'S SINS. 355 but « Poor Vane 1 ' she said, with beautiful comrr..«^ion and ten- derness. « Men do not know .these Unngs, Iv. ^ -r^en^^Jj^^ will tell you quite honestly, Beatrice, r. v.ud, I • I will tell you qmie noueauijf, A^o»«i.v-, . highest law I have followed has been always ..-/ own pleasure. 'Poor Vane ! ' she repeated, with infinite gentleness. « And ' he cried, ' I am a miserable sinner-a most miserable sinnir But I will do better, and I will live so that I may come *" sCffiir face on his, and there was infinite relief in the '%'t^rrarl ! my earl ! ' she said-' my beautiful love ! the only loCi have ever had. Come to me, my darling, in ano- ?her world-I who have lost you in this. Oh, Vane, my love ! ought 10 have said all these things to you 1 They were al so anerv with you, and perhaps-I cannot tell-perhaps I should not have kis'sed and caressed you. Should I have reproached you 1 But how could I, when I loved you so welH « Mv darling, you have been a very angel of pity and mercy to me/ he cried-' you have done for me what no one else could 'TnuUerlble love shone in the sweet f-e she raised to his «You are going to be good, just as I wish you. she said , .you will say%ur prayers, just as little children do, and you ' willbegoodtothepoor, and Vane— Vane « What mv darling 1 ' he whispered. . ' Paoa BW you have broken the heart of more than one girl ; you ^11 reXmber me. how I have suffered, if ever the temp- '^'J-I^orrjntinuert tSffl in thep;..ure-, see ho thet^nlikht touches it ; the face is - S'"«- »» "^i^ttaf J « of pity and mercy ; that is the same face that will shine on as "■aeTheard impatient footsteps in the corridor outside, and *^Si^ pafaThT'toks you have been long enough with me. Oh. Vane* thi^ is all the sorrow death held, bidding you "nassion of tears that he could not repress, he flung him- self again on his knees ; he had ru«eu at ^n' «^""^ "' :"^'' — steps, and had unclasped her tender arms from his neck. 'Will you forgive me, Beatrice ) he said. 356 THE earl's atonement. T *J^''. ^'^^ ^" "^ ^^*^*- ^ wi" te" you something Vane nave loved you, loved you unhappily and die for vou than have been happy even with any one else. Bend your fLe dow" cooTbv 1 T ^'' T "' 't ^'' '^' ^''' ''^'- Ohf beautiful fal" could d^i Jr^ ^ T^ y^" ^'^"^^ ^'' °^«' *°d I wish that I could die with your lips on mine.' innocenrfins'Z^h^r,.^''- ^"'' "^^ ^' *«"«^«^ '^^ «^ee^ innocent iips that had known no other kiss He cau^hf thl faint breath, the feeble sigh; at first he thought she waf dead The nurse came hastily forward, and he went away. «..! ^Y- "**•" ^^ ^"^"^^^ ^^^®« foolish enough to think that looKed into the heart of that unhappy man. Lord Penrith was waiting in the corridor. I will see you safely from the house,' he said. • No ! ' he cried, « and I never will ! The world is wide • you might surely have found some one less dear less predous' terribirs'Sr;?n!?^^i"\''f '"^''•'/ ^''^^ ' ^»« °^^^«« had been hrwi ' ^ I ^t ^*^ / ^"^^^ ^°^« *han words could tell ; inlleZirr''' *!? ^t -^^ ^'' ' ^^« ^'^^ ™ ^«hing with almost intolerable anguish • his eyes were blinded with tears. neeJ^^'t^'^'f^rm:.'^''^""' ^^^^^ ^« ^^^ -achman ; 'you woodVaU ntlT" '^^' ^^"f'''^ ^^ *^« grounds .nd the K«J^! r"i ^^^'T ^^^ ^'•^'^•^ ^ight of marble steps ; he remem- L remembeTed^\'"^'Kf*'°i ''^^^ '' welcome hL' to PenS; ne renaembered the light in her eves, the roses in her hair and now she lay stricken unto death, 111 for him She was 'he iadTve ZT f ""T?.' ?^ ^^^"ghtof all the sacrres h K?lrf! T^. ^^-^ He thought of Abraham's son. his bosom '^Zir II '"" ''"'"^ "^ "*o"ght of Jephtha's daughter; but surely there was never sacrifice like unto this. ^ ' THE VICTIM OF A MAN S SINS. 357 The brow of Cain was branded because his hand was wet with his brother's blood. How many lost souls weighed on his mind 1 How should he have been handled if justice had been done to him 1 The sun had set, no light lingered lovingly on flower or tree ; there was a chill in the night air, a wail in the wind that made his blood run cold. He wandered through the grounds. He was a strong man, but he felt that if he could not weep out some of the bitter anguish that filled his heart, he should die. ' V' li CHAPTER LXXni. ' ANGEL OF MY LIFE, COME BACK TO ME ! ' NYWHERE, out of the sight of the house where she lay whom his love had brought to this terribla point ; he felt as though at one bound he could have fled from there to the uttermost end of the earth, yet he could not leave the spot ; he must watch the light from her windows — he must see if it disappeared, and if so he should know what had hap- pened. The handsome earl, whom all women had loved — the rich earl, whom all men had envied — was the most miserable man living on earth. Memory whipped him with scorpion whips. There was another face fairer than even that of Beatrice Penrith, the face of a woman, fair as an angel, pure and innocent as a child ; to his excited fancy the two were almost one. This fairer face had long vanished from him ; it slept, he firmly believed, under the waters of Lake Lucerne. If he had married Agatha Brooke this tragedy would never have happened, and his thoughts went with a bitter curse to Valerie d'Envers who had worked him this deadly ill. If he had married Agatha ! How small, an4 paltry, and trifling all the reasons Heemed to be iiial h« had once thought all sufficieut 1 For those who had flirted with him — who had f!" 358 THE earl's atonement. met him half-way m this terrible game of flirtation, he felt no remorse no pity ; but the very life's blood of those twn inno- cent girls was on his hands. How like they were in simplicity. hn^lyfr''^ • ^ t'^'^' ^^ '?"^-'^^« *'*i^h -'-1^°^ earnestly they both believed m being good and seeking for Heaven i How earnestly they both believed in what he 'had once thought to be trifles, but which he found now were the most solemn things m life. There came back to his mind the old Itlt Y^ ''''^'r' '^'^y '''''* '^' old-fashioned porch! the sta ned glass window in the east-where the fair form of the Christian virgin Agatha shone, with the halo of gold around it- with the wind that wailed through the trees J he could hear the grand chant of the fair Agatha; he could hear the sweet hhn J;h'' ' ^ '^"^^ ''^^^^ '^^^-^^^ f««« t^at had looked a DeTillh m '''°^'' l^r Y. '^'^ ^^^'^ ^^^ °^«r« t-han one sin Wh«f ' ""^Ju^^ f ^^' • ^""^ ^^ ^i^e and miserable 1 ^,f ^?«^«^ could he make to the Great Judge, when the souk-thehves-of those two innocentgirls had toi'alcounted And as, unable to bear the weight of his miserv unable to endure the sting of conscience, he flung himS Sown on 1^' knees the prayer of the publican rose to his lips : Vh, Orod ! be merciful to me a sinner.' rhe handsome earl, whose eyes had allured so many hearts St'/'' ""'.f ^y i^'^^ ^^««« ™b«« "<^ «^an had coJnt^d-1 med out m utter, abject sorrow for the wrong he had done He knelt there in the midst of the dead leaves and the dr^ grass, and he cried aloud for pity and for comfort. ^ A^^fl. K^f r'wV^^*^ '"P,"^*"^ ^^"^ °^ ^*« lif«' ^^at he loved ft w ?i^^v.* the greai love of his heart and life had gone lVk« tvi/^'^'^l,' ^t Yu ^^^ ^^^^"«« because she w.s so much like the girl who had believed herself to be his wife. That was rikeZstr:' ^'^ Z' ""l^^ ^^^ ^^«"^' ^^^ '^ was true that Ih likeness he saw in the character of Beatrice to that of Agatha was the one grea reason why he had been so attracted by her. her I Ah? ifT ^^^^/^*^\^«»-' as it had slain Agatha before his hef;.fc lit '"""m ''' ^u' '-^^" ^''^ ^'''^ ^^^^^^^ love of laHnn In T u f "^^ '^^ ^^^ ' ^""^ ^^^^ ^^e pain, the deso- he wepV ai^^udr*" ^'"" °" ^''''*' '""*' """^ ^"^^ "'^ "'*'^'^^» *"^ 'ANGEL OF MY LIFE COME BACK TO ME!' 359 He knelt among the dead leaves, the dry grass and wept aloud. There are tears and tears, but surely some of them form jewels in Heaven. He heard a rustling among the dead leaves, a sound as if something brushing the long grass ; he knew that something was advancing slowly towards him ; he could not at first check his sobs or his tears ; but he knew that the figure had stopped just before him, and he heard a faint, low cry of fear and dismay. There was something familiar in the cry — something familiar in the unseen presence. He raised his face ; at first he saw a long blue dress and a halo of golden hair, then a pale, sweet face seemed to grow out of the shadows— a sweet pale face, with a scared, frightened expression, blue eyes into which sud- den fear leaped — a sweet red mouth parted as though with surprise, and the faint sound died on the lips. For the first few minutes he was paralysed with fear, then he stretched out his hands to her. * Agatha ! ' he cried. * Great Heaven ! Can it be you 1 ' No other face on earth was so sweet — np voice so tender — no heart so true — no love so great — no pity so nearly Divine ! * Agatha ! ' he repeated. * Agatha ! ' She drew nearer to him, and it seemed to him that she did not touch the ground, but floated to him over the dry grass— or — and he could have cried aloud at the thought — was this the Agatha from the stained-glass window 1 — the Christian virgin who would rather die than offend God 1— come to re- proach him ] A shudder of cold and fear came over him. * It is I, Vane, be not afraid,' she said. ' Agatha ! ' he repeated. * Ah, Heaven send that this be no fancy, Agatha 1 ' She drew nearer, until he clasped the folds of the blue dress in his hands. ' How shall I know that it is really you 1 ' he cried. ' I am mad with grief and shame. Have you risen from the dead 1 ' * I am living and well,' she replied. * I am no spirit. Touch my hands; they are warm with life — not cold in death.' He touched them while the tears fell from his eyes and his lips quivered. ' Ah, they are warm and living enough. Kind, sweet hands i| 360 THE earl's atonement. thoy were— gentle, loving hands that ministered to me. Oh Agatha, how shall I look at you ? What shall I say to you.' ' Did you mean to do me that cruel wrong 1 ' she asked, gently. CHAPTER LXXIV. THE earl's atonement. Ijj WILL not win your pardon, even by a lie,' he an- Ir swered. * Yes, at first I did mean it. You were only a simple country girl ; but more beautiful than I had ever seen, and I thought— ah, well ! I dare not tell you what I thought ; but I loved you. At first only a mild, sweet, mad fancy. I had many such before, but I believed that it was sweeter, deeper, an^ more lasting. I confess all my shame and sorrow to you, though your eyes smite me with pain. I naeant to take you away with me ; but just then, I did not thmk to make you ray wife. 1 deceived you. Yet. except yourself, I think there was no other girl in the world who would have believed in that marriage. You did, A^^atha. I know it.' ® * I did,' she said. ' I believed in it. Now I cannot think how I was so mad or so blind ; but it was real to me.' • I knew it. And then, Agatha, when we had been away only a few days, I found that I really loved you ; I found that my heart, and soul, and life were engrossed in you, and I would have given the whole world to have undone what I had done. I swear to you that I loved you so well I would have given my life to have undone the wrong ; and I swuar to you that I lived in an agony of fear that you should ever know what I had done. I staid so long in Switzerland, always hoping that I could invent some excuse for going throu'^h a legal form of marriage with you. My life is all stained with sin— I do not deny that ; but I repeat that I longed to make '"■; "'/ ""'^' ^""''^ •^"" ''"'^ ^"^ ^"^>' wuiuaii whom 1 have truly loved or wished to marry. But for that vil- woman's THE EARLS ATONEMENT. 361 deed — that accursed woman who thrust herself between us, you would have been my wife, and this horror would never have happened. But tell me, Agatha, what brings you here I Oh, my lost darling, my lost love 1 stay here with me awhile, and tell me — what brings you here 1 ' She sat down on the fallen trunk of a tree, with the dead leaves rustling around her, and he knelt at her feet while she told him all that had happened to her since the sunlit morn- ing when he had left her, as they both thought, for a few short hours — the whole long history ; of the kindness of the noble French lady, the tragedy of the unhappy Phillis Norman, of the way in which fate or Providence had brought her to Pen- rith Castle. She spared neither him nor herself the details, and she lingered long over the story of Beatrice. Her voice was very low and gentle, but to him it was ai clear and terrible as the voice of an accusing angel. ' Of all the cruel deeds of your life. Vane,* she said, ' and some of them have been very cruel — this is the worst. That innocent, loving girl — what harm had she done ? ' ' None. I loved her because she was so like you. In her face there was a look of innocent wonder and sweet girlish surprise, just such a look as you wear, and it was for that I loved her. Then I believed you to be dead, and I mourned for you as few men mourn even for the wives they love. I meant to make her happy, Agatha. Be just to me ; it is the punishment of my sin, no doubt, but it was not my fault that my enemy followed me and wreaked her wicked vengeance oh that innocent head. If she dies, it will be Valerie who has slain her, not I. I would have been good, and kind, and true to her. Oh, Agatha, angel of my life, come back to me ! You wake into life all that was best in me ; come back to me, and teach me the way to Heaven. Heaven knows that if any one had taught me or trained me when I was young, I should have been a different man. Will you forgive me, Agatha dar- ling 1 I humble myself before you — I kneel before you, and ask your pardon as the highest boon that Heaven can grant me.' ' You did me a cruel wrong, Vane.' * 1 did ] but you yourself have taught me the greater the siii iiic greater the repcutiiucc- -the greater neeu ior mercy. Forgive me, Agatha, even as you ask forgiveness yourself w 362 THE earl's atonement. And for all answer she laid her hands once more in his. They were silent for some time, and then the earl, in a low noice, said : ' You will let me atone for you, Agatha, for the wrong I did jou — you will be my wife?' * I have not thought of that,' she replied, simply. 'Injustice to yourself and to me,' he said. * Oh, my darling, I deceived you once, trust me now. I will spend the remain- der of my life in trying to atone to you for the wrong.' ' I cannot say. Yes, I own that it is rightful restitution — nothing more. You are bound to give me back the fair name of which you robbed me. I admit that, but the questiom must itand. While Beatrice lives I must remain with her; if she dies, I do not think there will be much hope left for either of us : if she lives, I will think and decide.' * Will she live, do you think t ' he asked. ' * I have never thought her in such danger as others have done. And now. Vane,' she continued, * we must part. I shall stay at Penrith Castle. In six months' time, if you wish, you «an write to me here, and I will give you my decision. * Heaven grant that it may be " yes," ' he cried. 'Heaven grant that it may be for the best,' she added. * Agatha,' he asked, * will you write and tell me how Beatrice is 1 It will ease my heart and mind so much.' * I will write to you for that purpose,' she replied, ' but not for any other ; ' and he thanked her. Beatrice Penrith did not die. The visit, which every one thought was the last of her life, proved to be the turning point of her illness. The earl had left her with, as he thought, the last breath almost on her lips. When she came to herself again, it was with a sense of calm and rest to which she had long been » stranger. It very often happens that a strong love dies under the influence of a long illness ; such was the case with her. That she loved him well enough to die for him, was true ; she had expended what she thought to be her last breath and her last degree of strength in trying to do him good. He had taken the deadliest sting of pain from her heart, and he had promised all she asked. For the first time for many long months her dec}). J 1 _1 Sleep. neaii} was ax rest, ana sne leu luio u When she awoke she was better, and a flutter of hope went THE EARLS ATONEMENT. 363 through the whole household. The doctors said there was a chance. * Instead of killing her/ said Lord Penrith to his wife, ' I believe the visit of that man has done her good.' They took such care of this new germ of life that she re- covered — never to be the same bright, happy girl again, never to know unclouded happiness, but to save the man whom she loved so much from the deepest pain life could hold for him. It was a long, lingering illness, but it killed the passionate love, as pain and weariness of life often do. While it lasted Agatha was a most loving and constant nurse ; she spent every spare moment with Beatrice — she soothed, calmed and coun- selled her ; to the end of her life Beatrice Penrith remembered the lessons she learned during that time of* convalescence. When she came back to life and health she was no longer a bright, careless girl — she was a thoughtful woman, with a heari full of pity for all who have to suffer. When she was able to travel she went with her parents to Italy ; she was always like one given back from death ; she had been so sure of dying ; and every one else had been so sure ; she had never thought it possible she could recover ; she had been convinced that her heart was broken, but the young can suffer much, and it takes much to kill. She was never quite the same ; she had lost the bright spirits and light heart — she had lost the sunshine from her eyes and from her laugh ; but some of the noblest souls have passed through the furnace of pain. When the six months had ended the earl wrote, and Agatha answered "Yes." It was a duty he owed her, she said, and she would accept the only reparation he could make her. " Not yet," she told him. She should wait until the return of the Penriths before she made any change in her life. She had been left in charge of the children, and she must fulfil her trust. He grew jealous and fearful. It seemed to him that she thought more of reparation than of love. She spoke and wrote only of the atonement he owed to her, and which he was bound to make ; but in those days she said nothing to him of love. To Agatha the bare idea of having to tell her story to Penrith was most painful, but she had to do it. She waited T - J_ ■iiuy 334 THE EARLS ATONtME^T. nntil that lady returned with her husband and Beatrice — Bea- trice well, but not strong. Lady Penrith's wonder and pain were great. 'Agatha left her to tell as much of the story as she liked to Beatrice, but Lady Penrith said she should not mention it yet, and she could only hope that for some years, at least, they would not meet. I"^ . hs •ome days before Lady Penrith could forget her surprise. There was great dismay at the castle when it was known that Miss Brooke was leaving, she was so beloved by the whole household ; but she noticed one thing, that Lord Penrith never smiled upon her after he knew her story. They were married in London, very quietly, and without any display j only two witnesses were present, distant relatives of the earl's, and no mention was made of the marriage, except in one or two papers. If ever man made ample reparation, it was Vane, Lord Kelso. The first thing he did was to take his beautiful wife home to Whitecroft. There are things that will hardly bear the telling, this was one -what Lady Kelso felt when she saw the old church again — when she looked once more on the grand eastern window her mother had loved — when she saw the fair face of the sai^t shining on her — when she heard once more the grand roll of the organ — when she looked once more at the grave where her young mother slept, and the pretty village that had been her home. It was a sight to see the people clinging and weeping around her, so pleased once more to see the kindly beautiful face that had been to them as the face of an angel. No words could tell the joy of old Joan, To think that her beautiful mistress was a countess, * higher than my Lady Ruthven ! * * You told us you were married,' she said ; but, oh. Miss Agatha, you should have told us to whom ! We have wearied sore after you.* David Brooke, absent as ever, did not express much sur- prise. * I thought you would come back some day, my dear,* he said. ' I knew that your mother's daughter could not go fai wrong ; but I am astonished that you have married an earl ! ' T i\r-A i.u:^. On Joan he settled an annuity that made her in the eyes of the village a rich woman. He made friends with the doctor. ~ir' THE earl's atonement. 365 It sur- ' Will you forgive me/ he said, * for running away with your daughter ? I loved her so much— and there were circumstances I cannot explain. We have been selfish to remain away so long ; but you see I have brought her safely back.' The doctor was made happy for life. He would not leave Whitecroft, because his wife was buried there, but he accepted the handsome income that the earl settled upon him, which enabled him to give up his profession and devote himself to the studies he loved. He would not leave his house, although the earl urged him to do so. Agatha was rather pleased ; she loved the little parlor, and she loved the garden gate where Joan had seen her talking to Sir Vane. Perhaps the most surprised was Lady Anne Ruthven. Lord Kelso took his wife to see her, and her surprise was almost lu- dicrous. She was honestly pleased. It had turned out so much better than she had ever dared to hope. Agatha, Countess of Kelso, had no truer friends than Doctor Ruthven and his wife, Lady Anne. What wonders the earl did in that village— every man, woman and child was the better for his coming into it. He built model cottages at a low rental ; he built new schools, a pretty little hospital, a library, and everything was called after his wife. The Agatha alms-houses are considered the best in England. Then he took his wife to see Madam de Tiernay, who was delighted to welcome her. The count raved for a few days in the most romantic fashion, then declared that Lord Kelso was the finest man he had ever met, and swore eternal friendship with him. In Paris they heard that Mrs. Norman was dead ; and that fate had avenged her, for her husband had married again, His second wife was a beautiful young girl, one of the greatest flirts in Paris, who delighted in driving him to the verge of madness by jealousy — then laughing in his face. * The mills of God grind slowly, Though they grind exceeding small.' There also they heard of the brilliant marriage of Maderaoi sella d'Envers to tho Due d'Aibe. True, he was past eighty ; he had lost all his hair and all his teeth, he was crippled and 36« THE EARLS ATONEMENT. decrepit; but he was one of 'le wialthiesf peers in France, and madly in love with Valerie's beautiful face. * That explains why she did not interrupt ou weddi'^^, Agatha,' said the earl. • Every moment I expected to see her.' But Agi* ,ha looking into his dark, handsome fr % so full of love, only inuin irs a few words of pity — nothing more. She knows that Madame la Duchess d*Alb