
 
 
 <- t 
 
 BWlt, OF CALIF. LIBRARY, LOS ANGELE3
 
 BROKEN CHORDS 
 
 CROSSED BY THE 
 
 ECHO OF A FALSE NOTE 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. GEORGE McCLELLAN 
 
 (HARFORD FLEMMING) 
 AUTHOR OF "CUPID AND THE SPHINX," "A CARPET KNIGHT," ETC. 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
 1912
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 BY 
 HARRIET HARE MCCLELLAN. 
 
 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, PHILADELPHIA.
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER, 
 
 TO WHOSE SYMPATHY AND ENCOURAGEMENT I OWE IT* 
 
 COMPLETION, I DEDICATE THIS 
 
 STORY. 
 
 2131435
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LEDYARD looked at Dundaff, and Dundaff looked at 
 Ledyard. Ledyard was in the pulpit delivering his 
 initiatory sermon, and Dundaff was seated before him 
 listening to it with an aspect of stolid disapproval. 
 
 Somehow Dundaff had formed an ideal for its new 
 pastor, half unconsciously, as most ideals are formed, 
 and although the conception which possessed it was 
 neither romantic nor very consistent, the fact was no 
 less indisputable that Ledyard did not fill the ideal. 
 That the young people had expected him to be a much 
 taller man than he was, and to intone the services as his 
 predecessor, Mr. Spaulding, had been given to do, was 
 quite natural, but here his shortcomings only began. 
 
 The truth is that Dundaff had passed through two 
 eras so contradictory and so agitating in their complete 
 negation of each other, as could hardly be expected to 
 result in anything but confusion of ideals. Its first 
 pastor had been low-church to a point where humility 
 of doctrine had to be sustained by a considerable degree 
 of personal importance, and on his decease had been 
 succeeded by a gaunt, hollow-cheeked divine, addicted 
 to the highest of black waistcoats and the most rapt of 
 church attitudes, whose tenets were as lofty as his tastes 
 were aesthetic. He, too, had passed away from Dundaff, 
 not direct to heaven, but en route to the healing breezes 
 of Florida, casting appealing glances behind him in 
 behalf of a chronic cough, not without leaving traces 
 of his influence ; for after the first shock caused by his 
 
 3
 
 4 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 decorative tastes and love of extra services, there had 
 been a gradual conversion, especially of the younger and 
 feminine portion of the congregation, from psalm-singing 
 to embroidery, from Mr. Honslow to Mr. Spaulding. 
 
 To the credit of conservatism in Dundaff, however, it 
 should be recorded that by the older members of the 
 congregation Mr. Honslow, to whose sanctimonious 
 memory the whole village had been devoted before Mr. 
 Spaulding came among them, was still remembered, and 
 it was not so strange as it was unlucky for Ledyard that 
 in a successor to Mr. Spaulding they looked for anothei 
 Honslow. 
 
 It is needless to say that they looked in vain. Who 
 could perceive that the present pretender to their favor 
 displayed any of the swelling dignity of demeanor which 
 had been so prominent a characteristic of that departed 
 worthy ? Did Mr. Ledyard show signs of an impressive 
 boldness, or wear his back hair parted in the middle and 
 brushed carefully round each ear ? Not any more than 
 he wore it tonsured ? Did he look solemnly over his 
 spectacles, or indeed wear any ? Where was his double 
 chin ? Then, supposing these mere outward signs were 
 not emblematic of the inward grace from which they 
 had learned to consider them as inseparable as of it they 
 were expressive, did one not listen in vain for the good 
 old doctrine of predestination, the assurances of a special 
 providence for the comfort of the elect, with only a faint 
 gleam of hope for the repentant sinner, while the fate of 
 the unrepentant was darkly and terribly portrayed against 
 a background of hell-fire ? 
 
 Ledyard said nothing about hell-fire, nor did he dwell 
 on fast-days or festivals, nor seem to take any thrilling 
 interest in the saints, so that the young ladies of the 
 congregation were becoming more and more convinced 
 that he was not equal to Mr. Spaulding either in the least 
 degree. It should be admitted, on the other hand, that 
 the young men of the flock, who in Mr. Spaulding's day 
 had been most conspicuous by their absence from seats 
 in church, had gathered in large numbers to hear Mr.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 5 
 
 Ledyard preach, and that his personal appearance, while 
 unexpected, was not offensive to them. 
 
 Richard Ledyard was a short, squarely-built man, with 
 a clean-shaven chin, mutton-chop whiskers, and a most 
 decisive-looking mouth. He did not look like a clergy- 
 man, Dundaff asserted, and thenceforth labored under a 
 distressing doubt as to whether it would have known 
 him for one at all if it had not first seen him in his 
 priestly robes. Besides this, it discovered before his 
 sermon was half-way to an end that he took his stand 
 on the broadest of broad-church grounds. He spent 
 much time in commending the virtues of charity and 
 forbearance, courage and fairness, and threw out incident- 
 ally, as it were, a category of so many and such various 
 forms of religious conviction which the Church included 
 in her wide-spread arms that they sounded to Dundaff 
 ears absolutely unlimited. 
 
 The old church-members, vestrymen and wardens, 
 felt that a certain duty was involved in frowning upon 
 views so much too comprehensive, which yet left the 
 terrors of eternal punishment unchronicled, while the 
 younger men were absorbed in the effort to conceal the 
 curiosity which these new views excited in their breasts, 
 and took refuge in a stolid impenetrability of expression 
 which was equally depressing. 
 
 Looking from one to the other set of listeners with a 
 growing sense of discouragement in spite of an effort to 
 remember that an opening sermon is always an ordeal, 
 Ledyard chanced to notice a person seated in one of the 
 farthest pews from the pulpit, whose face wore neither 
 a look of studied indifference nor of disapproval, but 
 bore unmistakable signs of a well-controlled inclination 
 to smile at the whole scene, which stung him more than 
 all the want of response of which he had before been 
 conscious. 
 
 To be sure, the smile which he detected was not one 
 of derision ; it was rather one of sympathy ; but, while 
 there was no intentional disrespect, it was equally evi- 
 dent that he had failed to convince the wearer of that 
 
 i*
 
 6 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 smile of the truth of what he was preaching, or even of 
 its possibility. 
 
 Now, it happened that the state of mind thus uncon- 
 sciously betrayed was the most aggravating of mental 
 attitudes to him, as to many of his temperament. It is 
 so much less easy to arm one's self against scepticism 
 than against downright opposition or the time-honored 
 spirit of persecution, from conflict with which the ardent 
 faith of the believer arises with redoubled strength. 
 
 He glanced again more sternly at the person who had 
 dared to mock his earnestness, and his indignation in- 
 creased as he perceived her to be a woman of refined 
 appearance, one of the few women present, perhaps, 
 who was so far educated as to be able to weigh and 
 understand his theological explanation of the reconcile- 
 ment of extremes. Indeed, her manner of smiling was 
 as if she did understand not only that but many other 
 things. 
 
 Ledyard had been half inclined to give up the effort 
 to render himself acceptable to Dundaff, but he suddenly 
 rose to his work. What if this were an ignorant little 
 village community, full of prejudice and fearful of inno- 
 vation, was he not still speaking to a number of his 
 fellow-beings, and if he had failed to move them, must 
 not the fault be part his own? Inspired by this new 
 sense of fellowship, he drew the lines of the wide-spread 
 argument in which he was engaged to a sudden focus 
 on one simple human story, and began when this was 
 ended to further illustrate the meaning thus exemplified 
 by a number of homely comparisons that suggested 
 themselves as within the probable experience of the 
 majority of those to whom he spoke, in the choice of 
 which he was aided by the fact that he had himself been 
 reared in a country village. 
 
 Thus he left his written sermon with all its careful 
 reasoning far behind, and took to his memory and im- 
 agination, with such reference to the thoughts of others 
 as proved that he had given them some study. He 
 was resolved not to be daunted by the disheartenir g
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 7 
 
 spirit of his audience, and as he approached the end of 
 his sermon he turned the whole force of his eloquence 
 into a practical appeal to their sense of right against the 
 forms of temptation to which he conceived them to be 
 the most cpen. 
 
 He was rewarded for his pains, for although at first 
 the villagers only looked startled, then puzzled, and there 
 were some of them who still strove to be non-committal, 
 others whom he instinctively felt to be the leaders of the 
 flock began to turn more interested faces towards the 
 pulpit, until from obstinate unfriendliness the whole con- 
 gregation passed to cordial acquiescence in what the 
 preacher said, and there could be no doubt that the new 
 clergyman had made himself acceptable. 
 
 Not until the closing prayer had been offered and the 
 blessing had been given did he deign to glance in the 
 direction of the person whose strange mingling of ex- 
 pression of human kindness with hopeless scepticism 
 had proved such an incentive to his ardor, and led to the 
 display of the very real enthusiasm which lay under his 
 conventional expressions of belief, at the bottom of his 
 faith. 
 
 There was a shade of defiance in Ledyard's eyes as he 
 sought out his unknown opponent, but the face which he 
 saw shining out of the darkness of the distant pew smiled 
 no longer. Even its incredulity had given way to a 
 look of the deepest sadness. The gaze of its owner met 
 his gravely for an instant before he turned to leave the 
 pulpit, and there could be no mistaking her expression. 
 It spoke to him of regretful interest touched with pro- 
 found compassion. 
 
 The next moment the whole congregation was in 
 motion, buzzing, whispering, crowding one another in 
 the effort to say something to some one who might not 
 be seen again for a week, after the manner of country 
 congregations, but the woman whom Ledyard had 
 noticed rose quickly and passed swiftly out of church 
 without speaking to any one.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CYNTHIA ARKWRIGHT walked very fast after leaving the 
 church on the occasion of Ledyard's first sermon, having 
 her own reasons for haste, perhaps, and, taking a short 
 cut through the village, climbed a long flight of wooden 
 steps to a narrow path, which brought her to her own 
 door before the swiftest horse could have reached the 
 spot where her way crossed the circuitous course of the 
 carriage road. So bent was she in avoiding notice that 
 she did not even turn her head to observe another 
 member of the congregation who came out just after she 
 did ; but there is such a thing as seeing without looking, 
 and it may be that the movements and appearance of 
 this person were not entirely lost upon Miss Arkwright. 
 
 He was a tall man, with broad shoulders and a head 
 firmly set on a strong neck. He had been seated some 
 distance in front of her, and seemed much interested in 
 the sermon. His chest was deep and his skin and hair 
 were brown. So much as that could easily be seen as 
 he strode on to where a horse was held for him by a 
 colored servant in the shade of an oak-tree near the 
 church-yard gate. 
 
 " There goes the new owner of Fernwood. I expect 
 he ain't much of a hand at a farm," said Mr. Denney, a 
 worthy market gardener. "He sets his horse pretty 
 well for a seaman," he continued, looking at him crit- 
 ically. " You know the old saying about a sailor on 
 horseback." 
 
 " Well, I'll be bound he's a gentleman, anyway !" ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Phelps, the wife of the village tinsmith, who 
 occupied the proud position of organist. " They say his 
 wife's a beauty." 
 
 " I presume she would be thought handsome by 
 many," said Miss Platt, a dried-up-looking old main, 
 who represented the fashionable modiste of Dundaff,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 9 
 
 with an air of superior knowledge, which elicited the in- 
 quiry she desired, as to whether she had any personal 
 source of information. 
 
 " Oh, she only stopped a minute at my humble store, 
 to be sure, to see if I had a sun-hat to fit her little boy, 
 without seeming to think it at all likely she could find 
 anything to suit her ladyship there. But I reckon I don't 
 know what a beauty is," remarked Miss Platt, looking 
 so scornful of the overrated charms in question that 
 Mrs. Phelps felt ashamed of having sung their praises, and 
 hastened to change the subject. 
 
 " I never saw her myself," she asserted, eagerly ; " but 
 do tell me, Mr. Denney, what you think of the new 
 parson." 
 
 After which the conversation became so absorbingly 
 interesting that the three drew together in a confidential 
 knot, and the first object of their attention, who had 
 meanwhile ridden down the steep acclivity on which the 
 red-brick church was built, was soon forgotten. 
 
 He passed along the main street of the village at a 
 brisk trot, which made his horse's hoofs clatter as he 
 went, and was climbing another hill at the opposite side 
 of the ravine in which Dundaff nestled, looking about 
 him as he did so at the trees and sky and at a few 
 scattered houses that still lay along his way, when he 
 was tempted by a narrow bridle-path that turned off 
 from the road to Fernwood. The fancy took him to 
 try this path, following which, between tall elder-bushes 
 and a tangle of wild grape-vine with stunted oak, a sud- 
 den break in the wall of trees brought him in sight of a 
 small brown cottage surrounded by a garden carefully 
 planted with shrubs and lilac-bushes and a few ever- 
 greens, while a shallow veranda before the door was 
 covered with the dark-leaved ivy mingling with honey- 
 suckle-vine not yet in flower. 
 
 He was pleased by the unexpected view of the little 
 cottage and the picturesque seclusion of its situation. 
 There was some one at a window beside the open door 
 in the act of hanging up a bird-cage. He saw that
 
 1O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 she was a lady, and caught a partial view, as she bent 
 backward with uplifted chin, of an oval face, a firm 
 mouth, and delicate, dark-fringed eyelids. He even ob- 
 served that she wore a small straw bonnet, and that the 
 black mantilla, just slipping from her shoulders, revealed 
 the harmonious outline of neck and arms, noting care- 
 lessly the combined strength and roundness faintly seen 
 beneath a thin white muslin gown. 
 
 She formed the centre of a pretty picture, he thought, 
 in the frame of the vine-clad window, and one for the 
 refinement of which he was hardly prepared. Then, as 
 the sound of his horse's tread drew nearer and she low- 
 ered her head to look out, what was it that made him 
 start and turn deadly pale, while his eyes met hers in a 
 sort of fascinated stare ? Was it merely the unusual 
 power in the woman's face, the same force and originality 
 that had so struck Ledyard half an hour before ? It 
 would seem not, for the shock of the encounter appeared 
 equally great to her. She drew back with a conscious 
 look, changing to one of dismay, and hastily pulled down 
 the window-shade with an instinctive, although futile, 
 desire to avoid recognition. 
 
 Ended by this action, the instant in which they had 
 gazed at each other was inconceivably short. The 
 negro servant, who followed his master at a respectful 
 distance on a raw-boned pony, saw him start and draw 
 in his horse's rein with a sudden pressure, as if to avoid 
 some obstacle in the way. He even seemed on the 
 point of dismounting, but the impulse was checked, 
 and the next moment he was moving on. The servant 
 could not have told that Lieutenant Henderson had 
 seen the cottage, so steadily did he pass it by ; while 
 as the window-curtain descended, his head was thrown 
 back and his eyes were turned resolutely in the opposite 
 direction, it might have been for a last view of the foam- 
 ing river dashing through the ravine below them, at right 
 angles with the village street. Much less did the servant 
 see the lady, who had vanished before he came in sight 
 of the house; but the vision had been perfectly distinct
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. II 
 
 while it lasted, and Millard Henderson told himself that 
 he could no more have been mistaken in her than she 
 could in him. 
 
 " Papa, papa, where have you been ? You are late for 
 luncheon, and mamma is cross. May I ride to the stable 
 if Malachi will hold me on?" 
 
 The impatient little figure by which this complaint and 
 petition were breathlessly preferred was jumping up and 
 doun on the door-step as Lieutenant Henderson ap- 
 proached. He could hardly wait for his father to spring 
 from his horse and lift him into the saddle, so wild was 
 he with eagerness for the hoped-for ride. Malachi, the 
 negro servant, walked carefully beside him, leading his 
 own horse with an arm passed through the bridle, while 
 he held Master Wilfred's firmly close to the bit with 
 his right hand, and Master Wilfred himself with his left. 
 Thus the little eight-year-old horseman sat proudly and 
 safely, his short-breeched legs astraddle, and his earnest 
 blue eyes fixed, as he had been told to fix them, steadily 
 between his horse's ears. 
 
 His father stood and watched him out of sight. There 
 was a light in his face as he did so, which quite died out 
 as he turned to enter the house ; and yet it was a very 
 inviting house to enter. The wide hall, surrounded by a 
 massive wooden wainscot to match the broad staircase 
 and twisted balustrade of old carved oak, was thickly 
 carpeted and richly furnished, while the drawing-room 
 and library, which opened from the hall on either side, 
 were each appropriately hung with curtains dark and 
 light, both freshly draped, and both so disposed as to 
 give an immediate sense of luxury and comfort. 
 
 Nevertheless, the master of the house did not seem to 
 receive this impression. He glanced, indeed, towards the 
 library with a certain moody expression of regret, for this 
 was his own especial sanctum, and then tramped sullenly 
 into the opposite room. Here a bright wood fire was 
 burning, for the day was a chilly one in the early spring ; 
 and beside the fire on a lounge covered with Turkish
 
 12 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 tapestry, amid a heap of many-colored India-silk cush- 
 ions, reclined a slender, small-featured woman, with wide 
 blue eyes, fair hair, and delicate complexion. 
 
 She was still young, and would have been decidedly 
 pretty but for faintly-unpleasant lines about the corners 
 of her eyes and mouth, which gave the impression that 
 they had been used too much, and an empty look in the 
 eyes themselves, which, together with a general languor 
 of expression, led one rather to say that she had been 
 pretty, a fatal change of tense. She was exquisitely 
 dressed in a pale shade of some soft woollen fabric mixed 
 with white and much trimmed with lace, the dainty folds 
 of which fell all about her hands and lay against the 
 white skin of her tender cheek and throat. 
 
 " I am sorry you waited luncheon," said her husband, 
 striding across the room to the fire. He was not cold, 
 but a man's hearth is a point of vantage. 
 
 " Oh, it does not matter," she answered, wearily. " I 
 was a little faint, but it is of no consequence." 
 
 " I went to church," he said, hastily, " and the roads 
 were rather bad." 
 
 " Bad ! I should think they were bad !" she retorted 
 more sharply. " Look at your boots, and the carpet. 
 You do not mean that you have been all this while riding 
 home from church ?" 
 
 " No ; I found a new lane," he admitted, " and thought 
 I'd like to see where it would end." 
 
 The truth was that following the path which he had 
 adopted so unpremeditatedly he had made quite a wide 
 circuit through the neighboring country, hardly realizing 
 how time fled, and much absorbed in a train of thought 
 set unexpectedly in motion by the incident to which the 
 accidental turn had led. 
 
 Even now, as he stood on the hearth-rug, wet, muddy, 
 and late for luncheon, his eyes began to dream and his truant 
 fancy to revert to some past experience of which he had 
 not thought before for many a long month, while his brow 
 gradually assumed a puzzled expression, such as it had 
 worn on first recovering from the surprise of recognition,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 13 
 
 "What does it mean? How came she here?" he 
 was asking himself, with evident bewilderment, for the 
 twentieth time. 
 
 At last Mrs. Henderson began to lose all patience at 
 his persistent unconsciousness of her little attempts to 
 attract his attention to herself, or at least to arouse his 
 contrition for the discomfort and annoyance he had 
 caused, and said with despairing animosity, " Really, 
 Millard, I shall be obliged if you will ring for Teresa to 
 brush up that mud, and go and make yourself fit for 
 luncheon." Which accordingly he did. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 To Richard Ledyard it appeared that the village of 
 Dundaff was not attractive on first inspection. Its one 
 narrow street, ill paved and muddy, rambled crookedly 
 along until, with a sudden bend, it crossed the river 
 Osceola by a covered wooden bridge. The gray shin- 
 gled roofs of the houses on either side presented an 
 uninteresting monotony of effect, broken only by the 
 massive stone arch, supporting the railroad, which 
 spanned the street diagonally. Altogether Ledyard was 
 not impressed with its aesthetic qualities in the month 
 of March. 
 
 In June it was another matter, and Dundaff had not 
 been lacking in warm admirers. Old Miss Pinsley, 
 Cynthia's maiden aunt, was wont to think that the view 
 from the covered bridge was perfect. "Just exquisite, 
 my dear!" she would exclaim, with a little ecstatic gasp, 
 as she gazed through the narrow window in the side of 
 the bridge on a summer afternoon ; and indeed the mur- 
 muring river, leaping and foaming over its rocky bed 
 till it wound away between high wooded hills, the village
 
 14 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 of Dundaff on the one hand, while on the other a grassy 
 meadow bordered with willow-trees afforded pasture to 
 Dundaff cows, were all a pleasant sight. 
 
 " It really makes a picture," Miss Pinsley would say. 
 " But, dear aunt, there are two sides to the picture," 
 Cynthia would object, standing, indeed, on the other 
 side of the bridge, and looking through her window in 
 quite the opposite direction. 
 
 Thus, first she would see a mill-dam, not full enough 
 to be picturesque, nor low enough to escape notice, 
 next a huge stone cotton-mill, and beyond it a group of 
 other factory buildings, strong and substantial, but very 
 square and uninteresting, while not far from them num- 
 bers of small houses stood uncomfortably near together, 
 as it seemed, in which the workers of the mills lived with 
 their families. 
 
 To be sure, the everlasting hills would go sweeping 
 away grandly into the summer sky behind these centres 
 of human toil, but Cynthia, although young and im- 
 aginative in those days, had always a strong sympathy 
 for persons who were forced to struggle with the burden 
 of life, and could never enjoy the view, for the thought 
 of how much unknown, unsuspected misery those great 
 stone walls might hide. 
 
 " Think what it would be, aunt, to have the sound of 
 machinery continually in one's ears ! Think of looking 
 all day long at a spool on which something is being 
 wound as relentlessly as if it were the thread of one's 
 own life !" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I know, Cynthia, it must be very dreadful 
 indeed; but perhaps it is not quite to them what it would 
 be to you or me. Habit must make some difference, 
 don't you think, dear? and does it seem to you neces- 
 sary always to look at those gloomy buildings ?" 
 
 " Why, no, aunt ; but it does not make one think less 
 of the lives these people lead to turn one's back on 
 them." 
 
 At which Miss Pinsley would shiver a little, as though 
 struck with the chill shadow of the old wooden bridge,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1 5 
 
 after the heat of the sunlight without, and the foolish 
 gladness would die out of her worn, delicate face, and 
 she and Cynthia would pass on into the village street 
 with sadly lingering feet. 
 
 Cynthia was an odd girl, the little lady thought, and 
 there was no foreseeing how she might take things, but 
 she was very good to her old aunt. In fact, the two 
 were never so happy in those bygone times as when they 
 were together. 
 
 Cynthia, who was being educated at a convent school 
 in Baltimore, in accordance with the last wishes of her 
 mother, did not enjoy the return to her home as she 
 otherwise would have done, on account of the restraints, 
 the style, and the grandeur of her father's house in town, 
 where an endless round of society duties awaited her, 
 seasoned by her step-mother's disapproval of all that was 
 natural, if girlish, in her actions or ways, and with only 
 the occasional solace of her father's smile. 
 
 Thus she would escape from the dust and heat of the 
 city, and from the conventionality both of school and of 
 home, at the beginning of the long vacation, with the 
 sense of a captive released from prison. No wonder she 
 was glad to get back to Miss Pinsley, to the country air, 
 and to freedom, and prized the recovered right to think 
 and do as she pleased. 
 
 It may have been that she prized this right a little too 
 highly even then. At all events, she loved the sweet 
 old-fashioned garden of her great-aunt's tiny house. She 
 loved the quaint little parlor with its faint smell of faded 
 rose-leaves: even its framed sampler was a welcome 
 sight. Then there was the big chestnut-tree at the 
 corner of the lot with one arm extended just in the most 
 convenient manner to support a rustic swing, a seat in 
 which, of a summer afternoon, with a book, was fit for a 
 queen. There was the fine old Scotch retriever, to whom 
 a walk with Cynthia was a joyful diversion from his 
 daily occupation of fighting with her aunt's favorite 
 yellow cat. 
 
 But Cynthia's pleasantest memories clung about the
 
 1 6 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 weekly visits to Mrs. Pelham, of Fernwood, which they 
 were constantly urged to repeat, and yet with regard to 
 which it was a point of honor scrupulously observed by 
 Miss Pinsley to express surprise whenever the invitation 
 came. 
 
 Mrs. Pelham was the wife of one of the owners of the 
 cotton-mills, and quite the great lady of the place by 
 virtue of her social position in Baltimore, apart from 
 her husband's wealth. As far as fortune was concerned, 
 indeed, she was hardly superior, if equal, to the wife of 
 her husband's partner, Mr. Betterton ; but Mrs. Pelham 
 was something more than a local magnate, being a 
 woman of high ideals as well as a lady of cultivation 
 and taste. 
 
 She thus strove to influence her husband towards the 
 improvement of the moral and physical condition of the 
 poor about them, having a keen sense of the duties and 
 responsibilities of one class of society to another ; but, 
 while anxious for the welfare of the people, she was often 
 discouraged by the want of success of the means by 
 which she tried to promote it. 
 
 The only Episcopal church in the neighborhood was 
 several miles from the factory, and, while all the more 
 agreeably situated for the country gentry, who could 
 drive thither in their handsome carriages, was practi- 
 cally unattainable to the poor. Yet when she had 
 succeeded in persuading Mr. Pelham to build a church 
 in the village, so that the operatives in the cotton- 
 mills might have a chance to save their souls, she was 
 troubled to find the congregation chiefly composed 
 of the shopkeepers of the town. There was a percep- 
 tible absence of young people, or of the poorer of the 
 employees. 
 
 She began to fear that Mr. Honslow's sermons fright- 
 ened the people, he took such gloomy views in them, 
 and it was due to her efforts that after the death of Mr. 
 Honslow a rector of exactly opposite tenets was chosen 
 for St. Andrew's, but with little better results. The fac- 
 tory people as a body would not go to church, while the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. I/ 
 
 few stray exceptions who found their way there kept 
 apart, as if they did not dare to mix with the more well- 
 to-do families of the tradespeople, who, in their turn, 
 looked down upon them, and both sets of worshippers 
 quite ignored that the church had been built for the 
 special benefit of the workers in the mills. 
 
 Mrs. Pelham was profoundly discouraged. No wonder 
 she felt powerless, poor lady, to solve or even to compre- 
 hend the great social problem of the age, of which the 
 reluctance of these two classes to mingle was but a faint 
 sign. She was always tenderly thoughtful of Miss Pins- 
 ley, in whom might be said to be exhibited a very perfect 
 type of a third class, that of the gentlewoman ; while 
 to Cynthia she was affectionately gracious, without the 
 faintest touch of that patronage in her manner to either, 
 the display of which on the part of portly Mrs. Betterton 
 towards that proud young lady's aunt had converted 
 Cynthia into an enemy for life. Mrs. Pelham's own feel- 
 ings were perplexed rather than friendly towards Mrs. 
 Betterton, who was of faultless extraction in the eyes of 
 the village people, in spite of her vulgarity and assump- 
 tion, being the daughter of Alexander Dundaff, the rich 
 old Scotchman to whose enterprise and well-filled purse 
 the cotton-mills owed their existence, and from whom 
 the town had taken its name. 
 
 With the country gentry, however, it was another 
 matter, as she was keenly aware, although, instead of 
 contenting herself with the society of the tradespeople, 
 among whom she was quite the leader of opinion, she 
 insisted upon going to the more aristocratic church, and 
 inviting such members of its congregation as acknowl- 
 edged her acquaintance to a castellated building, com- 
 posed of alternate slices of brick and marble, which she 
 and her husband called by the unassuming name of 
 Camelot, suggested by Tom Betterton, their promising 
 son and heir, who, if he had not been able to enter col- 
 lege, had read Tennyson. 
 
 Mrs. Betterton always felt that her marriage to Martin 
 Betterton, her father's intelligent foreman, had been a 
 b 2*
 
 1 8 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 mistake, but the greatest minds have moments of weak- 
 ness. Mr. Betterton was at once the shrewdest, the best- 
 hearted, and the most illiterate of men, uith whom to 
 converse was as difficult as to do business was easy. On 
 his part the match was partly for love, although certainly 
 in the direct line of his ambition, as it gradually won 
 him a partnership in the business, and after the death of 
 Mr. Dundaff gave him control of the whole manufactory. 
 It was then that he showed his shrewdness by hastening 
 to solicit Mr. Pelham's co-operation in the cotton-mills, 
 to which he had long supplied the raw material. 
 
 A highly-respected Baltimore merchant, engaged in 
 shipping large invoices of cotton from Norfolk, Mr. 
 Pelham's consent to become part owner of the mills, and 
 hold up the credit of the business, after the death of Mr. 
 Dundaff, was a wonderful turn of the wheel of fortune to 
 Martin Betterton, and it was not surprising that Mrs. 
 Betterton should have looked upon the wife of her hus- 
 band's partner as the natural ladder by which she could 
 climb to social eminence. 
 
 It was partly a love of country life which actuated Mr. 
 Pelham in the matter, in whose family the house at Fern- 
 wood had been for several generations. He therefore 
 renovated it, and decided to make it his summer resi- 
 dence, while about the same time Mr. Betterton built 
 for himself the costly and spacious mansion where Mrs. 
 Betterton took pleasure in astounding the less opulent 
 of her country neighbors with the splendor of her hos- 
 pitality. 
 
 To propitiate Mrs. Betterton without making a bosom 
 friend of her was Mrs. Pelham's constant study, but this 
 was the only direction in which her friend's considerate 
 benevolence failed to elicit Cynthia's sympathy. Much 
 younger in years, she had a keener natural insight into 
 motives and causes, which led her to distrust Mrs. 
 Betterton, while, although as a rule she admired Mrs. 
 Pelham's earnestness of purpose and noble aspirations 
 for others, there was a radical difference in their way of 
 regarding the lower classes
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1 9 
 
 She perceived that Mrs. Pelham thought it her right 
 and duty to help them, while Cynthia had conceived the 
 idea that it was their right and duty to help themselves. 
 She did not see how this could be brought about, and 
 therefore the prospect seemed more hopeless from her 
 point of view than from that of her friend ; but she never 
 gave up the belief that the right existed, although so 
 difficult to maintain as to make the attainment appear 
 impossible. 
 
 Thus it may be seen that Cynthia certainly was odd, 
 even in these days, so far as presenting decided points 
 of difference from other girls, but it was not until 
 some years later that the pronounced and irremediable 
 nature of her oddness had become patent to the Dundaff 
 mind. 
 
 When Ledyard came to preach to the people in Mrs 
 Pelham's church it was, indeed, established beyond all 
 doubt or question, for did not all Dundaff know that 
 Cynthia was the daughter of one of the richest, most 
 influential men in the State, that she had had all the 
 advantages that an introduction to fashionable society in 
 a large city could give, and yet that she had suddenly 
 and unaccountably made up her mind to retire from the 
 world and to enter a convent, to the regret of her whole 
 family ? Was it not declared that this regret had been 
 so keen on the part of her father that it had hastened 
 him to his grave ? 
 
 Nor yet content with this catalogue of offences, rumor 
 asserted that she had been at the very time of this 
 strange determination engaged to be married to a most 
 unexceptionable young man, whom she had thrown over 
 without scruple. .She had, it was reported, even gone 
 so far as to take the veil in a convent in St. Augustine ; 
 but what, if this were the case, had induced her to leave 
 the convent, rumor had not yet decided. Some people 
 thought that she gave up the fancy of her own accord, 
 like that of being married ; others, that she had been 
 persuaded to leave the nunnery by the entreaties of her 
 aunt, Miss Pinsley, with whom she always after lived
 
 2O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 It was only certainly known that she had returned to 
 Dundaff, after an absence of several years, looking older, 
 sadder, paler, and even more reserved in manner than 
 she had been as a girl, and in Dundaff she had lived 
 ever since. 
 
 All this, with the natural comments which such un- 
 usual conduct would be apt to excite in rustic circles, 
 was retailed to Ledyard before he had been three weeks 
 in his new parish. Mr. Pelham, of Fernwood, had lately 
 died abroad, he was told. Mrs. Pelham was still on the 
 Continent, but the house at Fernwood, long closed, had 
 just been opened by a nephew of Mr. Pelham, to whom, 
 as his next of kin, he had bequeathed it, together with 
 his share in the cotton-mills. 
 
 Poor, gentle Miss Pinsley, with whom her niece had 
 lived permanently in Dundaff after the mysterious ab- 
 sence supposed to have been passed in a cloister, was 
 also dead some years before Ledyard came into the 
 neighborhood, and Cynthia's eccentricity was too well 
 known to be thought worthy of much ordinary attention. 
 Even her strange history had ceased to excite interest, 
 while the name of the admirer she was said to have re- 
 jected had never transpired, and Dundaff and Mrs. Bet- 
 terton were denied the sensation of knowing that among 
 her friends and relations elsewhere Cynthia Arkwright 
 w;as still believed to be a nun. 
 
 As a matter of local gossip, therefore, the subject was 
 unproductive or threadbare, but enough was known to 
 render it a fruitful topic with which to regale a stranger, 
 and Ledyard learned that, in addition to the unpardon- 
 able sin of having always chosen her own life regard- 
 less of the opinions of others, she preferred to live alone, 
 after her aunt's death, in the same little house which 
 they had lived in together with her faithful old servant 
 Marjory. 
 
 How he began to associate this story with the face of 
 the woman whose scepticism had aroused his righteous 
 indignation on the occasion of his introductory sermon, 
 Ledyard never knew. Long before she was pointed out
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 21 
 
 to him standing in the rustic door-way of her cottage, 
 with a wistful, far-off look in her grave face, he had 
 a strong conviction that hers was the one defiant spirit 
 which had resisted all argument or explanation of his; 
 that no other eyes than hers had met his, after his 
 closing burst of eloquence, with that deep, compas- 
 sionate gaze which had been harder to encounter than 
 much coldly-expressed dissent. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WE all have works of Art in our memories of more or 
 less merit, pictures which have been burned into us, so 
 to speak, by a lightning-flash of feeling, and have grown 
 dear as the years passed. Scenes marvellously clear 
 or radiant, and wonderfully beautiful to look back upon, 
 have been thus painted for all time, and are more real 
 to us than many things in the actual present. Remem- 
 bered groups or single figures may stand forth as distinct 
 and unchangeable as statues, the form, the attitude, 
 the passing expression of which have been arrested 
 forever, cut out of our aching hearts with the sharp edge 
 of pain or enshrined in the sacred solitude of our lonely 
 thoughts, where no unhallowed tread shall break the 
 silence, no common eye penetrate to their mysterious 
 presence. 
 
 It must have been by some such miracle of the imagi- 
 nation that, as Lieutenant Henderson turned from her 
 window, the trees, the sky, the rushing river, the fra- 
 grance of opening fruit-blossoms, and all the events of 
 the last nine years of her life, slipped away from Cynthia 
 Arkwright and left in their place an entirely different 
 scene, in which she found herself an actor. 
 
 It was to a windy afternoon in the November of seven 
 years before that she was transported, and she had 
 become one of two women who stood facing each other
 
 22 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 in a narrow, bare room at the top of a tall, uninviting- 
 looking building, one of many similar houses, on a long, 
 straight city street. 
 
 The younger of the two was oddly arrayed for the 
 occasion in the sort of hybrid between a man's and a 
 woman's costume known on the stage as a page's dress. 
 She held in her hand a velvet cap with a long white 
 feather, which she was twirling about angrily, with a 
 blush on her cheek and a frown on her fair brow. 
 
 The face of the other woman was open and eager, if 
 the gods had given her the gift to see it. She stood 
 at least a foot higher, and, looking down from this van- 
 tage, seemed to be determinately studying her oppo- 
 nent. 
 
 " You will not go home, then ?" she asked, very earn- 
 estly. 
 
 " You wish that I would ?" 
 
 " I came here hoping to induce you to go." 
 
 "You are frank, at least." The younger woman 
 smiled, showing her teeth, which were not beautiful, al- 
 though her mouth had seemed so. 
 
 " It is natural," resumed the other, " that my coming 
 at all should seem strange to you, and my attempting to 
 counsel you an impertinence. I will show you a note 
 which reached my dear friend and yours only yesterday, 
 and which should explain her asking me to go to you. 
 After which, for my part in coming, I do not conceive 
 that any explanation is necessary." 
 
 She extended a note as she spoke towards the younger 
 girl, who was daintily rounded and fair-haired, and who 
 took the three-cornered epistle in one hand, eying it dis- 
 dainfully, while she read the superscription. 
 
 " Then our mutual friend is a woman ?" she asked ; 
 and as for all answer the other motioned to her to open 
 the note, she unfolded it and read the following words, 
 hastily written in pencil on a half-sheet of paper : 
 
 " MY DEAR MRS. PELHAM, Notwithstanding your re- 
 cent illness, the satisfaction that you evinced when I
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 23 
 
 ventured once before to give you news of Miss Posey 
 Periwinkle emboldens me to tell you that she is now 
 acting here at the Old Street Theatre, which I feel very 
 sure that you would wish to know, as, in spite of the 
 inconsiderate manner in which this young lady left your 
 protection, I remember that you expressed to me a warm 
 interest in her and her family. She is surely too young, 
 too pretty, and too inexperienced to be left entirely to 
 her own guidance, and is being daily subjected to the 
 least healthy influences. A word from an old friend 
 might possibly induce her to give up the stage, now that 
 she has seen the hollowness of it, where remonstrance 
 from a mere acquaintance is clearly impossible." 
 
 " No name ! And who is this friend ?" asked the actress. 
 
 " I do not know. Mrs. Pelham did not tell me, but I 
 feel sure she knows. The person who wrote it evidently 
 expects her to know, and, although he speaks plainly, 
 the note can be written with no other intention than that 
 of serving you. I have ventured to speak in the same 
 spirit, although I am a mere acquaintance." 
 
 " Things impossible to some persons are not impos- 
 sible to others," said the page, returning the note, with 
 quiet sarcasm. 
 
 " Yes, I would always rather speak of that which con- 
 cerns a person to herself than to any one else," answered 
 her visitor. " It seems to me fairer. No one values the 
 right to her own privacy more than I do ; but I did not 
 come to speak of myself." 
 
 " No, you have not even told me your name," said the 
 page. 
 
 The color rose in the face of Mrs. Pelham's messenger. 
 For the first time she seemed embarrassed and slightly 
 indignant. 
 
 " When I spoke of having met you at Mrs. Pelham's," 
 she said, " I fancied you remembered me. I supposed, 
 of course, that you knew my name." She drew out a 
 card-case as she spoke, and the name it disclosed was 
 Cynthia Arkwright.
 
 24 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 There appeared a gleam of satisfaction, as of a con- 
 firmed suspicion, in the page's aspect as she read it, but 
 she made no sign, composedly laying the card beside her 
 on a small table, and abruptly changing the subject. 
 
 " I thought that Mrs. Pelham declared she would have 
 nothing to do with me," she said, " when she heard I 
 had become an actress." 
 
 " She was very much distressed, I know, for your sake 
 and that of others, the more so that you did not con- 
 fide to her your determination ; but I never heard of her 
 saying that." 
 
 " I did." 
 
 " One often hears what is not true. At any rate, she 
 wants to help you now," said Miss Arkwright, win- 
 ningly, advancing a step nearer. " Will you not listen 
 to me? I come direct from her. She bids me say her 
 house is open to you. She is too ill to leave her bed, 
 or she would have come herself." 
 
 " Then you can go back to her and tell her I am not 
 in need of help." 
 
 The little page drew herself up, still smiling, and 
 twisting about her long feather. Something in the 
 action recalled the treacherous twitching about of a 
 cat's tail, betraying inward irritation, so often accom- 
 panied with a loud purring intended to lead the ob- 
 server to believe the creature supremely content. Miss 
 Arkwright looked at her sadly. 
 
 " Will you not come with me to see her ?" she asked. 
 
 " Frankly, I will not." 
 
 " But she is ill and asks to see you." 
 1 " I am no physician." 
 
 " She has told me that your mother and father are 
 most distressed at your leaving home. Will you not go 
 to them ?" 
 
 " I ? Go to my father ? I would rather die !" 
 
 The girl drew back trembling. She put out one hand 
 as though to steady her steps, and as she did so touched 
 the guitar which was a stage property of her part. She 
 sank on a sofa, grasping it nervously, and, as though thus
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2$ 
 
 recalled to a sense of her calling, felt for her watch with 
 the other hand, murmuring something as she did so 
 about being late for rehearsal. 
 
 " I am very sorry that I detained you too long," said 
 Cynthia, gently, " and if you will let me come again at a 
 more convenient moment I shall be glad to do so." 
 
 "Oh, on any other occasion, Miss Arkwright, I shall 
 be most happy," said the page, forcing a smile. 
 
 Cynthia felt a profound pity for the little actress, as 
 she saw her rise hastily, with an effort to regain her lost 
 composure. Something in the momentary view of the 
 pale, woe-stricken face had touched her heart. 
 
 " I wish I could stay with you now !" she exclaimed, 
 impulsively. 
 
 " You are most kind," said the girl, with a return of 
 her former manner, " but professional engagements are 
 pressing." 
 
 Her eyes were fixed coldly on her visitor, and noted 
 the heavy folds of her silk pelisse and the length and 
 beauty of the fur she wore, as she turned towards the 
 door of the mean-looking attic chamber, in which stage 
 finery and the necessaries of life were tossed about in 
 hopeless confusion. It may have been partly owing to 
 these details that a great bitterness of envy surged up in 
 her soul. 
 
 Cynthia's hand was already on the latch, when she 
 was arrested by the clear cultivated tones of the actress, 
 which seemed intended to convey a covert meaning. 
 
 " Perhaps when you see your fiance," she said, " you 
 will tell him of this visit. He may be interested to hear 
 of the anonymous letter." 
 
 Miss Arkwright looked round with a startled face. 
 
 " My fiance!" she repeated, haughtily. 
 
 " Yes. Am I mistaken in supposing that Mr. Millard 
 Henderson holds that proud position ?" 
 
 " I do not mean to deny it, of course," said Cynthia ; 
 " but I confess I am at a loss to understand how you can 
 be informed of my engagement to Mr. Henderson if you 
 did not know my name." 
 
 B 3
 
 26 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Might I not know that Miss Cynthia Arkwright was 
 engaged without recognizing her by instinct ?" 
 
 " True, you might ; but the mystery is as to how you 
 know it, as my engagement has not been announced." 
 
 " How, indeed? You had better ask Mr. Henderson 
 when you show him the letter." 
 
 " Surely you do not imagine that Mr. Henderson 
 could have written that letter? It is not like him to do 
 anything in that way, any more than it is like his hand- 
 writing. You would not think so for a moment if you 
 knew him." 
 
 " Then you imagine that I do not know him ?" 
 
 " I am under the impression that you do not." 
 
 " And I am under the impression that it is you who 
 do not know him." 
 
 " What is your reason for saying that, beyond the 
 pleasure of saying something which will sound clever ?" 
 
 " I say it because if you did know him you would not 
 suppose that I could think he had written the letter. 
 You under-estimate his good sense by such a suggestion, 
 or my opportunities of being impressed by it." 
 
 Miss Ark wright's cold look of surprise changed to one 
 of perplexity, and then her face cleared with an expres- 
 sion of sympathy and understanding. 
 
 " Ah, it seems that I am wrong," she said, coming 
 back as she spoke and taking the girl's unwilling hand. 
 " It seems you do know Mr. Henderson. I am glad of 
 that." 
 
 " You are glad?" 
 
 " He may help me to help you. Perhaps you may 
 listen to him when you would not to me. He is very 
 persuasive." 
 
 " Very ! And you will ask him to play the good 
 Samaritan ?" 
 
 The face of the little actress was inscrutable, but there 
 rang in her tone a note of intense scorn. It warned her 
 listener of some hidden danger which seemed suddenly 
 to have come unaccountably near to herself. Instinc- 
 tively she drew away and braced her nerves to meet it.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2J 
 
 " And if I should ?" she questioned slowly, keeping 
 her eye on that of her antagonist. 
 
 The page's eyes flashed, and then she dropped them. 
 " The scene would be dramatic," she said, demurely. 
 ******** 
 
 After this interview, Cynthia could not recall very dis- 
 tinctly anything which had happened for several days. 
 She knew that she had returned from Baltimore to the 
 sick-bed of her friend Mrs. Pelham at Fernwood, and 
 forced herself to describe all that had been said between 
 her and the actress with an effort of will the extent of 
 which she bravely concealed. Only of the part of the 
 conversation which referred to Millard Henderson, and 
 of the look which accompanied Miss Periwinkle's words 
 with regard to him, she had not spoken. 
 
 With the outline of the story which Mrs. Pelham then 
 proceeded to tell her she was already familiar. She had 
 heard that Posey Periwinkle, the girl whom it con- 
 cerned, was the daughter of a Low-Church Episcopal 
 clergyman with the strictest possible ideas of the vanity 
 of ail worldly amusements. He was said to be in charge 
 of a small parish on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, a 
 quasi-watering-place, chiefly known among sporting men 
 for its game in season. 
 
 Here Mrs. Pelham, happening to go for change of air 
 one summer, had taken a fancy to the girl, and asked her 
 to visit her at her house in Baltimore the following winter, 
 and it was a cause of intense regret to Cynthia's friend 
 that during this visit Miss Periwinkle had obtained her 
 first glimpse of the stage and had conceived the idea of 
 becoming an actress. Hopeless of obtaining her father's 
 consent, she had gone directly to New York on leaving 
 Mrs. Pelham, who believed her to have returned to her 
 home, and who was proportionately shocked by a letter 
 from her father asking where she was. The girl mean- 
 while, as they afterwards learned, had taken refuge with 
 a relation of her mother's until she succeeded no one 
 knew how in inducing a manager of one of the leading 
 theaties to give her a trial. She had been enrolled as a
 
 28 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 member of a travelling company, had left New York, 
 and had not been heard of again for several years, when 
 two gentlemen, returning from a trip round the world, 
 recognized her under the pseudonyme of Miss Cecilia 
 Montague, acting in a society play in San Francisco. 
 
 The older of the two men was an eccentric artist 
 named Granby Neil, who had known the girl both in 
 Baltimore and in her own home, and immediately on 
 his return reported the encounter to Mrs. Pelham. The 
 younger was Mrs. Pelham's own nephew, a young na- 
 val officer, who had lingered after his friend left San 
 Francisco, returned by a different route, and never 
 had mentioned the subject of Posey Periwinkle to any 
 one. 
 
 It was to this young man whom she had heard of all 
 her life, but had met for the first time at Fernwood, not 
 long after his return from San Francisco, that Cynthia 
 Ark wright was engaged to be married, with the knowl- 
 edge of his aunt and uncle, but as yet, she supposed, of 
 no one else. He was a handsome fellow, with courteous, 
 easy manners and an expressive voice, but Cynthia was 
 too sensible a girl for these attributes alone to have in- 
 fluenced her. She saw that he was a man of intrinsic 
 force and energy, who would never be satisfied to drift 
 on the current of events, like so many others of his pro- 
 fession, giving nothing but the service required for regu- 
 lation pay. It was, indeed, by the scientific side of the 
 education required in his calling that he was chiefly 
 attracted to it, and Cynthia was troubled by an inde- 
 finable something about him which seemed to imply that, 
 young as he was, the sentiments of life had lost their 
 illusion to him, although he soon left her unable to doubt 
 that he was ardently in love with her. 
 
 She was dignified and proudly guarded in her first 
 reception of his advances, but there was an impetuosity 
 in them at one moment, a self-distrust the next, which 
 were very captivating, even if she had not been won by his 
 honest eyes, his manly bearing, a certain vivid sense of 
 humor, and the sweetness of his smile. At last her heart
 
 JiROKEN CHORDS. 2$ 
 
 was conquered, but she would not consent to consider 
 herself as formally betrothed without the sanction of her 
 father, who had been absent for several months and was 
 now on his way home. 
 
 There was undoubtedly an understanding, however, 
 between herself and Henderson, when Cynthia was sum- 
 moned unexpectedly to Fernwood to cheer Mrs. Pelham 
 after a short but severe illness, and during the two or 
 three weeks thus spent she had not seen Millard. They 
 had also parted less serenely than she could have wished, 
 owing to a childish difference about going to church 
 together on the last Sunday before she left home. Cyn- 
 thia, who in those days was a devout Roman Catholic, 
 refused to go to the Episcopal church with Henderson, 
 or even to forego attending her own, which Millard pro- 
 posed as a compromise, and he, out of wounded pride, 
 declined to go with her to mass as usual. 
 
 They had had many differences of opinion, Hender- 
 son being given to expressing rather materialistic views 
 of existence at times which shocked Cynthia's faith 
 and pained her ardently-religious temperament, but she 
 suspected that it was half said to tease her, and would 
 often be turned from a frown to a smile by the droll 
 twinkle in his eye, being unlike many earnest-minded 
 women in that she could always appreciate a humorous 
 situation, even where the fun was at her own expense. 
 This, therefore, was the first disagreement which could 
 be said to have awakened any feeling of anger on either 
 side, and it left Cynthia's heart all the sorer that Hen- 
 derson did not seem to understand that the question in- 
 volved was to her one of principle, although there had 
 been several letters from him in which he expressed 
 contrition for his obstinacy, while evidently considering 
 that she should be equally ashamed of hers. 
 
 It was Millard's friend, Granby Neil, who had called 
 on Mrs. Pelham a day or two before, and, on hearing 
 that she was unable to receive him, had sent up the 
 hasty note, together with his card, which caused Mrs. 
 Pelham to make a special request of Cynthia to go to 
 
 3*
 
 30 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 see Miss Periwinkle in her stead, begging her to rea- 
 son with the unhappy girl on the folly of having left 
 her home for a life of hardship and temptation, and 
 try to induce her to come to see her, in the hope that 
 she might persuade her to give up the stage and return 
 to her father's protection. 
 
 Not only had Cynthia failed in this, but she felt that 
 there was cause for perplexity and half-confessed anxiety 
 in much that she had learned, and when she left her 
 friend a few days later to return to her own home she 
 was a prey to both ; although she made the most in- 
 genious efforts to explain to herself the cause of her 
 fears, and, when these failed, resolved not to think at 
 
 all until they could be set at rest. 
 
 ****** * * 
 
 The next scene which stood out clearly in her recol- 
 lection was after her father's return. She remembered 
 how eagerly she had hurried home to welcome him, 
 and that some delay in the train had lost her the oppor- 
 tunity of seeing him privately before the hour for meet- 
 ing the whole family at dinner. 
 
 The day chanced to be Thanksgiving, and should have 
 been to her one of rejoicing, but was hardly that, in spite 
 of the gladness she felt at seeing her father again. The 
 effort she made throughout the many courses of the 
 family dinner to sustain her part in the conversation 
 was due to her knowing that, although he loved his 
 younger child, Mr. Arkwright cared more for her 
 greeting than for that of all the others put together. 
 His eyes dwelt on her from time to time with watchful 
 anxiety, as though he detected the undercurrent of sad- 
 ness and oppressive though vague fear which she was 
 vainly trying to throw off. 
 
 At last the repast was over. Little Nathalie, a girl 
 about nine years old, who was her father's only child by 
 his second wife, had come to kiss them all good-night, 
 and lingered to hang about her half-sister Cynthia, whose 
 beauty she greatly admired. When the after-dinner talk 
 among the ladies in the drawing-room was begun,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 3! 
 
 Cynthia felt that she could relapse into silence and the 
 absorption of her own thoughts. From these she was 
 roused by a clear, decided ring at the door-bell, a ring 
 which she knew well, quickly followed by the entrance 
 of Millard Henderson. He was a manly-looking fellow, 
 with a deep voice, a winning manner, and a touch of 
 easy gallantry, by which he did not generally lose in 
 the favor of women ; but the deep blush with which he 
 entered the room and the almost boyish frankness of 
 his greeting were equally natural to him, and among his 
 chief attractions to Cynthia, as she took them for evi- 
 dences of a modesty and sincerity of character which she 
 prized very highly. 
 
 His embarrassment on this especial evening was partly 
 due to Cynthia's presence and the slight breeze which 
 had ruffled the surface of the understanding between 
 them at parting, which rendered his position all the more 
 trying from the fact that their engagement was not yet 
 openly acknowledged. Cynthia watched him furtively 
 from her corner of the fireplace while he parried a host 
 of reproaches from Mrs. Arkwright and her three talka- 
 tive daughters as to why he had not been to the house 
 for so long, etc., and noted the skilled air of simplicity 
 with which he marshalled his excuses, wondering how 
 he would manage to see her father alone, to whom, he 
 had told her, he meant to speak at the very earliest 
 opportunity. 
 
 At last the preliminaries were over and he escaped to 
 Cynthia's side, where he became as another man. She 
 knew she had an influence over him such as she had not 
 seen exercised by any one else, of which he was equally 
 conscious, for his eyes were eloquent as they met hers. 
 
 " I have seen Mr. Arkwright," he said, hurriedly. 
 
 " So soon ! What did he say ?" 
 
 " It is all right. I met him, by the most fortunate 
 chance, on his very first arrival, and came home with 
 him. We were closeted in his study for more than an 
 hour." 
 
 " Then he consents ?"
 
 32 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " He consents," replied Henderson, smiling down at 
 her, " on one condition." 
 
 " And that is ?" 
 
 " Guess." 
 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " That I shall never try to influence you to give up 
 your faith in the Roman Catholic Church. Do you 
 think I could ?" 
 
 " Of course, no one could ; but how strange that my 
 father, who is not himself a believer in the Church of 
 Rome, should exact that assurance !" 
 
 " He told me that he had promised your mother that 
 you should many no man who would not give this 
 pledge," replied Henderson, speaking gravely this time, 
 and with reverence of tone and manner born of sym- 
 pathy. " Shall we tell them ?" he asked more lightly, 
 indicating the group at the other end of the room. 
 
 " Oh, not yet ! In fact, I want to speak to you " 
 
 began Cynthia with some agitation, and then broke off, 
 for at that moment her father entered from the dining-- 
 room. Mr. Arkwright was a tall man, like Henderson 
 himself, with a stately carriage and a fine head. It was 
 from him, in fact, that his daughter inherited much of 
 her grace and dignity of bearing. His iron-gray hair was 
 smoothed away from a thoughtful brow. As he ad- 
 vanced slowly he held out a hand to each of them, 
 looking searchingly into Cynthia's face. Perhaps it had 
 changed since dinner-time. The reassuring presence of 
 her lover may have driven back the shadow of distrust 
 and doubt. At any rate, she understood his meaning 
 now, as well as those other wistful glances, which she 
 had surprised, and, if she could not meet his gaze frankly, 
 could disguise any lurking uneasiness which may still 
 have lain at the bottom of her soul. 
 
 The young people had stood up in response to his 
 mute greeting, and as Cynthia answered his silent ques- 
 tioning by a proud bend of the head, he laid their hands 
 solemnly in each other, then turned to Mrs. Arkwright 
 and formally announced the engagement.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 33 
 
 Precisely what followed Cynthia did not strive to 
 recall. There had been a few moments of dumb amaze- 
 ment on the part of the girls and of the awkwardly 
 feigned surprise on that of their mother with which a 
 foregone conclusion is often met, and then some conven- 
 tional congratulations. 
 
 The entrance of other visitors had created a fortunate 
 diversion, and Millard Henderson reminded Cynthia that 
 there was something about which she wished to speak 
 to him, suggesting the music-room as a suitable place 
 for the confidence. This dainty aesthetic little chamber, 
 whither they betook themselves, opened with folding 
 doors, across which fell silken curtains on the opposite 
 side of the entry from the drawing-room. There were a 
 harp, a piano, a banjo resting on a gilded chair, and a 
 beautiful sunny landscape, by Richards, hanging above 
 a satin-covered sofa. 
 
 Henderson moved towards the sofa, and they sat down 
 in silence. During the pause which followed she noted 
 every minutest detail of the room's familiar furnishing, 
 while she felt his eyes upon her, and tried to nerve her- 
 self to meet them as she wished to do, but it was no easy 
 matter. Cynthia, who was of a strong nature cast in a 
 large mould, was royally in love. She had quite deter- 
 mined how she would open the present interview, but 
 she felt there was no time to lose, or the opening of it 
 would not be left to her. 
 
 " I want to ask you," she began at last, " whether 
 you ever met a girl whom I saw for the first time a 
 week ago, and who tried to make me believe she knew 
 you well." 
 
 " Yes ? Who was the girl ?" he responded, possess- 
 ing himself of one of her hands with playful mastery. 
 " What was her name ?" he added, carelessly. 
 
 " Her name " she repeated, and then paused, but 
 
 when she gave it her voice was clear and firm. 
 
 " Certainly," said Millard, in a quiet tone. " I met 
 her years ago, and then last autumn." He dropped 
 Cynthia's hand.
 
 34 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " But have you met her here, lately ?" 
 
 He looked surprised and flushed hotly. " I have met 
 her once, but I do not wish you to do so," he said, 
 decidedly. There was a silence. She had begun to 
 reproach herself for speaking at all. 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" he added presently, with some 
 effort. 
 
 Cynthia told briefly the story of her meeting with 
 the actress, and what had passed between them, until 
 she reached the climax of the interview, when she 
 stopped abruptly. 
 
 Henderson, who had risen from the sofa, took a step 
 or two away, with a little movement of pain and horror ; 
 then turned and stood still before her, with a fixed 
 expression. 
 
 " Well, she told you I should be interested in the 
 letter," he said, quietly. "Where is it?" His tone was 
 not conscious, but guarded. 
 
 " I have kept it on purpose that you may see it, if 
 you wish ; but do you really wish to see it ?" 
 
 " Why not ? I shall then know what is being said 
 about me. Since you believe these stories, it is im- 
 portant." 
 
 " About you, Millard ? The note is not about you, 
 nor are there any stories ! I was only indignant at her 
 way of speaking, as if she knew something that I did not. 
 Do you think me likely to believe anything against 
 you ?" 
 
 " Then why have you spoken to me at all on the sub- 
 ject ?" 
 
 " Surely you understand : it was that you might clear 
 yourself of these strange insinuations." 
 
 " Very good of you, I am sure. You had better get 
 the letter." 
 
 She rose with an impulsive movement as though she 
 would have asked him to forgive her for her half-formed 
 suspicion, it seemed to her in that moment so unworthy 
 of herself and him, but he did not or would not see the 
 appealing glance, and she slowly left the room. When
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 35 
 
 she returned he read the letter, and then stood for some 
 moments at the window, gazing into the darkness of the 
 night with a sort of hopeless misery in his face. 
 
 Cynthia was thinking what she could say to convince 
 him that she did not associate him in any way with 
 its contents. The idea of his imagining that she could 
 seriously suspect him, because she thought it loyal to 
 tell him what she found it so hard to understand, 
 pained her intensely ; but how to express this ? Some- 
 thing of the suffering love, the tender faith in him, 
 which had deemed it only right to give him the very 
 first opportunity to silence calumny, must have shown 
 in her face, for his anger melted as he met her eyes, 
 and he held out his arms to her with a look of love 
 and reverence, but as suddenly drew back, overcome, 
 perhaps, with a thought of his unworthiness, and hid his 
 face between his hands. She watched him with a bewil- 
 dered sense of coming evil. 
 
 " What is it, Millard ? Speak to me," she entreated. 
 
 Henderson could not speak. It was as if he were 
 trying to master an awful sense of shame. The mo- 
 ments seemed like hours, and each one told its hideous 
 tale to her anxious spirit. 
 
 " For God's sake, let me know all !" Cynthia said, at 
 last. " I only ask for that." 
 
 " How can I ! How can I !" he burst out passion- 
 ately. " Oh, Cynthia, oh, my love, I am a wretch ! I 
 dare not tell you what I am." 
 
 Cynthia drew a step back. She gazed at him still 
 with gradually-dilating eyes. " Do you mean that that 
 letter referred to you ? Speak, Millard, do you mean 
 that it was true what that girl insinuated ?" 
 
 " She could say nothing too bad of me." 
 
 " She said she knew you better than I did." 
 
 He started. " That is not true," he cried. " You 
 know me as no other woman ever has, or ever will, but 
 I have known her longer, and have done her a great 
 wrong. Now, Cynthia, you know all." 
 
 All ? It seemed to her that she had been told of
 
 36 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 more than all the evil that there could be in the world ! 
 Involuntarily a something that was between a sigh and 
 a groan burst from her, but she uttered no reproach. 
 Speechless and dry-eyed, she turned away, and would 
 have gone proudly from the room, but that he caught 
 desperately at her hand and forced it to his lips. 
 
 She stood still, and strove to withdraw the hand, 
 but she did not move a muscle of her face or turn her 
 eyes upon him. 
 
 " Cynthia," he said, " you will not give me up ?" 
 
 " I must." 
 
 " How can you ?" 
 
 " How can you ask ? Have you not been visiting this 
 other woman while you wrote as you have been doing 
 to me, even in the last few days ?" She snatched her 
 hand from him with the strength of horror. 
 
 " I swear I have not ! I have seen her once only, and 
 that unexpectedly, ten days ago. It was then that I 
 sought an opportunity of telling her of my engage- 
 ment. You need not look at me so, Cynthia. It was 
 a cruel thing to do, I know, but it had to be done." 
 
 "And the letter?" 
 
 " I cannot account for that," said Millard, "although 
 I know by the handwriting the crazy fool who wrote it. 
 He may have been referring to some one else, or pos- 
 sibly may have seen me talking to her on that one 
 occasion. Now that I think of it, he was at the theatre, 
 and it was there I met her. I remember, too, that I once 
 suspected him of fancying the girl himself, which may 
 account for his absurd interference." There was a long 
 silence. " Listen, Cynthia," he began again. " I am not 
 going to excuse myself, I can't, but you should know 
 the truth. I met this girl when I was a mere boy, and 
 admired her, but never gave her a second thought 
 until less than a year ago, when by a curious train 
 of circumstances I was thrown with her in a foreign 
 city and given daily opportunities of making a fool of 
 myself. It was a sort of madness, and it was all before 
 I kne v you. I had not seen her since until the accidental
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 37 
 
 meeting of which I told you. It is a sorry tale enough, 
 but I have not been quite so perfidious as you seem to 
 think." 
 
 Cynthia was gazing straight before her, clasping and 
 unclasping her hands, with compressed lips and brows 
 contracted with her mental pain. 
 
 " It is well," she said, at last ; " we part less bitterly." 
 
 " We must not part !" He stepped to her side with a 
 determined air. 
 
 " We must." 
 
 " I love you." 
 
 " I believed that once." 
 
 " You know it now." 
 
 A violent trembling seized her. It was the protest of 
 weak human nature against the suffering which she was 
 resolved to make it endure. 
 
 With an effort she turned towards him and forced 
 herself to meet his pleading eyes. He took her hand 
 again in both his own. 
 
 " Millard," she said, "you say this, which is like offer- 
 ing me bread when I am starving, but the bread is 
 poisoned ! If I did not know what you have told me 
 I might help you to act a wicked part, and wake up to 
 realize it too late ; therefore, while you love me, I will 
 never see you again." She made an attempt to disen- 
 gage her hand a second time, but he held it with fierce 
 obstinacy. * 
 
 " What am / to do ?" he asked. " Do you no longer 
 care what becomes of me ?" 
 
 " Marry her, Millard. It is your duty." 
 
 " Suppose I will not ? Unless I marry you, I marry 
 no one," he said, hoarsely. 
 
 " Then you refuse the only means left to you of regain- 
 ing the respect in which I once held you." 
 
 " You did respect me ?" 
 
 " How tenderly, how reverently, God knows !" 
 
 " Is that all past ?" 
 
 " It would not be quite all I think I could again, 
 Millard, if you did your duty. Will you ?"
 
 38 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Marry another, when I love you ? Ask me anything 
 but that !" 
 
 " Then I can never respect you again." 
 " How could you respect me if I did such a thing ?" 
 She was silent for a moment, in which she felt his arm 
 creep about her waist. 
 
 " This is what I think," she said at last, slowly, and 
 she laid her head against his shoulder with a sort of per- 
 suasive gentleness. " I think that if a man try to atone 
 for what he has done he is a man, even though he has 
 done more wrong than ever he can undo." 
 
 " But think, Cynthia, think what you require. It is 
 not atonement, it is self-annihilation. And reflect, dear 
 heart, on what you will suffer." 
 She drew away from him at once. 
 " That I must not, I will not. Millard, let me go !" 
 " My love ! my love !" he cried, passionately, " is 
 there no penance you will demand of me but this one ? 
 I will go to the ends of the earth. I will not see you for 
 years. Anything but take a step which shuts me out 
 from all hope of the one being I love !" 
 
 " You forget, Millard, you have taken that step." 
 She was still trembling, but her voice was once more 
 firm, only she seemed to begin to fear the endurance of 
 her strength. 
 
 In the energy of his last appeal he had flung himself 
 on his knees, with his arm still around her, as he looked 
 beseechingly into her face, and stooping for one con- 
 soling instant, in which her pure lips rested on his brow, 
 she tore herself from his grasp by a sudden movement 
 and fled away, leaving him half stunned.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 39 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ON the evening of the day when he had excited his 
 wife's displeasure by being late for luncheon, Millard 
 Henderson remained in his especial study after the other 
 members of the household had retired. 
 
 The room in question was to be called the library. 
 It was as yet not furnished with shelves enough to hold 
 the books, which lay about on chairs and tables in 
 groups which represented order to their owner, being 
 classified as to subject. Yet they seemed evidence to the 
 restless mind of Mrs. Henderson of the most hopeless 
 confusion. The sight of them caused her indeed such 
 discomfort that, having been firmly repulsed when she 
 attempted an arrangement more in harmony with her 
 taste and a pleasing effect on the eye, the lady declared 
 that she would not go into " that room again" until the 
 new shelves were put up and it was fit to be seen. 
 
 Perhaps her husband was not very regretful of this 
 determination. It may have been no deprivation to have 
 his sanctum, even for a short time, to himself; but if 
 this were true, he was careful not to say it. 
 
 After looking reflectively into the fire for some twenty 
 minutes, Henderson drew towards him an old-fashioned 
 leather- covered desk, which he opened with a small key, 
 and took out a flatly-folded note on stiff paper, the 
 creamy tint of which had become darker with time. 
 He unfolded it slowly and read the following words, in 
 a distinct handwriting, although somewhat wanting in 
 regularity, as though a pressure of haste or strong 
 feeling might have impelled the pen of the writer : 
 
 " MY DEAR MILLARD, 
 
 " I write to say a last farewell. I believe that you will 
 do your duty, and I pray that you may be gathered into 
 the true Church, and that in another world we may meet
 
 40 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 agnin. As for me, I have decided to take the veil, and 
 before this, reaches you shall be far on my journey to the 
 only earthly home that I shall ever know. 
 
 " As always, 
 
 " CYNTHIA." 
 
 This was the note which he had found at his rooms 
 on his return from one of many fruitless attempts to see 
 Cynthia at her father's house, after the interview recalled 
 by her in the last chapter. It was in fact the note 
 which had sealed his fate. It had put a finishing stroke 
 to the conviction of the inevitable outgrowth of conse- 
 quences from his own rash act, which had been stirring 
 within him ever since his confession. 
 
 There is a type of man that cannot be moved by the 
 strongest entreaty or the most persuasive tenderness, 
 who will yet yield to a logical sequence, and there are other 
 men who will not listen to reason, but may be conquered 
 by a woman's tears. Henderson strictly belonged to 
 neither class, being open to all influences, unfortunately, 
 of head and of heart ; but it so happened that in this 
 case what reason had begun in the very teeth of passion 
 strong feeling came in to reinforce and develop. 
 
 It is probable that if the woman he loved had con- 
 tinued to live in the world, surrounded by the homage 
 and admiration amid which he had courted her, jealousy 
 and the consciousness of his loss would have embittered 
 rather than softened him, but with the sense of depriva- 
 tion came a sudden revelation of the depth of the love 
 he had won from her, while the stern consistency of her 
 self-abnegation with that which she required of him 
 acted as a call to arms upon his higher nature. If she 
 could thus lay down all the brightness of her life for 
 what she thought was right, surely it were not too much 
 to expect that he who had sinned should consummate a 
 sacrifice. Henceforth his love for Cynthia became en- 
 shrined in his heart as a feeling akin to worship. It was 
 strangely stirred to-night with perplexity and doubt. 
 He knew that Cynthia Arkwright had started on her
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 41 
 
 long sad journey accompanied only by her father, who. 
 having done everything in his power to dissuade her 
 from her sudden desire to retire from the world, had 
 at last consented with deep trouble of spirit, seeing that 
 nothing would shake the ardor of her determination, and 
 he divined that her father was the only person to whom 
 Cynthia permitted the suspicion of some reason, which 
 could not be explained or overcome by her, for her 
 strange resolution to break her betrothal. 
 
 He remembered how shocked and deeply distressed 
 his aunt, Mrs. Pelham, had been at the rupture between 
 them ; how she complained that Cynthia would tell her 
 nothing of her reason for it ; how she had used every 
 argument to induce her to see that she was entirely 
 mistaking her duty in this sudden resolution to go into 
 a convent in St. Augustine ; and then how her sympathy 
 finally went out to him rather than to her friend. 
 
 Thus to Henderson, as to others, had Cynthia van- 
 ished from the world that knew her, and the manner of 
 her going had been a nine days' wonder in the society 
 from which she fled, and then as time went by ceased 
 to be referred to or remembered. When it was known 
 fifteen months later that Mr. Arkwright was at the point 
 of death, there was indeed a little talk of the bygone 
 subject, and the unnatural conduct of a girl who could 
 forsake a loving parent for the cold routine of convent 
 life was dwelt upon in an edifying manner. Henderson 
 never told Granby Neil of the irreparable mischief he 
 had made, but he avoided him, for he had been one of 
 the few confidants of his love for Cynthia ; nor did they 
 meet again. A few weeks later the artist set out with a 
 company of other adventurous fellows for the region of 
 the Yellowstone River and the great National Park. On 
 their way thither they were attacked by a band of hos- 
 tile Indians, and several of the party were killed, Neil 
 among the number. 
 
 It chanced that Henderson was on the way to New 
 York, where Miss Periwinkle, or rather " Miss Cecilia 
 Montague," as her name appeared on the play-bills, 
 
 4*
 
 42 BROKEN CHORDS, 
 
 was then acting, when he heard this news. He well 
 remembered the shock it had been to him to come upon 
 it unexpectedly in the paper, and the rush of contrition 
 with which he thought of the resentment which he had 
 harbored against Neil as the innocent and unconscious 
 cause of his misery. It may have been partly owing to 
 grief at the loss of his friend that he approached the 
 theatre in much the same spirit that he would have gone 
 to visit a grave. 
 
 Vainly had he striven to conquer the distaste he felt for 
 all connected with the girl his fatal weakness towards 
 whom had proved the downfall of his hopes, but, in spite 
 of every effort to think of her with tenderness and for- 
 bearance, he shrank from the meeting. He had resolved 
 that he would seek her now, let it cost him what it 
 would, but he never quite forgot the thrill of something 
 like pain he felt when the voice of the little actress broke 
 upon his ear in the midst of a prayer for forgiveness to 
 her stage husband, and then how unexpectedly he was 
 touched and lifted out of himself by the wild look of glad- 
 ness in her face, which told that she had distinguished 
 and recognized him amid all the crowded audience. 
 
 It was his only sensation, except that of sullen anger or 
 passionate regret, since Cynthia went away, and it brought 
 in its wake a series of associations connected with his 
 first meeting the girl, years before, in her country home, 
 where her austere but simple-hearted father had bidden 
 him welcome. He remembered how he and his much 
 older friend, Mr. Neil, had gone on a shooting excursion 
 to Dunstable, on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and how 
 he had indulged in what he considered an innocent boyish 
 flirtation with the parson's pretty daughter. He remem- 
 bered how jealous Neil had seemed of the girl's prefer- 
 ence for him, and how angry he had been with him for 
 stealing a kiss when he said farewell. He could still 
 look back without shame or any special regret on these 
 early days, although there might be little doubt that in 
 them were sown the seeds of the strong attachment which 
 the unhappy girl had conceived for him, but how he
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 43 
 
 hated himself now for his conduct in San Francisco six 
 months back, when he had been tempted into lingering 
 after his friend was obliged to go, and had been led on 
 from one step to another, with no intention of doing 
 wrong, until the harm was done ! 
 
 The months since that parting had made sad havoc 
 with the girl's freshness and beauty, but when the play 
 was over and he found his way behind the scenes, he 
 saw beneath the paint and powder, the dark curly wig 
 and blackened brows of the actress, the eyes he once 
 thought sweetest shining on him with the old light of 
 love. Alas, poor Posey ! There would have been no 
 more question in Henderson's dull heart whether he 
 still loved her if there had been no Cynthia Arkwright 
 in existence, or so he thought. And yet the eyes were 
 as bright as ever, and the warm blood leaped up behind 
 the rouge on her thin cheek, and her whole aspect of 
 feverish excitement, while it contrasted sadly with the 
 glimpse he had just recalled of the once pretty, care- 
 less face of the little maiden, spoke of her unchanged 
 affection for him. Some impulse perhaps the natural 
 association of his lost friend with her whom they had 
 met together, or else a desire to gain time and to conceal 
 the feeling of guilt and wretchedness which crept over 
 him at the sight of the agitation which she vainly strove 
 to hide led Henderson to begin by speaking to Posey 
 of the news he had just heard of the death of Neil. It 
 seemed the last stroke needed to break down her self- 
 control. 
 
 " Mr. Neil dead dead !" she repeated, in a tone of dull 
 wonder, while her cheeks grew livid through their 
 ghastly covering, her darkened eyelids closed, and she 
 would have fallen had he not caught her in his arms. 
 She remained as though senseless for a moment, but just 
 as he was about to call for aid she rallied and quickly 
 drew away from him. Seeming to summon all her 
 forces to her command, while darting upon him a look 
 of startled reproach, she asked, " Did you come here to 
 tell me of the death of your friend?"
 
 44 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Henderson began to protest. A belated sense of 
 chivalry awoke within him, and he threw the whole 
 force of his will into the resolve to lift her out of the de- 
 spair that he had caused, to avert the threatened disgrace, 
 and to give her his protection and his name, which were 
 all he had to give. 
 
 Posey listened to him at first with an expression he 
 could not fathom. It was a mixture of joy and pain, of 
 glad surprise and incredulity. 
 
 " Do you mean to say that it is me whom you will 
 marry? Now? At last? Do you know no reason 
 that you may not?" she asked, with panting breath. 
 
 He looked at her sadly,' searchingly, with a gaze 
 before which her new-born hope grew pale, but all he 
 said was, " I know every reason why I should," and so 
 this strange new bond was sealed. 
 
 On the whole, the marriage had not turned out ill. 
 It had been performed at once, in the most private manner 
 possible, but had made no apparent difference in the in- 
 dignation and condemnation with which Posey's father 
 still regarded her, for she told Henderson that she had 
 written home on the subject, yet her letter had been re- 
 turned unanswered. After only the delay requisite 
 while Henderson made such arrangements as were 
 necessary for a prolonged visit to Europe, they went 
 abroad. Posey knew nothing of Cynthia's renunciation, 
 and took Henderson's self-surrender as a tribute to her 
 superior charms. This soothing influence on her heart, 
 or on her wounded vanity, or on both, seemed to have a 
 sweetening effect on her disposition, which had been in 
 danger of becoming hard, and contemptuous of all kind- 
 ness, while she believed herself cast off and despised. 
 They remained abroad for a year, at the end of which 
 they were joined in Homburg by Mr. and Mrs. Pel- 
 ham, who found Posey improved in manner and conver- 
 sation, and that when she made an effort to please she 
 could do so effectually. They passed a summer happily 
 together in Switzerland, and it was only when her hus- 
 band talked of leaving her that Posey showed what
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 45 
 
 seemed to these elderly relations the strangest distrust 
 and uneasiness. She besought him not to forsake her in 
 a " foreign land," and yet she shrank from accompanying 
 him back to America, although he told her that his 
 whole professional career would be sacrificed by a con- 
 tinued absence. In short, the tendency to a selfish dis- 
 regard for the feelings of others had not diminished in 
 her with a life of ease. 
 
 She was always complaining, it was hoped only half 
 in earnest, of the trouble her baby boy gave her, but 
 there could be no doubt of a certain strange jealousy 
 which she developed with regard to Henderson's love 
 for the child. Perhaps it was the expression of an 
 unacknowledged consciousness that the depths of his 
 nature were not stirred by his affection for her. He had 
 grown fond of his wife, however, and, even when she 
 combined the airs of an invalid with those of a spoiled 
 child, seldom failed to show her that forbearance which 
 he believed to be her due. 
 
 Yet he was as a hungry man seated at a table where 
 the food was all too light to satisfy his craving, and was 
 beginning to fret at his life of enforced idleness abroad. 
 Mrs. Pelham and her husband both saw this, and Mr. 
 Pelham resolved that his nephew, who was essentially a 
 man of action, should not be forced to resign from the 
 navy by his wife's caprice. He soon elicited from Hen- 
 derson the confession that his one desire was to return 
 to America at the end of the year's leave of absence 
 which had been granted him, and apply for active service. 
 He persuaded him, in spite of many objections from his 
 fair partner, to leave Posey and her child in Europe 
 under his aunt's care. Millard was thus free to return to 
 his own country, which he promptly did, obtaining for his 
 first duty a three years' voyage to Japan, on accomplish- 
 ing which he deemed himself most fortunate in hearing 
 that an Arctic expedition was just preparing to start. 
 The dangerous character of the duty exactly suited 
 his mood. He wrote to his wife almost joyfully that 
 although there were many other applications his was
 
 46 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 accepted, and felt more reconciled to himself, more 
 nearly glad, on the day he sailed forth thus to brave 
 hardship or death, than he had felt since the unhappy 
 incident which led to his marriage. 
 
 Meanwhile, William Arkwright had died, leaving all 
 his worldly goods to his only child by his second wife, 
 who, with Nathalie and her other daughters, was travel- 
 ling abroad ; and Mrs. Pelham, who met the bereaved 
 lady at Lucerne, wrote to Millard indignantly of how, 
 with a show of plaintive regret, the sorrowful widow 
 was wont to say, " What a pity it was that poor, dear 
 Cynthia would go and make a stained-glass window of 
 herself!" 
 
 It was, perhaps, only natural that Posey should have 
 felt herself a much-injured person when she learned how 
 little chance there was of Henderson's returning from the 
 inaccessible fastnesses of the Polar seas, and should then 
 and there have assumed the airs of a martyr, which 
 she never entirely laid aside, although her husband was 
 one of the few survivors of the disastrous exploration, 
 and hastened to join his family in Paris as soon as he was 
 able to travel, where he was told of all his sins. 
 
 It did not appear to him that Mrs. Henderson was 
 having a very hard time of it when he got back. She 
 was in better health than when he had left her, and with 
 her health had recovered much of her beauty. She was 
 going a good deal into society among the American set in 
 Paris, and receiving attention, in a general way, as it came, 
 with the mixture of coquetry and assumption that was 
 natural to her After duly denouncing him, she accepted 
 his excuses, but complained that he had grown too thin, 
 and had lost something of his " grand air." 
 
 His uncle looked far from well. In fact, Mr. Pelham 
 lived only five or six months after his nephew's return, 
 and between this time and that of his death at Carlsbad 
 in the following year Henderson devoted himself to him. 
 No son could have been more faithful or more tender. 
 
 There had always been an unusually warm affection 
 felt by the uncle for Millard, who was the orphan child
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 47 
 
 of a favorite sister, and of late years the bond had grown 
 closer and stronger through silent sympathy. Henderson 
 had long known that it was his uncle's intention to make 
 him his heir, but, as he had inherited some fortune from 
 his father, he had not given the subject much thought. 
 He now learned for the first time of Mr. Pelham's ear- 
 nest desire that he should resign from the navy after his 
 death and settle down to the life he himself had led, of 
 a country gentleman, combined with that of a manu- 
 facturer, as he wished to leave him his share of the busi- 
 ness and the cotton-mills of Dundaff, with the rest of his 
 estate. Yet he urged this only in case Millard had had 
 enough of wandering. 
 
 The plan thus suggested would have seemed intoler- 
 able to Henderson some years before, but his thirst for 
 experience and adventure had been satisfied for the pres- 
 ent, and he longed for rest. Then, too, there were reasons 
 why it would be best that his wife should live in a country 
 neighborhood rather than attempt to mingle with old 
 city acquaintances with inconvenient memories. Last, 
 but not least, Millard, who was more of a reader than 
 most men who love out-door life, had found among the 
 books which composed the floating library of his part of 
 the expedition to the Northern seas a few volumes on 
 socialistic subjects, in which he had become much in- 
 terested. He had possessed himself, on his return, of 
 the works of St.-Simon, Fourier, and Rodbertus, and 
 conceived a longing to solve the problems or confute 
 the statements of these men and their noisy successor, 
 Carl Marx. Thus his uncle's plan opened new and un- 
 thought-of opportunities for experiment in the line of 
 speculation lately begun, and he caught at it almost 
 eagerly. 
 
 To his great grief, and to the sincere regret of Posey, 
 Mrs. Pelham entirely refused, after the death of her hus- 
 band, to accompany them back to America, but promised 
 to follow them home in the course of a few months. 
 
 Thus Mr. and Mrs. Millard Henderson returned to 
 their native land. They opened the long-closed house
 
 48 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 at Fernwood. They refurnished and decorated it in 
 modern style, entirely in conformity to the taste of Mrs. 
 Henderson ; and, although not sanguine as to the success 
 of his first efforts, having learned that he should have his 
 uncle's old partner, now his own, against him, Henderson 
 had begun to look forward with eager interest to the 
 improvements he thought of making in the management 
 of the factory. He even hoped to bring about a change 
 for the better in the condition of the workers, and had a 
 plan for their moral elevation, as well as for their material 
 comfort, which absorbed him to the exclusion of the 
 small annoyances of daily life. He was still deep in 
 speculative revery when on that memorable Sunday 
 morning he suddenly turned from the picturesque pros- 
 pect of hills and valley, to see the face of the woman he 
 had loved and lost flash out upon him from a cottage case- 
 ment, and then disappear, leaving him in blank surprise, 
 a victim to the vaguest fears, the most tormenting doubts, 
 forming and rejecting the most unlikely theories, to ac- 
 count to himself for her presence in this village, so far 
 from the shelter of the cloister which he believed her to 
 have sought and found. 
 
 Late into the night he sat and thought, his mind recur- 
 ring to each little incident of the past, but without finding 
 any clue to the mystery which his heart would accept; 
 for, whatever else might be true of Cynthia, he was sure 
 that it was not true she could be capable of playing a 
 part, nor was it like her to undertake anything, great or 
 small, which she did not carry out to the appointed end. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LEDYARD had been installed nearly a month in his new 
 parish, and was beginning to know and be known by all 
 the villagers, was even counted remiss if he failed to 
 
 cognize and interchange greetings with any of the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 49 
 
 regular members of his flock. He was welcomed to the 
 houses of every one of his vestrymen, and had been 
 honored by an invitation to dine at Camelot, for the 
 Bettertons were marshalled under a new leader since 
 Mrs. Pelham's day, and as soon as the young clergyman 
 appeared in Dundaff they were all marched to St. An- 
 drew's, to hear him preach, by Miss Florence Betterton, 
 a pretty, merry, downright sort of girl, who had lately 
 returned from boarding-school, and whose big black 
 eyes and rosy cheeks sorely beguiled the village doctor. 
 She had taken a great fancy to Mr. Ledyard, and had 
 urged him so eagerly to visit her at Camelot on a certain 
 day in the week when she and her mother were an- 
 nounced to be " at home," as to induce him to give a rash 
 promise that he would do so. 
 
 It was, perhaps, hardly palatable to perceive the placid 
 indifference of the superior congregation of the Rev. 
 Simon Ashmead to the fact of his existence, or to endure 
 the lofty condescension with which that existence was 
 recognized by their pastor, but he suspected that they 
 would have been as little likely to interest him as their 
 humbler imitators in Dundaff, and the real source of his 
 solicitude was the forlorn little settlement of working 
 men and women and children collected about the huge 
 factory buildings on the other side of the river, while only 
 a few stray representatives of this population had yet 
 ventured inside his church. 
 
 He was seated with a half-finished sermon before him 
 one evening, reflecting on this subject, when the thought 
 of Cynthia Arkwright suddenly flashed into his mind. 
 Since the day when he had first seen her his acquaintance 
 with Miss Arkwright had not advanced beyond a slight 
 feeling of consciousness on his part when he met her by 
 chance in the narrow village street. He felt a certain 
 odd satisfaction in recognizing her sombre face, for a 
 fancy had seized him that its pitying sadness showed a 
 rooted incredulity and a remoteness from spiritual com- 
 fort which it was given to him alone fully to fathom. 
 There may have been some truth in this conception 
 c d 5
 
 jO BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 if, as has been asserted, scepticism be only faith re- 
 versed; but Cynthia Arkwright gave him no further 
 opportunity of studying her mental attitude, for after 
 that first Sunday he looked for her in vain. She came 
 no more to church. 
 
 He was thinking this evening of something he had 
 been told with regard to her which interested him 
 deeply. He had learned, quite by accident, that Miss 
 Arkwright had a little circle of factory girls, whom she 
 was teaching to sew, and of boys, who came to read with 
 her on two evenings in the week. Of course these facts 
 were not of general interest, as her pupils were only of 
 the outlawed tribes of " mill-hands," but for this very 
 reason they seemed of particular importance to Richard 
 Ledyard. 
 
 He was wondering, as he sat nibbling abstractedly the 
 end of his pen-holder, whether an extension of Miss Ark- 
 wright's methods might not be the very best way of influ- 
 encing these people. It was evident that they would not 
 come to him, so he must go to them, he thought, and he 
 must try to find some common ground on which they 
 would meet him. 
 
 While thus plunged in speculation, he was surprised 
 by a visitor, who proved to be the village doctor. He 
 was a man some ten years older than Ledyard, tall, 
 gaunt, and fair-haired. He had been a surgeon in the 
 Union army during the civil war, and had seen the 
 inside of Libby Prison, the marks of which, in wasted 
 limb and hollow cheek, he still bore about with him, 
 spite of many years of a free life in the Southwest It 
 seemed probable that he would carry them to his grave. 
 
 The doctor came in with a cautious hesitancy which 
 was akin to shyness, but was cheered and brightened 
 under Ledyard's hearty hospitality into a more genial 
 frame of mind. In truth, Richard was delighted to 
 have his loneliness thus broken in upon, and at the 
 opportunity of conversing with an intelligent person, 
 who might be expected to take an interest in something 
 besides Dundaff.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 51 
 
 Passing from one to another of the topics of the day, 
 while Dr. Danforth stowed away his long legs comfortably 
 under the table, leaning back as he did so in Ledyard's 
 largest leather chair, they fell on the Egyptian wa*, the 
 conduct of which by the English, with the chances of 
 saving Gordon and relieving Khartoum, happened to 
 be the most important question that was appealing to 
 the world just then. 
 
 It proved to be a subject of peculiar interest to both 
 men from different points of view, for Richard's strongest 
 sympathy was aroused by the noble ambition and self- 
 forgetful character of Gordon, while Dr. Danforth was 
 especially critical of the military tactics of the English, 
 which did not meet with his approval. Gordon himself, 
 in spite of undeniable courage, was in his eyes nothing 
 more nor less than a religious fanatic of a rather danger- 
 ous kind, since he had the power of persuading others 
 to believe his illusions. 
 
 " Mark my words," he said to Ledyard, " he is a doomed 
 man. He can no more avoid the treachery of those Arabs 
 than the English can reach Khartoum in time to save it 
 by the way Sir Garnet Wolseley has chosen." 
 
 " Well, after all, that is not so bad," replied Richard, 
 " to be doomed to be a hero. One could bear much if 
 one saw before one so grand a consummation." 
 
 fie lighted a cigar as he spoke, after offering one to 
 his visitor, but Danforth preferred a short meerschaum 
 pipe, which he produced from his pocket. 
 
 " It is a matter of opinion, of course," he said, in 
 answer to Ledyard's last remark. " A useless sacrifice 
 of life never looks grand to me, but foolhardy, and when 
 I am told of a hero I like to hear what he has accom- 
 plished." 
 
 " If you are chiefly interested in the object for which 
 he is working, that is natural enough," rejoined Ledyard, 
 " although it is subordinating him to it ; but to know that 
 he died nobly, even to envy him for it, it only seems 
 necessary to know the motive which inspired him to 
 brave death. If when examined there does not appear
 
 52 BROKEN CHORDS 
 
 to be any practical good in the object he is striving 
 for, I can easily understand that he should merely 
 appear quixotic to practical men like yourself; K ut if 
 striving to bestow some real benefit upon others, you 
 surely do not consider a defeated hero less a hero than 
 a conquering one?" 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. I am very like my neigh 
 bors, and there is a good deal of the innate love of 
 success in most hero-worship." 
 
 As Danforth finished speaking there was a knock at 
 the rectory door, succeeded by a sound of low voices in 
 the entry, in the midst of which the name of " Dr. Dan- 
 forth" could plainly be distinguished. Both men rose, 
 and the next moment a tall female figure was ushered 
 into the study, and Ledyard found himself face to face 
 with Cynthia Arkwright 
 
 He advanced a step to meet her, and then stood still, 
 so much surprised that he had no words with which 
 to express himself, when she spoke in a quiet tone 
 which seemed to proclaim her absolute unconsciousness 
 of anything unusual in the situation. 
 
 " I have come for Dr. Danforth," she began, looking 
 past Ledyard at Danforth ; then, as if suddenly realizing 
 the want of ceremony with which she had entered, she 
 turned back to him and added, " I have come from a 
 poor boy, whom I think dying. I have only a moment. 
 You will excuse my intrusion." 
 
 It was characteristic of her that she did not ask to be 
 excused, but rather demanded it. 
 
 " Of course. I am glad the doctor was here," said 
 Ledyard, in the same matter-of-fact way, as if it were 
 an eyery-day affair to have his study invaded by severe- 
 looking young ladies. 
 
 " I want you to see him, please, at once," she continued 
 to Dr. Danforth. 
 
 The complete absence of self-consciousness in her 
 manner, combined with what Ledyard concluded to be a 
 natural imperiousness of tone, appeared to operate like 
 a spell upon Danforth's more deliberate temperament.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 53 
 
 " I will go at once," he answered, suiting the action to 
 the word. 
 
 Cynthia looked at Ledyard. 
 
 " Shall I come, too ?" he asked, gravely, not sure 
 whe'her he were correctly interpreting the glance. 
 
 " Would it be a trouble ?" she answered, with more of 
 hesitation in her manner than she had shown at all. 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " I think he might like to see you," she said, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 Ledyard was surprised, having his own little theory 
 of Miss Arkwright's want of faith, while Danforth, who 
 shared the popular impression that, although eccentric 
 in her disregard of forms, she was a Roman Catholic, 
 was equally astonished. However, she had been at 
 his church, Ledyard reflected. Indeed, it was a fact he 
 never forgot. 
 
 " Pray let me come," he said, aloud. 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 Danforth was already outside the door, and Cynthia 
 only dropped these words over her shoulder as she fol- 
 lowed him, but Ledyard was not discouraged. In a 
 moment he had joined them, and all three were descend- 
 ing the hill by a narrow pathway, Cynthia gliding on 
 ahead with great rapidity, as though intending to show 
 the way. 
 
 " Can you not tell me where the house is, Miss Ark- 
 wright? It is surely not necessary that you should go 
 yourself," said Danforth, in a tone of remonstrance. 
 
 " I can," she replied ; " but I am going back at any 
 rate. They are very helpless. There was no intelligent 
 person to send for you, or I should not have left them." 
 
 " Has the boy been ill long?" asked the doctor. 
 
 "Oh, no; he was hurt in the mill only this evening. 
 They came and told me at once." 
 
 " Ah ! I see. He is one of your scholars, perhaps?" 
 
 " He is one of the boys of my reading-class." 
 
 There was no more said. They all moved on in 
 silence.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 As he watched the tall, graceful figure of Cynthia 
 Arkwright flitting before him through the darkness, 
 Ledyard felt almost inclined to doubt whether he were 
 sleeping or waking. His thoughts had centred round 
 the thought of her and of her strange story for so many 
 weeks, in which she herself had seemed as unap- 
 proachable as a cloud at sunrise, that he could hardly 
 believe that the distant vision had drawn near in this 
 simply human form, and had even stooped to appeal 
 to him, whose opinions she had seemed so plainly to 
 disdain. 
 
 He remembered how he had thought of her only this 
 very evening in connection with his failure to attract the 
 really needy of his congregation to listen to him, so that 
 it almost seemed as if her summons were a direct answer 
 to his ardent wish to do his duty in a direction in which 
 she alone could help him. 
 
 Meanwhile he and Danforth followed their guide down 
 the hill, through the village, across the bridge, and turned 
 abruptly to the left, taking a road which passed along 
 the farther bank of the river and led between two of the 
 large factory buildings to where a number of small houses 
 stood close together and closer still to the water's edge. 
 Indeed, they were built on a narrow strip of land which 
 separated the shallow river from the swift- flowing mill- 
 dam, and only connected with the road by here and there 
 a slender bridge. 
 
 Cynthia crossed one of these bridges accompanied by 
 her companions, and quietly opened the door of the 
 house nearest, from which a feeble light shone out into 
 the darkness. Danforth and Ledyard hastened to enter. 
 The room in which they found themselves comprised the 
 whole lower story of the dwelling. A small cooking- 
 stove at one side showed a few glowing embers, before
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 55 
 
 which was a group of four children, the largest of whom 
 could hardly have been seven years old. She was seated 
 on a three-legged stool, with her foot on the rocker of a 
 cradle in which were two babies, one not old enough to 
 walk, and the other two years old, perhaps. The younger, 
 a poor, thin little creature, lay fast asleep with its head 
 in the lap of the older baby, who sat bolt upright, look- 
 ing supernatu rally solemn as it seemed, while a little chap 
 of about five lay on the floor beside the others, kicking 
 his heels in the air and munching a bit of bread. 
 
 The oldest person in the room was a girl of ten or 
 eleven, who stood beside a narrow bed on the opposite 
 side of the entrance, the head of which was placed in the 
 shadow of a rough wooden staircase. Here lay the lad 
 who was hurt, his face thus shaded from the light of a 
 candle stuck into the mouth of a bottle that stood on the 
 table. He looked fearfully pale in the semi-darkness. 
 His eyes were closed, and he moved from side to side as 
 though in pain. 
 
 Miss Arkwright approached the bed, where a patch- 
 work quilt covered the restless little figure, and spoke 
 a word or two softly to the girl, calling her by name. 
 Danforth took the candle from the table and came be- 
 hind Cynthia. As its light fell on him the boy opened 
 his eyes with a look of fear. 
 
 " Go away, Tommy. Stop spying at me, will you ? 
 I ain't a-goin' to die yet !" he cried, in a hoarse whisper. 
 " Oh, it's you," he added, in an altered tone, indicative 
 of great relief, as his eyes met those of Cynthia. " I 
 thought you wasn't never coming back," he added, 
 stretching out his hand eagerly. She took it and stroked 
 it gently. 
 
 There was nothing to be done. Danforth's examina- 
 tion, which lasted only a few minutes, quite satisfied him 
 of that. The child had fallen through a hole in the 
 flooring intended for the passage of a wide leather belt, 
 which happened not to be in place at the time, as it was 
 just after work had stepped, his sister said. He had been 
 twisted in his fall, and had come in collision with the edge
 
 56 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 of the great iron wheel round which the band was meant to 
 fit, while the wheel was still in motion, although revolving 
 with slackened speed. His fall was thus precipitated, 
 and he was dashed upon the ground with so much force 
 as to be picked up senseless. 
 
 There were two ribs broken, Danforth said, and there 
 were internal injuries, he told Ledyard, from which it was 
 impossible that the poor child could recover. They both 
 looked pityingly at Miss Arkwright, for it was evident 
 that her heart was very tender towards the helpless chil- 
 dren. She seemed prepared for the worst, however, and 
 when she was warned only begged Danforth to give the 
 boy something which would spare him pain. Before he 
 took the anodyne, however, she stooped down and whis- 
 pered to him. 
 
 " Is that the parson ?" he asked, turning his haggard 
 eyes towards Ledyard. 
 
 " Yes, the new parson, who told of those things you 
 wanted to know more about. It was in your first sermon 
 here, Mr. Ledyard," continued Miss Arkwright, turning 
 hurriedly to Richard, " that you spoke of the effect of a 
 good example in little things, and of the difference be- 
 tween being an example and following one. I was telling 
 my boys about it afterwards ; you know they do not go 
 to church." 
 
 " I know. I wish they did." 
 
 She made no direct answer, but only added, " Jimmy 
 wanted to have an example more fully explained than I 
 could explain it. I think it might comfort him." She 
 turned away as she spoke, and Ledyard took her place, 
 and talked to the boy gently for a few minutes. 
 
 " Was an example a thing for yourself or for some one 
 else ?" Jim wished to know, and being told that it was 
 for some one else, asked, " Suppose the person didn't 
 want it ?" 
 
 Ledyard smiled, and assured Jimmy that one could net 
 be certain of that, as the other person might need a good 
 example all the more because he did not know that he 
 wanted it. " Of whom were you thinking?" he added.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 57 
 
 The child was silent for a moment. He was in great 
 suffering, one could see by the fixedness of his white, 
 closed lips. Presently he glanced up at Ledyard's com- 
 passionate face, and something in its expression seemed 
 to give him confidence. 
 
 " I was thinkin' of father," he admitted. " Father ain't 
 got no good example, 'cause mother's dead." 
 
 " And did you want to set him one, my boy ?" 
 
 " I'd 'a' liked to try, but where's the use ? I can't do 
 nothin' now, 'cause I'm goin* to die." 
 
 " You are doing something just at this moment," said 
 Ledyard, gravely. 
 
 " What's that ?" asked Jim, with a startled look. 
 
 " You are bearing pain without complaint, and think- 
 ing of others rather than of yourself." 
 
 " But where's the use ?" 
 
 " It is brave to bear it so, and sets an example which 
 is good for others." 
 
 " I don't see no use in that, when I'm goin' to die." 
 
 Ledyard told him that when a person died his ex- 
 ample was even more apt to be remembered than when 
 he lived, and said that he thought his brothers and 
 sisters and father, too, would all remember him in years 
 to come. 
 
 " Like I done mother ?'" asked Jim, thoughtfully. 
 
 " Yes, just as you have remembered your mother." 
 And Ledyard went on to speak of the greatest of all 
 examples which had been set to mankind, and of the 
 centuries through which it had lasted. 
 
 Jimmy was still suffering torture, as one could see by 
 the constant movement of the little body beneath the 
 patched bed-quilt, but he looked eagerly up, seeming to 
 cling to every word that Ledyard spoke. A little later 
 Ledyard knelt down beside the boy and repeated the 
 prayer " for a sick child." 
 
 Then the morphia was given, and the restless limbs 
 grew gradually still. 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot stay," said Danforth. " I have 
 several people to see to-night ; but I will come in again
 
 eg BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 in a couple of hours and renew the dose. You will let 
 me take you home now, Miss Arkwright? There is 
 nothing more to be done," he added, in a lower tone. 
 
 " Thank you, doctor ; I am not going home," she an- 
 swered, briefly. 
 
 The doctor looked about him anxiously. 
 
 " Where is your father ?" he said to the girl. 
 
 " I don't know. He ain't come in yet." 
 
 Danforth glanced meaningly at Ledyard. 
 
 " The man drinks," he said, laconically. 
 
 "You had better go, Miss Arkwright," said Led- 
 yard. " I will stay and watch the boy. Trust him to 
 me." 
 
 " I have told you that you can do no good by stay- 
 ing," added Danforth, impatiently. 
 
 Cynthia looked surprised. She had seated herself 
 beside the bed, and laid her hand on the boy's forehead. 
 She simply said, 
 
 " I promised Jimmy that I would not leave him," 
 speaking quietly, and rather coldly. 
 
 " In that case I shall stay also," said Ledyard. And 
 so it was settled. 
 
 Jimmy lay quite still after Danforth went away, and 
 Cynthia remained silently beside him. Ledyard sat for 
 a long while on a broken chair in one corner of the 
 room, idly watching the children before the fire. They 
 were very still. On closer scrutiny he perceived that 
 the absorbing object of the little sister on the stool 
 was to keep the sleeping baby from awaking, and that 
 her anxiety in this respect seemed fully shared by the 
 larger baby, which, young as it might be, was bending 
 every effort not to stir in its seat, lest it should disturb 
 its younger brother. To this end it held one tiny little 
 hand clasped tightly in the other, as though afraid of 
 being betrayed into some unintentional movement, while 
 the slow, monotonous swing of the cradle constantly 
 kept up by the reiterated pressure of the sister's foot 
 upon the rocker caused its large infant head to nod to 
 and fro with a look of sleepy wisdom that would have
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 59 
 
 been amusing to Ledyard had it not struck him as 
 infinitely pathetic. 
 
 The only dissenter from the common spirit of the 
 group was the kicking boy. This little urchin, al- 
 though he refrained from outcry through the earnest 
 solicitation of the oldest sister, Anastasia, was never 
 quiet for one moment. He would occasionally give a 
 sly poke to the cradle when he thought his sister 
 Mary, who was second in command, was not looking ; 
 while once when she got to her feet to tuck the cover- 
 ing around the others, he pulled her stool away, and then 
 crept off to a corner to enjoy the catastrophe. This was 
 averted only by the interference of Ledyard, who took 
 the mischievous little lad on his knee, and tried to 
 occupy his attention more wholesomely. 
 
 By and by all but the sleeping infant, who it was 
 agreed should not be roused, had disappeared up the 
 winding stair. Ledyard had taken his place by the 
 bedside, and Cynthia was rocking the baby, when they 
 heard the sound of shuffling footsteps and a heavy 
 thump against the door, which burst open to admit 
 a rather well-featured young man of about middle height, 
 with stupid staring eyes and a very red face. 
 
 He looked at the boy in the bed which was generally 
 his own, and at the two strangers who had taken pos- 
 session of his abode, with drunken amazement. Led- 
 yard made a sign to Miss Arkwright not to move or 
 speak. The man continued to stare about him for some 
 moments, and then solemnly shook his head. The situ- 
 ation was certainly extraordinary, but he had probably 
 met with a number of other peculiar appearances in the 
 course of his circuitous walk homeward, and, as neither 
 the injured boy nor the watchers took the slightest notice 
 of his entrance, he slunk away with a silly smile to the 
 corner nearest to the fire and sat down on a bench, 
 where he stretched out his legs and remained gazing 
 before him for some moments, until gradually his head 
 sank on his breast and he fell asleep. 
 
 This was the best thing that could have happened.
 
 60 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Cynthia rose and closed the door, which he h^l left 
 ajar, and came beside Ledyard. There had been no 
 words between them, but in some way there was estab- 
 lished a perfectly practical understanding. The boy had 
 grown restless again, and needed all their attention to 
 alleviate his suffering. They consulted on the subject of 
 the anodyne, which had been ordered to be given again 
 if needed, and decided on a modified dose. 
 
 An hour later, when the doctor returned, they were 
 still at their post. Jimmy was breathing with more and 
 more difficulty, but was happily unconscious. The sound 
 of Danforth's entrance had aroused his oldest sister, who 
 came stealing down-stairs. It also aroused another 
 sleeper. The drunken man by the fire had awakened, 
 and was looking at them with puzzled disapproval, when, 
 suddenly recognizing the doctor, he seemed for the first 
 time to realize the full meaning of what he saw. He 
 crossed the room with uneven steps, and, grasping Dan- 
 forth by the arm, pointed with an expression between 
 distress and fear at his dying son. 
 
 " Doctor, it wasn't Jim that was hurt on the wheel ?" 
 he cried. " I heard a boy was killed to-night ; it wasn't 
 Jim?" he added, in a tone which aroused involuntary 
 pity in the by-standers. Before Danforth could answer, 
 Ledyard had arisen and laid his hand gently on the 
 man's shoulder. 
 
 " It was a mistake about his being killed" he said, 
 quickly. " The boy was hurt, but is still living. We 
 are all here to take care of him and to help you." 
 
 " You mean that it was Jim ?" asked the father, look- 
 ing from one to the other with growing certainty. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Baker," said Cynthia, in a pitying, thrilling 
 voice, " Mr. Ledyard means that it was Jim." 
 
 Just at this moment the boy opened his eyes and 
 looked full in the man's face with an odd reproduction 
 of the same emotions of distress and fear which he had 
 shown himself, but merging into a sort of tender shame, 
 that revealed his habitual state of feeling towards his 
 father.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 6 1 
 
 "I'm a-goin' to die, father," he said, slowly "The 
 parson says I can be an example all the same, but I 
 don't know what of. Ef I'd lived, I know I might 'a' ben. 
 That is, not a downright good un, but I wanted to 'a' 
 helped you, father, and it ain't no use." 
 
 He stopped, exhausted, but stretched his hands 
 towards his father. Cynthia put her arm round him 
 and raised him up a little. Her tears were silently rain- 
 ing down. Ledyard stood by her. Danforth had 
 walked away. The man, with his face now ghastly pale, 
 crept towards his son, knelt down with awkward passion, 
 and pressed the child's hands against his cheeks. 
 
 They saw that the boy still knew him, for his face 
 changed. A look of great peacefulness dawned on it, and 
 he said distinctly, " I shan't forget you, father no more 
 thrui I did mother." The last words came very faintly. 
 There was no sound for a moment but the poor man's 
 sobs and those of his oldest daughter, who had pressed 
 close to his side. Then the doctor laid a hand on the 
 child's forehead, and looked compassionately at Cynthia. 
 
 There was a struggle beneath the bedclothes, a slight 
 stir in the group about him, and the boy was dead. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AN evening or two afterwards, Ledyard was returning 
 from a long walk on the farther bank of the river. He 
 was beginning to think that he had been rather hasty 
 in his judgment of Dundaff and its surroundings, for 
 with the coming of spring a wonderful sweetness was 
 breathed into the air. Birds began to sing, and blossoms 
 to unfold like magic. The blue of the river had grown 
 steadily bluer. He met the village children coming 
 from the woods with great bunches of anemones and 
 violtls, and white daisies nodded amid the grass along 
 the water's edge. 
 
 6
 
 62 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Richard, who had passed the last two years of his life 
 among the narrowest and dirtiest streets of a great city, 
 enjoyed these unwonted sights and sounds to a degree 
 which surprised himself. He found that the regular 
 habits of work and exercise into which he had uncon- 
 sciously fallen lent new vigor to his frame, and thus 
 it happened that as the sunset on the leafy hill-sides 
 gleamed fitfully across the dashing river, swollen with 
 winter's rain, this mellow afternoon, his heart grew 
 strangely light and hopeful, despite a feeling of indig- 
 nation with which he was struggling when he set out 
 on his walk, at certain unkind things which he had 
 heard said the night before with regard to Miss Ark- 
 w right. 
 
 He had been dining at Camelot, where the subject 
 of this lady's shortcomings was always a welcome one to 
 Mrs. Betterton, who, when brought to book, could find 
 no better reason for her severe strictures than the well- 
 known fact that Cynthia did not go to church. How 
 strange it was, thought Ledyard, that so noble a char- 
 acter as hers could be so misunderstood ! His sym- 
 pathy may indeed have been more keen than the situa- 
 tion demanded, for it is probable that Miss Arkwright 
 had grown used to the disapprobation of the community 
 in which she lived, in this respect as in many others ; nor 
 did he do justice to the effort which his hostess at 
 Camelot declared herself to have made to judge of the 
 subject unprejudicedly. Mrs. Betterton had been loud 
 in the assurance that she did not expect Miss Arkwright 
 to go to the Episcopal church " like other people," but 
 why was she not gathered into the flock to which she 
 belonged ? Mass and vespers followed each other in the 
 Roman Catholic chapel with fitting regularity, and what 
 excuse could she give for sitting quietly at her window, 
 with a book in her hand, " not a sacred-looking book, 
 at that/' while all Dundaff passed along the road within 
 a stone's throw of her retirement to its various places of 
 worship ? 
 
 Ledyard, who fancied that he held the clue to this
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 63 
 
 seemingly inconsistent conduct, rather respected her for 
 it. He had not seen Miss Arkwright since the death of 
 her little scholar, but had had several interviews with 
 Andrew Baker, the boy's father, and, being distinctly 
 anti-pessimistic in temperament, was hopeful of helping 
 the man to a better way of living. 
 
 As he approached the factory buildings he saw a dark 
 figure flit across the narrow bridge which spanned the 
 mill-dam and turn into the road a few yards in advance 
 of him. Instinctively he fell back a little, with an un- 
 wonted sense of shyness, even before he was sure that 
 the figure was that of Cynthia Arkwright, and then, con- 
 demning his own absurdity as he became certain of her 
 identity, he hastened forward, but too late, for at the 
 same moment another figure, that of a man, which 
 loomed up tall and massive amid the growing shadows, 
 stepped out from the side of the road, where he seemed 
 to have been lingering beneath the overhanging rocks, 
 and joined her. 
 
 The forward movement to which Ledyard had com- 
 mitted himself brought him abreast of them in the wide 
 road just as Miss Arkwright became aware of the other 
 person's presence, and evidently recognized him, starting 
 away as she did so with a sharply-drawn breath that 
 had almost been a cry. She was so agitated that she 
 did not see Richard, who passed rapidly on with a sense 
 of disappointment. 
 
 It was not until he had left her some yards behind 
 him that he recovered sufficiently from this feeling to 
 reflect that there had been something very unusual in 
 Cynthia's manner of greeting her would-be companion, 
 and that possibly his presence was not agreeable to her. 
 Ledyard glanced back uneasily, and perceived, to his sur- 
 prise, that the two figures had come to a dead halt in the 
 middle of the road. It even seemed as if one of them 
 that of the man were barring the further progress of 
 the other. Ledyard stopped too. The woman was 
 speaking in a clear, decided tone which brought her 
 words to him.
 
 64 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " I have shown you plainly, Lieutenant Henderson, 
 that I did not wish to hold any communication with 
 you," she was saying. 
 
 " And I have endeavored to show you that I was un- 
 willing to accept any such fiat," was the answer ; " yet it 
 seems that I surprised forgive me if I startled you." 
 
 " I little dreamed that you would lie in wait for me," 
 she replied, indignantly. 
 
 " Have you left me any other resort ? Surely, surely, 
 Cynthia, you will explain to me your strange presence 
 here ? You will tell me something of your life ?" con- 
 tinued the voice with a note of earnest entreaty, which 
 changed its whole character. 
 
 " I do not consider that you are concerned with my 
 life," she answered, coldly. 
 
 " God of heaven !" he cried, passionately. " I only 
 wish that you were not concerned with mine ! By what 
 excuse do you refuse all communication with me now ? 
 Have I not done what you asked ? Are you not 
 satisfied with the ruin you have made of me?" 
 
 There was a silence, in which it seemed to Ledyard 
 that the very sounds of the night were hushed. He felt 
 in some occult way that it was filled with a mental 
 struggle before Cynthia spoke again. 
 
 " Have you a right to say I ruined your life?" she 
 asked, in a sad tone, out of which anger had gone. 
 
 " I have to you" Ledyard heard in answer, and stayed 
 to hear no more. Whatever the cause of Miss Ark- 
 wright's consternation at the meeting, or the unusual 
 position which they seemed to hold towards one another, 
 it was evident that no interference on his part would be 
 welcomed by either, and he had lingered longer than he 
 liked as a mere listener. 
 
 He wondered at the state of suppressed excitement in 
 which he reached the parsonage, and called himself a 
 fool more than once in the course of the evening, when 
 his thoughts would stray with anxious interest to the 
 strange interview which he had surprised. 
 
 Cynthia meanwhile had assumed an attitude which
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 65 
 
 would, had he seen it, have led to still further perplexity, 
 for, feeling a sudden sense of helplessness, such as her 
 nature had rarely experienced, she clasped her hands 
 together and lifted them towards Henderson, after his 
 last words, with a look of entreaty. 
 
 " Pray, pray do not force me to speak of the past," 
 she pleaded. " I beg of you to stand aside and let me 
 go in peace." 
 
 He did so instantly, leaving the way clear for her to 
 pass on. Perhaps this very compliance, or something in 
 his face at the movement, softened her resolution, how- 
 ever, for before she availed herself of her liberty she 
 hesitated and looked at him again. 
 
 " You wish to leave me," he asked, reproachfully, 
 " without a word of explanation ?" 
 
 " What is there to explain ?" 
 
 " Why did you leave the convent ?" 
 
 There was another pause. 
 
 " Things there troubled me after I became a nun," 
 she said, at last. " I heard of my father's illness, and 
 wished to go to him, but knew I could not. They said 
 I could not without a dispensation, for I had taken full 
 orders." 
 
 " Poor child !" He stretched his hand towards her 
 impulsively, then drew it back. " Go on," he said. 
 
 " I fell ill with fever, and imagined in my delirium that 
 it was but the want of the archbishop's permission which 
 prevented me from seeing my father. I prayed them 
 day and night to let me go to him, until they lost all 
 patience. I was desperately ill. They thought me at 
 death's door, and yet there was a chance of life, as there 
 often is in those malarial fevers, and so they sent me 
 home, only to find that my father had been dead a month, 
 and that they had shipped me off like any useless thing. 
 I longed for death, but yet I could not die. It was my 
 faithful old Marjory who nursed me back to life, and I 
 tried to be grateful, but existence was no great boon to 
 me." 
 
 There was a pause. Henderson heaved a deep sigh.
 
 66 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " It was almost like returning from the grave," he said. 
 " It must have been terrible to see the house." 
 
 " Think of it !" she burst out, passionately. " Think 
 of seeing the room my father died in, and knowing that 
 he longed for me as I had longed for him ! I believe 
 that I should have gone mad, but that my dear aunt, the 
 only other person besides Marjory who knew of my re- 
 turn, brought me here to shelter me and give me a home." 
 
 " Did none of your other relations discover your 
 whereabouts? How happened it to be hidden from 
 Mrs. Arkwright, from all your friends, and from my 
 aunt ?" 
 
 " You forget that, except Miss Pinsley and my half- 
 sister, who was my father's chosen heir, I had no real 
 relations left. Nathalie was in Europe with my step- 
 mother and her family. They all gathered together their 
 things and went abroad as soon as my poor father was 
 dead. There was no one living in my old home by the 
 time I got there but the faithful servant of whom I 
 speak. It was in the late summer, as it chanced, when 
 friends are scattered, and as soon as I was able I came 
 here." 
 
 " Still, you could have written. You must have had 
 some motive for your silence ?" 
 
 " My inaction might as readily be accounted for by a 
 want of motive," she said, quietly. " When Mrs. Ark- 
 wright returned from foreign travel, Aunt Pinsley and I 
 consulted together, but did not feel that she and her 
 daughters had any special claim on my confidence. 
 Nathalie might have been made very uncomfortable by 
 the knowledge of my existence outside the cloister, as 
 my father had left all his property to her, but beyond 
 this it would have concerned them little." 
 
 " So you gave up your birthright, your legal inheri- 
 tance, knowing that your father's will had been made 
 under a false belief?" 
 
 " Yes, for I had no wish to correct that belief in the 
 mind of any one, and I feared Mrs. Arkwright would not 
 respect my desire to remain secluded."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 6/ 
 
 " But my aunt, Mrs. Pelham, who so loved and trusted 
 you ! Would she not have been likely to respect any 
 wish you had ? Had she not some claim upon your con- 
 fidence ?" he asked, reproachfully. 
 
 " She had, indeed !" cried Cynthia, urged to speak im- 
 pulsively, and a little taken off her guard by this appeal 
 to her loyalty. " Mrs. Pelham was always dear to me. 
 She is now my best-loved friend on earth, but she, too, 
 was abroad, and has been ever since. I should have had 
 to write, and then I knew, I feared, in fact, I was sure 
 it would be impossible for her to accept and hold my con- 
 fidence. If I wrote to her of my being here, it would 
 almost inevitably reach the ears of others." She began 
 to move forward as she spoke, and he moved on beside 
 her as in a dream. 
 
 " Ah, that was it !" he cried. " I see your motive now. 
 You wished, of all things, to keep me ignorant of your 
 return! Was not that why you. never wrote to Mrs. 
 Pelham, why you chose this retired life?" His tone 
 showed that he was deeply moved. 
 
 " It was one of my reasons, perhaps," she answered, 
 cautiously ; " but there were many why I did not want to 
 become a subject of further speculation in the world 
 which I had left, or to lead by my reappearance to the 
 opening of old wounds." She spoke with calmness, but 
 there was a faint tremor in her voice which he was quick 
 to detect. 
 
 " And you have lived here for years, and I at times so 
 near, while I thought you in a nunnery !" he exclaimed, 
 with ill-suppressed emotion. 
 
 " Yes. I have been here for seven years, and they 
 have seemed longer. I am much changed," she an- 
 swered. " I shall write to Mrs. Pelham now," she re- 
 sumed after a moment's pause, as though anxious for a 
 change of subject. " If she must hear of me again it 
 should be from myself." 
 
 " There is no such must" Henderson said, quickly. " I 
 will tell no one of your being here whom you do not 
 wish to have hear of it. It shall be an absolute secret,
 
 68 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 if you say so. I owe you that much at least, after in- 
 sisting on this interview." 
 
 Miss Arkwright did not answer for a moment, in which 
 she looked steadily before her with contracted brow. She 
 was evidently anxious and perplexed as to the wisest 
 course to take, but it probably occurred to her that since 
 her retreat had been discovered by Henderson, to allow 
 it to be known to him alone of all her former world 
 would be to put herself in a false position. 
 
 " No," she said at last. " It is Fate, or the will of 
 God, which has betrayed my place of refuge. I cannot 
 hide it any longer." 
 
 " And what do you in your religion make of the 
 strange coincidence of my being led, by my uncle's 
 legacy, to this very neighborhood to live, while believing 
 you to be far away ?" 
 
 " So far as I can be said to have a religion, it does not 
 require me to explain that fact," she answered, wtth a 
 return to the colder tone in which she had first spoken. 
 
 He had learned already that it was a mere weapon 
 of defence, and he hesitated to break it, with a mo- 
 mentary touch of compunction, which soon passed. 
 
 " Yet you said just now," he pursued, " that it was 
 Fate or the will of God which had betrayed your secret." 
 
 " I was wrong. I should not have spoken as if the 
 will of God concerned itself with such small matters." 
 
 " You will blame my less elevated mind that I can- 
 not look on the circumstance in the same light," he 
 said, presently. " To me it is not a small matter that 
 I am to be in daily and hourly temptation. Such faith 
 as I have leads me to tremble at the prospect." 
 
 " There is no such prospect," she said, indignantly. 
 
 " You will say next that there is no temptation," he 
 answered, realizing quite distinctly as he did so that 
 he was saying what he should not say; then, seeing 
 that her lips tightened and her pace quickened, with 
 an evident determination not to answer, he grew harder 
 and more reckless. 
 
 " Come, how do you account for this arrangement of
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 69 
 
 Providence ?" he cried, scornfully. " Surely you have 
 not lost faith in your fetich, you have not given up 
 your special creed? Are not you and I of as much 
 account as sparrows ?" 
 
 " I have not lost faith in God," she answered, sol 
 emnly. 
 
 " And the Catholic Church ?" 
 
 " I have learned to think it like any other church." 
 
 He could hardly believe that he heard aright. 
 
 " You are changed indeed !" he exclaimed, astonished, 
 even shocked, as he realized the extent of the inward 
 upheaval which could have led to such a transformation, 
 for, little as he had sympathized with her religious con- 
 victions, he knew that they had been as a part of herself. 
 
 " Yes, as I have told you, I am changed in every- 
 thing." 
 
 They were just entering the village, and as she spoke 
 she turned towards him with a look of quiet decision. 
 " We must part now," she said, " and it is fully understood 
 between us, whether from your point of view or mine, 
 that it is wise we should, and that we are not to meet 
 again." 
 
 " Not ever ?" 
 
 " Never, when it can be avoided by either of us." 
 
 " And when it cannot ?" 
 
 " If such an occasion should arise, we must meet like 
 any common acquaintances, of course." 
 
 " And there your interest in what concerns me ends ?" 
 His tone was one of intense bitterness. 
 
 She did not answer for some moments. Then she 
 said, " I should be glad to know something of your life, 
 but that I think it must not be." 
 
 " Why must it not ?" 
 
 " It cannot be, consistently with the life I wish to live." 
 
 " Ah ! You did not explain to me before what your 
 point of view was. I see : it is that of conventionality." 
 
 " You may call it so. I certainly choose to live alone, 
 and do not choose to receive any visits. You may con- 
 sider me a sacrifice to conventionality, if you please, or
 
 70 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 join with the majority of my world, which cries out upon 
 me for being unconventional." 
 
 " I have not been especially honored, then, in being 
 denied your door?" he demanded. 
 
 " Except in having been denied more often than many 
 people," she responded. 
 
 . " Which distinction I have made for myself. Is that 
 It?" he asked, glancing at her half tenderly, half humor- 
 ously, yet speaking sadly. 
 
 She answered with a smile, but did not meet his eyes 
 or speak. 
 
 " Most people are more ready to believe that you do 
 not wish to see them than I have appeared to be ?" he 
 continued to question, still in a mocking tone, although 
 his voice shook in spite of his effort to control it, and 
 something in the uncertain sound, which her quick ear 
 caught, served to make her grave again. 
 
 She bowed her head in silence. 
 
 He looked at her earnestly for a moment, raised his 
 hat, and was gone. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Miss ARKWRIGHT pleaded headache the next morning 
 when old Marjory came to open her blinds. It was so 
 unusual a complaint from her mistress that the old ser- 
 vant looked at her in dismay, but as no explanation was 
 offered and no encouragement yielded to her suggestions 
 of remedies, she shook her head solemnly and left her 
 to herself, which was all that Cynthia wanted. She rose 
 from bed, indeed, and made a hasty toilet as soon as 
 Marjory went away, but she remained in her chamber. 
 
 She let it be understood that she did not wish to be 
 disturbed all day, and, even when her little sewing-class 
 came in the afternoon, bade Marjory give them their 
 work and say that one of them might read to the others
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. Jl 
 
 out of the story-book with which she usually beguiled 
 the hour. 
 
 Richard Ledyard, happening to pass the cottage at a 
 little after three o'clock, on his way to see the wife of a 
 poor farmer, to whose bedside he had been summoned, 
 was attracted by the sound of childish laughter coming 
 through the open window at the side near which his 
 path led, and peeped in, to see the little maidens seated 
 in an irregular circle, each intent upon her work, until 
 some blunder of the reader, which struck her auditors as 
 unusually funny, caused a sudden explosion that ran the 
 whole length of the line, followed by great confusion, 
 covering of mouths with backs of hands, rubbing of 
 noses with sleeves or aprons, and shy glances at the re- 
 treating form of Marjory, who was in the act of slipping 
 away to her culinary sanctum in a manner which she 
 fancied unobserved. Soon Ledyard, too, was gone, and 
 the sewing and reading went on uninterruptedly for an 
 hour longer. 
 
 In the breezy chamber overhead Cynthia sat quite 
 still. The murmur of the river far down in its rocky 
 bed might be heard through the open windows, and the 
 gentle tapping of a rose-vine against the closed blinds. 
 She could see the sunlight chasing the fleeting shadows 
 across the matting on her floor, and the low sound of 
 the children's voices came faintly from below ; but all 
 the time that she heard and saw these things with un- 
 listening ears and half-closed eyes her mind was busy 
 with anxious thought. A problem had suddenly pre- 
 sented itself in the even course of the unchanging life to 
 which she had accustomed herself to look forward as 
 likely to last for years, and what was she to do ? 
 
 To be sure, her present position was not so completely 
 unexpected as if it had never been conceived of as pos- 
 sible. When the rumor first reached her that Millard 
 Henderson, as his uncle's heir, was coming to Dun- 
 daff, she had indeed been surprised at the mingled fear 
 and agitation which she felt at the thought of seeing 
 him again; but long and fierce had been her struggle
 
 72 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 with herself; and when she knew that he was actually 
 coming to live at Dundaff, with his wife and child, she had 
 so far succeeded in forcing the common-sense view of the 
 matter on her excited fancy as to be convinced that if 
 they met at all ;t would be as strangers, or acquaint- 
 ances of a time long past 
 
 She was the more assured of this when he was come 
 to Dundaff, when he was absolutely settled at Fernwood, 
 and was known to ride down to the factory every day 
 and hold long consultations with Mr. Betterton as to 
 certain innovations which he was bent upon making in 
 the old system of things at the mills. In truth, so satis- 
 fied was she of the absurdity of the fears which had 
 haunted her, that she no longer looked forward to the 
 probability of any special embarrassment as likely to 
 result from a chance encounter. She even conceived 
 the idea that she would like to see him again, but not 
 where she would be seen by him. She only wished to 
 see him, indeed, in such a way as to be sure of not being 
 seen in her turn ; and having heard that Henderson was 
 much interested in the coming of the new rector to St 
 Andrew's, it occurred to her that by mingling with the 
 crowd that was hastening to church to hear Mr. Led- 
 yard deliver his first sermon, she would have the oppor- 
 tunity she wished. 
 
 She did not attempt to cheat herself into the belief 
 that she shared the curiosity of the villagers with regard 
 to Mr. Ledyard. She was honest enough to own her 
 weakness before she yielded to it, nor had she repented. 
 As she sat in church that Sunday she looked long and 
 attentively at Millard Henderson from her distant corner, 
 noting every alteration which time had wrought, with a 
 woman's quick eye for change, in one she had loved, 
 without feeling that she was wronging any one, or ex- 
 periencing any diminution of self-respect. In addition 
 to this, she was unexpectedly pleased by the simplicity 
 and earnestness of Mr. Ledyard's manner, and was in- 
 terested, in spite of her prejudices, by many of the views 
 he held. Indeed, so sincerely did she like him as a
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 73 
 
 man, that she felt great pity for him as a believer whose 
 belief, as she imagined, was doomed to disaster. 
 
 Right deftly had she extricated herself from the rest 
 of the congregation when church was over, fancjnng that 
 she had succeeded entirely in eluding observation, and 
 was rejoicing that she had not been seen either there, or 
 on her way thence, and was once more safely in her 
 sheltered home, when the chance of an idle whim, which 
 led the unconscious Henderson to invade her solitude, 
 brought them suddenly face to face. After the electric 
 flash of recognition which passed between them in that 
 instant, she fully realized that there would be pain for both 
 in a second meeting, and she had taken the most strenuous 
 means in her power to guard against it, but, in spite of 
 every precaution on her part, it had come, and now what 
 was she to do ? 
 
 This was the question which kept recurring to her 
 puzzled brain. To be sure, Millard Henderson had 
 seemed to acquiesce in her decision that they should 
 avoid one another in future, but his way of doing so, 
 and some things which he had said, showed only too 
 plainly that he did not think such avoidance would be 
 possible, if they both continued to live in so small a 
 place. Therefore, something must be done ! She dis- 
 tinctly saw that she was called upon to take some de- 
 cided step, and at last she formed a resolve, although it 
 cost her dear. 
 
 She could not have believed that her quiet life, her 
 country walks, her earnest work among the poor, would 
 have come to be so a part of her own individuality, that 
 to leave Dundaff seemed almost painful in anticipa- 
 tion, yet so it was, and thus had she resolved. On the 
 writing-desk near which she sat lay a letter addressed 
 to Mrs. Pelham, which she had begun the night before. 
 The chords of old association had been set vibrating by 
 her interview with Henderson, and the reason for her 
 long silence having also been removed, she had felt a 
 keen desire to confess all to her friend. It was true that 
 even now she could not explain why she had said 
 D 7
 
 74 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 nothing in all these seven years, during which Mrs. 
 Pel ham, as well as Cynthia, had passed through such 
 deep affliction, but she spoke quite frankly of the events 
 which had led to her leaving the convent, and of the 
 secluded life which she had since preferred to live, and, 
 in pursuance of her resolution, added that she thought 
 she would be " better" for a change of scene. She had 
 a little money, she stated; she could raise more by 
 renting the house, which had belonged to her aunt, for 
 Dundaff was growing, and houses were in demand. She 
 thought she would like to travel. Would Mrs. Pelham be 
 willing that her old friend Cynthia should join her abroad ? 
 
 When the letter was finished she read it over carefully, 
 and was about to seal it and send it to the post, when she 
 remembered that she had not asked Henderson his 
 aunt's address. Here was a new dilemma with which, 
 with her aching head, she did not feel equal to cope. 
 She rang for a bit of toast and a strong cup of tea, de- 
 termining to lay the letter aside and see what fresh air 
 would do for her overwrought nerves. 
 
 Thus it happened that, returning from his errand of 
 mercy, Richard Ledyard had the good fortune to see 
 Miss Ark wright sallying forth as though bent on a 
 ramble through the woods, and was not long in gaining 
 her side and asking if he might accompany her. The 
 request was granted in the same easy, natural way in 
 which it was made. They crossed the high-road and 
 continued along the brow of the hill, which overlooked 
 the river, between groups of tall chestnut-trees, to where 
 their path took a sudden bend to the right, plunging 
 downwards amid a tangled mass of undergrowth, to a 
 narrow steep ravine, at the bottom of which a slender 
 stream stole swiftly towards the river, catching here and 
 there the light of the sinking sun between the shadows 
 of the leaves. They had both been very silent thus far, 
 and Ledyard had unconsciously taken the lead, but sud- 
 denly noticed that in ascending the opposite side of the 
 ravine their path grew steeper and steeper, so that he 
 began to fear its becoming too rough for his companion.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 75 
 
 " I did not intend to give you all this climbing," he 
 said, apologetically, but, glancing back, perceived that she 
 was close upon his heels, with light, firm step, and head 
 erect Indeed, the unusual pallor of her cheeks, which 
 he had noted when they first met, had given way to a 
 faint color, and there was a keen light in her dark gray 
 eyes, which showed that the physical sense of over- 
 coming difficulties was agreeable to her. 
 
 " I really adopted this way in total ignorance of 
 whither it might lead," he continued. 
 
 " I knew," she answered, and it was evident that the way 
 was familiar to her, although she accepted his offered 
 hand, as it began to be obstructed, here and there, with 
 moss-grown boulders. 
 
 " We might have chosen an easier path, certainly," 
 said Richard, laughing. 
 
 " We might, but there is none more beautiful," she 
 answered, gravely. " Do you know where we are 
 going?" 
 
 " I have not the least idea." 
 
 " Wait ! I will show you." She passed him as she 
 spoke, and, parting the boughs of overhanging birch and 
 chestnut, which interlaced before them, disclosed the 
 summit of a huge rock, on which the next moment she 
 was standing. 
 
 Ledyard swung himself lightly up by the trunk of a 
 slender cedar-tree, of which two or three grew near, their 
 clinging roots issuing from between the crevices of the 
 stone, and stood beside her. He noticed that her right 
 hand was resting on a bough of one of these trees, and 
 with her left hand she was shading her eyes from the 
 sunlight. He was struck with her commanding yet 
 graceful attitude, and the new interest lent to her face 
 by a mild enthusiasm of expression. Somehow he had 
 never before realized her physical beauty, he had been 
 so much more attracted by her other characteristics ; and 
 even now it was not so much the clear-cut features, as 
 their wonderful mobility and capacity for reflecting every 
 variety of thought or emotion, which excited his admi-
 
 76 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 ration. His mind reverted to the strange meeting of 
 which he had been a witness the night before, and he 
 wished that he knew the meaning of her agitation. 
 What right had any man to speak to her as that one 
 had done ? Who was this Lieutenant Henderson ? 
 Ledyard was determined to find out. He hated mys- 
 tery. 
 
 So absorbed was he in these thoughts and in watching 
 her, that he forgot to answer what she said; then he 
 realized that she was calling on him to admire the view, 
 and, turning, could not withhold an exclamation of de- 
 light at the savage grandeur of the spot. 
 
 The whole top of the hill on which they stood was 
 formed of a mass of rock which descended in a solid wall 
 on the left of them to the level of the river-bed, some 
 fifty feet below, while in front and on their right it pro- 
 jected out beyond the shadow of the woods, until it 
 seemed to overhang and threaten the wild-rushing river 
 far beneath. 
 
 "This is called the Tarpeian Rock," said Cynthia. 
 " Is it not well named ?" 
 
 " Perfectly. One would shiver to think of the fate of 
 victims cast down from it !" 
 
 They made their way to a natural seat formed by a 
 ledge, from which they could see the rapid Osceola and 
 hear the rush and roar still more distinctly, as it dashed 
 along between its rugged banks. They could also follow 
 the course of the winding road on its farther shore, and 
 take in beyond this an endless succession of wooded 
 heights, which rose one above another against a dark- 
 ening sky. 
 
 " Those clouds look threatening," said Ledyard. " Is 
 it possible that we are to have a storm ?" 
 
 "I think so," she answered, following the direction in 
 which he was looking, with a dreamy expression. " I 
 hope so." 
 
 " What !" 
 
 " Do you not love a summer storm in the woods ?" 
 she asked, turning suddenly towards him. " When it
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. fj 
 
 thunders among those hills, one can almost feel this rock 
 shake with the reverberation, and the rain sounds so re- 
 freshing as it falls among the leaves." 
 
 " I see you know these sounds." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I used often to come here, as a child." 
 
 " But most women are afraid of lightning." 
 
 " Are they ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I am wrong ; I fancied that they were." 
 
 " No doubt there are men, and women too, who have 
 a natural dislike to a storm, just as they shrink from an 
 exciting scene of any kind." 
 
 " I fancy it is more than that," he answered, gently. 
 " Besides the moral dread, there is a physical shrinking 
 from an air highly charged with electricity, which is con- 
 stitutional. Do not imagine that I share it," he added, 
 laughing, for it seemed to him that he detected a faint 
 shade of contempt in her manner. 
 
 " I quite understand," she answered, quickly. " You 
 mean that some persons hate it, just as others have 
 an inborn love of it? I have often wondered," she 
 continued, presently, "what it is in a great upheaval 
 of nature, such as that, which attracts one's sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 " It seems like some strong thing struggling for free- 
 dom, does it not ?" asked Ledyard. 
 
 " Yes ; compared to such a day as this has been, for 
 instance, it is as intense emotion beside the acquired 
 contentment which habit may bring to a dull life." 
 
 " You are right," he replied ; " yet in that light 
 prudence would say it is hardly to be desired. Content- 
 ment is a great blessing to all those to whom it is per- 
 manently possible." 
 
 " It should be possible to every one," she said, seri- 
 ously, speaking with a certain remoteness of tone intended 
 to convey the impression that her remarks were only the 
 result of a general reflection, but he detected a quick- 
 drawn sigh which belied the assertion. 
 
 " Is it possible to every one ?" he asked, gently. " I 
 fear it is not."
 
 78 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 She had turned her head away, but now looked round 
 again at him with an expression which was half amuse- 
 ment, half defiance. 
 
 " Is it not to you ?" she inquired. 
 
 " Not always. And to you ?" 
 
 " Why do you fancy that I am thinking of myself?" 
 she asked, impatiently. 
 
 " Because I should think that the daily round of such 
 duties as you make for yourself in this country village, 
 well ordered though they be, could not yield even an 
 approximate contentment, without some higher hope." 
 
 " Do not let us talk of me," she answered, with a faint 
 quiver in her voice, which should have been a warning. 
 " Such a life as mine has great alleviations," she contin- 
 ued in a lighter tone, " compared to many others. Take 
 that of those poor workers in the factory yonder, for in- 
 stance, who are just breathing free air for the first time 
 for ten hours, and must be at their posts by seven o'clock 
 to-morrow morning !" She pointed down the river as 
 she spoke, to where the factory building stood, of which 
 the great bell was at that moment sounding for work 
 to cease. 
 
 " I think there may be a spark of light in each of those 
 sad hearts," he answered, " which there is not in yours." 
 He spoke thoughtfully, looking away from her. His 
 best excuse was that he knew not what he did. Nor 
 was he conscious of the spasm of pain which swept over 
 her face ; but the next moment she turned upon him a 
 glance, which so plainly challenged his right to invade 
 her chosen reserve, that he keenly regretted his words. 
 He was startled by the indignant outlook of the soul 
 whose privacy he had outraged. 
 
 [ beg your pardon," he said, earnestly. " I would 
 not have offended you for worlds. I ought not to have 
 spoken so frankly. I was thinking aloud." 
 
 " Oh, I am not at all offended," she returned, quietly ; 
 " only a little surprised at your seeming to think that 
 you know what lights I may or may not have. Shall 
 we not be going back now ?"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 79 
 
 Something in her manner, more than in her words, 
 aroused his anger. He was not willing to be thus 
 silenced and humiliated at once. It might have been a 
 fatal error to let her see what he knew. He was sorry 
 for it, and had said so like a man, yet it was her own 
 fault if he understood more of her opinions than she 
 wished. 
 
 " I do not think you are aware of how plainly you 
 express your doubts and convictions in your face, Miss 
 Arkwright, or you would not be surprised at my fancy- 
 ing that I knew something about them," he said. 
 
 She paused in the act of rising, with an air of puzzled 
 incredulity. " I should hardly have supposed that I did 
 do that, certainly," she said, with dignity." 
 
 " It may not be so when you try to hide them," he 
 rejoined ; " but only at such times as you do not care." 
 
 " As when, for instance ?" 
 
 " I am thinking of the first time I ever saw you." 
 
 " Is not this only the second or third ?" 
 
 " Hardly. I saw you often before you came to the par- 
 sonage after Danforth that evening ; but the first time was 
 at church, on the first Sunday I preached at St. An- 
 drew's." 
 
 Cynthia started. She had not been as unobserved, 
 then, as she imagined. He perceived that she colored 
 slightly. " I am surprised that you should have noticed 
 me," she said, using the first weapon which came to 
 hand in self-defence. 
 
 " It was chiefly on account of your expression that I 
 did so," he replied, more gently. 
 
 " But what was there in that to attract your attention ?" 
 she asked, almost with awe. Surely her sin was finding 
 her out in a most unexpected way. 
 
 " There was the plainest assurance that you differed 
 from me in everything that I was saying." 
 
 She drew a sigh of relief. " Was that all ?" she asked, 
 and in spite of herself a smile dawned on her face, but 
 Ledyard turned towards her very gravely. His eyes 
 looked stern and determined.
 
 80 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " To me, my opinions and belief are not matters of 
 amusement, Miss Arkwright," he said, with spirit. 
 
 He thought he knew her capacity for expression by 
 this time, but he was surprised at the sudden sweetness 
 of the lines about her mouth, and then at its pathetic 
 melancholy. 
 
 " Ah ! no," she said, in her deeply vibrating voice. 
 " That was the saddest thing to me, to see how warmly 
 you believed, how intensely you were in earnest." 
 
 " And why sad ?" he asked, with a touch of irritation 
 at the answer which he thought he foresaw, for her com- 
 passionate tone recalled the pitying glance with which 
 she had left the church that Sunday. 
 
 " I cannot tell you now," she said, quite calmly. 
 
 " Why not ?" 
 
 " Because you would not understand." 
 
 "You think me not only mistaken, but obtuse?" 
 
 " I think nothing unkind of one whose heart is in his 
 work, as yours is. But it is growing late. We must be 
 going home. You see my thunder-storm has passed." 
 
 " Will you tell me some other time ?" persisted Led- 
 yard. 
 
 " Perhaps, if you will drop the subject now." 
 
 There was no use in being provoked. She was a 
 woman, after all, and, if unlike the rest of her sex in 
 some respects, would have her way. 
 
 Accordingly, their theme was changed. Cynthia 
 pointed out to him a broad and comparatively easy path 
 on the other side of the rock, which led thence to the 
 village ; but they went back by the path they had come, 
 and on the way home he asked her many practical ques- 
 tions as to what she had discovered to be the best mode 
 of approaching and helping certain of the more thrift- 
 less, suffering, and hopelessly ignorant of the factory 
 people, hardly less in need of spiritual than of bodily 
 comfort. On this subject he found her as earnest and 
 as anxious as he could wish, and they certainly parted 
 very good friends.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 8 1 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OVER the great events of life, does fortune rule ? The 
 incidents which lead to them are seldom ordered by the 
 individual whose fate they chiefly mould ; but is he not 
 a free agent, because his liberty is restricted to the way 
 he meets his fate ? Granted that we are less free than 
 we may appear to ourselves, nay, more, that a great part 
 of our sense of freedom consists in our ignorance of 
 what lies before us, is this not rather because we mistake 
 the manner of our freedom, than that the sense is all 
 illusive ? 
 
 Shall it be believed that one has no power to influ- 
 ence one's own future and that of others, because one's 
 power is more limited, more qualified, than one sup- 
 poses ? Professor Hardy's " Wind of Destiny" may blow 
 from east to west, and Count Tolstoi may talk scorn- 
 fully of the popular fallacy that one man can affect an 
 age ; but granting to Professor Hardy that circumstances 
 great and small, are ordered by some force, or the effect 
 of some combination of forces outside ourselves ; grant- 
 ing to Count Tolstoi that it is the ripeness of the time 
 only which permits one man's use of it to become of 
 consequence to nations, yet there is also only one man 
 in a generation who may have the capacity to use it, and 
 there seems grave reason to doubt if there be any fatality 
 like that of character. 
 
 There is, nevertheless, an attraction to the circum- 
 scribed imagination of the realist, as to that of the classic 
 worshipper of fate, in the idea that the grand march of 
 human experience is directed by a blind force, gathering 
 all guidance from good or evil chance, all motive from 
 the original impetus of its forward movement, just as 
 there is a satisfaction to the temper of the religious en- 
 thusiast, alike of the time of Tolstoi or of St. Augustine 
 in the idea of an all-seeing, all-directing Deity, for whose
 
 82 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 glory we exist, in whose hands we are as instruments to 
 accomplish his purposes, or by whom our destiny is pre- 
 determined ; but whether or no chance supersede Provi- 
 dence in popular theory, or be in its turn subjugated by 
 means of the definite laws which are believed to govern 
 chances in the aggregate, the circumstances thus ac- 
 counted for, which have a given value for the world at 
 large, are of a most varied inner significance, as causes 
 of happiness, or misery, to the persons whose lives they 
 touch. 
 
 Thus, however small and unimportant the life of one 
 human being may be, compared to the civilization of 
 nations, it yet has a realm to itself, a majesty of its own, 
 by right of which it settles the value of every incident 
 and every theory above all, of every thought-creating 
 act which enters its own dominion. 
 
 The modern scientific purist, only distinguishing this 
 power as a disturbing influence to his mathematical con- 
 clusions, dubs it the " personal equation." Mr. Herbert 
 Spencer, when the clearness of his rational vision is 
 dimmed by the sudden appearance of this cloud-like 
 barrier to exact thought, calls it the " personal bias," 
 having vainly striven to classify it as the effect of climate 
 and food. Both feel a regret and contempt for its ex- 
 istence, which neither, however, is able to deny or dis- 
 regard, and the chief reason for the feeling is due to 
 recognition of its varied extent, its unknown limits, its 
 unforeseen influence, in a word, of its immeasurability 
 Perhaps those of us, on the other hand, who look at life 
 from the opposite side, gleaning such knowledge as we 
 may gather through sympathetic observation, or from 
 insight born of the imagination, are too little interested 
 in causes, except as they relate to human motives, and 
 are inclined to too subjective a view of events, being 
 tempted to consider them great, or small, in proportion 
 to their bearing on the characters which they affect. 
 
 When Cynthia Arkwright, in simple morning gown 
 and dark straw hat, approached the road to the village, 
 on the morning after the last conversation "recorded, she
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 83 
 
 was only bent on one idea, the suggestion of which had 
 come to her through the wakeful hours of the previous 
 night. This was a hope which she had conceived of 
 obtaining the address of her friend Mrs. Pelham at the 
 post-office, where it occurred to her that letters of busi- 
 ness, as well as friendly epistles, must frequently be sent 
 for the former mistress of Fernwood. 
 
 It had been a great relief to Cynthia when she thought 
 of this possible solution to her difficulty, for as we have 
 seen she dreaded above all things the alternative of again 
 meeting Henderson, or putting herself into communi- 
 cation with him, in order to learn how to direct to his 
 aunt. 
 
 Following the woodland path which led from the steep 
 bank on which her house was built to the cart-road, and 
 emerging suddenly from behind the trees and shrubs 
 which sheltered this track from the main road to the vil- 
 lage, accompanied by her faithful Scotch retriever, she 
 drew back just in time to avoid being thrown down and 
 run over by a pair of spirited Canadian ponies, and look- 
 ing up quickly perceived that they were driven by a 
 young and pretty woman, whom she might not instantly 
 have recognized as Mrs. Henderson, had not her husband 
 been seated in the low phaeton beside her. 
 
 Cynthia drew back among the sheltering branches of 
 some lilac bushes to let the carriage pass, with an inward 
 apology to herself for having been so rash as to provoke 
 the encounter, and no realizing belief that she was ful- 
 filling one of the requirements of destiny as she stood 
 there with Neptune beside her; yet it so chanced that 
 this was but the second time these two women had ever 
 beheld one another, while Fate had long been busy in 
 tangling their lives together, and after-history was to 
 render the day memorable to each. 
 
 Henderson's quick eye was not prevented by her shel- 
 tered position from recognizing Cynthia, aided as it was 
 by his distinct knowledge of the vicinity of her cottage; 
 but in the moment that he was about to speak to her 
 his attention was claimed by an exclamation from his
 
 84 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 wife, and he turned to see that she was having difficulty 
 in managing the horses. 
 
 Mrs. Henderson, who had reined in the ponies with 
 a little cry of terror, gave a hurried look at the person 
 who had caused the interruption, and then submitted to 
 the superior strength of her husband, who quietly took the 
 reins from her hands and drove the rest of the way him- 
 self. She did not in this hasty glance detect anything 
 familiar, or especially noteworthy, about Miss Arkwright. 
 She took her for one of the " natives," under which ge- 
 neric term she was in the habit of classifying the in- 
 habitants of the town of Dundaff, and remarked to 
 Lieutenant Henderson, as they drove towards the rail- 
 road station, whither they were hurrying in order that 
 he might catch the morning train for town, that " the 
 villagers" seemed quite unaccustomed to fast horses. 
 Henderson did not answer. He may have been intent 
 on making his train, or had enough to do, perhaps, to 
 manage the horses. They certainly made good speed, 
 for when arrived at the station they found themselves 
 too early. 
 
 " So much the better," he said ; " it will give me a 
 moment to get my letters." 
 
 Thus, while Mr. and Mrs. Henderson were standing 
 together near the door of the building which served both 
 for station and post-office, who should appear but the 
 same tall, straight figure, followed by the same tall Scotch 
 retriever, whom they had encountered a few moments 
 before! Mrs. Henderson stood aside, this time, with a 
 slight air of condescension. Her husband was reading a 
 letter, and did not look up ; but at the first sound of Cyn- 
 thia's voice, asking for an address, although the tone was 
 a low one, he started, and glanced in the direction 
 whence it came, when, to the surprise of his lady, he 
 walked straight into the station, and held out his hand 
 towards the speaker, lifting his hat, as he did so, with 
 grave respect. Mrs. Henderson did not hear the short 
 conversation which followed. After the first faint stirring 
 of curiosity caused by this unexpected recognition, she
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 85 
 
 turned away indifferently towards the carriage, whither 
 her husband presently followed her with rather an odd 
 expression. 
 
 " The train is behind time," he said, as he helped her 
 into her seat. " Do you know who that was ?" 
 
 " No. I was going to ask you." 
 
 " It was Miss Arkwright." 
 
 " What ! Not the Miss Arkwright to whom " 
 
 " Yes. It was Cynthia Arkwright. It seems that she 
 is living here." 
 
 " I thought she had become a nun." 
 
 " She had, but she has left the convent. I do not know 
 all her reasons, but they must have been good ones." 
 
 " Indeed !" with just a perceptible stiffness of tone. " I 
 fancied I remembered her as quite a different-looking 
 person." 
 
 " Oh, she has changed, of course," said Lieutenant 
 Henderson, reddening a little, and avoiding his wife's 
 eyes. " I was never more surprised than to find her 
 here," he continued, after a short pause. " I thought her 
 still in Florida." 
 
 Mrs. Henderson made no direct answer. She would 
 have liked it to be believed that she took no interest in 
 the subject, but was in reality too deeply interested and 
 too much vexed to be able calmly to discuss it. She 
 was gifted with quick instincts, especially for all that re- 
 garded her husband, but was very wanting in the power 
 of sympathy, so that she could not weigh nor fathom with 
 any certainty what she saw in others ; she was only 
 vaguely disturbed thereat, as an animal might be trou- 
 bled by the state of the atmosphere before a storm, and 
 almost always felt either too much or too little for the 
 occasion. 
 
 Meanwhile, the train did not come, and Henderson 
 glanced from time to time uneasily at his watch, while 
 he stood beside the phaeton, pursuing the thread of his 
 own reflections. 
 
 " I should like you to call on Miss Arkwright, my dear," 
 he said, presently. " By the bye, I did not tell you of
 
 86 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 my meeting Danforth the other day in the village," he 
 added, briskly. " You remember George Danforth, 
 whom I used to know in Virginia ? But no, I forgot : 
 you never met him. Of course ; how stupid of me to 
 have forgotten that we were not married at that time !" 
 
 " So much happened before we were married," said 
 Mrs. Henderson, in a deaf voice. 
 
 " It is true. A good deal had happened," replied her 
 husband. He did not intend any unkind allusion, but hei 
 face grew suddenly crimson and then white. 
 
 " I do not remember ever hearing you speak of any 
 one named Danforth," she said, by way of saying some- 
 thing. 
 
 " No ?" he answered, absently. " Well, Danforth is a 
 very good fellow. He and my dear friend Neil were in 
 the same regiment during the war, and Neil always used 
 to say that it was Danforth who saved his right arm, to 
 the best of his belief, after the battle of Fredericksburg, 
 when any other surgeon would have cut it off. Neil, as 
 you know, was an artist, so it was almost like saving his 
 life. What would I not give if he were alive now! Why, 
 what is the matter, Posey ? has anything startled you ? 
 Surely not what I said about Danforth ? I only wish so 
 true a friend had been with Neil in the West, when pluck 
 and presence of mind were sorely needed. That affair 
 with the Indians might have terminated differently. 
 Danforth is the physician here, I understand, which I 
 consider very lucky. The new clergyman, too, is rather 
 clever in his way, I imagine ; at least he preaches a good 
 sermon, and being a stranger like ourselves, besides that 
 he is the rector of Aunt Pelham's church, it behooves us 
 to notice him. We must ask them both to dinner, and 
 you might ask the Bettertons at the same time, or some 
 of them. I think Danforth quite admires Miss Flor- 
 ence." 
 
 " Are we to ask Miss Cynthia Arkwright to dinner 
 also ?" inquired his wife, with ill- concealed displeasure 
 at having her social duties thus laid down, apart from hef 
 special annoyance.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 87 
 
 " Well, that's as you please," replied Henderson, coldly. 
 " It would be a graceful thing to do, but I doubt whether 
 the invitation would be accepted. Ah ! here is the train 
 at last. Good-by, my dear. Take good care of Wilfred, 
 and drive carefully, for the ponies are fresh." 
 
 With a wave of the hand, Millard was gone, and Mrs. 
 Henderson heard the whiz of the train which was bearing 
 him away. As she turned her horses' heads homeward, 
 she felt nervously unstrung, and was possessed with a 
 presentiment of evil which seemed quite out of propor- 
 tion to circumstances. Presently, as she rounded the 
 corner from the station into the main street of Dundaff, 
 she again caught sight of Miss Arkwright's figure, just 
 disappearing a long distance down the street, but still no 
 longer mistakable to Mrs. Henderson's aroused percep- 
 tions. " No wonder," she said to herself, " that she had 
 failed to recognize her in the first instance, in that Puri- 
 tanic garb," so unlike that of the fashionably-dressed 
 young lady whose costly fur and rich attire had excited 
 her envy in a by-gone time. Did Miss Arkwright re- 
 member her too, as she was then, a shabby little actress ? 
 Tears of vexation came to her eyes as she thought of 
 this possibility, and raising her hand to wipe them 
 away she unconsciously shook the reins. The ponies 
 started. She felt provoked, drew them in, and struck 
 them angrily. Then suddenly the town of Dundaff 
 began whirling by her in a mad rush. She could dis- 
 tinguish nothing but here and there a frightened face 
 turned towards her in dismay, as her horses were bearing 
 her through the main street at break-neck speed. At 
 the foot of the hill on which Cynthia's house stood, the 
 road to Fernwood took a sharp turn to the right. 
 Mrs. Henderson conceived the idea in her excited brain 
 that if she could guide the horses successfully round this 
 corner, the effort of mounting the hill would soon reduce 
 their capability of running. It was a brave thought, 
 but a rash one. She had better have kept to the broad 
 turnpike road, which went on for miles in a nearly 
 straight line, and let them tire themselves out. So
 
 88 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 thought a person who was looking on in anxious sus- 
 pense, as he beheld the horses' headlong flight, but was 
 himself at too great a distance to avert the catastrophe 
 which he foresaw. 
 
 It so happened that Richard Ledyard was on the crest 
 of the hill at the moment that Mrs. Henderson attempted 
 to turn her frightened steeds. How provoked he was 
 with the negro groom for not interfering or taking the 
 reins, and yet the poor fellow was vainly calling to her 
 to forbear ! She drew the right rein with all her force, 
 stood up in the carriage, and struck the far pony. He 
 reared high in the air at the same instant that his com- 
 panion bounded to the right. The phaeton was over- 
 turned in less time than it takes to tell it. The rearing 
 horse fell upon the other in a struggling heap, and Mrs. 
 Henderson was flung to some distance on the side of 
 the road, where she lay as one dead. Only the negro 
 groom, who had at least not forsaken his post, having 
 held himself into his seat all the time in mortal fear, 
 still remained in the broken carriage, beneath which he 
 was caught fast by one leg, so that he was unable to 
 go to his mistress's aid. Naturally, Mr. Ledyard was 
 the first to reach her side. He lifted her drooping 
 head, and was loosening the strings of her little French 
 bonnet, with a pathetic sense of its want of harmony with 
 the sad fixity of the white face, when he was struck with 
 a sudden feeling of terror at its resemblance to another 
 face which he had known well many years before. It 
 could be only a resemblance, but how strong it was ! 
 The shock it caused him was almost paralyzing, and he 
 was wondering whither to turn for help, when Dr. Dan- 
 forth most fortunately came up. He placed his hand on 
 her heart for a moment, then felt her pulse, and nodded, 
 as though to himself. 
 
 "There is still life," he said to Ledyard, and poured a 
 few drops from a vial between the closed teeth. " We 
 must get her into a warm bed at once," he continued. 
 " What is the nearest house ?" 
 
 " Is not Miss Arkwright's house the nearest ?" asked
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 89 
 
 Ledyard, with a vibration of uncertainty in his voice, 
 owing to a momentary doubt whether a house in which 
 no visitors were ever received would be available for their 
 purpose. 
 
 It was evident that Danforth did not share it. " Of 
 course," he responded with decision. " I had forgotten 
 how near it was. Will you help me to carry her there ?" 
 
 Ledyard assented, and as soon as they had freed the 
 groom from his painful and perilous position, they lifted 
 the lady onto the long cushion which had been used on 
 the front seat of the phaeton, and carried her thus between 
 them. 
 
 The horses, which had meanwhile struggled to their 
 feet, seemed very slightly hurt, and were soon captured 
 by the darky. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THUS it happened that Cynthia Arkwright, who had 
 taken the short cut, as usual, by the foot-path which 
 climbed the hill just opposite her cottage, and had thus 
 been saved the sight of the runaway horses or the shock of 
 the accident, had just put aside her hat, given her morn- 
 ing orders to Marjory, and was stepping from the kitchen 
 into her sunny little parlor, when she heard an unwonted 
 sound of tramping on the gravel walk which led from the 
 gate of her garden, and, looking out of a front window, 
 saw Mr. Ledyard and Dr. Danforth bearing between them 
 the senseless form of Mrs. Millard Henderson. 
 
 Perhaps no combination of circumstances could have 
 appeared more strange. Certainly no spectacle could 
 have been more awful to her than the sight of this pale 
 dishevelled figure, after that of the pretty, gayly-dressed 
 lady she had met that morning, so seemingly confident, 
 so self-poised and happily indifferent, one would have 
 said, to fortune, so certain of the world's approbation. It 
 had indeed required all Cynthia's philosophy, for the first 
 
 8*
 
 90 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 few moments, to bear with equanimity the unconscious 
 patronage of the glance of her former rival, who did not 
 even recognize the woman whom she believed herself to 
 have superseded; and now in one short hour how was 
 the situation changed ! 
 
 With surprise and dismay Cynthia sprang to open the 
 door, and when she met the two men she showed her 
 concern even more in her manner than by anything she 
 said. The strong, tender, womanly sympathy that was in 
 her could not be doubted. It spoke in her face, as in 
 every word of welcome. 
 
 " Have you a couch in your parlor, Miss Arkwright?" 
 asked Ledyard, responding to her manner with a direct- 
 ness of speech which he may have learned from her. 
 It certainly pleased her in him, as if she felt that he paid 
 his tribute to her heart and understanding in times of 
 emergency by this complete absence of preliminaries. 
 
 " I think," said Danforth, " that if Miss Arkwright will 
 permit us to do so, we had better take Mrs. Henderson 
 directly to a bedchamber." 
 
 " I think that will be better too, Dr. Danforth," an- 
 swered Cynthia. " Take her straight up to my room, if 
 you do not mind the climb, for we can do more for her 
 there. You think she has only fainted ?" she asked, in 
 an awe-struck tone. 
 
 " Mrs. Henderson was thrown from her carriage and 
 received a severe blow on the head," said Dr. Danforth. 
 " She is now stunned, and we cannot tell until conscious- 
 ness is restored how severely she may be injured. I 
 feel confident, however, that there are no bones broken, 
 although some of the joints may be strained, which is 
 often a bad business." 
 
 After Mrs. Henderson had been safely deposited on 
 Cynthia's bed and Ledyard had gone to Danforth's 
 house for some drugs and a case of instruments required, 
 while old Marjory supplied the doctor's demands for hot 
 bricks, hot water, etc., there was no excuse for Ledyard 
 to linger. Accordingly he took his leave, begging Cyn- 
 thia to send for him if there were anything more he
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 9! 
 
 could do, and promising to call and inquire that even- 
 ing. . 
 
 Just as he was going, Dr. Danforth, who had followed 
 him down-stairs, handed him a telegram to take to the 
 office, asking if, as he passed through the village, he would 
 not be kind enough to see that it went immediately. 
 
 " It is to her husband," continued Danforth. " I am 
 not at all confident of the result of this accident, and he 
 should know of her danger. It is most fortunate that 
 when I met him yesterday he spoke of going to Balti- 
 more this morning, and he chanced to mention that he 
 always dined at the Albion." 
 
 The message was addressed to Lieutenant Henderson, 
 Albion Club, Baltimore. Ledyard recognized the name 
 with a start. 
 
 " Is Lieutenant Henderson the husband of this lady, 
 then ?" he asked. " I did not know that he was a mar- 
 ried man !" 
 
 " Millard Henderson ? Why, of course he is mar- 
 ried. He has been married for five or six years, but he 
 has been most of the time on active duty, and his wife 
 and child have been living abroad. Did you not know 
 that he is a part owner of the cotton-mill ?" 
 
 " I knew that they were partly owned by a Mr. Hen- 
 derson, but I fancied, I supposed, Lieutenant Henderson 
 was his brother." 
 
 " I never heard of Millard Henderson's having any 
 brother," said Danforth. " I used to know him years 
 ago, and I always understood that he was an only son. 
 But I must go back to my patient." 
 
 No one could be more thoughtful and quietly efficient 
 than Cynthia, proved herself in the sick-room, nor was 
 Danforth surprised at this. He had seen too much of 
 her kindness in time of disaster or affliction to all sorts 
 and conditions of people to have questioned her benevo- 
 lent hospitality even for one moment, in spite of the love 
 of solitude for which she was famed in the neighborho id 
 and the absolute retirement in which she had chosen to 
 live. It seemed to him, however, that she was especially
 
 9 2 
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 tender and pitying as consciousness began gradually to 
 come back to the pale, fragile little woman who had thus 
 been brought to her door. 
 
 Mrs. Henderson looked about her in dismay, at the 
 large, cheerful room, with its old-fashioned furniture, the 
 elaborate chintz hangings of the great four-posted bed in 
 which she found herself, and the faces of old Marjory 
 and Danforth, neither of which she had ever seen before. 
 Cynthia she did not see, as she managed to slip behind 
 Danforth at the moment Mrs. Henderson opened her eyes, 
 and, beckoning him from the room, explained that she 
 thought it would be wiser that Mrs. Henderson should not 
 see her just yet, as she had seemed startled by her sudden 
 appearance with her dog on the way to the station that 
 morning, and had had trouble in managing the horses in 
 consequence, even then. " She might easily associate me 
 with the accident," Miss Arkwright explained ; and Dan- 
 forth acquiesced in the wisdom of the suggestion, gave his 
 instructions to old Marjory on going away, and left her in 
 charge of the patient, subject to Cynthia's orders, bidding 
 them both to be cautious about answering questions. 
 
 Indeed, they did what they could to soothe and quiet 
 her ; but it soon became apparent that no outward in- 
 fluence could help or harm her. To the first look of 
 wonder there succeeded one of apathy in the poor lady's 
 face. A dark color flooded her pale cheeks, and she lay 
 with dull, unseeing eyes, lost to all that passed. 
 
 Meanwhile the hours wore on, and it grew near the 
 time for the arrival of the evening train from Baltimore. 
 Ledyard, who had sent the telegram intrusted to him 
 by Danforth, was possessed by a restless anxiety, which 
 would not allow him to settle down to any of his ordi- 
 nary occupations. Unwelcome thoughts were crowding 
 upon him ever since Danforth had assured him that Mrs. 
 Henderson's husband and Lieutenant Henderson were 
 one and the same. Richard wondered if he could have 
 been mistaken in the name by which Miss Arkwright 
 had addressed the man who seemed to have intruded 
 himself on her so unexpectedly a few evenings before.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 93 
 
 Was that man married then, and, if so, what right had he 
 to seek such an interview, or to speak to Miss Arkwright 
 in such authoritative tones ? Ledyard's blood began to 
 heat at the memory of the fellow's manner. He was all 
 the more angry that there had been a certain dignity in 
 it in spite of its effrontery, which had deceived him at the 
 time into believing in the probability that some tie, either 
 of relationship or of her own making, existed between 
 Miss Arkwright and the stranger. 
 
 Certainly there could be no relationship in this case, 
 and he was equally sure that there was no other tie now, 
 whatever there might have been in the past. 
 
 From Ledyard's point of view, no past tie could give 
 him the right to force an interview upon Cynthia, who 
 had refused to receive him, and, considering that Hen- 
 derson had behaved very badly, Ledyard could not but 
 look upon it as a most untoward turn of events that ho 
 should be made the instrument of bringing him to her 
 house. Just as he came to this conclusion he was start- 
 led by a double knock on his study door, and was handed 
 a hasty scrawl by Danforth's office-boy : 
 
 " Henderson cannot safely see his wife to-night. All 
 possible excitement must be avoided. Please meet him 
 at the station and explain. I am prevented. Tell him 
 I will watch her carefully, and he shall hear of any 
 change. Miss Arkwright has done everything that 
 could be done to make her comfortable. Hope for better 
 news to-morrow. DANFORTH." 
 
 Ledyard looked at his watch. It wanted a few mo- 
 ments of the hour when the train might be expected. 
 He took his hat and went out. 
 
 It was with a strange mixture of feelings that he ap- 
 proached the railway-station. Somehow he shrank un- 
 accountably from the interview before him. He did not 
 pity the man he was going to meet, and yet he was sorry 
 for his misfortune. He was glad of a sufficient reason 
 for warning him not to go to the house, but keenly
 
 94 
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 regretful of the increased danger of the poor little lady, 
 whose sad set face appealed to him strangely, and had 
 haunted him since the morning with a curious sense of 
 familiarity. It was like some face which he had seen 
 before, but where he could not tell. He was aroused 
 from the effort to place it in his memory by the approach 
 of the train from Baltimore, which came in sight just as 
 he reached the station. 
 
 A tall man, with broad shoulders, got quickly out of 
 one car, and was rushing past Ledyard, when he stopped 
 him by a detaining hand on his arm. 
 
 " Is this Lieutenant Henderson ?" he asked. 
 
 " It is," with a quick glance of restrained impatience. 
 
 " I am Mr. Ledyard, the rector of St. Andrew's." 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Ledyard, happy to meet you ; have been 
 hoping to make your acquaintance; but just at present 
 you must excuse me. I am in great anxiety about my 
 wife, who has met with an accident. Good-evening." 
 He would have been gone, but Ledyard said, 
 
 " It is about your wife, sir, that I wish to speak to you. 
 
 I have a note here from Dr. Danforth Why, what 
 
 is the matter ? Here, lean on me." At the name of 
 Danforth Henderson had turned suddenly pale, stag- 
 gered, and might have fallen if Ledyard had not sup- 
 ported him. 
 
 " Is my wife living?" he now asked, tightening his 
 grasp on Ledyard's arm. 
 
 " She is not only alive, but conscious. Come into the 
 station, and I will show you the doctor's note. There 
 is nothing to warrant your agitation, I assure you." 
 
 Henderson submitted to be led into the waiting-room, 
 which was deserted at this hour, and where one dim 
 lamp was burning. By its light he read Danforth's note, 
 but as Ledyard's eyes followed his he perceived that it 
 did not appear so reassuring as he had expected. There 
 was, indeed, but one sentence which seemed intended 
 to inspire hope, and that was in the future. Henderson 
 was apparently mystified by the words relating to Cynthia. 
 
 " Is Miss Arkwright at Fernwood ?" he asked.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 95 
 
 " Not at all," said Ledyard, remembering suddenly 
 that the telegram he had sent that day only told the 
 bare fact of the accident, and that Mrs. Henderson had 
 sustained "no apparent injury," but was "still uncon- 
 scious from the shock." " Mrs. Henderson's carriage 
 upset at the foot of the hill," he explained, " and as Miss 
 Arkwright's house was the nearest, she was taken there 
 immediately." 
 
 " Ah, indeed !" Henderson's tone was one which 
 Ledyard could not translate ; his face, too, was inscruta- 
 ble. " I shall not attempt to see Mrs. Henderson to- 
 night," he said presently, " as it might be injurious; but 
 I must see Danforth and know what he thinks. I must 
 also ascertain whether this arrangement is agreeable to 
 Miss Arkwright." 
 
 Ledyard told him that he had intended himself to 
 walk back to inquire if there were anything he could 
 do, and proposed that they should go together, to which 
 Henderson assented, as though glad not to be left to his 
 own company ; but he did not start immediately. After 
 a pause he asked, with evident effort, 
 
 " Do you happen to know anything about the accident, 
 Mr. Ledyard? how it happened, or who saw it?" 
 
 " I do indeed, for I saw the whole thing myself," re- 
 plied Richard, more gently than he had spoken. Surely 
 this was not the impetuous, selfish man he had taken 
 him for, who could submit so patiently to the physi- 
 cian's decree as to what was best for the sufferer, and 
 yet was so unmistakably overcome with grief at the 
 fear of losing her ! " I was the first to reach Mrs. "Hen- 
 derson," he proceeded, " although I was able to do very 
 little for her until Dr. Danforth came to help me." He 
 then told of the flight of the horses, of her rash effort 
 to turn them, the accident to the groom, the recovery of 
 the ponies, and how he and Dr. Danforth carried Mrs. 
 Henderson to Cynthia Arkwright's cottage. 
 
 "And Miss Arkwright?" asked Henderson, who was 
 gradually regaining his composure. "Was she very 
 much shocked ?"
 
 96 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " I fear so ; but she behaved with great courage and 
 presence of mind. No one could have appeared more 
 glad to be of service." 
 
 Millard Henderson smiled, a fine smile, but a strange 
 one, for in the midst of it he raised his hand and dashed 
 away a tear. " I think we had better go," he said, rising. 
 " Thank you, I do not need your arm now, but I am 
 none the less grateful for it when I did." He turned 
 towards Ledyard, as he spoke, with the winning frankness 
 of expression which was peculiar to him at times. The 
 younger man felt its charm, as many another had felt it. 
 Indeed, so completely were his sentiments altered with 
 regard to Henderson that he marvelled within himself, as 
 they walked away together, at the mingled dislike and 
 distrust of him which he remembered that he had been 
 struggling with a half an hour before, as he approached 
 the station. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 WHEN Ledyard and Henderson arrived at Cynthia's 
 house, the message at the door was to the effect that 
 Mrs. Henderson was " about the same." It was delivered 
 by Anastasia Baker, who had been pressed into the ser- 
 vice to save old Marjory's steps. Ledyard, in accord- 
 ance with his companion's wishes, asked if the doctor 
 were there, and, learning that he was, sent in search of 
 him. 
 
 " Tell Dr. Danforth that Mr. Ledyard would like to 
 see him. Speak low, and do not say that there is any 
 one with me," he commanded. 
 
 Danforth soon appeared, and Richard was relieved to 
 see that his face looked much brighter than it had looked 
 earlier in the day. 
 
 " She is recovering from the shock," he said, in a 
 cheerful whisper, " and she has just fallen asleep. If she 
 continues to do as well as this, I look for a decided
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 97 
 
 change for the better to-morrow. Why, Henderson, is 
 that you ? Don't look so cut up, old fellow. All may 
 be well yet." 
 
 " You think my wife may live ?" 
 
 " I am sure of it, unless some worse symptom should 
 develop." 
 
 " That is, you are sure that she has received no fatal 
 injury?" 
 
 " None that I can detect." 
 
 " I can't thank you in words, Danforth," said Hender- 
 son to the doctor. The two men grasped each other's 
 hands warmly. Richard walked off to a little distance, 
 that they might talk at ease. "There can be no doubt 
 of it, not the slightest doubt whatever," Danforth was 
 saying as Ledyard returned ; " but if it would relieve 
 your mind at all, I will go and ask Miss Cynthia 
 and tell you what she says." He went in, leaving 
 them on the steps of the veranda, and proceeded in 
 search of Miss Arkwright, who had resumed her post 
 by the bedside since Mrs. Henderson had become again 
 unconscious of those about her through the troubled 
 sleep of fever. Danforth wrote a few words on a 
 prescription blank and handed it to Cynthia, with the 
 pencil. She read them in silence, turned the paper 
 over, and wrote her answer on the other side. With 
 this he returned to Lieutenant Henderson, who also 
 read the question and answer, which ran thus : 
 
 " Henderson is here to ask for his wife. I cannot let 
 him see her. He is also anxious about the trouble we 
 are all giving you. H. D." 
 
 " Tell Lieutenant Henderson that I am so sorry for 
 him, and for Mrs. Henderson, that I am thankful there 
 is anything I can do. C. A." 
 
 " God bless her !" murmured Henderson ; then added, 
 just as the doctor was again turning back to the cot- 
 tage, " Does Mrs. Henderson know where she is ?" 
 E 9 9
 
 98 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " It is just possible she may know. I think not," said 
 Danforth. "She probably knows that she is not at 
 home, but Miss Arkwright was careful not to let her see 
 her during the few moments that she was conscious, be- 
 cause she fancied that, as she happened to startle the 
 horses on their way to the station this morning, she 
 might be associated by Mrs. Henderson with the acci- 
 dent." 
 
 " I quite agree with Miss Arkwright," said Millard, 
 " and think it better that my wife should not be told she 
 is in her house, for the present. I mean, if she should 
 be able to understand," he added, with some emotion. 
 
 "That can easily be managed," returned Danforth, 
 cheerfully. " She can be led to suppose herself at the 
 house of one of the villagers. I will speak to Miss 
 Cynthia about it. I must not stay to talk, though. It 
 is a critical time just now, and anything which should 
 wake or agitate her might turn the scales." 
 
 After the doctor had left them, Ledyard tried to per- 
 suade Henderson to go home with him for the night; 
 but he said he must get back to his little boy. The 
 child had been all day among servants, and would be 
 anxiously looking for his mother's return. Richard could 
 only prevail so far as to induce him to hire a conveyance 
 in the village to take him to Fernwood, instead of 
 walking home, as he at first proposed. 
 
 Thus perched high on an old-fashioned chaise, such 
 as the Dundaff livery-stable could supply, Henderson 
 was soon approaching the entrance of Fernwood, where 
 he was welcomed by the gleam of a lantern that shot 
 out far into the night. It proved to be in the hands of 
 a faithful old negro servant who had been on the place 
 since Millard was a boy. The good woman was peering 
 out anxiously through the darkness for the first sight 
 of the vehicle of the approach of which she had been 
 warned by the sound of wheels. 
 
 " I fought de Massa'd come home de night," she said. 
 " I say he'll come home to de chile, even dough he talk 
 about staying all night in Baltimer."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 99 
 
 " Yes, Aunt Dinah ; but you know why I have ccme 
 back from Baltimore. It is, of course, on Wilfred's ac- 
 count that I am here." 
 
 " Oh, Lord 'a' mercy on us ! have you heard de 
 fearful news, den ? I kind a fought to fetch it to you 
 easy." 
 
 " I was telegraphed for," said Henderson, briefly. 
 
 " An' is dere any turn for de better in de Missus ?" 
 
 Millard gave her the last information of his wife's 
 condition, adding, " How is the boy?" 
 
 "Oh, he's well enuff. Dere won't no harm come to 
 him, little hunney ! Not while ole Dinah's 'bout !" 
 
 " Has he heard of the accident to his mother?" 
 
 " Lord bress you, no, sir ! D'you t'ink Aunt Dinah 'ud 
 be so foolish as to let dem tell him dat ? Why, he cry 
 fit to kill about de pony's bein' cut, when he see it 
 comin' back, wid de wagon all broke and Paul's clothes 
 all tore, and he wid a bandage round his leg. I tell 
 Massa Wilfred dat his mamma she done change her mind 
 and gone to Baltimer wid his papa, and he take it all fo' 
 de bressed trufe." 
 
 " And where is he now ?" 
 
 " Fast asleep, de little mischief!" 
 
 Millard breathed a sigh of relief. He had been brood- 
 ing anxiously all the way home as to how the report of 
 his mother's danger might affect the excitable little 
 fellow, knowing that it would not be likely to lose its 
 importance in the groom's narration. Now there would 
 be no need of his knowing anything to-night. 
 
 He did not attempt to go to bed himself, but lay down 
 on the long sofa in his private study, with an old naval 
 cloak about him, to be ready to go at any moment that 
 the doctor might send for him. He slept little, and 
 thought much, through the night, but found his way to 
 Cynthia's house early in the morning, where he was for- 
 tunate enough to meet Danforth just coming out, and 
 was told that, on the whole, his wife was doing well. 
 She had been restless during the night, and complained 
 of much pain in her head and limbs, but she had no
 
 100 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 fever. He walked back feeling more hopeful, and got to 
 Fernwood just in time to breakfast with Wilfred. After 
 the boy had eaten his oatmeal porridge, he took him on 
 his knee and told him what h \d happened. The child 
 looked frightened and be.vildered. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! was mamma cut like poor Montmo- 
 renci ?" he asked, in troubled tones. " You know Sague- 
 nay's hoofs came right down on Moi tmorenci's side, 
 and when they were driven home he had blood on 
 him." (These were the names of the Canadian ponies.) 
 
 " Did he, indeed ?" 
 
 " Yes, papa ; and Paul's leg hurt him. I am so glad 
 you were not in the carriage !" 
 
 Millard frowned. " If I had been there I might have 
 helped your mother," he said, briefly. 
 
 " Are you angry with me, papa ?" 
 
 " No ; but I am disappointed. I thought you had 
 more feeling for your mamma." 
 
 Wilfred burst into tears. " But I do feel for mamma," 
 he said, earnestly. " I feel very much for mamma, and 
 I am so sorry about it, and about Paul, and the horses ; 
 but, papa dear, it is not quite as bad as if it were you." 
 
 " It is much worse than if it were me, because your 
 mother is not so strong," returned his father, sternly. 
 " But go and get Dinah to wash your face. It is not 
 manly to cry." 
 
 " May I put on my hat, too ? Did you not say that 
 you were going to take me with you to the village ?" 
 
 " I will if you are good," returned Henderson, relent- 
 ing a little, and the boy ran eagerly from the room ; but 
 he did not look after him proudly as usual. 
 
 His mood was one in which he hardly understood 
 himself. It was a strange mixture of pained self- 
 reproach and anxiety. A voice cried out with remorse- 
 ful eagerness within him that if only his wife might re- 
 cover he would do a hundred things to make her happy 
 which he had never done before. He had been telling 
 himself all night of ways in which he had failed in his 
 duty towards her, and yet he had hitherto conscientiously
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. IOI 
 
 believed that he did fulfil his duty. So many degrees 
 are there of gentleness, consideration, and forbearance, 
 according to the standard one happens to place before 
 one of those virtues, and so few of us could take the 
 highest honors, even in our own estimation, after the last 
 examination. 
 
 Millard Henderson's conduct to Posey for the past 
 five years certainly deserved no such award. It bore a 
 very different aspect, when thus viewed in recapitulation, 
 from that which had presented itself to him as the years 
 were going by. He knew that he had not been unkind 
 to her ; but had he always been kind ? Even during the 
 short time that they were together there had been many 
 days when he must have seemed what he was, utterly in- 
 different to anything that his wife might do, or say, or 
 think. She had never disgraced him, and he had felt con- 
 fident that she would not. Now that he Ic-oked back on 
 / it, it seemed strange that he had had such confidence 
 without feeling more respect and affection ; considering 
 that she was still young, was unusually pretty, and that he 
 had left her for long periods at a time under his aunt's 
 nominal protection, but still practically free to go any- 
 where, do anything, or receive any attention from whom 
 or how she pleased. There was but one explanation for 
 such tranquillity of mind on his part. It arose from the 
 fact that, while he did not love her, he knew that she 
 loved him. To be sure, Mrs. Henderson had never 
 made any show of affection for her husband, any more 
 than she did for her child. She was not of an enthusias- 
 tic temperament, and spent her force in seeing that her 
 boy was dressed in the latest fashion, and in so ordering 
 her menage when her husband was with her that his 
 dinners and luncheons should be thoroughly comfortable ; 
 but while the child felt instinctively a want of warmth 
 in her sentiment for him and turned with his whole 
 heart towards his father, Millard never doubted that her 
 love was as strong and as tender towards himself as her 
 nature was capable of rendering it. 
 
 ******** 
 
 9*
 
 IO2 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Henderson looked up from his revery, to see Wilfred, 
 hat in hand, standing very quietly by his side. He had 
 his blue eyes fixed upon his father with great earnest- 
 ness. 
 
 " What are you thinking about, papa ?" he asked. " Is 
 it about mamma ?" 
 
 " I will tell you what I was thinking, my boy," said 
 Millard, lifting the little fellow's chin and looking gravely 
 and gently into his face. " I was thinking that you and 
 I have not loved mamma enough, not as much as she 
 deserves." 
 
 That same morning, when Danforth repeated Hender- 
 son's suggestion to Cynthia, of not telling Mrs. Hen- 
 derson where she was, she was very glad to adopt it, as 
 affording an escape from what she had secretly felt to be 
 an embarrassing situation. Accordingly, the next time 
 that Mrs. Henderson turned on her pillows and looked 
 restlessly about her, Dr. Danforth approached, and ex- 
 plained to her what had happened, and that she had 
 been brought to the cottage of a very worthy woman, 
 near whose door the accident had taken place. 
 
 "How long have I been here?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Only since yesterday morning." 
 
 " Then Mr. Henderson has not yet returned ?" 
 
 "Yes, Lieutenant Henderson got back sooner than 
 he expected. He came here last evening hoping to see 
 you, but, as you had just fallen asleep, I thought it best 
 not to wake you. We doctors are very dictatorial some- 
 times," he added, with a smile. 
 
 " Oh, then you are a doctor ?" 
 
 " I am Dr. Danforth. I have known your husband 
 for a great many years, although we had not met for 
 quite a long while, until lately." 
 
 " 1 think I remember," said Mrs. Henderson, putting 
 her hand to her head, as if she were rendered giddy 
 by the effort to recall the conversation of the morning 
 before. 
 
 " Do not try to remember anything just now," said 
 Dr. Danforth. " Here is your maid, just come from
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 103 
 
 Fernwood, with a number of little comforts which your 
 husband thought you might need. I will leave her with 
 you now ; but the less you talk the better." 
 
 Then came Teresa with the familiar ways which were 
 so comforting to her mistress after all the strange fades 
 and in this strange place where she found herself. She 
 wanted the maid to tell her just how the accident hap- 
 pened, and whether the groom was hurt, and when Mr. 
 Henderson had returned, and how he had heard of the 
 misfortune ; to all of which questions Teresa replied that 
 Mr. Henderson and Wilfred would -be there soon, and 
 that the doctor said the quieter she kept the more quickly 
 she would get well. 
 
 When a little later the father and son did come, they 
 were admitted by old Marjory, who said, with a respect- 
 ful courtesy, that Miss Arkwright had gone out, but 
 had left word that Mr. Henderson should be shown 
 up to see the invalid whenever he came, as the doctor 
 said that it would not do her any harm to see him this 
 morning, if she were " not hallowed to talk." 
 
 " I shall not let her talk too much," said Millard, no- 
 ticing the emphasis which the old woman put on the last 
 word, and strode past her up the stairs. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe the mingled feelings 
 with which he entered the room above. He knew by 
 instinct that it was Cynthia's, even if the hundred little 
 belongings which surround a woman like an atmos- 
 phere and unconsciously tell of her life had not spoken 
 so plainly to his perception as to put it beyond question. 
 
 The chamber in which Mrs. Henderson lay had once 
 been Miss Pinsley's. It was spread over the entire 
 second story of the house, except for an irregular slice 
 off one corner for the narrow entry from which a tiny 
 stair-way led to Marjory's room, and the room Cynthia 
 used to sleep in as a girl, where the slanting sides were 
 bright for her with many a vision now faded, but, except 
 for this tapestry of the imagination, were bare enough. 
 Her aunt's room, on the other hand, was filled with 
 homely comforts, giving it an air of simple luxury, with
 
 IO4 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 windows looking back over a wide expanse of country, 
 a fertile valley, with sloping fields, and woods and grazing 
 cattle ; and windows in front from which, when the green 
 shutters, now closed, were open, one could see the garden 
 gay with flowers, the rural path beyond, only marked by 
 the track of cart-wheels deep sunk in the green sod, 
 which led from the main road to the valley, and then 
 the tall bushes and the evergreens which separated this 
 path and sheltered the house from the dusty highway. 
 
 As he first set foot in this apartment it was but natu- 
 ral that some thought should have visited Henderson of 
 the purity and beauty of the last of the two lives it had 
 enshrined, even though he entered at the same moment 
 the presence of the wife whom he had come so near 
 losing, and had just been assuring himself that he had 
 failed to cherish as he would. In the midst of the great 
 four-posted bedstead, indeed, lay Posey. The poor pale 
 face, the fair hair brushed away from the pretty temples, 
 the eager, loving eyes, and the little hand stretched out 
 to his, all made an impression which he never forgot. 
 Somehow he seemed to be looking at his wife through 
 a new pair of eyes. 
 
 " Here is little Wilfred come to see you, my dear," 
 said Millard, when the first greeting between them was 
 over, lifting the boy and placing him on the bed beside 
 her. " He has just been talking to Mr. Ledyard," added 
 Millard, " who was so kind yesterday in going to your 
 aid." 
 
 She was holding out her arms to Wilfred, when sud- 
 denly she recoiled as if something had struck her. 
 
 " Why, what is the matter, Posey ? Are you suffering 
 more pain ?" 
 
 " To whom did you say Wilfred had been talking ?" 
 gasped Posey. 
 
 " I said that he was talking to Mr. Ledyard, the clergy- 
 man here. He seemed to take a great fancy to the boy." 
 
 Mrs. Henderson became as white as the pillow on 
 which she lay. 
 
 " I did not know the name of the clergyman here."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. IO5 
 
 she said. " Did you say he helped me ? How ? What 
 is his other name ?" 
 
 " I have heard, but forget. Richard, I think. But I 
 fear you are much less well. It will not do to talk any 
 more. The effort has been too much for you. Wilfred, 
 run down and ask old Marjory to come here with some 
 brandy. Tell her mamma feels faint." He seized a 
 bottle of cologne which stood near, and held it to her 
 nose, fanning her vigorously at the same time with the 
 brim of his straw hat. " What a fool I was to talk of 
 the accident!" he muttered to himself. " I might have 
 known it would be the worst thing for her." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 (EXTRACT FROM THE JOURNAL OF CYNTHIA ARKWRIGHT.) 
 
 " Friday evening. 
 
 "lam sitting all alone in the kitchen. Marjory is 
 taking care of Mrs. Henderson, while Teresa sleeps, so 
 that she can remain with her for the rest of the night. 
 
 " How fortunate that Dr. Danforth came back to-day 
 just when he did! Marjory said that Mrs. Henderson 
 was white as death, and her husband was much alarmed. 
 She had seen too many people, the doctor thought 
 To-morrow she is to have no excitement whatever. Old 
 Marjory and Teresa are to take turns in nursing her. 
 There is no need of my sitting in the kitchen, of course, 
 as the drawing-room is quite empty, but if there I 
 should be likely to be seen by any one who came to 
 ask for Mrs. Henderson, and I would rather not be 
 seen by every one. How strange all this seems ! It 
 has the incongruity of a dream, the inconvenience of a 
 reality. I have managed so far not to meet Millard 
 Henderson, and fully believe that he will try to make 
 it easy for me to avoid him, but I sometimes wonder
 
 106 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 whether it would not be better for us to plunge in boldly 
 and treat one another as old acquaintances. If so, I 
 must meet his wife as well. A great deal would depend 
 on her manner, in my feeling about seeing anything of 
 him. 
 
 " Later. As I finished the last sentence I heard a 
 footstep on the veranda. It paused irresolutely, and 
 then came a faint ring of the bell. I waited, expecting 
 Anastasia to open the door, but she did not appear. 
 The seconds wore into moments. I slipped up-stairs to 
 call her, and found the poor child in bed and fast asleep. 
 There was nothing for it but to go to the door myself. 
 I did, so with a beating heart, and found that, as I had 
 suspected, the person who stood outside was Lieutenant 
 Henderson. It was evident that he was not surprised 
 at meeting me. He had probably expected to do so, 
 for he said ' good-evening' in an easy tone, and then 
 asked how Mrs. Henderson was, and on hearing that 
 she had been sleeping for some time was about to turn 
 away, but seemed suddenly to change his mind. 
 
 " ' May I come in for a few moments, Miss Arkwright ?' 
 he asked. I am seldom uncertain in my speech or 
 actions, but I am tired to-night, and perhaps just a little 
 nervous from the excitement of the last two days. I 
 am conscious that I hesitated. 
 
 " ' It will only be for a moment' said Millard, gently. 
 He has too much generosity to have dreamed of taking 
 advantage of the position in which I found myself, and 
 yet why did he ask to come in ? These conflicting 
 thoughts which were in my mind could perhaps be read 
 in my face. Lieutenant Henderson did not sit dov/n. 
 He advanced a step or two into the room, and some- 
 thing in his face recalled the old feeling of faith and 
 reliance that carried me back for more than seven 
 years. 
 
 " He said, ' I want to beg your pardon very humbly 
 for my ignoble conduct a few nights ago." I made a 
 haughty gesture which he quite well understood. ' I 
 am not going to refer any further to that conversation,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. IO; 
 
 either now or ever/ he went on, 'but only to thank 
 you from the bottom of my heart for returning good for 
 evil. Your great kindness to my dear wife, and to me, 
 through her, will not be forgotten by her or by me.' 
 His voice trembled a little with the strength of his feel- 
 ing, but his eyes looked out at me as in long-past days, 
 with such a straightforward, manly gaze as filled me with 
 glad hope for the future. Could it be that after these 
 years of separation and misery we were once more to 
 lead our lives near together, even to help one another, 
 in all honor and honesty ? Were we to be friends in the 
 true sense of the word, to trust and be trusted, to share 
 each other's burdens when very heavy, and to enjoy the 
 consciousness of each other's sympathy, without wrong 
 to either? The long days and nights of the future, 
 which I had grown to dread, measuring them by the 
 lonely hours through which I have already lived, were 
 suddenly illumined with a strong, new hope, but still I 
 hesitated. 
 
 " ' Can I trust you ?' I asked at last. 
 
 " ' You can trust me now/ he said, ' for I will make it 
 one object of my life to deserve your trust ; and it may 
 not be too much to hope that the time will come when I 
 can help you.' 
 
 " ' Would you let me help you as a true friend may/ 
 he went on earnestly, ' if you should need my help ?' 
 
 " ' 1 should accept your friendship as a gift from 
 heaven/ I said with fervor. 
 
 " What further passed I can hardly recall. It was but 
 a word or two ; then I laid my hand in his and he was 
 gone. I went at once to my room. It is the same one 
 which I used to sleep in years ago, when I first met Mil- 
 lard at Fernwood. I have not prayed for a long while, 
 but I flung myself on my knees and thanked God for 
 this great, unlooked-for boon which he had granted to 
 me out of the wreck and waste of my past life. Some- 
 how, I feel renewed in strength, and almost happy, not 
 as I was in my youth, but in a more quiet, I had almost 
 written a more solid, way. It seems to me that this bright
 
 108 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 gleam of hope will stay with me ; and should it not, 
 should clouds and darkness come again, at least I shall 
 have the memory of it. Nothing can take that from me." 
 
 JOURNAL CONTINUED TWO DAYS LATER. 
 
 " I went to-day, for the first time since she has been 
 conscious, to Mrs. Henderson's room. (How odd to 
 call it so, when it has been mine since my aunt's death !) 
 She lay ?.s if asleep, with half-closed eyes. The fever 
 has left her, but she is very weak. I had been for a 
 walk to the village, and intentionally kept on my hat and 
 jacket, so as to follow out Dr. Danforth's suggestion of 
 coming in as a neighbor at first, since she still imagines 
 that the cottage belongs to old Marjory. I knocked on 
 the partly-open door ; she called ' Come in,' faintly, and 
 I entered with a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley in my hand, 
 but very quietly, explaining that I lived near, and had 
 come to ask if there were anything I could do for her, 
 being sorry to hear of her 'illness,' we never say 
 accident, as we are not sure how much she remembers 
 about it. She started, and looked at me rather strangely. 
 
 " ' Thank you, I do not think that there is anything 
 you can do for me,' she said, coldly. 
 
 " ' Can I not cheer you a little, and would you not 
 like these flowers ?' I inquired. 
 
 " She held out her hand for the lilies, without withdraw- 
 ing her eyes from my face. 
 
 ft ' Are you Miss Arkwright ?' she asked, slowly. 
 
 " I answered in the affirmative, and sat down beside her 
 as I did so. I was differently dressed from the day of 
 the accident, and had not been sure that she would 
 know me. 
 
 'Would you like me to stay and talk to you a 
 little while ?' I asked, ' or would you rather that I 
 went now, and came some other day, when you are 
 feeling stronger?' 
 
 ' 1 think I should like you to stay,' she said, after a 
 slight pause of indecision. I could not help fancying
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 109 
 
 that she would rather that I did not, and I could not 
 bear to force myself upon her ; but I felt that it would 
 not be wise to yield to the impulse to go. The ice was 
 broken, and it would be best to plunge in : so I began to 
 tell her about all the little incidents which had happened 
 in the neighborhood that might possibly interest and 
 amuse her. It was a new role for me, that of a village 
 gossip, but it was probably a wholesome exercise of my 
 rather rusty faculty of being entertaining, and the knowl- 
 edge that Mrs. Henderson, although unconsciously, was 
 my guest, helped in this. 
 
 " I was rewarded for the unwonted effort I made by a 
 gradual relaxing of the dulness and hardness of the 
 expression which had greeted me, and finally by a trem- 
 ulous smile, with which, when I rose to go, she thanked 
 me for my visit and for the flowers I had brought. She 
 seemed very tired, so I called her maid to get her some- 
 thing, and then went through the farce of walking sol- 
 emnly down-stairs and out on the veranda before stealing 
 
 softly up again past her door to my little attic chamber." 
 # #* ## # * # 
 
 Every morning now little Wilfred and his papa would 
 ride together to the village and stop at Miss Arkwright's 
 cottage, and every morning the same answer to their 
 inquiry would come from old Marjory, " Mrs. Hender- 
 son is doing well, sir, but the doctor h'insists as 'ow she 
 ought not to 'ave any h'excitement whath'ever," with a 
 glance at Wilfred and a stiff little courtesy to his father. 
 
 Old Marjory, indeed, was long unused to children, and 
 always inclined to think them troublesome, while even 
 the doctor, having been a witness of the weakness caused 
 by Mrs. Henderson's agitation the last time she had seen 
 the boy, when her husband chanced to mention their 
 few minutes' talk with Mr. Ledyard, had gathered the 
 impression that the excitement of seeing Wilfred and his 
 father together was entirely to blame for it, and had given 
 strict orders against his being again admitted, which the 
 vigilant Marjory was determined to carry out. 
 
 So Lieutenant Henderson would tell the little fellow
 
 1 10 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 to " ride on to the post-office with Malachi and get the 
 letters," and, disappearing from Wilfred's eager view, 
 would be shown by old Marjory to the sick-chamber. 
 
 Posey seemed very grateful for her husband's visits. 
 They did not say much to one another, but he sat beside 
 her and held her hand with more tenderness than he had 
 ever before shown, and she felt in a dim, inexplicable way 
 that there was a new bond forging between them. She 
 did not expect him to talk much, although it was evident 
 that his mind was busy over schemes which interested 
 him deeply. It was Posey herself who had always been 
 the talker, and, like most people who love the sound 
 of their own voices, was not a very good listener. She 
 read little, and therefore talked principally of people 
 and their affairs, about which she was always ready to 
 speculate if she did not know. In fact, when she was 
 well she was inclined to be communicative on all subjects 
 except the few with regard to which she chose to keep 
 her own counsel, but there was no one who understood 
 this better than she did. There were periods of her life 
 to which she never referred, persons whose names she 
 never mentioned, and often when she seemed to seek 
 company merely because she hated to be alone, or to 
 talk only for the sake of talking, she managed to elicit 
 exactly the information she wanted to obtain, while 
 seeming careless as to what she said or what was said 
 to her. 
 
 After the untoward chance of Miss Arkwright's dwell- 
 ing being so near their country home that it was impos- 
 sible that she and her husband should avoid such meet- 
 ings as had happened had been established as a fact in 
 the mind of Mrs. Millard Henderson, she was not unpre- 
 pared to receive a visit of neighborly solicitude from 
 her old rival as a consequence of her accident, and was 
 even willing to accept her kind inquiries with the grace- 
 ful condescension due to the superior advantages of hei 
 present worldly position ; but when the fact was cau- 
 tiously made known to her by Dr. Danforth that she 
 was the recipient of Miss Arkwright's generous hos-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. Ill 
 
 pitality it undoubtedly caused a shock to her compla- 
 cency. 
 
 She sent a message at once to Cynthia to ask if she 
 would come to her, and went through the form of thank- 
 ing her very punctiliously, if a trifle coldly, apologizing 
 at the same time for the inconvenience which she must 
 have caused. 
 
 Cynthia had too great pride herself not to understand 
 and sympathize with the struggle which she saw going 
 on in Posey's complex nature, and received her thanks 
 with so much sweetness and gentle dignity that Mrs. 
 Henderson lost the feeling of being humiliated, and 
 came by degrees to show more gratitude than she had 
 ever before exhibited since by her own rash wilfulness 
 she had cast off Mrs. Pelham's protection, as a girl, and 
 defied the world. Indeed, as time went on this feeling 
 changed to one of trustfulness and dependence, which 
 could have been due to no cause other than an uncon- 
 fessed consciousness of something in Cynthia's character 
 which dominated her, compelling confidence and respect. 
 
 Often she would despatch a message through old 
 Marjory begging Miss Arkwright to come and sit with 
 her, during the long hours of her convalescence, and, the 
 request being granted, would pour forth a perfect stream 
 of half-formed opinion, inquiry, or conjecture concerning 
 any bits of local information which Cynthia might be 
 able to impart. She was especially interested in all that 
 concerned the new clergyman, as it appeared. Her hus- 
 band wanted her to ask him to dinner, she said, when 
 she grew stronger and was back again at Fernwood, so 
 she would like to know what kind of a man he was. 
 When had he come to Dundaff? Where had he lived 
 before that? Did Cynthia not know? Could it have 
 been somewhere in the West, or was it in New York, 
 did she think? How old a man did he seem to be? 
 Millard had said he was very handsome. Did Cynthia 
 think him handsome ? 
 
 Sometimes she hardly waited to hear the answers to 
 these questions. She seldom seemed to heed them, and
 
 112 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 if Miss Arkwright did not know or did not feel inclined 
 to commit herself, she only found it necessary to respond 
 by a shake of the head or a kindly smile ; but Cynthia 
 was sincerely glad of the easy, cordial relations which 
 were springing up between herself and Mrs. Henderson, 
 and did all in her power to foster the pleasant feeling 
 thus created 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ON the following Tuesday Richard Ledyard remem- 
 bered his promise of a visit to Mrs. and Miss Betterton. 
 It is needless to say that he did not belong to the class 
 of clergymen to whom dallying over a cup of afternoon 
 tea came naturally, and it required some effort to force 
 himself into a fitting frame of mind for a society call. 
 He would much have preferred a ten-mile walk or a 
 row up the river, but he felt that to gain the confidence 
 of his congregation it was well to mingle with them 
 when he had the opportunity, and there was a dinner visit 
 to pay to Mrs. Betterton, whose exacting sensitiveness 
 with regard to such matters was proverbial, to say 
 nothing of his having given his promise to her daughter. 
 
 The walk of two miles from Dundaff was nothing to 
 him in point of distance, but as it chanced to be along 
 a dusty turnpike, and the sun was especially hot on this 
 afternoon in early May, he^ was glad when he reached 
 the shelter of the two chestnut-trees between which 
 stood the gilded wrought-iron gate of Camelot. The 
 gate was very grand and very new-looking, like every- 
 thing else about the place except the two old chestnuts. 
 
 The visit was not quite so formidable as he expected. 
 He found Mrs. and Miss Betterton both receiving, to be 
 sure, and had to undergo a searching examination from 
 the former lady as to why he had not been to call on 
 her before, and what he knew about Mrs. Henderson's 
 accident, and whether Dr. Danforth thought there were
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 113 
 
 any chance of her head being affected if she recovered, 
 and how Miss Arkwright had borne the invasion of her 
 privacy for such a cause. To all of which questions 
 Ledyard's answers were singularly non-committal ; but 
 then, to his great relief, Mrs. Betterton's attention was 
 claimed by the wife of the chief grocer of Dundaff, one 
 of his vestrymen, and another of his most influential 
 parishioners, Miss Platt, the little spinster milliner, who 
 was generally understood to be a lady who had seen 
 better days, who knew the world and the wicked ways 
 of mankind, and whose tongue was almost as much 
 dreaded by her neighbors for its sharpness as that of 
 Mrs. Betterton for its volubility. Richard had happily 
 escaped to the side of Miss Betterton, but had inter- 
 changed barely a word or two with that young lady 
 when she was obliged to turn to another new arrival, 
 the son of a neighboring rich farmer, who evidently 
 admired Miss Florence. Ledyard was at leisure to 
 drink the cup of tea with which his younger hostess 
 had provided him and look about him thoughtfully. 
 He perceived that both she and her mother were very 
 grandly dressed, much too much so for the occasion, 
 that the room was furnished in yellow satin, and lined 
 with gilt-framed mirrors in a manner which was sin- 
 gularly at variance with his ideas of comfort in a country 
 home ; but his further reflections were cut short by the 
 sudden apparition of a girlish figure in one of the long 
 windows that opened into the garden at the back of the 
 house. A fair young woman, very simply clad in pale- 
 blue muslin, may not seem like a startling or mysterious 
 object, but this one was in such marked contrast to 
 everything about her, that Ledyard was filled with 
 wonder when she glided in and was accosted affection- 
 ately by Miss Florence Betterton. 
 
 " How late you are, Nathalie ! I was just thinking of 
 going to see if anything had happened. Let me intro- 
 duce to you," etc., etc. A long string of presentations fol- 
 lowed, in the midst of which Ledyard bowed, hearing his 
 own name, but he failed to catch that of the stranger, who 
 k 10*
 
 H4 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 simply included him in the graceful inclination and 
 sweet smile with which the whole room-full of people 
 were greeted. It was evident that the girl was staying 
 in the house, and an honored guest, from the almost ob- 
 sequious manner towards her of Mr. Betterton, the 
 father, and the half-patronizing attention bestowed on 
 her by Tom Betterton, the promising son, who entered 
 the room with his parent at this moment, and, after a 
 brief survey of the other guests, began devoting him 
 self to the new-comer. She did not repel his advances, 
 although Ledyard fancied that the manner of them was 
 not agreeable to her, but received them with the quiet 
 air of one accustomed to notice and attention. She was 
 also quite at her ease, he could see, beneath the curious 
 glances of the village ladies, and completely ignored the 
 loud aside in which Mrs. Betterton was satisfying the 
 whispered inquiries of Miss Platt, who seemed very 
 curious indeed. 
 
 " School friend of Florry's finished abroad every ac- 
 complishment" were some of the words which reached 
 Richard's ears ; but it was an indefinable air of dis- 
 tinction, which showed itself in her serene unconscious- 
 ness and entire absence of pretension or assumption, 
 which especially attracted him. 
 
 Ledyard had good blood in his veins, rejoicing in a 
 long line of respectable ancestors, although he was wont 
 to believe himself too proud to care from whence he 
 came, but he suddenly realized that the result which 
 charmed in the young person before him could only 
 have been obtained by the combination of gentle fore- 
 bears with the cultivation of the graces of life from 
 childhood, as they are understood in the best society. 
 
 Here his observations were temporarily interrupted 
 by a no less important event than the entrance of the 
 Rev. Simon Ashmead, rector of St. Luke's, accompanied 
 by his wife. Mrs. Ashmead, in an olive-green silk, 
 made a special impression upon Richard. . He noted 
 that her hair, which, like her skin, was a pale yellow, 
 was parted over her forehead in the style of a Gothic
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 115 
 
 arch, " one would say in imitation of the church door," 
 he thought, with unbecoming levity. Perhaps the occa- 
 sion appealed to his sense of humor with peculiar em- 
 phasis, as it was evident that the Ashmeads had come 
 in full force to call at Camelot, for the purpose of ascer- 
 taining the cause of the defection of these wealthy mem- 
 bers of the congregation of St. Luke's to the village 
 church, and nothing could have been so unexpected to 
 them or so paralyzing to their plan of action as to find 
 Mr. Ledyard already in the field. Soon Mr. Ashmead 
 succeeded in drawing near to Mrs. Betterton, however, 
 and insinuating a few such well-worn bits of clerical flat- 
 tery as he had at command, while Mrs. Ashmead 
 claimed a cup of tea at the fair hands of Miss Betterton. 
 It was then, with rather a wicked smile, that this young 
 lady took the opportunity of introducing to her Mr. 
 Richard Ledyard, the new rector of St. Andrew's, giving 
 him his full name and title. He was amused at her spirit 
 in thus taking the opportunity to present her new rector 
 to the wife of her old one. He had done his duty towards 
 Mrs. Ashmead and provided her with tea and toast, 
 when his eye lighted on poor Mr. Betterton, who seemed 
 not only much embarrassed at entering his own drawing- 
 room, but was further discomfited, almost to the point 
 of desperation, by the concerted attack of Mrs. Duffy 
 and Miss Platt, who fell upon him as he did so. His 
 confusion was so great that Ledyard took pity on him 
 and came to the rescue, with the happy result of the 
 two ladies combining upon him, and continuing to throw 
 backwards and forwards the ball of conversation in the 
 most lively and engaging manner, while Tom Betterton 
 and the young farmer were convulsed with laughter over 
 the exaggerated shadow of Miss Platt's waving plume, 
 which bent and coquetted at every motion of the milli- 
 ner's animated head. When Miss Platt and company 
 had finally taken their departure, wreathed in smiles, and 
 Tom Betterton and his companion had recovered, Led- 
 yard, perceiving that these young men were vying with 
 one another in their attentions to the pretty stranger,
 
 Il6 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 thought it time for him to go too, but Miss Betterton by 
 no means shared this conviction. She had not asked 
 Mr. Ledyard to call with the intention of having him talk 
 to every one else in the room and of interchanging but 
 three or four words with him herself. She had had a 
 definite object in urging him to come to see her, and she 
 was not accustomed to being thwarted in any wish. 
 
 Accordingly, she availed herself of the diversion 
 caused by the departure of her other guests to say to 
 him, " Do you not think that, now the sun is low, you 
 would like to take a turn in the garden, Mr. Ledyard ?" 
 
 " Very pleasant, indeed," he replied, and noticed that 
 she glanced impulsively in the direction of her friend, 
 who responded with a quick look of comprehension. 
 
 " Would you not like to go into the garden with us, 
 Nathalie ?" Miss Florence asked at once ; but, although 
 the young girl looked up a little wistfully, she smiled 
 and shook her head, at which Ledyard experienced a 
 vague sense of disappointment. He would have liked 
 to know more of this interesting stranger, but made an 
 effort to concentrate his wandering attention on his 
 companion. This was the less difficult that the next 
 moment they found themselves strolling side by side 
 down a very straight garden path planted on either side 
 with a stiff but fragrant border of heliotrope flanked by 
 scarlet fish-geranium. It was a pleasant contrast to the 
 room within. 
 
 " I wanted to see you particularly, Mr. Ledyard," began 
 Miss Betterton, " because I want you to tell me whether I 
 can be of any use to you as a teacher in your Sunday- 
 school." 
 
 Ledyard colored slightly. " You are very kind," he 
 said, " and I should really be glad of your help, but 
 the truth is that as yet there are very few scholars in the 
 Sunday-school. Miss Platt has a class, you know, of 
 the daughters of the villagers, and I have got together a 
 number of the young men, who seem to take an interest 
 in learning and whom I teach myself. There are certain 
 poor children, the sons and daughters of the people who
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1 1/ 
 
 work in the mills, whom I should like of all things to 
 get to come to the Sunday-school if I only could." 
 
 He glanced sideways at his companion, to see how she 
 would take this suggestion of helping the poorest of 
 the poor. 
 
 Evidently Miss Betterton was puzzled. Her idea of a 
 Sunday-school class was of a very prim, orderly set of 
 young people, such as her own class at St. Luke's, 
 where she had been made to learn her catechism regu- 
 larly and a certain number of verses of a hymn, and 
 had recited them side by side with Gertrude Ashmead, 
 in rather a mechanical way, to be sure, but with an 
 atmosphere about them of the highest respectability. 
 The picture which Mr. Ledyard's last remarks sum- 
 moned up, of a number of ragged dirty little beings 
 whom she had seen playing in the mud about the factory 
 buildings, was rather a contrast to this. 
 
 " Of course you know more about such things than I 
 do, Mr. Ledyard," she said, " but I should think the chil- 
 dren would have to go to school first before it would be 
 any use to send them to Sunday-school." 
 
 " And suppose that they work in the factory all day, 
 and have no time to go to school ?" 
 
 " Surely the children do not work in the factory?" 
 
 " They do, indeed, many of them from the time they 
 are seven or eight years old." 
 
 Miss Betterton was silent for a moment. 
 
 " Then I should think the best thing to do would be 
 to teach them how to read and write at Sunday-school," 
 she said at last. 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said Ledyard, "as to that 
 being the proper way to begin. One might try to min- 
 gle a little spiritual knowledge too, however, with this 
 practical information." 
 
 " I see," responded Miss Florence, laconically. 
 
 It was evident that she was becoming interested in 
 the idea of these children, if not in the children them- 
 selves. 
 
 "Florry! Florry !" shouted Mrs. Betterton through
 
 Il8 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the drawing-room window. " Come here, daughter ; Mr. 
 and Mrs. Ashmead are going." 
 
 " I only wish Mr. and Mrs. Ashmead would go," 
 murmured the undutiful Florence below her breath. It so 
 chanced that she particularly disliked to have her mother 
 address her as " daughter," and it was especially irritating 
 that she should choose this opportunity of doing so be- 
 fore Mr. Ledyard, and also should interrupt a conversa- 
 tion in which she was so happily engaged, in absorbing 
 new ideas. 
 
 They turned their footsteps in the opposite direction, 
 but there was still the length of the garden to traverse 
 before reaching the house, and in this space of time she 
 managed to say, " I want to help you in any way I can, 
 Mr. Ledyard, because I am sure you are in earnest and 
 really mean to do good. I know I am rather a ' green 
 hand at it,' as the farmers about here say, but I should 
 like to do some good too." 
 
 " Thank you, Miss Betterton," said Richard. " Per- 
 haps I shall have an opportunity of saying a word to 
 you on this subject, after the service, of a Sunday morn- 
 ing; meanwhile," he continued, offering her his hand 
 with a smile, " I will look about me and try to find some- 
 thing useful which you can do." Then he bade a hasty 
 farewell to Mrs. Betterton and the Ashmeads, who were 
 all standing and making their adieus, looking about him 
 the while for the young lady whom Miss Florence had 
 addressed as Nathalie. 
 
 She was in the act of saying good-by to the young 
 farmer, who was evidently so far smitten with her charms 
 as to own a divided allegiance between Miss Florence and 
 the new-comer. She looked past him towards Ledyard 
 as he made his bow, and for the first time Ledyard's 
 eyes met hers with a glance which was only half inten- 
 tional on either side. He was conscious of a shock of 
 pleasure as they did so, which was as inexplicable to 
 him as it was astonishing. 
 
 He was confident, however, that to her the encounter 
 was no such matter of moment, for she saluted him with
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1 19 
 
 an air of cordial courtesy such as was nothing more and 
 nothing less than befitted an inmate of the house in 
 taking leave of a visitor. Ledyard just returned the 
 bow, and hastened from the room apostrophizing himself 
 as a hopeful idiot for the sudden constraint which came 
 over him in this gracious presence, in strong contrast 
 to the ease and self-possession with which he had been 
 conversing with Miss Florence Betterton. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 IT was more than a week later before little Wilfred 
 was allowed to see his mamma again. 
 
 Mrs. Henderson was so far recovered as to be propped 
 up in a huge arm-chair, covered with brown leather, 
 which had belonged to Cynthia's grandmother, the 
 mother of the late Miss Pinsley, and was the pride of old 
 Marjory's heart, from its luxurious capacity and enor- 
 mous proportions. Wilfred had once been taken to see 
 a show of trained elephants at a menagerie in Paris, 
 where the animals put themselves in all sorts of ex- 
 traordinary positions, and it may have been due to this 
 experience that the great chair looked to his excited 
 fancy like a benevolent elephant seated on its haunches, 
 with its large, flap-like ears stretched out stiffly, and its 
 huge front legs extended to receive the invalid. She and 
 her hostess were sitting together in the cool, old-fash- 
 ioned bedroom, and having been told that he might go 
 up if very quiet and good, Wilfred crept up-stairs so 
 softly that neither of the two ladies heard his approach. 
 Indeed, they were both equally surprised when the door 
 opened to admit the father and son. 
 
 Cynthia rose at once, and was about to leave the room, 
 with a kind word to the boy and a courteous bend of her 
 stately head to Lieutenant Henderson, but Posey called 
 her back.
 
 120 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 "Wait, wait, Miss Arkwright," she cried; "please do 
 not go without seeing my little boy. Is he not a fine 
 little fellow ?" Her tone was so happy and proud, and 
 the light in her eyes so much brighter and warmer than 
 any which he could before remember, that the lad was 
 delighted. He ran towards her with outstretched arms, 
 and Cynthia paused to see mother and child embrace, 
 but somehow the sight was disappointing. Posey put 
 out her two pretty white hands, to be sure, rendered 
 even whiter and more delicately moulded in appearance 
 by her illness, and took hold of Wilfred's arms, but 
 she only drew him near enough to imprint a light kiss 
 on his forehead before she held him off again at a com- 
 fortable distance for inspection, while her eyes dwelt with 
 satisfaction on his fair, curly head and pure, childish 
 brow, and then wandered to his little velvet tunic. 
 
 "That new tailoress really fits Wilfred very well," she 
 said, reflectively, to her husband. " I am so glad I had 
 two of these dresses made for him ! It will save me 
 a great deal of trouble in taking or sending him to 
 town." 
 
 Henderson, who had just come from the post-office 
 and was reading his letters at one of the windows, did 
 not seem to notice. As Cynthia again turned towards 
 the door, however, it was his voice which stopped her. 
 
 " Please do not go, Miss Arkwright," he said, earnestly. 
 " I have been having a talk with my partner, Mr. 
 Betterton, about some plans for a change of rules in the 
 factory, in which I am sure you will be interested. Will 
 you not sit down while I explain them to you and Mrs. 
 Henderson ?" 
 
 Posey looked at her husband in some surprise. " I 
 am sure I do not know what Millard is going to tell us 
 about," she said, "but do sit down, Miss Arkwright." 
 She released Wilfred's arms as she spoke, brushed some 
 dust from his velvet cap, and gave him another kiss on 
 the forehead. 
 
 Henderson only answered by seating himself on the 
 other side of his wife, and laying his hand on the arm of
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 121 
 
 her chair as he began to speak. He had, indeed, deter- 
 mined that he would try to take her more into his life, 
 and see if it would not be possible to interest her in that 
 which interested him most keenly. Fortunately for the 
 success of this first attempt, Posey was just enough sub- 
 dued and physically depressed by the weakening reaction 
 from fever not to be in a humor for talking herself, while 
 it soothed and diverted her to hear her husband's voice, 
 and she did not think it necessary to pay any especial 
 attention to what he was saying. But presently she 
 perceived that Cynthia Arkwright, who had consented 
 to reseat herself and taken little Wilfred on her knee, 
 evidently felt such an intense and vital interest in the 
 new order of things to be instituted in the mills at Dun- 
 daff as quite roused her up to the importance of the 
 changes contemplated, and she began also to listen. 
 
 " It is but an experiment, of course," Henderson was 
 saying, " and it may be that old Betterton's prophecies, 
 and not my hopes, will be realized ; but at least he has 
 consented to give my plan a fair trial." 
 
 " And your plan, briefly, is to offer the employees more 
 time to themselves and have a more graded scale of 
 wages ?" asked Cynthia, thoughtfully. 
 
 " To offer them more time in case they earn the time," 
 corrected Henderson. " That is it in a nutshell. I hope, 
 from the manufacturer's point of view, that one part of 
 the scheme may pay for the other." 
 
 " But you do not propose to lower any of the wages, 
 as I understand," proceeded Cynthia. 
 
 " Certainly not, unless I would begin the new order 
 of things by causing a strike. The grading is to be up- 
 wards." 
 
 " How, then, will you save money ?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, Millard," cried Posey, with sudden illumination, 
 " how will you do anything but lose money if you give 
 all the people more wages and require them to do less 
 work ?" 
 
 " That is not exactly what I propose," said Millard, 
 emiling. " I really expect them to do more work in the 
 
 T II
 
 122 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 end in less time, but at first we shall lose. I have pre- 
 pared Betterton's mind for that." 
 
 " In other words," said Miss Arkwright, " this is not a. 
 plan devised for the profit of the manufacturer so much 
 as for the benefit of the workman. I think it a fine idea 
 whether it succeed or no." 
 
 " That is all very well," said Mrs. Henderson, with 
 unlooked-for shrewdness, " but to lose money in the 
 manufactory would be very much like losing money in 
 any other way." 
 
 " You are right, my dear," responded her husband, 
 " and it is for the practicability of my plan that I am 
 contending. I think, as I have said, that we may lose at 
 first, but that our loss will be a good investment, for 
 soon the added incentive will, if I am not mistaken, 
 make the cleverer workman more than repay to us 
 what we lose by the stupider or less ambitious." 
 
 " I see that you differ from most persons who have 
 studied social questions with a view to improving the 
 condition of the working classes," said Cynthia. 
 
 " How do you think that I differ from them ?" asked 
 Henderson. 
 
 " Why, in the superiority you admit of the clever over 
 the stupid workman." 
 
 " Dear me, yes," said Posey, with an air of great wis- 
 dom, " you expect the clever workman to be so very 
 clever, if he is to make up to Mr. Betterton for all the 
 money you lose." 
 
 Millard burst out laughing, and Cynthia joined irre- 
 sistibly, while Posey, who was not gifted with a keen 
 sense of humor, looked from one to the other, at first 
 with some astonishment ; then realizing that her last re- 
 mark had been taken as a witticism at her husband's ex- 
 pense, she began to laugh too, dimpling and bridling as 
 she did so with evident satisfaction at her own unex- 
 pected brilliancy. 
 
 " It certainly is a common tendency of most of the 
 Socialists, or socialistic schemes, to seek to level natu- 
 ral distinctions of character or ability quite as much
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 12$ 
 
 as those artificial ones which are the outgrowth of cir- 
 cumstance or surrounding," said Henderson, turning 
 again to Miss Arkwright as he resumed the graver 
 theme of their discourse. 
 
 " Yes, their only remedy for injustice is enforced 
 equality," she answered, " a sort of bed of Procrustes 
 for the million." 
 
 " That is far from my idea," he said. " My dream 
 would be not to take away liberty, but to increase it, to 
 multiply its opportunities; to let the moral qualities of 
 the workman tell in his favor, as well as his mental gifts ; 
 to secure for him something of that credit and power, 
 in proportion to his integrity and ability, which con- 
 stantly tend to make the rich man grow richer." 
 
 " Rich men have been known to grow poorer," said 
 Posey, solemnly. 
 
 " Yes, and poor men richer," replied her husband, 
 smiling. " I think it is only Mr. Henry George who 
 asserts it as an unvarying fact that as the rich man 
 grows richer the poor man grows poorer. It has, 
 nevertheless, been believed by many thoughtful men that 
 an unfair advantage, a grasping after undue and exorbi- 
 tant profits on the part of the rich man is often the cause 
 of defeat and failure, which involves the poor as in- 
 evitably as the wife and children of the poor man are 
 reduced to starve with him. I think the mistake has 
 been in confounding the natural mathematical advantage, 
 if one may call it so, which comes to the rich man in a 
 certain proportionally-increasing ratio ; that is, his ac- 
 quisition of wealth as the result of wise foresight with 
 this effort to gain undue advantage, which ought to lead 
 to failure logically, if it do not always do so. To my 
 thinking, the man who grasps the one loses the other, 
 which is not only compounded of such estimation as he 
 may gain in men's eyes, by what he is known to possess, 
 but of how wisely he is apt to dispose of his possessions, 
 and what restraining moral influences he is known to 
 recognize, which are called his principles. In other 
 words, all these elements go to make up what is com-
 
 124 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 prised in a man's credit, and money alone, without the 
 other two ingredients of wisdom and integrity, will sel- 
 dom give it to him, and can never keep it for him." 
 
 " I see," said Cynthia. " And you think perhaps two 
 of these qualities, the last two, wisdom and integrity, 
 belong quite as frequently to the poor man as to the rich." 
 
 " That is my exact thought." 
 
 " But how can you give him the advantage of them ?" 
 
 "That is the problem which I am endeavoring to 
 solve. I see no way to it except by money. I think I 
 must first offer him an incentive, which will enable me 
 to discover his ability and power of self-denial, and I 
 must then give him a proportionate share of the result 
 of his voluntary labor, with opportunity to invest his 
 small profit to advantage." 
 
 " Your plan of improvement tends, then, towards co- 
 operation?" 
 
 " Not cooperation in the sense of a common capital 
 and a mutual right to control those parts of the busi- 
 ness which experience and leisure to look about him 
 make the capitalist much better able to direct than 
 the cleverest of his workmen is likely to become capa- 
 ble of doing ; but a cooperation between the employer 
 and the employed, which can only be brought about by 
 the establishment of mutual confidence and a common 
 interest." 
 
 " And what are you going to do for the little boys 
 and little girls who work at the factory, papa ?" asked a 
 childish voice. 
 
 Everybody had forgotten Wilfred for the time, but it 
 now appeared that, from his own point of view, he was 
 much interested in the subject. 
 
 " What would you like to do for them, Wilfred ?" in- 
 quired his father. 
 
 " I should like to ask them to come and play with 
 me at Fernwood," he replied, after a short pause for 
 reflection, " and give them all a good dinner." 
 
 "Ask your mamma if you may do that," replied 
 Henderson, in a mischievous tone.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. I2f, 
 
 " May I, mamma ?" inquired Wilfred, earnestly. 
 
 " All the children in the factories, child ! Why, there 
 are four or five hundred !" cried his mother, with conster- 
 nation. 
 
 " Hardly so many as that, I think," remarked Millard, 
 in an amused tone. 
 
 " Well, more than a hundred at any rate, are there 
 not, Miss Arkwright? I could not think of such a 
 thing. It would be a great deal too much for me." 
 
 " How many boys and girls are there, Miss Ark- 
 wright ?" asked Wilfred. 
 
 " I should think there were more than a hundred," 
 said Cynthia, looking gently at the boy, who was still 
 on her knee. 
 
 " Do you think it would be too much for you when 
 you are quite well again, dear mamma ?" pleaded Wil- 
 fred. 
 
 " Do not tease mamma now, dear," admonished his 
 father. " Remember how ill she has been." 
 
 " But you told me to ask her !" cried Wilfred, re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 " I was only in fun ; but there was no harm in asking 
 her once" said Henderson. Then seeing the look of 
 keen disappointment in the boy's face, he added, " Per- 
 haps in time mamma may be so well that she will her- 
 self propose asking the factory children to come to 
 Fernwood ; and if she should, they shall all have a good 
 dinner, I promise you." 
 
 Wilfred beamed all over at this delightful prospect, 
 and looked up shyly at Miss Arkwright for the sympa- 
 thy which he instinctively felt was his. He was glad 
 to be led away to the garden after this, leaving his 
 father and mother together, while he and Cynthia spent 
 a happy half-hour among the flowers, until Henderson 
 came to carry him off. 
 
 " I wish I could stay with Miss Arkwright always, 
 papa. Just look at the roses she has given me !" 
 
 " And yet you are not satisfied ?" asked his father, 
 with an odd intonation. He held out his hand to the 
 
 ir*
 
 126 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 child and drew him closer, gazing sadly and searchingly 
 into his little eager face. 
 
 Cynthia looked at them both. 
 
 " What have you or I done, to deserve to live with 
 Miss Arkwright ?" Millard asked the boy ; and then 
 with a smile and sudden change of expression which 
 Wilfred could as little understand, he added : " Are we 
 not both very fortunate to be allowed to live near her ?" 
 
 The child did not answer. He looked from his father 
 to Cynthia, who was hastily turning away, and he fancied 
 he saw a mist in her eyes, as of unshed tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 A DAY or two later, making his usual morning visit, 
 Henderson found his wife half reclining on the sofa in 
 Miss Arkwright's little parlor. 
 
 " Why, this is delightful !" he exclaimed. " How did 
 you get down-stairs ?" 
 
 " Dr. Danforth brought me down," she said, with a 
 little toss of her head. " He is very good to me, I 
 assure you." 
 
 " Good to you ! I should think he was ; but nothing 
 to compare to how good he is to me in getting you 
 better," replied Millard, cheerily. " Here is a letter," he 
 added, " which came for you day before yesterday. I 
 was a little afraid to give it to you then, as the doctor 
 had forbidden all excitement, because I did not know 
 the handwriting." 
 
 Posey, who had not many correspondents, looked 
 languidly at the address, then suddenly holding it closer, 
 exclaimed, " I think it is from my mother !" She opened 
 the envelope and hastily read its contents, growing 
 strangely pale as she did so. 
 
 " What is it, dear ? Not bad news, I hope ?" 
 
 " Yes," she said, " it is from my mother. She had not
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. I2/ 
 
 heard of our return, it appears, until she saw the account 
 of my accident in the paper. She seems much distressed, 
 and oh, she is very anxious to see me !" 
 
 " And your father ?" asked Henderson, gravely. 
 
 " My mother writes to tell me of my father's death, 
 more than a year ago," she answered, sadly. 
 
 " Poor child ! Poor Posey." 
 
 " Do not pity me for that," she said, her face hard- 
 ening as she spoke. " I am not sorry for his death, 
 for he it was who refused to allow my mother to have 
 anything to do with me, no, not even to speak my 
 name !" she cried with bitterness. 
 
 " Have you had no communication with her in all these 
 years ?" asked Henderson. " When did you last see her ?" 
 
 His wife's head was half turned from him. She did 
 not answer for a moment. Then she said, " I saw her 
 last in Baltimore, a long while ago. She was with me 
 at that is, before my marriage." 
 
 " At the time of our marriage ? No, surely not. 
 You forget that I have never seen your mother." 
 
 " I said before our marriage, but really, Millard, it 
 does not matter now, and you we were married in 
 New York." 
 
 " It agitates you to speak of it. I can easily under- 
 stand that, when you were so unkindly treated ; why, I 
 recollect your telling me that even the letter in which 
 you announced your marriage to your mother was sent 
 back to you unopened. But what is the matter, dear ? 
 You look faint. This excitement has been too much 
 for you. Let me call Teresa." 
 
 He was hastening to the door, when he was stopped 
 by an imploring glance from Posey. 
 
 " Do not leave me !" she cried. " I shall soon be 
 better. I would rather not have any one called. See, 
 I am better now." He poured some water into a glass 
 which stood beside a pitcher on a stand near by, after 
 drinking which she did look a little less death-like. 
 
 " Do not let us talk of these matters any more," said 
 Henderson. " You are not equal to it. Wait for another
 
 128 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 day." But it seemed as if Posey could not turn her 
 thoughts from the subject. She clung to her husband's 
 hand, looking beseechingly into his face with an ex- 
 pression which he could not understand. " What is it, 
 Posey ?" he asked, gently. " Is there anything which 
 you want to tell me ?" 
 
 She did not answer directly, but, lowering her eyes, 
 asked in her turn, 
 
 " When did you last see your friend Granby Neil ?" 
 
 Millard started. " Poor Neil !" he exclaimed in a pained 
 tone, caused partly by the mention of his dead friend 
 and partly by a memory to which his wife could have 
 no clue. This was the fact that a slight coldness had 
 grown up between himself and Neil in consequence of 
 what he considered the officious meddling of the artist 
 in a matter which in no way concerned him. No ex- 
 planation had taken place between them. Indeed, Mil- 
 lard had reason to think that Neil never knew of the 
 effect which his well-meant effort to gain protection for 
 Posey had had on the life of Henderson himself. 
 
 A train of thought connected with this saddest, darkest 
 period of his life was unfortunately set in motion by his 
 wife's unexpected question, and he gazed down at her 
 for some moments, without remembering that he had 
 not answered it, with a stern fixity which seemed to 
 make her very heart stand still. At last he roused 
 himself to notice that she had turned away from him 
 with a sort of sob of suppressed nervousness and covered 
 her face with her hands. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, coldly. " I think you 
 asked me something? Oh, I recollect. You wanted 
 to know when I last saw Mr. Granby Neil ? But, my 
 dear, of what possible interest can that be to you ?" 
 His whole tone was changed by the imperious absorp- 
 tion of the thoughts which had been awakened. " I 
 can tell you," he went on, " that when I heard the news 
 of my friend's death I was doubly shocked, because we 
 had not seen one another for a long while, owing to an 
 incident which led to a slight estrangement. I do not
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. I2g 
 
 care to be questioned with regard to this incident, but 
 wiU only say that had my friend lived I should not have 
 allowed it to interfere with the intimacy between us. I 
 remember that I was on my way to New York, by the 
 bye, when I heard of Neil's death. Did I not tell you 
 of it, and that it was long since I had seen him, when I 
 first met you there?" 
 
 " You did, indeed. I have not forgotten," replied 
 Posey, in a muffled voice. Her face was still buried in 
 her hands. 
 
 " I remember how much you seemed to feel his loss," 
 continued Millard, more gently, " and that it was a chord 
 of sympathy between us." His voice was gradually 
 losing its hard, dry tone and returning to the tenderer 
 modulation to which she had become accustomed of 
 late. 
 
 " To go back to the subject of your mother, dear," he 
 said presently : " how did it happen that you saw her in 
 Baltimore ?" 
 
 Posey shivered a little, drew away her hands, and 
 looked searchingly into his face, but no longer with fear. 
 
 " My mother had come to Baltimore because she 
 heard that I was acting there," she said, deliberately; 
 " that was how I saw her ; but she was recalled by a 
 peremptory message from my father. She has not had a 
 happy life, poor mother !" 
 
 " You must write and ask her to come to you now," 
 said Henderson, kindly. " There can be nothing to pre- 
 vent it, since your father is dead." 
 
 " You forget," returned Posey, quickly, " that she has 
 my younger brothers and sister to take care of. There 
 are three of them, and they are not yet of an age to be 
 left to themselves." She seemed lost in perplexity for 
 five or six moments. At last she said, " I think, Millard, 
 when I am well enough, I should like to go and see my 
 mother." 
 
 " Certainly, dear. We will both go." 
 
 " And Wilfred ? We could not both leave him." 
 
 " Why not take him with us ?" 
 i
 
 130 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " We will see," she replied, evasively. " If you are so 
 much taken up with these plans about the factory and 
 the farm, and the rest of it, you will hardly want to go 
 away, and it is not good for children to travel in warm 
 weather ; but there is time enough. I will write to my 
 mother this afternoon." 
 
 Here the conversation flagged, and Henderson suc- 
 ceeded in persuading his wife to let him lift her in his 
 arms and carry her up-stairs. No serious drawback to 
 her recovery was caused by her temporary fatigue. 
 She continued to gain strength from day to day, and 
 was soon able to sit out on the veranda, then to take 
 a short drive, and finally was driven safely home to 
 Fernwood. Many were the expressions of kindness 
 and gratitude with which she parted from Cynthia. 
 
 Miss Arkwright moved back to her own bedroom, 
 and things for her resumed their old order, with the ex- 
 ception that she was less rigid in her seclusion. The 
 unconscious influence of having been forced, as it were, 
 into easy natural association with people of her own 
 class had done much to break her habit of reserve. 
 
 Dr. Danforth had always considered himself a privi- 
 leged character, but he came and went more freely than 
 he ever had done before, and found Miss Arkwright 
 more evidently glad to see him. They had heretofore 
 been friendly, but he felt that they had now more inter- 
 ests in common. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE change in Miss Arkwright was also felt by Led- 
 yard, who now did not hesitate to drop in on her of a 
 summer evening and sit talking lazily in the veranda of 
 her cottage, while the old Scotch retriever came and laid 
 his head confidingly on Richard's knee, and the grand- 
 daughter of Miss Pinsley's famous yellow cat " Amber" 
 stole softly up to play with Neptune's tail.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 13! 
 
 " It is odd that ' Buttercup' has inherited none of the 
 animosity of old Amber towards Neptune," said Cyn- 
 thia one evening that they were sitting thus peacefully 
 in the twilight. " I can remember when I used to come 
 here as a school-girl to stay with my aunt that Nep- 
 tune and Amber were on the worst of terms. Clouded 
 Amber I used to call him, for he was always growling 
 like a thunder-storm." 
 
 " I suppose ' Buttercup' has been better brought up," 
 said Ledyard ; " but, remembering your feeling about 
 thunder-storms, I should have thought you would have 
 been especially attached to old Amber; and there is 
 good reason for his reminding you of such a storm, 
 since elektron, from which your favorite electricity was 
 named, is the Greek name for amber. By the bye, have 
 you ever forgiven my impertinence in venturing to speak 
 to you as I did the day we took that ramble ?" 
 
 " You mean the day we went to the Tarpeian Rock ?" 
 
 " Yes. Do you not remember how indignant you 
 were with me for venturing to think that I had rightly 
 translated your thoughts about my sermon ?" 
 
 " I do not remember being indignant with you for 
 that." 
 
 " Ah, too true !" said Richard ; " it was not merely 
 for that. I intruded unwarrantably on your private 
 domain. You must have thought it just like the char- 
 acter you had conceived to yourself as belonging to 
 me." 
 
 " No ; I thought it another proof of your honesty and 
 whole-heartedness, which for a moment led you to 
 forget that I might be pained by what you said." 
 
 " My punishment was severe enough, at any rate," he 
 said, coloring hotly. " How do you think Actaeon felt 
 when he had rashly invaded the sacred grove of Diana, 
 and the goddess fixed her angry eyes on him before she 
 flung the fatal drops which changed him to a horned 
 deer ?" 
 
 Cynthia laughed and shook her head. " You do not 
 know, I am sure," she said.
 
 132 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Yes, I did, and do. Could you not see that I was 
 paralyzed with shame as well as fear ? Joking apart," 
 he continued, with a change of tone, " I really fancied 
 that you felt nothing but disdain for me because I had 
 ventured to pry into what it was not for me to see. 
 How could you know the spirit which prompted my 
 rash words ? Had you the slightest clue to the knowl- 
 edge which I had almost accidentally acquired of the 
 attitude of your mind towards my belief? Indeed, I 
 have never ceased to wonder at the impulse which in- 
 duced you to come that once to my church and give 
 me the fleeting view of your inner self which angered 
 me so at the time." 
 
 " Take care, take care," said Cynthia, turning her face 
 away, that he might not see her flush and grow pale by 
 turns. " You do not mean to trespass, but you are dan- 
 gerously near my consecrated grove just now." 
 
 " Am I ? Forgive me ! But you will not misunder- 
 stand me now. You know me better than to fancy me 
 a victim of vulgar curiosity. In fact, I am going to 
 ask you to tell me why it was sad to you, as you con- 
 fessed it was, to see that my belief was warm and earn- 
 est, the first time you heard me speak. You know you 
 half promised to do that, and I really think you owe me 
 so much by way of reparation for the compassion you 
 ventured to bestow on me then." 
 
 " I am willing to try to tell you, if you wish me to do 
 so," she answered, very gravely; "but it is all a matter 
 of feeling, very difficult to put into words. You would 
 have had to live my life to know the depth of sympathy 
 I feel for any one who believes and with whom I dare not 
 hope that the comfort of believing will remain always." 
 
 " You fancy that it is inexperience which makes me 
 firm in my convictions. Do you, then, suppose that no 
 one but yourself has known what it is to doubt ?" 
 
 " Surely I am not so foolish. I see only too plainly 
 that to doubt in this age is but to be conscious of the 
 current of thought which flashes through it ; but you 
 would have had to cling as I once clung to a faith which
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 133 
 
 you believed most satisfying, which was based on the 
 oldest tradition, on the firmest authority, which was 
 dearer than your life." She paused to suppress a some- 
 thing which had risen in her throat, and proceeded more 
 calmly. " You would have had to try to substitute 
 this faith for home, for family, for the love of friends, for 
 earthly passion, to make it all-sufficing, and then to have 
 seen it fade from you, to have felt it crumble at your 
 touch, to know the full terror, the absolute bitterness, of 
 doubt." 
 
 This reply was more than Ledyard expected. The 
 controlled intensity of the feeling it betrayed struck a 
 kindred chord in his own ardent nature. He sprang from 
 his seat and began pacing to and fro with an increased 
 desire to bring help and comfort to this tortured spirit. 
 " It is strange," he said, impulsively, " that without know- 
 ing what you have told me I have felt it ever since I 
 first saw you ; that is to say, I have fully realized what 
 suffering doubt of the highest truth must be to a nature 
 such as yours. Now, I am going to ask you some 
 questions, not as one authorized to ask them, but rather 
 as a brother might ask, for I am longing to help you ; 
 but unless you will confide in me I am without the 
 means to do so. Have you ceased to be able to pray ?" 
 
 Cynthia looked up wearily. How much was she 
 going to reveal of her sacredly-guarded inner history if 
 she submitted to this catechism ? But the strong, manly 
 face, the mouth almost too firmly set, the stern, dark 
 eyes with their steady gravity of gaze, acted upon her 
 with strange insistence, seeming almost to compel her 
 confidence, and she felt a comfort untasted for long 
 years in yielding him the trust which he demanded. 
 
 " I could not pray for a long while," she said. " I 
 never attempted to do so but I was mocked with a 
 ghastly uncertainty as to the object, the meaning, of 
 prayer. What was the rational explanation of the 
 mental condition in which one prayed ? and, after all, to 
 whom was one's prayer lifted ?" 
 
 " Had you lost all faith in a Divine Father ?"
 
 134 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " I fear that at this time I had done so ; not all at 
 once, but by degrees. It came about that first I ceased 
 to believe in the Blessed Virgin, whose poetic presence 
 once filled my childish visions, for I had seen her votaries 
 do the most unworthy things in her name, and had later 
 learned that all I was taught about her divine power 
 was a fabric without even a pretence of biblical or his- 
 torical foundation. This shock unseated my faith in 
 Christ, and I began to look askance at the mystery by 
 which his double claim was established. How did I 
 know that this sacred Being had lived, much less that he 
 was the Son of God ? What reason was there, after all, 
 to believe in the existence of a personal God, any more 
 than of a personal devil ? I began to feel that if there 
 were a hell it was for those who were misled with false 
 hopes, as I had been ; an intellectual, not a moral in- 
 famy. But why should I rehearse all this ? My fall 
 can only be conceived as that of one who had tried to 
 scale the ladder of belief to the height of Heaven but 
 to find the heavens empty !" 
 
 " Yet you must have known of the historical founda- 
 tion on which the Bible story rests," said Ledyard, 
 calmly. " Were you familiar with the writings of the 
 four evangelists ?" 
 
 " Not at that time. According to the rules of my 
 church, I had not been allowed to read the Bible freely ; 
 but the suffering which I felt after my dear aunt's death, 
 at the thought that I had parted with my truest friend 
 forever, caused me to search in all directions for relief, 
 and I very naturally began to study the New Testament, 
 of which she had been a humble, patient reader." 
 
 "And did you not find comfort there?" 
 
 " Yes and no. My faith in God Almighty gradually 
 came back to me, and then the beauty and the pathos 
 of the death of Jesus appealed to me strongly, whether 
 as the closing scene of a spotless human existence or as 
 a sublime sacrifice ; but in his life, as in all the represen- 
 tations of him I had ever seen, ancient or modern, by 
 painters or sculptors, he seemed to me such a passionless
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 135 
 
 being that we poor, struggling, erring mortals could 
 learn little from him for the guidance of our storm- 
 tossed lives. You see I am speaking to you very 
 frankly, Mr. Ledyard." 
 
 " And I appreciate your honesty more than I can tell 
 you," responded Richard. " I am surprised that you 
 gathered this conclusion from reading the Gospels, but I 
 think it is not unnatural from having studied the repre- 
 sentations of our Lord by the old painters, and would 
 even be suggested to the mind of any one without pre- 
 possession by the pictures of Ary Scheffer, spiritually 
 beautiful as they are in conception. Yet I think it very 
 contrary to the evidence of the Scriptures. What, think 
 you, could the temptations of the forty days and nights 
 in the wilderness have been, if not those common to 
 human nature ? We are told of only three of them, the 
 last with which Satan strove to beguile the Saviour. 
 Now, why do you think these three are mentioned and 
 all the others are left unchronicled ?" 
 
 " I do not know, any more than I know why these three 
 were left until the last. They surely would not have 
 proved the most powerful temptations had his nature 
 been like that of other men." 
 
 " Ah, you have touched the very point at which I am 
 aiming. Had his nature been only like that of other 
 men, they would not; but surely you have had a wide- 
 enough experience of humanity, Miss Arkwright, to 
 have noticed that the force of every temptation varies 
 with the elevation of the character which it assails ? 
 That which rather disgusts than attracts a higher nature 
 will often be as an irresistible longing in a lower one, 
 or the reverse. Is it not reasonable to suppose that a 
 God who had voluntarily taken upon him the faulty 
 tendencies of a man would be subject to some tempta- 
 tions which were common to humanity and to others 
 such as no man ever felt ? Would not the age of ma- 
 turity, the time of the ripening of youth into manhood, 
 be that when, with the perfection of all his human powers, 
 he would by degrees become conscious of these wider
 
 136 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 capabilities, offering greater facility for good or evil, than 
 any man ever dreamt of possessing ?" 
 
 " Do you mean that he would become conscious of 
 divine power ?" 
 
 "That is what I mean, and that is the kind of power 
 which Satan is undoubtedly described as tempting him 
 to exert for a selfish end. Do you not remember ?" 
 
 " He asks him to turn the stones into bread," said 
 Cynthia, slowly, " and then bids him cast himself down 
 from a pinnacle of the temple, that angels may bear him 
 up, and then offers him all the kingdoms of the world 
 if he will but worship him." 
 
 " Exactly so. In other words, he first suggests his 
 using a divine power, which has been given him for the 
 good of mankind, to satisfy his bodily hunger. He 
 then suggests that if he casts himself down from a great 
 height, divine power must be exerted to protect him 
 from injury; and last of all, he offers him the widest 
 scope for his newly-discovered capabilities of which it is 
 possible for him to conceive temporal sway over the 
 whole earth : all its riches, its pleasures, its glory if he 
 will worship him; that is, if he will use his supernatural 
 power for a mighty ambition, such as that by which the 
 angels fell. Do you not see that none of these suggestions 
 would offer temptation to a rational man f When asked 
 to turn stones into bread, such a one would know that he 
 could not. When told to cast himself down from a pinna- 
 cle, he would be perfectly aware that the proceeding 
 would mean self-destruction ; and when proffered all the 
 kingdoms of the earth, he would realize that no one 
 man could enjoy or find pleasure in the glory of them 
 all, however glad he might be to possess one or two of 
 them. It would thus be only at the moment that the 
 consciousness of the divine nature which he possessed 
 was fully awakened within him that these proposals of 
 Satan could appeal to Jesus Christ, and there never has 
 been any sane man in the world since he left it whom 
 they could have tempted seriously." 
 
 " I do not think I ever heard that explanation," an-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 137 
 
 swered Cynthia, thoughtfully. " You think that a clever 
 devil would not have made these propositions to an 
 ordinary human being. Is this idea your own ?" 
 
 " Certainly not ; the last part of it is yours, and the 
 rest is not original to me. Like most of my thoughts, it 
 came out of a book," said Ledyard, smiling. 
 
 " Well, wherever the idea may come from, it impresses 
 me," she rejoined, " as if a true one. It seems a kind of 
 internal evidence of the divine nature of Jesus Christ, 
 yet it does not seem to show that he was any more of a 
 guide to weak humanity. Is not to prove that his temp- 
 tations were those of a God to prove also that he was 
 above the ordinary temptations of a man ?" 
 
 " That sounds logical, but, as a matter of fact, all 
 human nature is against such a conclusion. Is not the 
 best of us often the most complex ? and when we are 
 told that our Lord took upon him the nature of a man, 
 are we not meant to understand that with that nature 
 came its imperfections ? What I have been endeavoring 
 to point out to you is, that he had to contend with and 
 to reconcile two natures. Those temptations which as- 
 sailed him as a man during the forty days and forty 
 nights that he passed in the wilderness are not given in 
 detail ; it may be because the experience of each human 
 being is both alike and different, and we all have impulses, 
 or tendencies, which should enable us to imagine the 
 character of these temptations, common to mankind, 
 through which he passed before those of the spirit came 
 upon him, which were his alone, in token of his divinity. 
 Here we have no experience which could afford us 
 the faintest parallel on which to build conjecture, and 
 so the three last temptations are carefully explained, to 
 give us some insight into the divine part of that great 
 battle which was being fought to give us everlasting 
 life." 
 
 " You will think me very obstinate," said Cynthia, 
 " but I cannot understand how all the temptations of a 
 human life could be met and disposed of in the course 
 of any set number of days and nights, during which the 
 
 12*
 
 138 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 individual should be absolutely apart from the world, in 
 which these temptations are most surely met with." 
 
 " But why do you suppose that all the temptations of 
 the life of our Lord on earth were met and disposed oi 
 in this short space of time ?" 
 
 " Have you not just said so, and is not this generally 
 believed ?" 
 
 " I have expressed myself very ill if I have given you 
 that impression, and you are right to correct me, know- 
 ing as you do, as well as I, that it was thirty years after 
 the birth of Jesus Christ that he was baptized and was 
 led up into the wilderness by the Spirit to be tempted." 
 
 " Do you think, then, that he had other temptations 
 before that?" asked Cynthia, doubtfully. 
 
 " How could it be otherwise ?" 
 
 " I confess," she said, with mantling color, " that I 
 have always thought it strange that we were told so little 
 of his life, if it were intended as a model one to us. 
 How can there be any strength to uphold us through 
 the conflicts of human passion in a being who knew 
 neither love nor hatred for any individual ?" 
 
 " Surely no one ever proved a more ardent lover of 
 mankind," replied Ledyard. 
 
 " Oh, yes, as a race ; but he had no personal knowl- 
 edge of the love of a parent for a child, or the protecting 
 love of man for woman, or even that of a child for its 
 earthly parent. Do you not remember that when his 
 mother turns back a day's journey to look for him, and 
 finds him at last in the temple, he tells her that he must 
 go about his Father's work ? In fact, he virtually says 
 that he has no time to spend in filial affection. And we 
 are not told that he loved any other woman nobly and 
 truly, as a man may love without lowering his nature," 
 cried Cynthia, warmly. 
 
 " We are told that he loved little children, though," 
 responded Ledyard, " with a more disinterested love, 
 perhaps, than any man can feel for his own children, 
 which he loves as a part of himself; and while we do 
 not know that he loved any woman, we are left free to
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 139 
 
 imagine that he may have done so, nobly and truly, as 
 you say, although it would have been impossible that he 
 should link his life with any other life on earth, knowing 
 his high mission and the fearful death which lay before him 
 as the end of his earthly experience. The story told by 
 the Evangelists is, it is true, the simple narrative of what 
 he taught to his disciples, or what they themselves wit- 
 nessed, and there are many breaks in it. There are but 
 one or two events of his boyhood recorded, and soon 
 after the most important of these we lose sight of him 
 altogether until he comes back from Galilee a man of 
 nearly thirty. What mighty struggle between earthly 
 ambition or earthly love and a divine duty may not be 
 consummated in this silence 1 Does not each one of us 
 believe in our individual right to hold the secret sorrow 
 or special temptation of our lives sacred from all eyes 
 save those of our Heavenly Father ? and because Christ 
 lived and died for us, have we any right to tear aside the 
 veil which hides the keenest suffering of his soul on 
 earth ? Do we not, indeed, see this veil lifted for one 
 moment, when in the garden of Gethsemane he prayed, 
 ' O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass 
 from me' ? Could it be further penetrated by our 
 human sight, but to derogate from the dignity of his 
 self-conquest or from the magnitude of his self-sacri- 
 fice ?" 
 
 " I do not feel as if anything that could be known 
 about him would do that!" exclaimed Miss Arkwright, 
 with unwonted fervor. 
 
 " Nor do I," responded Ledyard, quickly ; " but that 
 is a matter of feeling. Why should we not extend to 
 our Lord and Saviour a little of that sympathy and 
 understanding which we offer to our friends, every inci- 
 dent of whose lives is seldom laid bare to us?" 
 
 " Why should we not do more, if we do so much ?" 
 replied Cynthia. " Why should we not entertain for 
 him the personal enthusiasm with which we are inspired 
 for the heroes of the world ? Surely there never was a 
 leader so pure, so majestic, so unflinching in the sacrifice
 
 140 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 of himself to his appointed end; but was he also a 
 God ?" 
 
 " He must have been, if we believe him." 
 
 " That is very true." 
 
 " I think from what you have told me," said Ledyard, 
 ' that the power of praying to God has returned to 
 you." 
 
 " In a measure it has. I have even offered thanks to 
 God, although with a strong sense of my own incon- 
 sistency ; for the God of my later years is a very different 
 Being from the one I believed in as a child. He is rather 
 an All-pervading Power, a Supreme Orderer of great 
 laws, a Being too great to take account of my existence, 
 according to my thought ; and yet a strangely contra- 
 dictory impulse has driven me to thank him for permit- 
 ting certain alleviations of the lot of which I deemed 
 him unconscious." 
 
 " Ah ! that was the beginning of the dawn," cried 
 Ledyard. " It was the expression of man's instinct 
 towards his Maker, forever at war with the blind and 
 futile effort made by reason to prove the non-existence 
 of the personal Deity, in the absence of material proof 
 of his Being, and it saved you from your own merci- 
 lessness, I may almost say from despair." 
 
 Miss Arkwright drew a sharp breath between white 
 lips, and then, turning to Ledyard, held out her hand. 
 " I am glad that we have had this talk, Mr. Ledyard," 
 she said. " However it may influence my flagging faith, 
 your sympathy has done me good, and I am really 
 grateful to you for listening so patiently to all my diffi- 
 culties, although I was very far from intending to inflict 
 them upon you when you came this afternoon." 
 
 Ledyard, who realized that the hand was offered in 
 token of dismissal, took it in silence. He seemed sud- 
 denly to have lost heart. 
 
 He had endeavored to stand beside Cynthia on the 
 broad ground of Humanity chosen by her, and look 
 honestly at her doubts and scruples, without showing 
 either surprise or disapproval of the very untheological
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 14! 
 
 view which she took of their subject, and in doing this 
 he had entirely forgotten himself. He would be a thou- 
 sand times rewarded for the effort he had made if he 
 could think that his argument had not been quite for 
 nothing ; but could he think this ? 
 
 " Have I really helped you at all ?" he asked, after a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 " I think you really have, a little," she said, gravely ; 
 " although I shall have to think it all over again before 
 I am quite sure." 
 
 She was rilled with wonder at the look of joy which 
 lighted up his face. 
 
 " Thank you for telling me," he said. " It is so much 
 more than I had hoped." 
 
 " Why do you care so much ?" she asked, impulsively. 
 
 " Would you not care if you could help me ? at least, 
 I do not mean exactly that ; but would you not care if 
 you could relieve any one, even in a small degree, whom 
 you believed to be suffering ?" 
 
 Cynthia colored warmly. " You are very good," she 
 said, quickly. " At least, I believe in you." How he 
 had guessed at the pain she bore about with her she did 
 not know, but of course he could see that her life was 
 not as that of other women, and, while it was evident 
 that he was strongly attracted by her character, he never 
 addressed her in any other way than as a brother might 
 have spoken to his favorite sister. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 IT was only the following afternoon that as Cynthia 
 sat at her work by the parlor window she saw Ledyard 
 coming up the garden walk. 
 
 " You will be surprised to see me so soon again," he 
 began, apologetically, " but there is something about 
 which I am very much in need of your help."
 
 142 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " What is the thing ?" 
 
 " It is a plan which I have long formed to meet those 
 of my congregation who will not come to me, on their 
 own ground. In other words, I want to have services 
 in some place where no shyness about the want of smart- 
 looking clothes or prejudice about entering a church 
 shall prevent the employees of the factories from at- 
 tending." 
 
 Ledyard was standing on the veranda in front of 
 Cynthia's window, speaking fast and low, with his eyes 
 on the ground. Suddenly he raised them, and met a 
 surprised and rather puzzled expression in her face, 
 which led him to add, hastily, " Of course I do not want 
 you to do anything which is against your sense of right ; 
 if you feel that the Church services will not be of any 
 use to the people, and that no particular advantage can 
 come of my exhortations, do not hesitate to say so." 
 
 He fixed on her the same keen, searching gaze with 
 which the day before he had enjoined her to trust him, 
 but she answered, gently, 
 
 " You do not understand me, Mr. Ledyard. I am 
 very far from imagining that you could not help the 
 people, and I know, perhaps better than some others, 
 how sorely they are in need of help ; but what surprises 
 and confuses me a little is, how you fancy that I can be 
 of use in such a matter." 
 
 " Oh, if that be all," said Ledyard, with an expression 
 of great relief, " I can tell you that I believe you are 
 the only person in Dundaff who could persuade them 
 to listen. You have more influence with the work- 
 ingmen and women than any one else, and they have 
 perfect confidence in your sincere wish to benefit them. 
 Yet I do not want you to exert this influence in any way 
 which may not seem wise to yourself. I came rather to 
 consult you as to how you think I had better set about 
 my undertaking. Do you think it would be well to 
 ask the mill-owners to let me hold services in one of 
 the factory buildings, or do you think it would be better 
 to try to draw the people together in the open air ?"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 143 
 
 " It is hard to say," replied Cynthia, thoughtfully. 
 " Sit down, Mr. Ledyard, and speak to Buttercup and 
 Neptune. You are wounding them deeply by your heart- 
 less show of indifference. It is to be considered," she 
 continued, resuming the thread of discourse, " that in 
 leaving your church to seek the people you are already 
 going more than half-way to meet them. Would it not 
 be well that they should go the rest of the way them- 
 selves ?" 
 
 " I think it would ; but how ?" 
 
 " If you were to hold the services in one of the fac- 
 tory buildings, as you suggest, they certainly would not 
 be required to make much exertion in the matter. It 
 might always seem to them that they had very little 
 option. But suppose you were to call them together 
 somewhere in the woods, where you could get space 
 enough, on a fine Sunday afternoon ? I think if you 
 did so they would answer to the call." 
 
 " I would give a great deal to speak in the open air," 
 said Richard, musingly ; " but do you think that the 
 people would listen to me ? Is it not almost rash to 
 submit my untried powers of holding their attention to 
 so severe a test at first ?" 
 
 " I think the people would listen if they came to you, 
 and I think they will come when they feel that you are 
 ready to go to them." 
 
 " It is odd," said Ledyard, his expression momentarily 
 lighting with enthusiasm, " that I have always had a 
 desire to address a multitude of people with faces turned 
 upwards under the free light of heaven ! Perhaps I 
 have the same associations of grandeur with such a 
 scene which you have with a thunder-storm," he added, 
 wickedly ; but Cynthia only laughed, detecting his evi- 
 dent intention to tease her. 
 
 " I have always had a suspicion that you are secretly 
 afraid of thunder-storms," she said, "and that is why 
 you are so jealous of my liking them." 
 
 "While granting the premises," returned Richard, 
 who had seated himself on a low chair outside the
 
 144 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 window, " and also that fear is at the bottom of most 
 jealousy, I demur at the abject form of fear with which 
 you credit me. It is not always fear of one's rival which 
 causes that feeling, I think, and may oftener be the fear of 
 losing the object of one's affections or friendship, as the 
 case may be. Now, Neptune and I would be inconsola- 
 ble if anything happened to Miss Arkwright, should 
 we not, Buttercup ?" He caught the little pussy in one 
 hand as he spoke, and placed it on his knee, where it 
 began playing with his gold watch-chain, much as a 
 child might have done. Neptune watched the kitten's 
 pastime, with raised ears, between interest and disap- 
 proval. 
 
 Just at this moment a slight rustling of the leaves of 
 the lilac-bushes in front of the house, as though pushed 
 aside by an advancing pedestrian, caused Cynthia and 
 Ledyard both to look up, and as they did so they beheld 
 a figure coming into view in the gap of the hedge at the 
 foot of the garden. This figure was so unlike the usual 
 rustic characters who trod the narrow path leading from 
 the high-road to the meadow behind Miss Arkwnght's 
 house that it instantly arrested their attention, even 
 before they perceived that the person whom they were 
 observing had paused in front of the cottage, with a half- 
 doubtful, half-appealing expression. 
 
 She was a young girl, dressed all in white, not very 
 tall or very slender, but with a lithe grace of attitude 
 and of movement, a sort of strength and vigor, which 
 seemed but half developed, from the child-like curves of 
 her arms and hands and the soft outline of her cheek. 
 There would have been nothing in her appearance to 
 attract attention at an ordinary summer watering-place, 
 except, perhaps, her beauty; but Dundaff was not a 
 place of summer resort, and fashionably-dressed young 
 ladies were not a common sight in its vicinity. Ledyard 
 recognized her at once as the stranger he had met at 
 Camelot, and, rising instinctively from his seat, went for- 
 ward to open the rustic gate which led into the shallow 
 garden, thus affording himself a nearer view of the fair
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 145 
 
 intruder. Cynthia had advanced to the door-way, where 
 she stood quite still, lost in wonder. 
 
 " I beg pardon," began a sweet, childish voice, ad- 
 dressing Ledyard. " Do you know Miss Arkwright's cot- 
 tage, and can you tell me where it is ?" Then, recognizing 
 him, she exclaimed, " Is this not Mr. Ledyard ? Why, 
 how fortunate I am to find you here ! I have been look- 
 ing everywhere for the house of Miss Cynthia Ark- 
 wright. Can you direct me to it ?" She looked up at 
 him confidently, as though assured that since she had 
 found him her difficulties would soon be at an end. 
 
 Not insensible to such unconscious flattery, Ledyard 
 informed her that this was the very cottage of which she 
 was in search, and turning towards the cottage door-way, 
 where Cynthia had been standing since her visitor first 
 came in sight, added, " Here is Miss Arkwright herself." 
 Then he perceived for the first time that a brilliant color 
 had risen on Cynthia's usually pale cheeks, while her 
 dark-gray eyes had grown almost black with suppressed 
 excitement. 
 
 " Nathalie !" she exclaimed, " can this be you ?" 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia ! I hoped you would know me !" 
 
 There was a streak of white light, as it seemed to 
 the dazzled eyes of the young man. Exactly what hap- 
 pened he did not know. The girl had dashed past him, 
 and Miss Arkwright was beside her, and the two were 
 in each other's arms. 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia ! I have wanted so to see you ! How 
 could you go and leave us all ? We thought you were 
 in a convent ; and to think of your living here and our 
 not knowing anything about it !" 
 
 " My dear little sister !" he heard Cynthia say, and 
 then he thought it would be well to let himself out of 
 the gate which he had opened so benignly to let in the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Where have you come from, Nathalie ?" asked Cyn- 
 thia, when they were left alone. " How did you know 
 where to find me ? Who told you that I was here ?" 
 
 In answer to which questions Nathalie informed her 
 G k 13
 
 146 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 that she was staying at Camelot with her friend Miss 
 Florence Betterton. 
 
 " Staying with the Bettertons !" exclaimed Cynthia 
 with haughty surprise, but quickly checked the expres- 
 sion of it as she saw Nathalie's sensitive face change. 
 
 " Ah, yes," she said : " why not ? I used to go to 
 school with Flony before we went abroad, and you 
 don't know how it cuts a girl off from other girls, Cyn- 
 thia, to be taken away to Europe, right in the midst of 
 school, as I was, and made to study in Paris and Berlin, 
 with horrid masters ! I was glad enough when Florry 
 Betterton remembered me and came to see me." 
 
 " Yes, yes, I understand ; but how did you know 
 about my being here ?" Cynthia had drawn her sister 
 into the house, and they were seated together on the 
 sofa in her quaint little parlor, the same where Posey 
 had been lying a few days before. The light from the 
 nearest window fell full on Nathalie's face, bringing out 
 the shape of her delicate features, showing how fine and 
 fair was her skin, and even disclosing the tiny dimple 
 beside her mouth. The mouth itself was firm and frank, 
 although suggestive of the most varied possibilities. It 
 was, indeed, ready to break into a mischievous smile at 
 one moment, while the next found it grave with the ex- 
 treme gravity of youth, in one whose thoughts appear 
 to themselves all-important. What with her gold-brown 
 hair, and radiant blue eyes, and general air of ease and 
 gayety, she might not have impressed one as having 
 much force or individuality but for that indefinable 
 something about the mouth and a certain latent power 
 in her form and movements which seemed to underlie 
 her charming prettiness. 
 
 " Why, you see, they were all talking about Mrs. Hen- 
 derson's accident," she said, in reply to her sister's last 
 question, " and they told me that she had been taken to 
 Miss Ark wright's cottage, and when I asked what Miss 
 Arkwright they meant, they said, ' Miss Cynthia Ark- 
 wright, of course,' and with that I was so astounded 
 that I made them tell me all they knew about you, dear;
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 147 
 
 but I found it was not very much, and yet they all swore 
 that you had been living here for six or eight years, in 
 fact, almost as long as we had been in Europe. I could 
 hardly believe my ears, for I had never heard of any 
 other Cynthia Arkwright, and yet how could it be you ?" 
 
 When Nathalie had reached this point in her explana- 
 tion, she raised her eyes with a serious expression of 
 reproachful surprise to her sister's face, which caused 
 Cynthia to smile. 
 
 " Are you quite sure it is ?" she asked. 
 
 " Quite sure, quite sure," Nathalie answered. " Oh, 
 Cynthia, there never was any one half so handsome or 
 so good! But why did you come here?" 
 
 Cynthia sighed. " It is a very long story," she said, 
 " and rather a dull one, but I will tell you part of it." 
 
 And so she did, while Nathalie listened breathlessly 
 
 to the account of her illness, of her return from the 
 
 convent, of her finding her father's house empty and 
 
 the family all gone to Europe, and of her coming to live 
 
 'at Dundaffwith her aunt. 
 
 " But why did you not write to us ? Why would you 
 not let us know of your return ?" 
 
 " I said I would tell you part of the story, dear. 
 There is a part of it which I cannot tell, but you must 
 believe that I had a good reason for not speaking of my 
 being here. Have you not heard that when one goes 
 into a convent one ma^es all sorts of vows?" 
 
 " Was that it ? H;K! you made a vow not to tell us ? 
 But how strange to keep it when you were not living as 
 a nun !" 
 
 " Yes, it was stvnge ; but now, little one, it is grow- 
 ing late, and yovy friends will be anxious. How did you 
 come ?" 
 
 In reply f'> '-his question Nathalie admitted that she 
 had come in the Betterton carriage as far as Miss Platt's 
 millinery-shop, where she was to meet Mrs. Betterton 
 and Florence. 
 
 " And how long shall you be with the Bettertons ?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't >aiow ; perhaps a week or so. You see,
 
 148 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 mamma and the girls are so fond of going to watering 
 places, and I think it is tiresome. Since mamma had the 
 bronchitis she is not strong, of course, and the air of 
 Berkeley Springs, where they are now, is good for her, 
 and the girls like it there ; but I hate living in hotels, so 
 I begged off." 
 
 Cynthia hesitated for a moment. She cast down her 
 eyes, as though communing with herself. 
 
 " Would you like to come and make a visit to me, 
 Nathalie," she asked, " after you have ended your stay 
 with them ?" 
 
 " To come here ?" asked her sister, in surprise. " Why, 
 I should like it of all things ! But are you sure you 
 want me, Cynthia? Should I not be a trouble?" 
 
 Cynthia looked searchingly into her clear blue eyes, 
 while the almost painful color which had risen to her 
 own cheeks gradually faded away. " If you would 
 really like to come," she said, " it would be the greatest 
 pleasure to me in the world to have you with me. It 
 would almost be like growing young again myself." 
 
 " You are not old, Cynthia, not what I call old. 
 Do you know, I think you never will be. How happy 
 it will make me to be once more with you !" 
 
 " You will come, then ?" 
 
 " I will indeed." And so it was arranged. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 WHEN Cynthia Arkwright lay down to sleep that 
 night she could hardly believe in the great change 
 which had come into her life in the fading hours of one 
 short afternoon. She had often thought of her little 
 sister Nathalie, who, if but half her own, was yet the 
 only relation now whom she had in the world, yet had 
 imagined that, like the rest of the children of her step- 
 mother, she would hardly grow up to be congenial to
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 149 
 
 her, even if she were not taught to consider that the 
 sister who had chosen to leave her home for a convent 
 had thus outlawed herself to all affection. To be sud- 
 denly confronted, therefore, with so satisfactory an em- 
 bodiment of the grace and charm which she vaguely 
 recalled as indicated in the impulsive, high-spirited child, 
 to find the fresh girlish nature unchanged by absence 
 or by circumstance, the heart warm and tender as of 
 old, was a great and unexpected happiness. 
 
 The chosen isolation of her life, which had given her 
 courage and self-reliance in proportion as it required 
 these qualities, had not rendered her as indifferent to 
 the ties of affection as to the criticism of strangers. 
 The innate longing to be sympathized with and under- 
 stood was not dead within her. It was, perhaps, all the 
 keener and more eager for its long starvation, and the 
 spontaneous gift of love which now seemed offered to 
 her was, therefore, doubly prized. 
 
 Richard Ledyard, on the other hand, walking back- 
 ward and forward in the narrow confines of his study, 
 as he often did late into the night, found his mind unduly 
 occupied with the sudden appearance of the unknown 
 maiden. How impossible to associate the existence of 
 such a sister as that with the lonely life and ascetic 
 retirement of Cynthia Arkwright ! Yet surely she had 
 called her sister. Truly, the life of this village recluse 
 seemed ever taking on new phases of mystery. 
 
 But it was not only for the sake of Miss Arkwright 
 that Ledyard felt an interest in this charming apparition. 
 He had been touched, attracted by the warmth of the 
 fresh young creature's greeting to her lonely sister. 
 He felt an answering glow of gratitude for her seeming 
 fervor of appreciation of the innate nobility of character 
 which aroused his own deep sentiment of reverence for 
 Cynthia, but he also was possessed with a strong desire 
 to look once more on the loveliness of the girl's face, 
 while the exuberant vitality of her nature had seemed 
 to thrill through him like music in the one instant that 
 he stood near her. 
 
 '3*
 
 150 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Such emotion was quite new to Ledyard. Vainly 
 had the young ladies of the congregation blushed and 
 simpered for his benefit. He was not only enough a 
 man of the world to value such tributes at their worth, 
 but to realize that they would have been flung at the 
 feet of any other man of his age and position. He had 
 a tendency, indeed, to distrust self-consciousness, and 
 had been proportionately pleased by a certain outspoken 
 frankness of demeanor in Miss Florence Betterton. 
 Indeed, the directness with which that young lady 
 approached her object had not only put him at his ease, 
 but somewhat off his guard. He felt towards her very 
 much as if she had been a good-natured school-boy. 
 
 It will be remembered that he had given a promise to 
 her to look into the possibilities of her being able to 
 make herself useful at St. Andrew's. He was also full 
 of his new scheme of inducing the factory people to 
 listen to him anywhere that it could be made possible. 
 
 He determined to go and " have a look," as he ex- 
 pressed it to himself, at the factory children and their 
 parents, and started in the morning to walk to the mills, 
 so timing himself as to arrive there at the hour for rest 
 and the noonday meal. 
 
 As he passed through the stone gate-way which 
 admitted to the factory yard, he was surprised by an 
 unexpected sight, for full in the midst of a court closed 
 in by the walls of the three great granite buildings he 
 beheld Wilfred Henderson, seated on his pony, slowly 
 pacing to and fro before a ragged little squadron of bare- 
 headed, bare-legged boys drawn up as soldiers on 
 parade, armed with long, irregular sticks of various 
 lengths and sizes, evidently the smaller branches of a 
 forest-tree which lay on the opposite side of the road, 
 where it had fallen a day or two before, having been 
 uprooted and come tearing down the steep hill-side in 
 the midst of a summer storm. 
 
 " Attention ! Order ! Forward, march !" shouted 
 the amateur general from the commanding height of his 
 restive steed, while all the little ragamuffins in the fac-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 15 I 
 
 tory, most of them several years older than Wilfred, be- 
 sides a number of others nearer his age who were too 
 young as yet to begin to work (among whom Ledyard 
 recognized his friend Johnny Baker), began to advance 
 in more or less irregular lines to the most martial of 
 music, performed on several old tin pans by the Baker 
 girls, with the assistance of a large contingent of 
 other little factory maidens with tangled hair and torn 
 frocks. 
 
 " You see the love of power showing itself early in 
 my son, Mr. Ledyard," said a voice beside Richard, who 
 turned to see Lieutenant Henderson standing near by, 
 holding his own horse by the bridle as though about to 
 mount, while his eyes rested with ill-concealed pride on 
 the manly form of his little boy. " The rascal teases the 
 life out of me to bring him here every time he suspects 
 my intention of riding to the factories," he continued, 
 "and all the while that Mr. Betterton and I are closeted 
 together this is the way he distracts himself." 
 
 " Not a bad way at all, Lieutenant Henderson," said 
 Ledyard. " I am sure it must be good for the factory 
 boys, and I do not believe it does your son any harm." 
 
 " Any harm ! Well, no, I can't see that the associa- 
 tion will do Wilfred any harm ; but I am at a loss to 
 understand how he bullies those rough little fellows into 
 minding him, and I doubt if it is just the best thing for 
 the jackanapes to have all these other monkeys ready to 
 follow his bidding, to imitate his slightest gesture, or to 
 turn on him with oaths and imprecations, as one of 
 them did the other day because he saw another boy 
 preferred as second in command to the self-constituted 
 general there." 
 
 " As far as the bad language goes, one would be sorry 
 to have him hear that, certainly," replied Ledyard, " but 
 the boy would not be able to hold his own in the way 
 he does among the others if he really did bully them. 
 In this country that sort of thing does not go down. 
 His refined face, and the rather aristocratic style of his 
 dress, so far from inducing them to treat him with respect,
 
 152 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 would be apt to lead to envy and ill treatment, or even 
 to make him laughed at and avoided, if he did not know 
 how to keep a civil tongue in his head when in his char- 
 acter of Master Henderson, however he may choose to 
 hector it as general in command of the field." 
 
 So it fell out that these two men thus entering into 
 conversation with regard to the ragged regiment of fac- 
 tory boys soon came to talk of the boys' fathers and 
 mothers, and thus arrived at the subject which chanced 
 to be interesting them both most deeply, although from 
 different points of view, that is, how to help the work- 
 ing-people. 
 
 Henderson was concerned with the economic or so- 
 cial aspect of the problem, and Ledyard with its moral 
 possibilities ; but it happened that both were much in 
 earnest, and before long they became deeply absorbed 
 in expounding their views to one another. It was a rare 
 luxury to Henderson to have some one to talk to who 
 had thought about the question which was principally 
 occupying his mind just then, and Ledyard saw in the 
 meeting a valuable opportunity of securing, if possible, 
 the cooperation of one of the mill-owners in the work 
 of reform which he was so anxious to begin. 
 
 They were mutually surprised when the tolling of the 
 great factory-bell proclaimed that the hour for rest and 
 recreation was over, and the sons and daughters of toil 
 must return to their ever-beginning, never-ending tasks. 
 
 " Come home and lunch with me, Mr. Ledyard," said 
 Henderson, impulsively. " Take my groom's horse, and 
 ride back with Wilfred and myself, and have a cigar 
 with me after luncheon. We can talk much more at 
 ease while we smoke." 
 
 Ledyard hesitated. " I really feel that I should like to 
 help you in any way I can to carry out your plans," he 
 said, " and I should be glad to explain to you my own 
 schemes, but perhaps we had better wait for some other 
 day to discuss the thing in full." 
 
 " Oh, as for that," said Millard, " there is no time like 
 the present ; and I am a little curious to know what you
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 153 
 
 have it in mind to do. Will you not come? Mrs. 
 Henderson is away, and Wilfred and I are alone." 
 
 This last argument proved conclusive in overcoming 
 Richard's modest scruples. He decided to put them 
 aside, and rode to Fernwood in company with Lieuten- 
 ant Henderson and his son. 
 
 Now, it so chanced that Mrs. Henderson, who had 
 carried out her plan of going to spend a few days with 
 her mother, had also planned to return to Dundaff on 
 this Friday, but had said nothing of her intention to 
 her husband, for reasons best known to herself. Indeed, 
 no news could have been more surprising to Millard on 
 reaching Fernwood with Ledyard that morning than to 
 be told that Mrs. Henderson had come. 
 
 " De mistress would like to speak to you directly, 
 sar," said old Pompey, after making the announcement, 
 and Henderson excused himself to his guest that he 
 might hasten to his wife. Ten fifteen twenty minutes 
 passed, at the end of which Millard returned, looking a 
 little troubled. 
 
 " I hope you will excuse me, Mr. Ledyard, for leaving 
 you so long, but my wife has just come back from a 
 little visit to her mother, and she seems to have over- 
 done somewhat, in truth, she looks very tired, and 
 begs me to excuse her to you. She is sorry not to be 
 well enough to come down to luncheon." 
 
 Ledyard immediately began to feel that he would 
 have been wiser to have obeyed his first instinct and 
 declined Henderson's pressing invitation, but it was 
 evident that his host was quite determined to chase all 
 such retrospective regret from his mind, for he became 
 more and more cordial in his expressions of pleasure at 
 having the opportunity to talk to him, welcomed him 
 heartily to the simple but elegantly-served luncheon which 
 they found waiting for them, and warmed into unex- 
 pected sympathy when Ledyard shyly told of his desire 
 to preach to the employees of the factory wherever they 
 could be brought together in one of the buildings or in 
 the open air.
 
 154 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Of course, if they will not go to church, it is the 
 only thing to do," Millard said, with enthusiasm. " Why 
 not get them together in the woods on Sunday after- 
 noon ? and why not have the Sunday-school there too, as 
 you suggest ? It might be managed, I think, by a week 
 from to-morrow. Let us try." 
 
 Richard was surprised. " I had not ventured to hope 
 that any one would really care about the /thing as you 
 seem to do," he said, gratefully, " except myself." 
 
 " Do you not know, then, that it was my aunt, Mrs. 
 Pelham, who built that church especially in the hope of 
 inducing the factory-workers to belong to it? Of course 
 I feel that in taking my uncle's place here I am bound 
 to do all in my power to further her wishes in the matter, 
 even if I did not think that such an influence as yours 
 would be in every way conducive to my own object of 
 civilizing and humanizing the laborers." 
 
 " And may I ask whether you are yourself a church- 
 man, or whether you only advocate the teaching of a 
 creed to the people from a philanthropic point of view ?" 
 asked Richard, with interest. 
 
 " Both," said Millard, coloring and with a slight 
 change of manner. " I was brought up in the Church, 
 although I have not always felt entirely in harmony 
 with it of late years. That, however, is hardly the 
 point." His tone had become somewhat cold, if not 
 indifferent, and Ledyard's ardor felt the chill of his 
 withdrawn sympathy. 
 
 " And yet many of the men who have given their lives 
 to the study of the social questions which especially 
 attract you," he returned, " have come to the conclusion 
 that Christ's teaching literally followed would be the 
 most perfect solution of the problem." 
 
 " I am one of them, Mr. Ledyard," said Henderson, 
 rising from his seat as he spoke, and placing a small 
 silver tray with cigars on it before his guest. "It is 
 where I have fancied that the spirit of the church was 
 not entirely consistent with that teaching that I have 
 been inclined to differ from it. As I said before, how'
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 155 
 
 ever, it is hardly worth while for us to discuss that, as 
 there seem to be so many points on which we agree and 
 can help one another." 
 
 Ledyard said no more. He saw that he was at once 
 understood and answered. They returned to the practi- 
 cal view of their subject, by mutual consent, and, after 
 discussing the possibility of arranging to hold services 
 in the open air the Sunday of the following week, de- 
 cided that the factory buildings were only to be re- 
 sorted to in case of rain, and that on the first occasion it 
 would be wise to speak of holding the meeting, in case 
 the day were clear. No one could have been more kind, 
 more sensible, or more full of wise forethought than 
 Lieutenant Henderson, Ledyard thought, and but one 
 little incident happened to interfere with the very pleas- 
 ant impression which he received of his visit. This was 
 when they were smoking together, after luncheon, on 
 the piazza at the back of the house, upon which the 
 dining-room windows opened. 
 
 Little Wilfred, who had evidently been well instructed 
 according to the good old rule, that " little boys should 
 be seen and not heard" when older people were talking, 
 was playing quietly with some marbles on the gravel 
 walk which led from the piazza, to the Fernwood gar- 
 dens, when suddenly he began to laugh and point in the 
 direction of some shrubbery at one side. 
 
 " I see you ! No, you need not hide. I see you quite 
 plainly," he cried, in great glee. " What are you holding 
 up your finger to your lips for ? Why, mamma, how 
 angry you look ! I did not mean to say anything to 
 make you angry." 
 
 " What is the matter, Wilfred ?" asked his father, who 
 had been talking himself, and had failed to catch, there- 
 fore, all that the little fellow had said, as Ledyard had. 
 " Who are you talking to, my boy ?" he added, curiously. 
 
 " I I don't care to say," stammered the child, growing 
 suddenly red and looking very much confused ; " I am 
 not sure." 
 
 " You are not sure ?" repeated Henderson ; " but who
 
 156 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 did you think you saw ? Any one ? Is there any one 
 there ?" 
 
 The boy turned his head again in the direction in 
 which he had been gazing, with a look of fear in his face 
 strangely at variance with the merry expression which it 
 had worn a moment or two before. 
 
 " No," he said ; " there is no one there, papa." 
 
 " Was there any one there ?" his father asked. 
 
 " I can't tell." 
 
 " Wilfred, come here." 
 
 " Please, papa, I would rather not." 
 
 " Come here this moment." The boy came. 
 
 " Now tell me what you saw." 
 
 " I I must not tell. Papa, papa, don't look so at me, 
 too ! Oh, what shall I do?" he cried, in a kind of terror. 
 
 Henderson surveyed the child in wide-eyed amaze- 
 ment. He was usually so amiable, so responsive, so 
 frank, and so fearless, that this sudden fit of obstinacy 
 seemed perfectly unaccountable. 
 
 " Do not urge him," Ledyard said, in a low tone. 
 " Something has happened to frighten him, perhaps, or 
 else he thinks he should not speak before me. He will, 
 no doubt, tell you what it is later, of his own free will." 
 
 " You are right," responded Mallard, with a sudden 
 clearing of his troubled face. " It is of no conceivable 
 consequence, at any rate, is it, little man ?" he continued, 
 patting the boy's cheek playfully and bidding him run 
 away. 
 
 But Ledyard had seen something which troubled him 
 almost as much as it did Wilfred. At the moment the 
 child first spoke he had glanced involuntarily in the 
 direction to which he was pointing, and had been sur- 
 prised by the apparition of an anxious face peering out 
 among the shrubbery, a face which he realized with a 
 sudden shock that he knew well, and yet, with equal 
 bewilderment, he fancied that he recalled it as that of 
 Mrs. Henderson, whom, to the best of his belief, he had 
 only seen once before, when he had picked her up 
 in the state of syncope caused by her accident. Then
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 157 
 
 the child's voice addressing her as mamma dispelled all 
 doubt on this point, and to Ledyard a flash of memory 
 brought back the vague sense of familiarity with which 
 her unconscious face had inspired him that day, and 
 forthwith converted it into an absolute certainty of 
 recognition; for with restored animation her countenance 
 now wore an entirely familiar aspect ; and thus he had 
 the extraordinary experience of identifying her at one 
 and the same moment as two distinct persons. He was 
 almost sure, too, that she knew him, and that the sign 
 she made of placing her ringer on her lips to insure 
 silence from the child had been equally intended to 
 prevent him from speaking, while Henderson, whose 
 back was turned towards her, had evidently seen nothing. 
 In fact, Millard continued to converse very agreeably 
 on many subjects, all of more or less interest to his guest, 
 and Ledyard made valiant efforts to command his facul- 
 ties and to keep his attention on what his host was 
 saying, but, in spite of a growing esteem for Henderson, 
 he was no longer able to enjoy his society as he had 
 done a half an hour before, owing to a new-born sense 
 of uneasiness and constant tendency to speculate or con- 
 jecture as to a discovery which he dared not speak of, 
 with as constant an effort to put it aside and turn his 
 thoughts to other things. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 IT was still early in the afternoon when, their con- 
 versation ended, the two men parted the best of friends, 
 and Henderson walked with Ledyard to the limits of 
 his domain, which was nearly half-way to the village. 
 Richard had refused all his host's entreaties to be 
 allowed to send him home in the carriage, declaring 
 that after the unwonted exercise of the ride on horse- 
 back that morning it would be better that he should
 
 158 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 walk off the possible stiffness which might ensue. 
 They had compromised, therefore, on an umbrella, 
 which Millard insisted on his taking with him, as the 
 sky looked threatening and gathering clouds seemed to 
 portend rain. 
 
 Indeed, there had been numerous thunder-storms in 
 the neighborhood for the last three or four days, and the 
 darkened sky over the distant hills showed that it had 
 been raining among them all the morning, while the sun 
 was shining on Dundaff. 
 
 Before Ledyard had advanced a sixteenth of a mile, 
 therefore, he was not surprised that the rain began to 
 fall, but he had cause to be thankful for Henderson's 
 forethought a little later, as the first drops grew larger 
 and continued to come thicker, until they poured down 
 with such force as to make the ground about him dis- 
 appear for the moment beneath a sheet of muddy water. 
 The carriage-road from Fernwood passed for three or 
 four miles through a thick forest, and the effect of the 
 pouring rain was so confusing in obliterating landmarks 
 that Ledyard missed the opening to a bridle-path 
 which, although a longer way round, would, he thought, 
 have proved a shorter way home. As it was, he saw 
 nothing for it but to plod on in the soft mud, sinking 
 deeper and deeper every moment, and repenting too late 
 his refusal of a comfortable vehicle, in which he might 
 now be riding dry and at ease. 
 
 In the midst of these and even less pleasant reflec- 
 tions, he was startled by the increased sound of rushing 
 water, which told that he was approaching a stream, and 
 at the same moment he heard the noise of wheels, and 
 of a horse prancing about in wild alarm, while an angry 
 voice, conceivably that of the driver, was shouting, " Go 
 on, can't you ? What are you stopping for ?" Then 
 followed several strokes of the whip, and more plunging 
 about, after which was a sudden cry of " Stop ! stop ! 
 Whoa, boy, whoa! Steady now, gently, gently," etc. 
 It did not seem as if the injunction to go gently were 
 being obeyed, and, rounding a sudden turn in the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 159 
 
 road, Richard beheld what was ordinarily a quiet stream, 
 which crossed the way at such a modest depth as not 
 to be thought worthy of any bridge, now swollen to a 
 rushing, foaming torrent, while an open wagon, with its 
 hind wheels, which were nearest Ledyard, still in the 
 muddy road, was at the mercy of a much excited horse, 
 that stood snorting and trembling in mid-stream, being 
 evidently fearful of the water, which was nearly as high 
 as his body and quite as high as the body of the wagon. 
 The current was indeed sweeping by with such force that 
 there seemed danger of its carrying him off his feet if his 
 efforts to struggle forward were continued, while two per- 
 sons who were seated in the open carriage shared his agi- 
 tation. All this Ledyard saw at the same moment that 
 he fancied he recognized the two figures in the wagon, 
 although their backs were towards him. He could also 
 see, what the driver apparently did not perceive, that 
 one wheel was so locked by a large loose stone in the 
 bed of the stream as to render it impossible to advance 
 or retreat without removing it, and at the same instant 
 the face of the lady seated beside the driver was half 
 turned towards him. She was, as he conjectured, Nath- 
 alie Arkwright. 
 
 Having realized the whole situation in less time than 
 it takes to describe it, Ledyard sprang into the water, 
 and, seizing the loose stone, dislodged it so as to free 
 the wheel. Then, bracing himself against a rock, he 
 took the horse's head, and, calling both to him and to 
 the driver to " back," exerted all the force which could 
 be thrown into a strong arm, a steady hand, and a firm 
 and quiet voice to extricate them from their perilous 
 situation. If at first the discomfited driver, who it 
 appeared was Mr. Thomas Betterton, looked almost 
 inclined to resent the interference, the effect upon the 
 horse was magical. The creature grew docile in an 
 instant, and with head down soon succeeded in backing 
 the light carriage up the shallow bank, while he him- 
 self regained a sure footing on the road. 
 
 It was now evident that the wagon had been so badly
 
 l6o BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 broken at the time that the horse was being urged for- 
 ward while the wheel was locked that no further progress 
 could safely be made until it was repaired, and the 
 usually complacent Tom Betterton dismounted in high 
 dudgeon. 
 
 " Was there ever anything so stupidly aggravating 
 since horses were made and thunder-storms discovered ?" 
 he ejaculated, in a disgusted voice and slightly nasal 
 tone, as he assisted his companion to alight. 
 
 " I think instead of complaining, Mr. Betterton," said 
 Nathalie, "that we should be very thankful to have 
 escaped without a serious accident, and especially grate- 
 ful to Mr. Ledyard for his very timely aid," she added, 
 turning to Richard, beside whom she was now standing 
 on the roadside. He took the hand which she extended 
 to him in token of her thanks, while his eyes betrayed 
 his honest pleasure at the meeting. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Betterton, who seemed to be absorbed 
 in estimating the extent of the injury to carriage and 
 harness, suddenly awoke from his abstraction to realize 
 that it was Mr. Ledyard who had encountered some 
 danger, or at least a fair share of inconvenience, in order 
 to come to their rescue. Accordingly, he said with 
 what grace was in him, which was not a great deal, 
 
 " I'll be hanged if I'm not obliged to you, Mr. Led- 
 yard, for taking that ducking as you did to give us a 
 lift, and you helped us considerable. I'm not too thun- 
 dering sure that we could have got out without you." 
 
 " I am very much pleased to have been able to be of 
 service, I assure you," said Ledyard ; " but may I ask 
 where you and this young lady were going in the midst of 
 the storm ? You surely were not driving for pleasure." 
 
 " I wouldn't be too sure about that," said Mr. Tom 
 Betterton, proceeding to tie together the torn straps of 
 the harness with a bit of twine from his pocket, and as- 
 suming the while a very knowing expression. 
 
 " We had been to call at Fernwood," Nathalie ex- 
 plained. " Mrs. Betterton thought it would be kind for 
 us all to go to congratulate Mrs. Henderson on her
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. l6l 
 
 recovery ; but when we got there we were told that Mrs. 
 Henderson had just returned from a journey and was 
 very tired, so that she could not see us. We had only 
 driven a short distance on our way back when we heard 
 thunder, and Mrs. Betterton and Florry, who were in the 
 big carriage, told the coachman to drive on quickly, and 
 called to us to follow ; but the sun was shining so 
 brightly then that I did not think it would really rain, 
 and when Mr. Betterton proposed driving to the top 
 of Fern Hill to see the view, I thought I should like to 
 do it." 
 
 " I knew we were bound to get a wetting anyway, 
 and thought you might as well see the view," interposed 
 Mr. Betterton. " I never counted on this beastly branch 
 of the river's being so hard to cross when it began to 
 swell." 
 
 " Then you were going back to Camelot when this 
 delay occurred ?" asked Ledyard. 
 
 " The question is not where we were going then, but 
 where we are going now," said Mr. Tom Betterton, de- 
 cidedly. 
 
 " You are right there," said Richard. " I see nothing 
 for it but to return to Fernwood, unless, indeed, we 
 could find the path which leads to Dundaff by a long 
 circuit and comes out in the valley behind Miss Cynthia 
 Arkwright's house. I intended to go that way myself, 
 but missed the opening, and did not care to go back. 
 I am sure I can find it, and, if Miss Nathalie will trust 
 herself to me, will see her safely to her sister's cottage, 
 while you follow the carriage-road to Henderson's with 
 your horse and wagon." 
 
 " Oh, I would so much rather go to Cynthia's than go 
 to a strange house in my very sorry plight !" cried Nath- 
 alie. " But why need we turn back, Mr. Ledyard ? 
 Could we not get to my sister's cottage more quickly 
 and easily by the carriage-road ?" 
 
 " I am very much afraid, Miss Nathalie, that it is not 
 possible," said Richard, "on account of the difficulty of 
 fording this stream." 
 
 / 14*
 
 l62 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " I know I don't intend to try the possibility," said 
 Betterton. " I have got all I can do to get this horse 
 and wagon anywhere on land, without again taking to 
 the water: so here goes for Fernwood, and I advise 
 you to follow. I leave Miss Nathalie in your charge, 
 Mr. Ledyard," he called out as he moved away, leading 
 the horse and broken carriage. 
 
 " Do not be troubled if I should not come to Fern- 
 wood, Mr. Betterton," called Nathalie in return. " I am 
 going to my sister's if I can." 
 
 She had been looking about her while they were 
 speaking, and had noted the trunk of a large tree, some 
 little distance down the stream, which had so fallen as 
 to bridge the torrent. This she now pointed out to 
 Ledyard. 
 
 " Do you not think we could cross on that tree ?" she 
 asked, anxiously. 
 
 Richard looked doubtful. " Wait here a moment, 
 please, while I try the security with which the trunk 
 rests on the banks of the stream," he said, and, leaving 
 her, made a preliminary investigation, which proved so 
 far satisfactory that he decided to venture to cross with 
 Nathalie. The girl seemed quite undaunted by the 
 pelting rain, which continued to fall about them as if 
 some reservoir had been opened in the heavens, and 
 rendered the umbrella which he was still struggling to 
 hold over her head, as they made their way through the 
 woods, almost useless. 
 
 Soon they reached the spot where the mighty tree had 
 fallen, with its roots in air and its giant arms extended 
 despairingly. The leaves were still unwithered, and the 
 look of strength and vigor in the outstretched branches 
 was more striking in its downfall than it might have been 
 in life and health. 
 
 " What a grand creation a great tree like this is !" 
 exclaimed Richard, impulsively, as he stood on the 
 massive trunk and held out his hand to his companion 
 to help her to gain a like position. 
 
 "Is it not?" responded Nathalie. "Do you know I
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 163 
 
 was just thinking that we are taking rather a liberty 
 in using it for a bridge ?" As she spoke, she climbed 
 lightly to his side, and they stood still for a moment, 
 during which they could feel the vibration of the huge 
 trunk from the force of the water which swept against it. 
 
 They seemed thus to be feeling the pulse of the 
 stream, which was all the stronger from the fact that at 
 this point the wooded hill began gradually to sweep 
 downwards towards the river Osceola, of which this 
 mountain torrent was a tributary, and the current gained 
 in swiftness with each descending foot. 
 
 " Do you think the bridge is quite safe, Mr. Led- 
 yard ?" asked Nathalie presently, in an awed tone. 
 
 " That is what I took upon me to discover before I 
 allowed you to trust yourself to it," said Richard. 
 " The only danger is lest your feet slip on the wet bark." 
 
 At this moment there came a flash of lightning, fol- 
 lowed by a loud clap of thunder. The girl turned very 
 white and began to tremble. Instinctively he put out 
 his arm to shield her from falling, and in the shock of 
 her alarm she turned and clung to it. 
 
 " I am afraid this is a little worse than you expected," 
 said Richard, gently, and, in spite of himself, a tender 
 inflection seemed to pass into his voice. 
 
 " Oh, no," she answered, " I am all right ; really, I 
 don't know why I was frightened, but the the lightning 
 came so suddenly, and somehow I have always been 
 timid about lightning." 
 
 He had taken away his arm as soon as he saw that 
 she could stand without it, but perhaps some of his 
 admiration may have shone out in his face, for as she 
 withdrew her hand a faint shell-pink flush mounted over 
 her delicately-moulded cheek, which, in spite of the fall- 
 ing rain, the rising wind, the gray shadows of the clouds, 
 and the roar of the swollen stream, did not escape his 
 notice. He now proceeded to pass her and walk out a 
 few steps over the rushing water, whence he held out a 
 hand to her to follow, bracing himself at the same time 
 with one arm round a perpendicular branch of the tree.
 
 164 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 For a moment she still shrank, looking doubtfully at the 
 wet tree-trunk, and then up to him for encouragement. 
 
 " There is still time to turn back, if you would rather 
 not try it," said Ledyard ; but, although very unlike her 
 older sister, evidently, in her feeling about thunder- 
 storms, as Richard noted with inward amusement, 
 Nathalie Arkwright was like Cynthia in this, that she 
 would not turn back from anything which she had vol- 
 untarily undertaken, unless she were forced to do it by 
 necessity, and nothing could have been more calculated 
 to rouse the obstinacy of her nature than this consid- 
 erate tone of concession to her possible weakness. She 
 determined that she would show Ledyard that she was 
 not really afraid to cross, although just now it would 
 seem that appearances were rather against her. Accord- 
 ingly she answered, with some pride, that she had no 
 idea of turning back, and, bravely placing her hand in 
 his, walked steadily forward to meet him. It was not so 
 bad, after all, when one really stood above the rushing 
 torrent, as it looked in advance, and, besides, Nathalie's 
 spirit was up now, and she would rather die than show 
 dismay. She felt secure enough as long as she stood 
 still, in spite of the increased vibration of the tree-trunk, 
 as the flood beneath it continued to swell. She waited 
 with apparent calmness for Ledyard to find another 
 point of vantage whence to hold out again a helping 
 hand, and as she stood thus holding on to the strong 
 tree-branch which he had relinquished in her favor, her 
 dress of dark-blue serge blown back by the wind, all wet 
 and torn with climbing, and her naturally curling hair, 
 soaked with rain, escaping from her straw hat in wild 
 rebellion, she burst into a merry fit of laughter at her 
 own dishevelled appearance, as though to prove to him 
 how free she was from fear. 
 
 " What a guy I must look like !" she exclaimed. 
 " Even one of my gloves is torn off. It's rather fortu- 
 nate that I gave up the plan of making a second call on 
 Mrs. Henderson." 
 
 "You look more presentable than I do, I imagine,"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 165 
 
 returned Richard, who had, indeed, succeeded in soiling 
 his coat and mashing in his soft hat, so that he had no 
 longer a very clerical appearance. " I should be apt to 
 shock any one of my worthy parishioners who chanced 
 to see me just now, should I not ?" 
 
 " You do look rather disreputable," she admitted, with 
 mischievous enjoyment of the absurdity of the situation, 
 which she seemed to take pleasure in prolonging, for 
 she had been aware for some moments of his outstretched 
 hand ready to help her forward, but had not thought fit 
 to avail herself of the invitation. 
 
 " Do you think we can possibly get home without 
 being seen ?" she continued, straightening her hat on her 
 head as she spoke, as an excuse for delay. 
 
 " I think we shall never get home at all," said Rich- 
 ard, " unless you will come over this stream. Darkness 
 will overtake us, and we shall not be able to see our way, 
 which would be much worse than being seen." 
 
 " Well, I am coming now !" she answered, stretching 
 her hand towards his. The tree, which was supported 
 on its roots at one end, rested by its branches on the 
 opposite bank, and as the main trunk was thus raised 
 higher at the farther end by the fact that its branches 
 were longer than its roots, they were now about to pass 
 over the highest part of their natural bridge. Ledyard, 
 who was watching her with great anxiety, noticed that 
 Nathalie's face again grew pale. Could it be that she 
 was losing her head ? She put out her other hand to 
 balance herself as she slowly advanced, and then he 
 suddenly saw her close her eyes tightly, as though to 
 shut out the sight of the water beneath. 
 
 " Stop !" he shouted. " Look where you put your 
 feet, or you will surely slip !" And even while the warning 
 was being uttered she did slip, swayed for a moment 
 wildly from side to side, and would have been precipi- 
 tated into the rushing stream, but that Ledyard leaned 
 quickly forward and caught her in his arms. " Keep 
 quiet !" he said, authoritatively. " If you struggle, we shall 
 both go in." And she was quiet. She had indeed made
 
 1 66 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 a faint movement of recoil as she felt his arms close round 
 her, but when he spoke she became absolutely still. He 
 steadied himself a moment against another outstretched 
 branch, and then set off very slowly but firmly, testing 
 each step as he half walked, half climbed, sometimes sup- 
 porting his burden with one arm, sometimes with both, 
 until the opposite bank was gained. 
 
 When all was safe, he drew a long breath, and, gently 
 seating his companion on the tree-trunk, sprang to the 
 ground at her feet. " Here we are once more on firm 
 land," he said, cheerfully. "How glad you must be!" 
 Then, as she did not speak, he added, " You will forgive 
 me, I trust, if I spoke too dictatorially ? I saw no other 
 way to help you." 
 
 Still she said nothing. She had turned her head away, 
 and venturing to glance at her averted face, he saw that 
 her cheeks were once more covered by that fine shade 
 of pink, while her eyes were like blue fire. 
 
 " Have I offended you ?" he asked, a little proudly. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said, hastily, dropping her eyes ; " but I 
 know you think me a coward." 
 
 " On the contrary," he replied, " I think you have 
 shown great moral courage throughout a trying ordeal; 
 and compared to moral courage I do not value physical 
 courage at a pin's head." 
 
 " I do not think that I know what moral courage is," 
 she said, doubtfully. She had raised her eyes a little, 
 but still she did not look at him. 
 
 " What I mean by moral courage is the strength to 
 force one's self into doing anything which one may 
 think it wise or right to do, even against one's inclina- 
 tion," explained Ledyard. " That is what I think you 
 did." 
 
 " Say rather what I tried to do, but I did not succeed. 
 What would have become of me had you not been 
 there ?" 
 
 " It is hardly worth while to speculate about that," he 
 said, lightly. " Won't you take my arm now and let us 
 be getting out of the woods, lest Mrs. Betterton, or some
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. l6/ 
 
 other such terrible person, should fall foul of us with a 
 long stick ? " 
 
 " I do not know about other people," said Nathalie, 
 demurely, " but I am rather more afraid of Mrs. Better- 
 ton's tongue /" At which they both laughed. 
 
 They were not long in gaining the main road, along 
 which the rest of the walk was simple enough, except 
 for the length of it. The rain was still falling, but more 
 quietly. Some light might still penetrate the leaden sky 
 beyond the shadows of the trees, but here all was dim 
 with the drip, drip, of the water falling from the leaves 
 and the constant splash of their own feet through the 
 mud. The length of the way made Ledyard fear that his 
 companion would be overcome by fatigue, and he cast 
 several inquiring glances at her in the gathering dark- 
 ness, but by some strange freak of nature the vigor and 
 elasticity of her step seemed only to increase as they 
 went onward. 
 
 "Are you not tired ?" he asked, again offering the arm 
 which she had declined. 
 
 "Thank you, I am not really tired at all, nor do I 
 need your arm. Indeed, I am not always such a help- 
 less person as I must have seemed to-day. Are you 
 quite sure that you do not despise me, in spite of all 
 that about moral courage?" she asked, in a mocking 
 tone, turning suddenly to meet his gaze; but seeing 
 nothing there except solicitude for her and a great de- 
 sire to soothe her wounded sensibility, she softened 
 perceptibly. " You have been very kind to me, very !" 
 she asserted, dropping her eyes again, and, to his in- 
 tense surprise, she accepted the arm as she said it which 
 a moment before she had rejected. He was not learned 
 in the sweet contrarieties of women, but more than 
 satisfied that she continued thus to honor him for the 
 rest of their walk. She was very silent after this, to be 
 sure, although he talked on many subjects, but he was 
 content. Indeed, some wild, foolish fancy swept through 
 his brain that if she were never to speak to him again 
 he had been amply rewarded for having twice risked
 
 1 68 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 his limbs, if not his life, to save her from a threatened 
 danger. 
 
 It seemed to them both to last a long while, this 
 monotonous walk in the semi-gloom, with the sounds 
 that were ever repeating themselves, and yet one at least 
 of them would have been glad to have it last longer, 
 when they emerged upon the hill-side and were approach- 
 ing Cynthia's house. 
 
 But it was not fated that Nathalie should take refuge 
 with her sister on this occasion, for they were met, when 
 almost opposite the cottage, by the Betterton carriage, 
 which had, as they were told, been sent back for " Miss 
 Nathalie and Master Tom," and it seemed wisest that 
 Nathalie should not refuse its shelter. 
 
 " Good-by, Mr. Ledyard." 
 
 " Good-night, Miss Nathalie." For one moment he 
 held her soft little hand, and then the moment was 
 passed. The hand was gone. It had become a mere 
 memory, and the sound of the wheels of the Betterton 
 carriage was dying away in the distance. Ledyard 
 began to feel a little stiff, and uncomfortably wet and 
 cold, and was not sorry when a ten minutes' farther 
 tramp had brought him to his own fireside. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MISTY memories of a sweet downcast face, a rushing 
 stream, damp woods, and a ragged regiment of factory- 
 boys haunted Ledyard's sleep that night; and in the 
 midst of them he would start to see another face looking 
 suddenly out on him between flowering plants flanked 
 with a background of dark-green shrubbery, as he had 
 seen it that day at Fernwood. 
 
 Thanks to his youth and natural vigor of constitution, 
 he did not feel any serious ill effect from the cold bath 
 which Mr. Tom Betterton commended him for taking,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 169 
 
 nor from the long exposure to wind and rain in his wet 
 clothes, but he was conscious of a slight hoarseness in 
 his throat, which led him to fear that his voice might 
 be incapacitated for the delivery of his sermon the next 
 day unless he were careful, and he consequently resigned 
 himself to staying in-doors Saturday morning, trying to 
 turn his mind to the preparation of this same discourse, 
 but with unusually poor success. Indeed, the impor- 
 tunate visions of his dreams would not be dispelled in 
 his waking hours, and their shadowy vagueness was 
 now replaced by a distinct dread of evil consequences 
 to himself and others which might arise from one dis- 
 covery he had made. 
 
 As he sat thus lost in thought, his head resting on 
 his hand, and his brow contracted with anxious musing, 
 he was startled by a faint tap at his study window, and, 
 springing up, beheld Mrs. Henderson standing just out- 
 side it, evidently trying to attract his attention without 
 being seen by any one else. As soon as she had done 
 so, she pointed to the house door with an imperious 
 gesture, by which she indicated that she wished him to 
 open it for her immediately. Ledyard did as commanded, 
 and ushered her silently through the vestibule into his 
 little study, where she seated herself in his large leather- 
 covered arm-chair and began at once to speak. 
 
 " You were surprised, of course, when you saw me 
 yesterday?" she asked, in a dry, hard voice; and then, 
 before he had time to answer, continued, " I was able 
 to see that you were, and that you could not, of course, 
 have recognized me before. I knew you did not know 
 of my marriage to Lieutenant Henderson. I have in- 
 tentionally kept you ignorant of that and and of other 
 things, Dick." 
 
 " Of your existence, for instance ?" said Ledyard, coldly. 
 
 " Oh, as for that," she replied, " I did not care" 
 
 " I know you did not care for me, if that is what you 
 mean ; but did you not fear me ?" 
 
 " I have always been a little afraid of you," she con- 
 ceded, with a slight smile, a change of tone, and a faint 
 H 15
 
 I/O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 effort towards propitiation. If she had looked in his 
 face she would have seen it grow harder, but she did 
 not. She was bent on saying her say in as little time 
 as possible. " What I have come to you for now is 
 this," she continued. " My husband has taken a great 
 liking to you. He insists upon asking you to dinner. 
 He wants to know you better and help you with your 
 plans, and all the rest of it. Now, for Heaven's sake, 
 do not refuse to let him because you have discovered 
 who I am. That would be the undoing of me, for it 
 would be sure to bring suspicion. And still less must 
 you speak to me as if you had known me before. Do 
 you hear? He knows nothing of your existence, 
 nothing of what happened in Baltimore, or that there 
 was ever any other man who cared for me but him- 
 self. Mr. Neil, who was the only person who could 
 have told him, went directly to Montana, and you know 
 the rest." 
 
 "And you actually wish to persuade me to accept 
 his hospitality and to keep this secret from him ? to pre- 
 tend that you and I are strangers ?" asked Richard, sternly. 
 
 " Why not ? What possible good will it do to tell 
 him ? You would merely be shattering the whole happi- 
 ness of my present life." 
 
 " I do not see that," said Ledyard ; " or, rather, I 
 do see that for me to tell him that which you had kept 
 from him might be a risk; but I think you are veiy 
 unwise indeed not to tell him the truth yourself." 
 
 " Tell him now ! Tell him that I have deceived him 
 all these years ! How could I ?" 
 
 " But why did you not tell him in the beginning ?" 
 
 " Oh, you little know, you little know !" she cried, 
 burying her face in her hands. " If I had told him, he 
 never would have married me !" 
 
 Her evident distress seemed to touch Richard. 
 
 " Surely he would, Posey, since he loved you," he 
 said, gently, and laid his hand upon her bowed head. 
 
 " Don't ! don't !" she cried, passionately. " I cannot 
 bear it ! I know better than you do what I am talking
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. IJl 
 
 about. If I had told him, he never would have married 
 me; and if I told him now, I should surely lose his love." 
 
 " I think you are mistaken," said Ledyard. " At any 
 rate, it is far better to tell him than to run the risk 
 of his finding it out from some one else or by some 
 accident." 
 
 " There is no one else except yourself, and no acci- 
 dent is likely." 
 
 " You will be apt to create emergencies through your 
 own nervousness and impulsive habit of yielding to 
 every whim. What induced you to come and stare 
 at me yesterday, for instance? That was in itself a 
 danger." 
 
 " I know it was ; but I was so anxious for a word with 
 you, and I did not know how to obtain it unless I could 
 give you a sign which would lead you to meet me 
 before you went from the place. I thought it could be 
 managed." 
 
 " To meet you secretly on your husband's grounds ? 
 How could there be a greater risk, if one only looks at 
 it from the stand-point of expediency ? But surely there 
 are other considerations which might have occurred to 
 you." 
 
 " And was it not a greater risk for me to come here ? 
 I dreaded to do so very much. Suppose I had found 
 some one with you ? Suppose, now, that I should be 
 seen leaving the house ?" 
 
 Ledyard colored crimson. He sprang from his seat 
 beside her and began pacing angrily to and fro in the 
 small space at his disposal. 
 
 " What is the matter now ?" she asked, with a pro- 
 voking smile. Indeed, in proportion as he had become 
 excited she seemed to have regained her calmness and 
 composure. " You remind me of a tiger in a me- 
 nagerie," she said. " Do not glare at me so : I am not 
 your keeper!" 
 
 " You are my tormentor, for the moment," he said, in 
 a very low tone ; " but you shall not be for long, 
 Posey."
 
 1/2 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" she asked, defiantly. 
 
 " I mean that I will not be placed by you in the false 
 and hateful position in which you wish to place me." 
 
 " You will betray me, then ?" 
 
 " Not if I can help it. I will give you time to make 
 your own confession, and, if possible, to gain forgiveness 
 of your husband. But it was not my fault or by my ad- 
 vice that you hid this thing from him when you married 
 him, that you chose to keep him ignorant of my exist- 
 ence, or to leave me uninformed of your change of 
 name ; and I will not bear the consequences in any par- 
 ticular way which happens to suit your fancy. I give 
 you fair warning. Now, good-by." 
 
 " Where are you going ?" she asked, in apprehension, 
 seeing him take his hat in his hand. 
 
 " I am going to see you safely out, if it may be," he 
 said, decisively. " I do not choose to prolong this inter- 
 view, or to meet you again until your husband knows all." 
 
 " And what if I do not choose to tell him ?" she 
 asked, rising swiftly from her seat and placing herself 
 before Ledyard. 
 
 " Then I shall have to forego the pleasure of seeing 
 him either." 
 
 " Perhaps it is better so," she said, thoughtfully, half 
 to herself, looking away from him, as though consider- 
 ing this view of the situation for the first time. " You 
 promise to do nothing of your own accord to undeceive 
 him ?" she asked, bringing her eyes back to his face. 
 
 " I will bind myself to no promise," he said, " beyond 
 that which I have already made, to give you time." 
 
 " How much time ?" 
 
 " I will give you one week from to-day, and in the in 
 terval, although I expect to see your husband often, 1 
 shall say nothing. I shall not, of course, see you ; but 
 let me remind you that the more quickly you tell him 
 the whole truth now the better for both of us. If you 
 do not tell him the whole truth, you must tell him about 
 me, or I shall tell him who I am myself. Your finding 
 me lunching at your own home so unexpectedly on
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 173 
 
 your return yesterday will make a reason for your 
 speaking noiu, after being silent for so long; and every 
 hour that you postpone the confession will render it 
 more difficult." He ended, noticing as he did so that 
 she had grown pale while he was speaking. 
 
 " Oh, Dick ! Dick !" she cried. " Spare me ! Spare 
 him ! You do not know, you cannot know, how I love 
 him !" 
 
 She threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, 
 lifting her eyes to his in supplication, but Richard re- 
 mained unmoved. 
 
 - " No," he said, " I do not know. To me it seems 
 that if you loved him truly you could not have so de- 
 ceived him; but it is not for me to judge." 
 
 " Most true, it is not," she answered, in a quieter tone ; 
 " but \iyou are so severe with me, how can he forgive ?" 
 
 " God may put it in his heart, if you tell him all that 
 he has a right to know," returned Ledyard, very sol- 
 emnly. " As for me, I will try to do as I would be done 
 by. Now go in peace." He drew her cloak gently 
 about her, led her towards the door, and held it open 
 while she passed out, looking up and down the road as 
 he did so, to be sure that there was no one within sight, 
 while, pulling her veil over her face, she descended the 
 hill and was soon lost to view. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 IT certainly was most unlucky for Ledyard that one 
 worthy Mrs. Straincoat, a gentlewoman in reduced cir- 
 cumstances, as she declared herself to be, and also the 
 best-known dressmaker in Dundaff, should have hap- 
 pened to live on the same hill as himself, only a short 
 distance to the left of his dwelling, on the opposite side 
 of the road which led on to the church. Mrs. Strain- 
 coat's little house stood facing the road, with its back to
 
 174 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the broad view of the river, the valley, the irregular 
 village, and the hills beyond, which was so fine from 
 the rectory windows, and thus was it all the more natu- 
 ral that the attention of any one who was sitting in 
 Mrs. Straincoat's parlor should have been occupied 
 with those windows themselves. 
 
 It must, however, have been part of the ill tide of 
 fortune which seemed to be sweeping over Richard at 
 this moment that Mrs. and Miss Betterton should have 
 chanced to be visiting their dressmaker just at the time 
 that Mrs. Henderson came and tapped at his study 
 window. If that lady had only chosen to brave the 
 encounter of his capable and respectable housekeeper, 
 Mrs. Fowler, and let herself be admitted to his presence 
 in the ordinary manner, there would have been nothing 
 special for Mrs. Betterton to comment upon in the visit, 
 except that it denoted a degree of friendly acquaint- 
 ance between Mrs. Henderson and the young rector 
 of which she had not previously been aware. There 
 was, of course, no reason why a lady of Mrs. Hender- 
 son's position should not call on the clergyman. She 
 might have been anxious to lay before him some tale of 
 suffering or distress. 
 
 Mrs. Betterton need not have had the slightest clue to 
 what really passed within those four study walls if Mrs. 
 Henderson, in her great desire to place it beyond the 
 power of the village gossips to discuss the object of her 
 visit to Ledyard, or even to learn of its occurrence, had 
 not determined to refrain from summoning the servant, 
 to whom she would be obliged to give her name, and 
 preferred to compel Richard Ledyard to open the door 
 for her himself. 
 
 She was probably not aware of how long the inter- 
 view had lasted. She knew in a vague sort of way that 
 it was near eleven o'clock when she left home, and she 
 remembered hearing the factory-bells announce the hour 
 of noon while she and Ledyard were talking, for at the 
 sound she assured herself with satisfaction that it would 
 be an hour yet before her husband would leave the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1/5 
 
 mills, according to his custom, to return to Fernwood. 
 She would be at home before him, she promised herself, 
 for she had left her pony-carriage in the village in 
 charge of the wise old Malachi, whom Henderson in- 
 sisted that she should take with her as driver ever since 
 her accident. She knew that it would be easy to get 
 back to Fernwood in less than an hour, while she was 
 supposed to be at that very Mrs. Straincoat's in whose 
 neighboring dwelling the scandalized Mrs. Betterton was 
 sitting in judgment and counting each moment which 
 she let go by. 
 
 She and Florence saw her come out at last, escorted 
 by Mr. Ledyard, who was seen to glance up and down 
 the road as he held the door open. They saw her say 
 good-by " with as little ceremony as a school-girl might 
 have done," as Mrs. Betterton expressed it, and when 
 they had beheld her fairly run down the path which led 
 to the village and thus vanish from view, they said a 
 few hasty words to Mrs. Straincoat as to the neces- 
 sity of their coming the next Monday to try on their 
 dresses, and then the carriage came for them, and they 
 began to discuss what they had seen, as they drove 
 away. 
 
 There was sincere regret, amazement, and trouble of 
 mind on the part of Florence Betterton. She would 
 have been simply incredulous of the whole thing if she 
 had not happened to see it. But there was to Mrs. Bet- 
 terton the most radiant delight in thus finding cause 
 for censure at once in the curer of her soul and in the 
 wife of her husband's partner, who had not been as 
 cautious as was prudent in responding to Mrs. Bettei- 
 ton's patronizing advances, and was just now especially 
 in her black-books for venturing to deny herself to them 
 all on the previous day, when they had taken the trouble 
 to drive the whole distance from Camelot to Fernwood 
 to congratulate her on her recovery. 
 
 It was no wonder that such tactless disregard of good 
 feeling should rankle in Mrs. Betterton's mind, even if 
 there had been no fright and thunder-storm into the
 
 176 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 bargain. She said much to Florence in a deeply grieved 
 tone, as they drove along, about the wicked ways of the 
 world, and the suffering caused to the few high-minded 
 persons who were left in it, by the spectacle of so much 
 depravity; but her daughter's rejoinders, although indica- 
 tive of equal disturbance of mind, were not entirely 
 sympathetic, and she craved a wider audience, which she 
 found at Camelot. She was not able, however, fully 
 to avail herself of it during the half-hour devoted to 
 luncheon, owing to the dampening presence of her hus- 
 band. Mr. Betterton would not lend a patient ear, she 
 knew, to openly derogatory criticism of the wife of his 
 partner. He was much too prudent. 
 
 It was not, therefore, until luncheon was over, and 
 Nathalie Arkwright, who had come in from playing 
 lawn-tennis with Mr. Tom Betterton just before that 
 meal, was seated with Florence and herself in the draw- 
 ing-room, that Mrs. Betterton's tongue was fairly let 
 loose. It was worth everything to talk to a person who 
 knew nothing of their morning's adventure and to have 
 the opportunity of describing all that they had seen, 
 that is, the meeting and the parting, with any additions 
 which Florence might let pass, and such comments as 
 pleased herself. 
 
 " A most improper proceeding from beginning to 
 end," she concluded, indignantly, " and that is all that I 
 can say about it." But she intended to say a great deal 
 more. 
 
 " Oh, no, not improper, mamma. That is too strong 
 a word. We certainly saw nothing improper." 
 
 " It was shockingly unconventional, my dear, to say 
 the least. In a clergyman I call it highly improper." 
 
 " I can never quite understand what mamma's view of 
 a clergyman is," said Miss Florence, speaking to the 
 ceiling with a lofty air of indifference such as she was 
 very far from feeling. 
 
 " And, pray, why is that, Florry ?" asked her mother, 
 sharply. 
 
 " Because you seem to assume that whenever a clergy-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 1 77 
 
 man does anything which is in the slightest degree 
 questionable, he must do it with the worst possible in- 
 tentions, because he is a clergyman." 
 
 " Good for you, Florry ! I declare if that is not just like 
 ma !" cried her brother Tom, who had come into the room. 
 
 " If you mean by that very foolish assertion to try to 
 make Miss Nathalie believe that I particularly dislike 
 young men when they happen to be clergymen, and 
 criticise them accordingly, I should think you had suc- 
 ceeded, Florence, in saying what you mean," said Mrs. 
 Betterton, with freezing dignity, " but if you meant to 
 tell the truth, you have been a little less successful." 
 
 " How absurd, mamma ! Of course I did not mean to 
 say that you disliked Mr. Ledyard. I am sure you do 
 not, in spite of his rather independent way of going on, 
 as if he had a right to do anything he pleased." 
 
 " And why has he not ?" asked a soft voice, gentle 
 and low, such as might have been ringing in the memory 
 of poor King Lear when he declared it to be an excellent 
 thing in woman. It was the voice of Nathalie Arkwright. 
 
 " Why has he not ?" cried Mrs. Betterton. " Because no 
 one has, and least of all a clergyman. Oh, you need 
 not begin to smile in that impertinent way, Florry. I 
 can easily make Miss Nathalie understand, if you cannot. 
 What I mean is," she continued, turning towards their 
 guest, " that a clergyman is not merely bound to avoid 
 doing things which he would disapprove of in the mem- 
 bers of his congregation. He should set theman exam- 
 ple, and he should avoid doing things which might 
 shock or mislead them, whether the things be necessarily 
 bad or not. In the present instance," she continued, 
 looking at Florence with intention, " I consider that there 
 can be no question but what Mr. Ledyard was guilty to- 
 day of most unbecoming levity. I had suspected before 
 that he was rather inclined to be a flirt, from the way 
 that he seemed to have of paying attention first to one 
 girl and then to another, but I did not expect to surprise 
 him in the act of flirting with a married woman." 
 
 There was a dead pause. Both the other ladies in
 
 1 78 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the room looked down and colored with more or less 
 confusion ; but while to Florence Betterton the effect of 
 her mother's speech was so painful as to prevent her 
 from saying anything in return, on Nathalie Arkwright's 
 calmer nature, less readily roused to anger and more 
 determined when roused, it acted in an exactly opposite 
 manner. 
 
 " The word ' flirt' seems to me a strange one to apply 
 to so manly a man as Mr. Ledyard," she said, " and 
 above all to a clergyman. I certainly have not seen 
 anything in his conduct to justify it; and although I 
 have met very few clergymen in my life, and do not pro- 
 fess to know much about them, I cannot help thinking 
 that if it be true that a clergyman is bound to be more 
 circumspect in his conduct than another man on account 
 of his high office, there is some duty required of other 
 people towards him in return, and they should not only 
 show him as much charity as they would allow to one 
 another, but be careful how they use terms with regard 
 to him which might effectually interfere with the result 
 of his good influence." 
 
 It was an unusually long speech for Nathalie to make, 
 and she grew very pale while she was speaking, from the 
 nervous effort which it cost her to say so much, and 
 above all to say it on this especial subject ; but she held 
 on bravely to the end, in spite of Mrs. Betterton's eye 
 fixed upon her and the magnetically paralyzing effect 
 which that lady had the power of producing on any one 
 who ventured to oppose her, to the influence of which 
 Nathalie was particularly sensitive on ordinary occasions. 
 
 " Hear ! hear !" shouted Mr. Tom Betterton, as she 
 paused at last. " I am with you ! Those are my senti- 
 ments, Miss Nathalie, and I almost think I would be will- 
 ing to take an unpremeditated ' ducking' for you, as Mr. 
 Ledyard did, if you would defend me afterwards with 
 half that vigor." 
 
 Nathalie flushed scarlet at this allusion ; indeed, she 
 had had to undergo a great deal of what Mr. Thomas 
 called " chaffing" at his hands on the subject of Led-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS, 179 
 
 yard's timely rescue the day before, and her subsequent 
 long walk with him in the rain, the chief incident of 
 which she was most thankful to feel to be only known 
 to herself. Perhaps she disliked to be thus teased more 
 than she otherwise would have because she perceived 
 that all such allusions were especially disagreeable to her 
 friend. She even noticed with some embarrassment that 
 Florence did not appear to feel towards her quite as 
 warmly since her return to Camelot, all draggled with 
 mud and dripping with rain, but flushed and excited, the 
 night before. 
 
 Could Miss Florence be secretly regretting that it had 
 not fallen to her lot instead of Nathalie's to be rescued 
 by Mr. Ledyard ? If so, her friend never suspected it. 
 She had honestly believed that Florry felt the strong 
 interest which she had professed to feel in helping him 
 in his work, and she had done what she could to forward 
 her in finding the opportunity she desired to speak to 
 him about it, but she had fancied nothing else. 
 
 Now, to her surprise, as she finished speaking Florence 
 arose, and, approaching her, put one arm round her with 
 great affection, while Mrs. Betterton, who seemed to be 
 driven to the last pitch of endurance by this evidence on 
 her daughter's part that she, too, was in sympathy with 
 the enemy, delivered herself as follows. 
 
 " It is all very well for Miss Nathalie Arkwright," she 
 said, with bitterness, " and for you, Tom, who were not 
 there, and saw nothing of what we saw this morning, to 
 try to defend Mr. Ledyard ; but for you, Florry, to join 
 them in taking his part, after that and other things, I 
 call deplorable. Have you forgotten that frightfully 
 frivolous novel which you and I saw him reading a few 
 weeks ago in the railroad train? Do you not recall my 
 saying at the time how foolish a book it was for any 
 one to read, and that I was not ready to think it possible 
 that the reader could 'be Mr. Ledyard?" 
 
 " I remember you said you had read it yourself, 
 mother," interposed Florence, despairingly. 
 
 " Oh, come now, ma, don't you think you are coming
 
 180 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 it rather strong over the poor parson ?" inquired Mr. 
 Tom. " I know I, for one, have had enough of it, and I 
 am going to smoke with the governor." 
 
 But Mrs. Betterton took no more heed of the advice 
 of one of her children than of the protestations of the 
 other, and as her son left the room only lowered her 
 voice to a more mysterious and awful tone to say, in 
 continuation of her argument, for the benefit of her two 
 remaining auditors, " Then, as to Mrs. Henderson, if her 
 character were one to withstand imputation the case 
 might be less indefensible for Mr. Ledyard; but what are 
 the facts ?" 
 
 " Why, surely, mother, there is nothing to be said 
 against the character of Mrs. Henderson!" cried Flor- 
 ence, in dismay. 
 
 " That may or may not be," returned Mrs. Betterton, 
 nodding very wisely, and inwardly rejoiced that at last 
 she had elicited a spark of response from her daughter. 
 " I did not wish to say anything about it while your 
 brother was here," she continued, " although I suppose 
 he has heard it, of course, for the truth is that Mrs. 
 Henderson was an actress when Lieutenant Henderson 
 married her, as every one knows." 
 
 " An actress !" ejaculated Florence. 
 
 " Yes, she was an actress, and took part in a play a 
 week before the marriage took place, as I have been 
 told on good authority ; but what her life was before 
 that time nobody knows, except that she had defied her 
 father as a very young girl and gone upon the stage. 
 Now, add to these facts that Mr. Ledyard told Miss 
 Nathalie that he had been lunching at Fernwood yes- 
 terday, the very day, and at the very time that Mrs. 
 Henderson denied herself to the ladies of this family, 
 and also that when your brother Tom went back with 
 the carriage and horse to Fernwood he was admitted to 
 the presence of Mrs. Henderson and urged by her to 
 stay to dinner, and put these incidents together with 
 the revelation of this morning, and I think there can be 
 very little doubt that Mrs. Henderson prefers the society
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. l8l 
 
 of gentlemen to ladies, and that she is not very particular 
 as to how she gets it !" 
 
 " There is only one thing, Mrs. Betterton, which I 
 must have forgotten to mention," said Nathalie, coloring 
 shyly. " Did I tell you that Mr. Ledyard happened to 
 say that Mrs. Henderson was so tired from her journey 
 that she was not able to come to luncheon ? He told 
 me that he and Lieutenant Henderson lunched together 
 alone." 
 
 " I do not, really, remember whether you repeated to 
 me Mr. Ledyard's explanation of these matters or not," 
 said Mrs. Betterton, scornfully. "I do know that the 
 very fact that he took the trouble to explain gives color 
 to the suspicion that he was anxious on his own account 
 lest we should think it strange that he was admitted 
 when we were denied." 
 
 No more was said on the subject by the two girls, 
 but there was enough in what Mrs. Betterton had told 
 them, or, rather, in what she had not told them, of 
 Mrs. Henderson, to cause some uneasiness as to the 
 influences to which Mr. Ledyard might be subjected, 
 and neither of them was free from a slight feeling of 
 pain and regret at his apparent intimacy with that lady, 
 which they both found it so hard to reconcile with the 
 impression made upon them of his frankness and up- 
 rightness of character. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 MEANWHILE Sunday came, and Ledyard was pleased 
 to see not only Mrs. and Miss Betterton, Mr. Betterton, 
 and Mr. Tom Betterton in the pew which they had 
 elected to consider their own, but the not-unhoped-for 
 figure of Miss Nathalie Arkwright, who sat looking very 
 impenetrable and demure throughout the services and 
 sermon. Such an array of smart bonnets and gowns 
 
 16
 
 1 82 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 and of new, neatly-brushed coats as was presented by 
 the Betterton quartette might have gladdened the heart 
 of any pastor who was sufficiently alive to the ostenta- 
 tious respectability of appearance thus conferred upon 
 the whole congregation, yet it may be doubted whether 
 his heart, if moved at all, was not more concerned with 
 the fifth person in the pew, whose costume was of a 
 much graver tint and very simple, although fitting closely 
 to her pretty figure. 
 
 It has been hinted that while far from the white- 
 cravatted type of young society clergymen whom Miss 
 Betterton had met before, and in spite of her mother's 
 disapprobation of him and of his taste in light literature, 
 Ledyard had nevertheless found favor in Florence's 
 eyes; but it is only justice to him to say that he was 
 entirely unconscious of how much of her sudden fancy 
 for St. Andrew's Church and willingness to teach the 
 poor factory-children was due to her personal interest 
 in the young rector. Miss Florence, on the other hand, 
 was far from realizing the extent to which her philan- 
 thropic and religious sentiments were influenced by the 
 personal attraction which she frankly acknowledged as 
 the first cause of her insisting upon the change from 
 Mr. Ashmead's church to that of Mr. Ledyard. 
 
 " He has so much more in him, papa, and he says it so 
 much more pleasantly," she had asserted, with decision, 
 and Mr. Betterton had been inclined to " conclude that 
 Florry must be right." 
 
 Of course, since Florence had been to such a " swell" 
 school and had paid visits to fashionable school friends 
 in Baltimore, where she had gone into the very "first 
 circles," even Mrs. Betterton was inclined to feel some 
 respect for Florence's opinion ; and when Mr. Thomas 
 Betterton came home for a short visit from the gay life 
 in the city, which he much preferred to helping his 
 father with his work at the factories, not liking busi- 
 ness so well as pleasure, he confirmed the opinion that 
 " Florry knew what was what." 
 
 It was a matter of some surprise to Florence and
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 183 
 
 Nathalie, as well as to others in the congregation, that 
 Mrs. Henderson should have taken it into her head to 
 appear at church in Dundaffon this Sunday, for the first 
 time since she had come to live at Fernwood. It was 
 popularly believed in the village that Mrs. Henderson 
 preferred St. Luke's, as the more aristocratic place of 
 worship, although Henderson himself went regularly to 
 St. Andrew's ; but whatever motive may have influenced 
 her on this occasion, there she sat to-day, beside her 
 husband, in the pew which he generally occupied, while 
 little Wilfred was at his other elbow. 
 
 She did not look so desperately wicked, the girls 
 thought, as they glanced at the fragile little woman from 
 beneath their hat-brims and noted how pale her cheeks 
 had grown since the last time they had seen her driv- 
 ing through Dundaff, just before her accident. Indeed, 
 neither her Parisian silk gown nor the jaunty hat and 
 feather, which set off her faded charms to their best ad- 
 vantage, could make up for the worn and anxious ex- 
 pression which had come into her face. Would Mr. 
 Ledyard go and speak to her when church was over ? 
 Nathalie wondered; but she had the satisfaction of seeing 
 that he did not. 
 
 As soon as he appeared without his surplice, he made 
 his way to where she herself was standing, in the church 
 porch, a little apart from the others. There was but a 
 word or two between them, but it was enough, although 
 he only held out his hand in a frank, simple way, asking 
 whether she had felt any ill effects from her exposure to 
 the storm a day or two before, and then turned to Flor- 
 ence Betterton, who approached at this moment, and 
 began at once to speak on the subject of his last con- 
 versation with her. 
 
 " I think I have found something for you to do, Miss 
 Betterton," he said, cordially, and launched into the sub- 
 ject of the services to be held in the open air on the 
 following Sunday, and the idea that a number of the 
 factory-children might be got together also, for special 
 instruction, before the service for the older people.
 
 1 84 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Florence listened with great interest, and grew to feel 
 more and more convinced that Mr. Ledyard could not 
 be anything but an earnest worker and a true man. It 
 was his special gift that he had the power of impressing 
 eveiy one with whom he came in contact with this be- 
 lief in his sincerity ; a gift rarely conferred on a rascal, 
 but valuable to all men. 
 
 " As the whole matter is one which concerns the 
 workers in the factories," he concluded, " I should like, 
 before proceeding to act, to obtain your father's consent. 
 Will you come with me to find him ?" 
 
 No suggestion could have been more fortunate to free 
 Florence from her mother's probable notice and con 
 demnation. She moved away with Mr. Ledyard, not 
 disguising from herself a thrill of pride, inspired by his 
 evident confidence and open deference before the dis- 
 persing congregation, and, after looking about for some 
 moments, found her father at the back of the church 
 in the act of ordering the carriage and horses to be 
 brought round. 
 
 "Never mind the carriage just yet, father," said 
 Florence, decisively. " Mr. Ledyard has something 
 about which he wishes to speak to you." At which 
 the old man countermanded the order to the coachman 
 meekly, and turned to his daughter and her companion 
 without the slightest protest. 
 
 " So, Mr. Ledyard, it is me that you have come after 
 flow," he said, with a shrewd twinkle in his small gray 
 eyes ; " and I am thinking that you arc not satisfied with 
 discoursing in a church, but you must even be preaching 
 out of it, if all I hear be true." 
 
 Ledyard started in surprise. " Has Lieutenant Hen- 
 derson spoken to you already, sir, of my desire to ad- 
 dress the employees of the factories in the woods next 
 Sunday ?" he asked. 
 
 " Indeed, that he has, then," responded Mr. Better- 
 ton ; " and I am not so sure that I will go against it, 
 if so be you keep the folk quiet and orderly, and no 
 nonsense of teaching them that they are better than
 
 BROKEN CHOADS. 185 
 
 them that they work for, but just to go like decent 
 bodies." 
 
 " I certainly have no intention of stirring up any 
 spirit of revolt," said Richard. " I want not to make 
 enmity, but, if possible, to establish better feeling all 
 round. I have been much troubled that the people who 
 live about the factories seem so lacking in decent 
 clothes and keep so apart from the villagers, as well as 
 that they will not come to church. They surely ought 
 to be able to make themselves look more respectable, 
 with the wages they receive." 
 
 " Perhaps they do not know how to spend their 
 money," said Florence, thoughtfully. 
 
 " No, no," returned her father. " It is just that they 
 do not care, or spend it on liquor." 
 
 Mrs. Betterton meanwhile had spotted Mrs. Hender- 
 son among the people who were leaving the church, 
 and had taken up a position near the door-way, whence 
 she could see her and speak to her as she passed out. 
 She had not definitely determined on her mode of attack, 
 but had resolved that, if it were within her power, she 
 would be revenged. As the lady approached by her 
 husband's side, however, she caught sight of Mrs. Bet- 
 terton, whom, without knowing any reason for it, she 
 rather disliked, and, slipping her hand out of Millard's 
 arm, left him to face the village dragon alone, while she 
 lingered and spoke a few words to Miss Platt about a 
 bonnet in which that worthy milliner had undertaken to 
 change the flowers. 
 
 Miss Platt did not usually consider it proper to discuss 
 matters concerning her trade with her customers any- 
 where but in her little shop, and least of all on Sunday 
 after church, but she had noticed Mrs. Betterton's ex- 
 pectant expression as she stood waiting for her victim. 
 She had caught the look of disappointment with which 
 she saw her turn aside, and she felt secretly pleased at 
 her own apparent social triumph, for, as Mrs. Henderson 
 had the grace to speak in a low tone, who could divine 
 the subject of their conversation ? 
 
 1 6*
 
 1 86 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Henderson advanced in supreme unconsciousness of 
 the offence which his wife had given to the wife of his part- 
 ner, and paused to say a few kind words to her, although 
 Mrs. Betterton was not exactly a favorite with him. 
 
 " Oh, we were none the worse for the rain, thank 
 you," she assured him, in return for his inquiries. " Our 
 only misfortune was that we should not have found 
 Mrs. Henderson able and ready to see us." 
 
 " To be sure, to be sure," said Millard, hastily. " It 
 was her misfortune, of course. The truth is that she 
 has not yet entirely regained her strength, and had just 
 returned from a little visit to her mother, so that she 
 was tired from the journey." 
 
 "So we were told," returned Mrs. Betterton, grimly; 
 " but when we saw Mrs. Henderson the next day she 
 seemed active enough, and Tom thought she was look- 
 ing remarkably well at dinner that evening." 
 
 " Mrs. Henderson will be pleased to hear it," rejoined 
 Millard, determined to accept the implied slur as a com- 
 pliment. " What an impossible woman !" he was saying 
 to himself, and made an inward note of the difficulty of 
 keeping up social relations with any one who insisted 
 on going back of a polite excuse. He resolved that he 
 would not be so rash as to begin a conversation with 
 Mrs. Betterton again, and to end this one as soon as might 
 be; but just as he was about to pass on, Mrs. Betterton 
 began to speak on another subject. 
 
 " And how did you like Mr. Ledyard's sermon, Lieu- 
 tenant Henderson?" she asked, not without a latent 
 purpose. 
 
 " The sermon ? Oh, I think it did very well. I like 
 Ledyard himself immensely. He is a thoroughly good 
 fellow, and it always does me good to hear him, although, 
 perhaps, his sermon to-day may not have been quite as 
 fine as usual. Not so high as his own mark, so to speak." 
 " That is exactly what I thought myself," declared 
 Mrs. Betterton, eagerly. " I was saying to Tom that I 
 thought it was not equal to most of the sermons I had 
 heard him deliver, and his manner, too, was not so good.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. l8/ 
 
 He seemed what I call flustered. Perhaps it was having 
 Mrs. Henderson hear him for the first time, when he 
 wasn't at his best, and he such a friend of hers. It 
 must have been mortifying to him, to say the least." 
 
 " Oh, you are mistaken there," said Henderson, care- 
 lessly, dedicating a faint smile to Mrs. Betterton's weak- 
 ness for seeming well informed about things of which 
 she was absolutely ignorant. " Ledyard is not a friend 
 of Mrs. Henderson's ; in fact, I have only lately had the 
 opportunity of becoming a friend of his myself." 
 
 It was Mrs. Betterton's turn to smile, and she did 
 so with a fine mingling of compassion and superiority, 
 which almost made him laugh. " Then you are really 
 not aware of the friendship between Mrs. Henderson 
 and Mr. Ledyard, although Mr. Ledyard was lunching 
 with you at Fernwood only day before yesterday ?" she 
 asked, incredulously. 
 
 " I am really not aware of it," returned Millard, with 
 humor. " For, as it chances, that was the very day 
 when Mrs. Henderson was so fatigued from her journey, 
 having just returned to Fernwood, that she missed your 
 delightful visit, and she was also too tired to come down 
 to luncheon. I do not think, therefore, that she has ever 
 met Mr. Ledyard." 
 
 Mrs. Betterton was surprised, for she had been con- 
 vinced that Mr. Ledyard was telling an untruth when 
 he declared that Mrs. Henderson had not appeared at 
 luncheon, but she was by no means discomfited, for 
 there was mixed with her surprise a distinct sensation 
 of triumph, such as one might imagine a fox-hound to 
 experience when, after running hither and thither in pur- 
 suit of his prey, he first strikes the scent. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me," she inquired, solemnly, 
 " that you actually believe that Mr. Ledyard and your 
 wife have never met ?" 
 
 This time Henderson did laugh. What he inwardly 
 denoted her " clumsy meddling" was too much for his 
 natural courtesy. 
 
 " That is my impression, Mrs. Betterton," he said,
 
 1 88 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 recovering himself with an effort ; " but it really would 
 not freeze me with horror to hear that they had." 
 
 Now, if there were anything this lady hated it was 
 ridicule. Thus defied, she became dangerous. Her 
 usually florid countenance grew crimson with passion, 
 and her tones grew more and more acidly venomous. 
 
 " What would you think," she asked, " if you were 
 told that Mrs. Henderson had been seen to go to Mr. 
 Ledyard's house and tap on his study window ? What 
 would you say if you were told that she had been seen 
 to wait until he came to open the door for her, that she 
 had been seen to enter silently, and at the end of an 
 hour or more had been seen to come out again accom- 
 panied by Mr. Ledyard, who took precautions to be 
 sure no one was in sight, and then Mrs. Henderson had 
 been seen to draw a veil over her face and run from the 
 house with every appearance of dreading recognition ?" 
 
 " If a man ventured to tell me so," said Henderson, in 
 a changed tone and with a face which had been gradu- 
 ally darkening, " I should give him an answer both 
 short and to the point, although even then a church 
 would hardly be the place to deliver it. If a woman 
 dared, I should think the less I said to her the better, 
 then or on any future occasion, and should certainly 
 avoid her." 
 
 He turned on his heel as he spoke, and went back to 
 where Mrs. Henderson was still standing with little Wil- 
 fred. 
 
 " Come, my dear," he began, " we must be going now, 
 and I want you to take my arm and let us get quickly 
 out of this crowd. There are some people here whom 
 the less we see the better." 
 
 Posey looked up surprised, but she took his arm with 
 evident pleasure at the attention, and passed, for the 
 time being, beyond the power of her vindictive enemy. 
 
 Petrified for the moment by the discovery that, instead 
 of bringing shame and disgrace on Mrs. Henderson, she 
 had brought an undreamt-of disaster upon herself and 
 her family by leading the way to an actual break with
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 189 
 
 the Hendersons, who were the only people of standing 
 in the neighborhood with whom they could claim any- 
 thing more than the most distant acquaintance, Mrs. 
 Betterton deeply regretted what she had said, but in the 
 course of a day or two she began to rally. It then be- 
 came evident to her that she could not in " conscience" 
 have withheld the truth, however incautious it might 
 have been to admit it to a husband " who was evidently 
 infatuated and unable to realize the extent to which his 
 credulity was being played upon," and she took care 
 that her view of the matter, as well as the matter itself, 
 in all its enormity and with every compromising detail, 
 should be made known to Miss Platt and Mrs. Duffy, to 
 Mr. Denny, to Mrs. Phelps, in fact, to every one but her 
 own husband, of whose disapproval she was so certain 
 that she instinctively shrank from telling him of her 
 having approached Lieutenant Henderson with such 
 temerity. 
 
 To the little circle of tradespeople in Dundaff whom 
 she enjoyed the extreme felicity of patronizing unchecked, 
 however, she called loudly for sympathy in her virtuous 
 and valiant determination to spare no evil-doer from the 
 mere loftiness of her social position or any other mun- 
 dane reason, and it thus fell out that in less than a week 
 all the village gossips were feeding themselves fat on 
 various versions of the scandalous tale, embellished with 
 such extra touches and pointed with such moral reflec- 
 tions as suited the fancy of the teller. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 IT would hardly be possible to exaggerate the state 
 of agitation and excitement into which old Marjory was 
 thrown by the announcement that " Miss Nathalie" 
 was coming to visit her sister Cynthia in the little brown 
 cottage. To be sure, the even tenor of former ways
 
 190 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 had already been violently broken in upon by Mrs. Hen- 
 derson's unlucky accident, but then Mrs. Henderson's 
 accident was, in Marjory's opinion, a thing for which 
 Providence alone was responsible, and she was in the 
 habit of making allowances for Providence which Cyn- 
 thia could hardly expect to have extended to her or her 
 unprecedented conduct in asking a young beauty and 
 heiress, direct from the gay world, to share her humble 
 roof and partake of the frugal fare which was habitual 
 beneath it. 
 
 Marjory had hitherto maintained that if Miss Cynthia 
 chose to live in the little brown cottage that cottage 
 was the best and most fitting spot on the face of the 
 earth that she could inhabit, for the eccentricity of her 
 secluded life in the eyes of others had only given her 
 will a more sacred authority in those of the old servant, 
 but for no reason except as a matter of choice was the 
 tiny dwelling suitable to her mistress, and how was this 
 senseless girl to understand such fine distinctions ? It 
 wounded Marjory to the quick to think of Cynthia's 
 being humbled before the child of her own father, a 
 child, too, who possessed, by the singular injustice of 
 fortune, all the wealth which should have been hers, in 
 addition to her own. What had she come in their way 
 for, at any rate ? What was there in common between 
 the fuss and the nonsense and all the grand things to 
 which she had been used, and such quiet, useful lives 
 as she and her mistress had been in the habit of living ? 
 
 Marjory was probably unconscious of how much of 
 her present irritation was due to the fact that the quiet 
 way of living above referred to was exactly suited to 
 her taste in her own declining years. She certainly did 
 not realize that for her mistress, who was somewhat 
 younger than herself, such a life was both unnatural and 
 unhealthy, and was far from imagining the keenness 
 of the satisfaction, the intensity of the delight, with 
 which Cynthia welcomed the spontaneous advent of her 
 little sister. She did see that Miss Arkwright watched 
 her guest with eager pleasure, that there was no effort
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 19! 
 
 which she was not ready to make to add to her enjoy- 
 ment, and an odd sort of jealousy, sadly compatible 
 with many noble characteristics, took possession of old 
 Marjory. She envied the youth and bloom, the light 
 heart and free step, the sweetness and charm of Nath- 
 alie Arkwright, and above all she envied her her mis- 
 tress's love. Why, when she had everything else that 
 nature and the world could give, should she have this, 
 the one comfort of Marjory's long, hard-working days ? 
 Had she not stood by Cynthia through loneliness and 
 sorrow, had she not worked for her through long years 
 of toil, had she not cared for her in illness and literally 
 nursed her back to life, as Cynthia had said, and was 
 all the love that she had won in return for this devo- 
 tion to be lavished on a girl whose existence they had 
 almost forgotten a few weeks ago ? 
 
 She was very careful to say nothing of the sort to 
 Cynthia, however, and in spite of these dark repinings 
 the warmth and sweetness of the friendship between the 
 two sisters grew as the days passed. Nathalie, who had, 
 fortunately for the remaining peace of mind of the old 
 English servant, sent home her French maid before 
 leaving Camelot, seemed as active and capable of taking 
 care of herself as if she had been used to do so always. 
 Indeed, she never mentioned the existence of the elegant 
 Rosalie to Cynthia, nor could any one who saw her 
 now have dreamed of how dependent she usually was 
 on that functionary ; but what was still more remarkable 
 was the manner in which she entered into all the some- 
 what prosaic occupations and interests of her sister's 
 monotonous life. 
 
 She rose early to help to water the flowers in the 
 little garden before the sun was on them. She was 
 ready for a walk to the post-office with Cynthia after 
 breakfast. She insisted on being allowed to read to 
 the little girls of Cynthia's sewing-class, and sat by 
 very demurely while Miss Arkwright talked to the older 
 lads, who met at the house on a Saturday evening to 
 discuss the most important questions of the times,
 
 IQ2 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 politically or morally, a sort of debating club, in which 
 each member was encouraged to express his opinion 
 freely and fully, where many an inspiring thought and 
 ennobling suggestion was unostentatiously dropped in 
 their midst by their quiet but strangely sympathetic 
 hostess. 
 
 It often seemed to Nathalie, on these occasions, as if 
 Cynthia were transformed from the grave demeanor and 
 calm manner which had become habitual to her, so eager, 
 animated, and absorbed would she seem to be by the 
 crudely-expressed opinions of the little company, while 
 the spirit and earnestness which she threw into all her 
 appeals to right feeling on questions of moral distinc- 
 tion, or the ill-suppressed scorn with which she greeted 
 any sentiment which savored of meanness, was a revela- 
 tion to her sister, although a purely unconscious one on 
 Cynthia's part. 
 
 Nathalie had been brought up among people with 
 whom thinking was not the fashion ; she had often seen 
 her mother or sisters animated in society, but it had 
 always been a matter of accent, of piquant expression, 
 of well-timed laughter aptly used to fill a pause which 
 might, if neglected, become awkward. When alone, on 
 the other hand, these ladies would sometimes tremble 
 with excitement over a difference of opinion in the dis- 
 cussion of a new style of dress, or glow with enthusiasm 
 at the description of some odd but most elegant fashion 
 of decorating a table for dinner or luncheon, but when it 
 came to a fine picture, such as appealed to Nathalie her- 
 self, or a new book, which had awakened her humor and 
 imagination, it never seemed that they possessed either 
 quality. 
 
 They read but few books, and these they did not care 
 to talk about, unless, indeed, it were done by way of 
 making conversation, and then, although in their line 
 they were clever, what was said was of the veriest un- 
 importance, compared to how it was said, and to whom. 
 
 To Cynthia, on the other hand, the subject seemed of 
 the most absorbing interest, and all else was subordinated.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 193 
 
 It happened often now that Mr. Ledyard would drop in 
 when these evening- discussions were in progress, and, 
 without intruding his opinion, unless appealed to, would 
 yet be ready to give a needed explanation of some ab- 
 struse theory in political economy, or to suggest a solu- 
 tion, where one was asked, of some confessedly knotty 
 question of ethics. Nathalie, who was stimulated in 
 these days by the delightful sense of a new and interest- 
 ing experience, opening in various directions undreamed- 
 of vistas of possible emotion or achievement, would 
 keep quite still at such times, noting every little detail 
 of the scene, which was indelibly impressing itself on 
 her memory. 
 
 The earnestness and large grasp of his subject shown 
 by Ledyard, and his intellectual absorption in the point 
 at issue, the eagerness of the lads' faces, the fire and 
 inspiration which they caught from Cynthia, all held her 
 attention spell-bound. 
 
 Why did Cynthia and Mr. Ledyard care to take so 
 much trouble? That was what amazed her. What 
 possible advantage could come of it all to them ? And 
 yet she could see that they felt a keen pleasure in their 
 work. Such ideas of self-sacrifice as she had were 
 wholly original, but so were her estimates of what she 
 had a right to require from her neighbors in the way of 
 concession ; nor had her moral training been deficient, 
 according to the views of those about her. There had 
 certainly been no intentional perversion, for, however 
 self-indulgent or frivolous the example they set, people 
 rarely teach selfishness theoretically, and the most de- 
 voted followers of worldly doctrines do not preach 
 them. 
 
 Nathalie had not had any conversation with Mr. Led- 
 yard, except of the most casual nature, since the after- 
 noon of their adventure, when one morning that she 
 had not walked to the post-office as usual, she was idly 
 swinging in the garden with a book in her hand, and, 
 stooping to disentangle her white flannel dress from the 
 thorny branches of a rose-bush which grew near, she 
 
 I n 17
 
 IQ4 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 looked up, to see him coming that way. Richard was 
 walking with his hands clasped behind him, his head bent 
 and his brow contracted, evidently lost in thought. He 
 probably did not expect to see any one at that hour in 
 the garden behind the cottage, which, so far from being 
 trim and orderly like that in front of the house, was a 
 sweet old-fashioned labyrinth of shrubs and lilac-bushes 
 and tall tiger-lilies and dahlias, that with the advancing 
 season had just come into bloom. 
 
 Now, the fine old chestnut-tree, from the largest branch 
 of which hung the rustic swing that Nathalie had chosen 
 for a seat, chanced to stand close to the twisted wooden 
 fence surrounding Cynthia's little domain, which was 
 thus separated from the sunny meadow that sloped down 
 into the fertile valley from which it was evident that Mr. 
 Ledyard was returning, while the irregular foot-path that 
 he was pursuing ran along beside the fence for several 
 yards before turning off at an angle to join the cart- 
 track. As Ledyard came closer, she could not have told 
 why she suddenly curbed the gentle swaying motion to 
 which her lithe body had been yielding with such pleas- 
 urable sensation a moment or two before, but such was 
 the case. She even drew in her breath as she held her- 
 self from moving one inch backward or forward. Yet 
 she was conscious of a strong wish that he would look 
 up and speak to her, although she would not make the 
 slightest movement to attract his attention. 
 
 Is there a subtle personal magnetism which may be 
 exercised even without the knowledge of its owner, 
 conveying the mandates of the will independently of 
 muscular action? Perhaps so. At least we have all 
 believed that we felt it at one time or other in our lives, 
 and certain it is that from this or other cause Ledyard 
 suddenly raised his head when exactly opposite and 
 met Nathalie's startled eyes with his strong, level gaze, 
 which instantly changed from its expression of anxious 
 thought to a look of recognition. It was a peculiarly 
 radiant look, which did not so much convey the idea of 
 surprise as of the realization of a hope, although it was
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 195 
 
 quite evident that nothing could have been more unex- 
 pected to him than the meeting, and by some occult 
 process only known to woman she drew from it an inti- 
 mation that she had not been entirely absent from his 
 thoughts since they had last spoken unrestrainedly to 
 one another. 
 
 The suggestion was not a distasteful one to Nathalie, 
 for, if the truth must be told, there was hardly a day but 
 the image of Ledyard had obtruded itself on her fancy, 
 not always in a pleasant form, to be sure, sometimes fol- 
 lowed by a disturbing procession of doubts giving rise 
 to unprofitable speculation, sometimes accompanied by a 
 sense of mortification at the display of weakness which 
 she felt that she had made to him, but usually bringing 
 at the end a glow of admiration for his courage and a 
 warm sense of gratitude for his exercise of it in her 
 behalf. 
 
 " Why, good-morning, Miss Nathalie," he said, cheerily, 
 pausing and leaning easily on the fence-rail, while his 
 eyes still looked radiant, and Nathalie Arkwright, the 
 self-possessed young lady whose composure had so 
 impressed him when he first saw her, felt herself blush- 
 ing like a village maiden. Yet she did not withdraw 
 her gaze, having a vague idea that should she do so he 
 might guess something of which she wished him of all 
 things to remain ignorant. Had she been more self- 
 possessed she would have seen that he was too far car- 
 ried off his feet, metaphorically speaking, to be able to 
 observe or form conclusions. He was but conscious of 
 an intense thrill of joy, and seemed to himself to be 
 standing over the mad feeling which had leapt up so 
 suddenly, with his hand at its throat, as it were, and a 
 deadly determination to keep it from betraying him, at 
 any cost. 
 
 " May I come over the fence ?" he asked, suiting the 
 action to the word, for, although she had not answered 
 his greeting, there was no denial in her face, and the 
 next moment he was seated beside her on one of the 
 roots of the tree and had begun to remember the anxiety
 
 196 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 which was pressing upon him very heavily a little while 
 before. 
 
 She was quick to notice the change in his expression, 
 and seized on it promptly as a means of escaping from 
 the awkward silence in which she felt herself imprisoned. 
 
 " I fancied as I saw you coming this way, Mr. Led- 
 yard, that something might have happened to trouble 
 you," she said, timidly. 
 
 " So it had," he answered impulsively, obeying the 
 instinct which bade him accept the sympathy she offered. 
 
 There was a short pause. " Was it was it any bad 
 news ?" she asked at last. 
 
 " Well, I do not know that I ought to call it that," 
 said Ledyard. " I have just had a letter which tells me 
 that a man whom I believed to be dead is living." 
 
 She started and looked at him in surprise, but he did 
 not notice it. He was seated with his back against the 
 trunk of the tree, one knee drawn up and his arms passed 
 round it with the hands clasped. His eyes were bent 
 upon the ground, as they had been when she first 
 saw him. 
 
 " Is the man your enemy ?" she asked, gravely. 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, with a sudden smile. " On the 
 contrary, I believe him to be a very good fellow." 
 
 " Why, then, does his existence make you uneasy ?" 
 
 " Merely from the consequences which it may entail," 
 he answered. " Sometimes the best-meaning fellows may 
 do a great deal of harm." 
 
 " That is very true," returned Nathalie, thinking of 
 the way in which, without the slightest intention of doing 
 her an injury, Tom Betterton had betrayed the fact of 
 Mrs. Henderson having appeared at dinner that Friday 
 evening to his mother. " But is it at all likely that the 
 man you speak of will do you any harm ?" she added, 
 returning to the point in question. 
 
 " It is almost certain that he will, unless such a mis- 
 fortune can be averted," said Ledyard ; " but I am not 
 the only person to be considered ; indeed, I am not the 
 chief sufferer by any means, in case of the worst."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 197 
 
 " The matter is becoming more and more mysterious," 
 said Nathalie, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye 
 and a perceptible deepening of the dimple at the corner 
 of her mouth, which was nevertheless firmly closed. 
 
 " Of course it is to you," said Richard, " and I can 
 easily understand how absurd so much mystery must 
 seem ; but I have no right to speak more plainly, or I 
 certainly should not deal thus in riddles. Indeed, I am 
 going to ask you to be kind enough not to say one 
 word to any one of what I have said." 
 
 " Not even to Cynthia ?" she asked. 
 
 He looked up, smiling. It was evident that she was 
 in a provoking mood, and she charmed him thus. " I 
 know of few secrets which I should not be willing to 
 trust to your sister," he said ; " but tell it to no one else, 
 please." 
 
 " Then you would really rather that I did not tell 
 Mrs. Betterton ?" 
 
 " I believe I would." 
 
 " I will try to remember," she said, demurely ; " but, 
 after all, there is very little to tell. You have confided 
 to me nothing positively but that there is a man alive 
 whom you fancied dead. Was it a fancy, by the 
 bye?" 
 
 " Perhaps it was." 
 
 She saw that he was growing less communicative 
 under her light treatment, and suddenly changed her 
 tone. " Joking apart," she said, " could I really not 
 help you at all if you would venture to tell me a little 
 more ?" She plucked a rose-bud as she spoke, and 
 looked down at it shyly, while the color seemed reflected 
 on her cheeks. 
 
 " You have helped me already," he replied, " for since 
 I have been talking to you I have come to a conclusion 
 as to the only thing that I can do." 
 
 " And what is that ?" 
 
 " It is to try to avert the misfortune which I dread. 
 Unhappily, it will involve my going away from here, 
 which I am very loath to do." 
 
 17*
 
 198 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Going away, permanently f" 
 
 " I hope not, indeed ; but I am very sorry to go even 
 temporarily, especially at present." 
 
 " Do you mean that you will have to go now ?" she 
 asked, breathlessly. 
 
 " Yes. It will be important that I should start as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 There was a silence, during which the same thought 
 was in both their minds. " May I have that rose-bud ?" 
 he asked, in a low tone. 
 
 She glanced at him again, with mischief, from beneath 
 her eyelids. " Do you think that I ought to give it to 
 you, when you were afraid to trust me?" 
 
 " How afraid ? Have I not answered every question 
 that you asked me ?" 
 
 " To a certain point, yes ; but you have not told me 
 who the other person was, for instance, who was to be 
 considered, and yet I am longing to know." 
 
 "Daughter of Eve," he answered, just touching her 
 fingers as he possessed himself of the rose-bud, which 
 she had not refused to him. " Do you not understand 
 as well as I do that that is something which I may not 
 tell?" 
 
 " And what if I were to guess ?" 
 
 " Then I should be forced to regret having said so 
 much, of course." 
 
 "Would you, really?" She looked grave again, and 
 rather puzzled. " I wonder whether I ought to tell you 
 who I think it is ?" 
 
 " That is as you please." 
 
 " You mean that you would not let me know if I were 
 right ?" 
 
 " I could not." Their eyes came together again by 
 the same mischievous magic which had held them be- 
 fore. " Believe me," he said, very earnestly, " it is not a 
 question of how much I trust you." 
 
 " No," she answered, softly, " I hope not ; but if that 
 be true, I think I am bound to tell you of something I 
 have heard."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 199 
 
 " Is it something about me ?" 
 
 '"Yes," she said, turning from him as she spoke, "and 
 something which leads me to suspect that the person 
 you mean is Mrs. Henderson. I do not ask you to tell 
 me that I am right." 
 
 So great was his astonishment and so poignant his 
 regret that she could have heard anything to lead her 
 to link his name with that of any woman, that he was 
 thankful for the delicacy which had led her to turn away. 
 He appreciated that she did this so as not to surprise 
 the secret which he felt in honor bound to keep, and it 
 was fortunate she did, for he could not have controlled 
 his face. There was quite a pause as it was, while he 
 rallied himself to the task of concealment. 
 
 " Will you tell me, please, what you have heard to 
 lead you to this conclusion?" he asked at last, very 
 gravely. " I think you said you would do so ; and it 
 certainly needs explanation." 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " I said I would tell you, but it 
 was from a feeling that it would be unfair not to do so, 
 if you were really confiding in me." 
 
 " I understand." 
 
 " I do not think you can understand how much rather 
 I would leave it unsaid." 
 
 " But I assure you that I do." He bent towards her 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Then I will tell you ; but let me first explain that it 
 is a mere piece of village gossip, based on the most 
 insignificant bit of evidence imaginable." 
 
 " Do not say anything more until you tell me what 
 it is," said Ledyard. He spoke a trifle impatiently, for 
 he was on the rack, and Nathalie, who disliked of all 
 things to talk of disagreeable subjects, felt that she hated 
 her role more than ever; but she had plenty of moral 
 courage, as Ledyard had remarked, and she plunged 
 boldly in. 
 
 After all, it did not sound so very diabolical, this 
 simple little incident, and, as she made her account of it 
 as short as possible, it was soon over. " Now, I do not
 
 2OO BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 want you to tell me whether this may or may not be 
 true, either," she said, with great magnanimity, as she 
 concluded. 
 
 " Look at me, Miss Nathalie," said Ledyard, almost 
 sternly. " I tell you that it is true," he continued, as she 
 complied with his peremptory request. " It is quite 
 true," he repeated. " Will you believe that, although it 
 be true, it need not reflect any discredit on Mrs. Hen- 
 derson? Can you understand that there was no impro- 
 priety in her wishing to see me, and that her method of 
 announcing herself was the mere unconventionality of a 
 woman brought up in the country ?" 
 
 " I can easily understand it. Indeed, who could have 
 dreamed that Mrs. Betterton would happen to be on the 
 opposite side of the way ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Betterton !" ejaculated Richard. " Do you 
 mean to tell me that it was Mrs. Betterton who saw it ?" 
 He sprang to his feet in consternation. 
 
 " I am sorry to say that it was," replied Nathalie, pro- 
 foundly sympathetic over this revelation of the full extent 
 of the misfortune. 
 
 Indeed, Ledyard had actually grown pale; but just 
 then he heard a step on the gravel walk, and, looking 
 up, they both saw Cynthia approaching them from the 
 cottage. " Here is your sister," he said. " She is always 
 wise in counsel, perhaps she can help me." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia !" cried Nathalie, turning to her as she 
 approached, " Mr. Ledyard has got into such trouble, 
 and he wants your advice." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter ?" asked Miss Arkwrlght. 
 " Has anything gone wrong with the plan for the open 
 air service ?" 
 
 " On the contrary," replied Ledyard, advancing to take 
 her hand, " my schemes for the spiritual improvement 
 of the factory-people seem to be ripening towards the 
 desired result. Lieutenant Henderson continues to be 
 most cordial and encouraging, you yourself have done 
 more than any one else could do to interest the children 
 in the idea of the Sunday-school and to persuade their
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2OI 
 
 parents to give me a hearing, and I believe even Mr. 
 Betterton has gone so far as to speak of the movement 
 to the workmen." 
 
 " Add to this," rejoined Cynthia, " that Miss Florence 
 Betterton has made a timely donation of clothes to one 
 or two families, who could not otherwise have appeared, 
 and I think all is doing as well as could be expected. 
 By the bye," Nathalie, she added, turning to her sister, 
 " I must not forget to tell you that Miss Betterton is in the 
 parlor. I met her at the post-office, and she professed 
 to miss you so much, and to be so anxious to see you 
 again, that I invited her to come back with me, although 
 it is long since any of the Betterton family have been in- 
 side this house," she added, with a touch of the old feel- 
 ing of antagonism which she had since she was a child. 
 
 Nathalie and Ledyard exchanged glances. They 
 neither of them knew the origin of Cynthia's indignation 
 with Mrs. Betterton, which belonged to ancient history, 
 but they both sympathized strongly at the moment with 
 the unexpressed sentiment which she betrayed, and yet 
 each felt it a duty to exonerate Miss Betterton from the 
 implied accusation involved in her parentage. 
 
 "Thank you for asking Florry to come, dear Cyn- 
 thia," said Nathalie, softly, as she approached and passed 
 one arm through that of her sister, looking up at her 
 with the peculiarly confiding expression which her face 
 could sometimes wear. " I think Florry Betterton is a 
 very nice girl, and not at all fond of talking about people 
 and saying ill-natured things." 
 
 " Such a very wise person must surely be right," said 
 Cynthia, smiling down at Nathalie, whom it would have 
 cost her a pang, she thought, to oppose in anything. 
 
 Then Nathalie turned and said a word of farewell to 
 Ledyard, such a word as any one might have said, and 
 hurried into the house. There was no excuse to linger 
 any longer, and so she went to find her friend, but with 
 a vague fear at her heart that something was about to 
 happen she did not know what to prevent her from 
 seeing Ledyard again.
 
 2O2 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " I agree with Miss Nathalie," said Richard to Cyn- 
 thia after she was gone. " Miss Betterton impresses me 
 as a woman of a frank and generous nature. But I can 
 easily understand the feeling you have about her mother." 
 And then he proceeded to tell her something of his own 
 trouble. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 As if Fortune, which seemed so long to have for- 
 gotten Cynthia Arkwright, had suddenly determined to 
 fill full her cup of affection, she received an answer a 
 day or two later to the letter she had written her much- 
 loved Mrs. Pelham, in which she was told that her friend 
 was just about to sail for America when she received it, 
 and that she had determined to do so at once. 
 
 " Of course I should be delighted to have your com- 
 pany as a travelling companion, at home or abroad, my 
 dearest Cynthia," she wrote ; " and now that you have 
 revealed yourself to me as a living being, whom I had 
 mourned as if dead, you may be very sure that I shall 
 not lightly part with you again. We seem both to be 
 left alone in the world, then surely we should be to- 
 gether; but I had promised Millard to return this au- 
 tumn, and, if the truth must be told, my impatience to 
 see him and Posey, and above all their bonnie boy, is 
 bringing me back a little sooner. My eyes ache to once 
 more see little Wilfred. He had such a look of Mr. Pel- 
 ham at times, the little lad, and he had wound himself 
 round my old woman's heart so, that I miss him all day 
 long. And so, dear Cynthia, you will see me almost as 
 soon as you receive this letter ; but I can hardly yet be- 
 lieve that I am really to see you in the flesh. Your sym- 
 pathetic spirit has never been absent from the thoughts 
 and remembrance of 
 
 " Your true friend, 
 
 "SARAH PELHAM."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2O3 
 
 It was indeed but two or three days after this letter 
 came that Cynthia, who had been sitting near the win- 
 dow in her bedroom, whence she had noticed the car- 
 riage from Fernwood driving by towards the village a 
 half an hour before, suddenly saw it returning, and when 
 it was half-way up the hill was surprised by its stopping 
 just where the cart-track branched off from the main 
 road, and an elderly lady being assisted to alight by a 
 gentleman in whom she unmistakably recognized Mil- 
 lard Henderson. The next moment Wilfred sprang out 
 of the carriage and held up his hand to the lady, who 
 took it, gazing down at him with affection, and then, 
 leaning on Millard's arm and still holding the boy by 
 the hand, drew near to Cynthia's cottage. Of course, 
 long before then, Cynthia knew that the lady was Mrs. 
 Pelham ; but it was well for her to have this distant view 
 and a moment or two of preparation before confront- 
 ing her friend, for it broke the shock which she could 
 not but experience at the inevitable change which time 
 had made. 
 
 Sarah Pelham, when Cynthia last saw her, had been a 
 woman of a little over fifty, with dark hair and dark- 
 brown eyes, a straight figure always elegantly and suit- 
 ably clad, and a general appearance of ease and enjoy- 
 ment of life, if not of youth and vigor. She was thinner 
 now, and slightly bent. Her hair still retained its natural 
 curl, but it was completely turned to a soft tint of silver- 
 gray. Her hands, when Cynthia came to hold them in 
 hers, shook just a little; and her eyes, when she looked 
 into them, had that pathetic forecast of the gradual 
 dimness which age will bring, that softens a brown eye 
 sometimes to hazel and adds an indefinable touch of 
 tenderness to the expression of warm feeling. 
 
 And what change must not Sarah Pelham, in her turn, 
 have noted in the triumphant beauty who had insisted 
 on casting aside the world and all the homage it could 
 offer, to bury herself in a distant convent ! Cynthia's 
 cheek no longer wore the tint of youth. Her deeply- 
 expressive eyes and regal brow were unchanged, to be
 
 204 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 sure, but there was a faint tracery of lines about the 
 eyes and the corners of the mouth which told of strug- 
 gle and of suffering. There were others on the brow 
 which told of thought; and although the curves and 
 outlines of the face and features were still beautiful, 
 and the dark-brown hair still grew thick and glossy 
 over the queenly head, although her figure was more 
 finely developed, and her step as proud as when she 
 reigned the belle of that short season so many years 
 ago, there was a settled sadness now in her wonted 
 aspect which did not escape the loving eyes of the 
 friend from whom she had so long been severed. 
 
 Long they stood and gazed at one another. Cynthia 
 realized all that her friend had gone through in the way 
 of anxious care and fading hope during her husband's 
 lingering illness, and perhaps a part of the anguish of 
 heart and mental struggle which she herself had weath- 
 ered was so plainly written that Mrs. Pelham could not 
 but read it. It is odd how little we gather from the 
 mere facts of one another's lives, of their inner signifi- 
 cance, until we come to learn it thus by the sympathetic 
 insight which interprets when we are once more brought 
 hand to hand and face to face. Then when Mrs. Pel- 
 ham had been brought into Cynthia's cottage and made 
 to sit by the open wood-fire that was so grateful, as the 
 day was damp ; when she was sipping a little of Miss 
 Pinsley's famous cherry-bounce and nibbling a biscuit 
 brought by the delighted Marjory with an old servant's 
 greeting, and, Marjory having retired with a respectful 
 courtesy, Nathalie had been made to come in, and had 
 been presented and exclaimed over, and had taken Wil- 
 fred away to prevent him from giving the whole plateful 
 of biscuit to Neptune, and Henderson had been thanked 
 with a very sweet smile for bringing Mrs. Pelham first 
 to Cynthia, and had gone out to speak to the coachman, 
 quite suddenly and without any apparent reason this 
 self-reliant, self-contained Cynthia burst into tears, and 
 Mrs. Pelham, who was old enough to know better, be- 
 ginning to weep also, the two women had a comfortable
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2O$ 
 
 cry in one another's arms, with the result of both be- 
 coming exceedingly happy and cheerful by the time 
 Henderson returned to accompany his aunt again to the 
 carnage. 
 
 He did this with a look of great satisfaction at once 
 more having her with him ; but perhaps he, too, had 
 been smothering sad recollections, which could not but 
 be awakened by seeing her reunited to Cynthia, from 
 whom he seemed forever put apart. The truth was that 
 Millard was much less happy than he had been a few 
 weeks before. There had been a time during his wife's 
 convalescence and immediately after it when he fancied 
 that he was entering on a new era in his domestic rela- 
 tions at the same time that he was inaugurating a new 
 career of intellectual activity and practical usefulness. 
 He thought that he and Posey were more in accord 
 more in touch, so to speak than ever before. 
 
 Even up to the time of her departure on her visit to 
 her mother he had been full of hope, and a kind of 
 hope such as he had not entertained for years, but with 
 her unexpected return all had been changed, and he had 
 been gradually aroused out of the agreeable absorption 
 of the philanthropist and social experimenter by a vague 
 anxiety, which grew as the days passed, as to the mental 
 condition of his wife. She slept ill, was very nervous, 
 and sat doing nothing oftentimes for hours. He had 
 consulted Dr. Danforth, who said he thought it must 
 be the reaction from the nervous shock of her accident, 
 and recommended that if she were not soon better she 
 should be taken to a more bracing air. It had been 
 just as these symptoms of restlessness in his wife had 
 first begun to trouble him that he received the letter 
 from Mrs. Pelham announcing her approaching return, 
 which was so soon followed by her arrival, and he was 
 even more glad of her coming than he would otherwise 
 have been, because he knew how wise she was in coun- 
 sel, and felt sure she would help him to decide what it 
 would be best to do. 
 
 As for the absurd structure which it had suited Mrs. 
 
 18
 
 206 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Betterton to erect for his benefit, he believed in it as little 
 as if it had been a palace of the genii in the " Arabian 
 Nights." He would not pain his wife in her present de- 
 jected state by repeating the ill-natured lie to her, or 
 wrong Mr. Ledyard by giving it a second thought. He 
 was convinced that whatever foundation the fabric might 
 have rested on a mistaken identity, and perhaps some 
 urgent call on the young clergyman of a parishioner in 
 great distress. A priest might have a hundred unusual 
 visitors, just as a doctor might. It was none of Millard's 
 business, and, beyond offering to himself a plausible ex- 
 planation of the scandalous lie, he considered it of too small 
 importance to give it his serious attention for a moment. 
 
 " There is one thing, Aunt Sarah, about which I am 
 quite determined," he said at breakfast the morning after 
 Mrs. Pelham's arrival, " and that is, never to ask Mrs. 
 Betterton inside my house." 
 
 " Oh, Millard, Millard, do not be rash, my dear, in 
 making resolutions !" said his aunt. " I am sure if 
 Posey can bear with Mrs. Betterton you should be able 
 to do so, and I doubt whether she has given either of 
 you half the provocation which I managed to withstand 
 in the old days. I always felt it would be so undignified 
 to quarrel with the wife of my husband's partner. I feel 
 sure Posey will agree with me, do you not, dear ?" 
 
 " What is it, Aunt Pelham ? Were you speaking to 
 me?" asked Mrs. Henderson, looking from her husband 
 to their guest with an empty gaze which was strangely 
 unlike her usual alertness of expression. 
 
 " It is nothing, dear," said Millard, quickly, making a 
 sign to his aunt not to repeat her question. " We were 
 only thinking whom it would be pleasant to ask to Fern- 
 wood to celebrate Aunt Sarah's return." 
 
 " To dinner, you mean ?" inquired Posey, nervously. 
 
 " Yes, of course," said Henderson. " There are one 
 or two persons whom I am particularly anxious to have 
 you meet," he continued, turning to Mrs. Pelham. 
 " There is Danforth, for instance, who is such a good 
 fellow, and to whom I owe an everlasting debt of grati-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2O/ 
 
 tude for his care of Posey after her accident. Then 
 there is Mr. Ledyard, who is one of the most con- 
 scientious and hard-working men of his cloth whom I 
 have ever known, besides being an uncommonly good 
 preacher." 
 
 " We must not have all gentlemen," said Posey, who 
 had come out of her abstraction and suddenly began to 
 pay keen attention to what was being said. 
 
 " Oh, no ! There is Florence Betterton, for instance, 
 who has grown up since Aunt Sarah's day, and is really 
 a very good sort of a girl. We might ask her and 
 her brother Tom," rejoined Henderson ; " and that 
 would be throwing a sop to Cerberus," he added, with 
 a mischievous glance at his aunt. 
 
 " You surely would not leave out the friend at whose 
 hands I have received most hospitality?" said Posey, 
 with unusual warmth. " If any one is asked to dine 
 with us, I think that Miss Arkwright and her sister 
 should be asked." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, of course !" cried Mrs. Pelham. " If 
 any one is to be asked on my account, I should plead 
 for her first" 
 
 Now, the truth was that Cynthia's name had been the 
 first in Millard's thoughts also, but he had not wished, 
 for all that, to be the first person to suggest it. He was 
 delighted that Posey should have done so, and he was 
 also pleased at the evident sincerity with which she 
 spoke of the kindness that she had received from Miss 
 Arkwright. 
 
 " How pretty Nathalie Arkwright has grown up to be, 
 Mtllard !" said his aunt. " I had no idea that she would 
 turn out such an attractive girl." 
 
 " Yes, she is very pretty, certainly. I remember she 
 was always rather well-looking even as a child," said 
 Millard, indifferently ; " but I never can see her without 
 thinking how unfair it is that she should inherit her 
 father's entire fortune and her older sister be cut off with 
 nothing but the little pittance which was left her by her 
 great-aunt"
 
 208 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " It does seem most unfair," returned Mrs. Pelham, 
 "but it was all owing to that strange fancy the dear girl 
 took of going into a convent. Of course her father 
 would not have thought of disinheriting her if it had 
 not been for that." 
 
 Millard said nothing more, and so the subject dropped, 
 but that of the dinner-party was further discussed, until 
 it was agreed that Mrs. Henderson should write to Cyn- 
 thia and Florence Betterton that very morning, and that 
 Millard should send notes to Dr. Danforth and Mr. Led- 
 yard. He was for calling on the two men at first and 
 asking them in person, but to this suggestion Posey sud- 
 denly and violently opposed herself. 
 
 A note, she said, was much more complimentary than 
 a verbal invitation, and, besides, it had the advantage of 
 serving as a memorandum as to the day and the hour. 
 In all of which worldly wisdom Mrs. Pelham entirely 
 agreed with her, and so things were settled. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IT will be remembered that Nathalie Arkwright had 
 spoken with eloquence and indignation in defence of Mr. 
 Ledyard's character when Mrs. Betterton had been so 
 injudicious as to accuse him of being a trifler with 
 woman's affection, but after their prolonged conversa- 
 tion in the garden certain grave doubts would intrude 
 themselves even upon her unbiassed mind as to whether 
 he might not occasionally allow himself to express a 
 little more by a look or a gesture than circumstances 
 warranted. The result of these speculations was gener- 
 ally, it is true, entirely to exonerate the offender ; but this 
 was because Nathalie was wont to be in a happy mood. 
 There came moments, and lingering ones at that, in which 
 she said to herself that she was a very foolish girl to 
 suppose that in the course of their short acquaintance
 
 isKOKEN CHORDS. 209 
 
 Mr. Ledyard had really come to care for her; and yet, 
 if he had not, what was the meaning of that rapt ex- 
 pression of the eyes, or that thrilling modulation of the 
 voice, or the infinitely fleeting yet tender touch with 
 which he had taken the rose-bud from her fingers, 
 that she had afterwards seen him hide hastily away as 
 Cynthia came in sight? Surely any woman might be 
 pardoned for noting these things ; and should they mean 
 nothing, they were rather misleading. 
 
 " Did they indeed mean nothing ? Could it be all 
 sweet feigning ?" she would ask herself. And if the 
 answer came that it could not, it was, strange to say, not 
 based on the belief in her own personal charms, which 
 had been established in her youth by a good deal of 
 flattery and fed as she grew out of childhood by much 
 corroborating testimony, but on another ground ; for 
 with the self-depreciation indicative of awakening love 
 she began suddenly to realize her own short-comings, 
 what a narrow artificial world she had lived in ; how 
 ignorant and how vain she seemed to have been. 
 
 Thus, when she told herself in sanguine moments 
 that surely he must love her, it was only because of the 
 conviction in his honesty of heart and sincerity of pur- 
 pose, which had been strong within her from the moment 
 she had first seen him. 
 
 How astonished would Ledyard have been had he 
 dreamed that his secret was out, and that the deep and 
 tender feeling for this girl who had been as a stranger 
 to him three weeks before, which he deemed as hopeless 
 as it was strong, but believed to be buried in the recesses 
 of his own consciousness, was already half suspected and 
 half feared by its object ! 
 
 He was in a sufficiently disturbed frame of mind as 
 it was, without any such added complication. He and 
 Cynthia, to whom he confided all that he had previously 
 told her sister, decided that it would never do for him 
 to think of leaving Dundaff before the Sunday when it 
 had been on all sides announced that he would preach 
 to the people in the woods. It chanced to be Friday 
 o 18*
 
 210 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 morning when he received the news which rendered his 
 journey so very necessary, and Sunday was already too 
 near for there to be any hope of his being able to go 
 and return before it. In truth, he was fully alive to 
 the importance of keeping the promises to the people 
 which had been made for him, only he was unnerved. 
 " You must not sacrifice yourself entirely to this mys- 
 terious duty, whatever it may be," Cynthia had said, 
 with her kindest expression. And, lowering his eyes 
 with a faint flush, Ledyard had told her that his anxiety 
 in the matter was not entirely disinterested. 
 
 " Indeed," he added, " if I did not feel that I had 
 done wrong myself, I might not be so anxious to avert 
 the consequences from another person. On the other 
 hand," he continued, speaking half to himself and half 
 to her, " this man whose return is so unexpected, and 
 the possible result of which I so much dread, was many, 
 many miles distant when the letter was written by which 
 I learned that he was alive, and, although surely drawing 
 nearer, could not, I think, in all human possibility, get 
 to this part of the world for three or four days or a 
 week, so that I may yet be in time to arrest him by 
 starting early on Monday morning." 
 
 " I have no doubt you can," returned Cynthia, encour- 
 agingly. She was convinced that he was really unselfish 
 in his anxiety, in spite of all that he might say to the 
 contrary. She was determined to prevent the overthrow 
 of the confidence which he had built up among his 
 would-be parishioners, by so much anxious care and 
 ^ffort, in a moment of quixotic self-abnegation. 
 
 After all, the next Sunday proved rainy, as was prob- 
 ably fortunate for him in his present anxious condition, 
 so that he was not called upon to deliver his first ad- 
 dress to the workingmen, on which so much of his 
 future success might depend, with a distracted attention 
 or half-hearted enthusiasm, that day. 
 
 In leaving Dundaff on the Monday morning he gave 
 the address of a hotel in New York to his housekeeper 
 to which all letters or notes were to be sent. Thus,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 211 
 
 when Henderson's note came on the following Tues- 
 day inviting him to dine at Fernwood on the Satur- 
 day, it was immediately forwarded, and he enclosed in 
 reply a courteous acceptance in an envelope addressed 
 to Mrs. Fowler, asking her to send it at once by hand 
 to Fernwood. Here it arrived on Thursday evening 
 and was read by Millard with great satisfaction. He 
 was naturally hospitable, and liked the idea of enter- 
 taining his friends in his own house, which, owing to his 
 hitherto wandering life, he had had little opportunity of 
 doing. 
 
 " Well, Posey, what luck have you had ?" he asked, 
 crossing the hall from his study to the drawing-room, 
 where Mrs. Pelham and his wife were sitting beside a 
 low lamp, the older lady absorbed in a bit of crochet- 
 work, with her gold eye-glasses on her nose and a tiny 
 white lace cap resting on her pretty gray hair. 
 
 " What luck ?" repeated Posey, with surprise. She 
 was not working, as Mrs. Pelham was, but at the moment 
 her husband entered seemed to have been writing a note 
 or letter, which she hastily folded and attempted to 
 put in her pocket, glancing up at him anxiously. 
 
 " Yes. What answers have you had from your two 
 guests? Both mine have accepted," responded Hen- 
 derson, triumphantly. 
 
 " My guests ? Oh, the people who are coming to 
 dinner, you mean ? I had a note from Miss Betterton 
 accepting for herself and her brother, and that is all." 
 
 " Did you not hear from Cynthia ?" asked Mrs. Pel- 
 ham, with astonishment. " Why, I thought I saw a 
 note to you, dear, addressed in her handwriting." 
 
 " No, Aunt Pelham, I think not. I have had no note 
 from Miss Arkwright." 
 
 " Why, yes, Posey, for there it is lying on the table 
 beside you. You must have forgotten to open it. It 
 was brought in just after you had begun the one you 
 were writing, and that probably diverted your attention." 
 
 " To whom, dear, were you writing ?" asked Millard, 
 curiously.
 
 212 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Posey flushed hotly, and, thrusting the half-written 
 note out of sight, began nervously to open the sealed 
 missive from Cynthia, without answering her husband's 
 question. ' " Miss Arkwright and her sister are coming 
 also," she said, as she glanced down the page : " so it 
 seems that all our guests are favorable to the idea of 
 meeting Aunt Pelham." 
 
 It was evident that she made an effort to speak cheer- 
 fully and to enter into her husband's pleasurable expec- 
 tation ; and although her effort was apparent, even to 
 Mrs. Pelham, whom Henderson had not yet found an 
 opportunity to consult with regard to the anxiety he 
 felt about his wife, yet the incident passed without 
 further notice than her surprise at Posey's agitation. 
 
 She was still further surprised the next morning, after 
 Henderson had ridden away to the factory, leaving 
 Wilfred in her charge, that when she suggested to the 
 boy to walk with her, as he always seemed to enjoy 
 doing, he thanked her politely but declined. 
 
 " Not this morning, please. Another time, dear 
 aunty," he said, giving an answer such as he had often 
 been put off with himself, no doubt, from a request 
 which chanced to be inconvenient. " There is something 
 which mamma wants me to do for her," he continued, 
 with an air of childish importance. " It is something 
 which she would not trust to any one else, and I am not 
 to tell what it is, but I am to ride all alone to the 
 village." 
 
 " All alone, dear ? Without Malachi ?" inquired his 
 aunt, anxiously. 
 
 " Yes, mamma says that I am to go all alone, and if 
 I am very good and ride carefully I may stop and get 
 some candy at Duffy's. What do you think of that?" 
 he asked, forgetting his dignity in his delight. 
 
 Mrs. Pelham thought it was a very foolish plan, and 
 not a very safe one, but she did not say so. She asked 
 in her turn, " Have you ever before been allowed to ride 
 to the village alone, Wilfred, and does papa know of 
 your going ?"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 21 3 
 
 " No, aunty. I told you that I was to say nothing to 
 any one. Of course, I spoke of it to you because you 
 asked me to walk ; but now I must go," he added, with 
 an indulgent manner, evidently copied from his experi- 
 ence of the way that an older person was often obliged 
 to put a stop to the irrelevant questions of childhood. 
 His aunt could not help smiling, but he offered his rosy 
 cheek to be kissed with such an evident enjoyment of 
 his new sense of independence that she had not the 
 heart to say more. She watched him ride away with 
 great misgiving, feeling almost sure that his father would 
 not have allowed him to go alone, and yet not thinking 
 it wise to interfere openly between the mother and son. 
 Then a plan occurred to her. 
 
 As soon as he was gone she asked for the pony-car- 
 riage, and suggested to Posey that they should drive. 
 Then, finding her indisposed to take the air, she said 
 that she would like to go to see Cynthia, which was true 
 enough. Once away from the house, she bade Malachi 
 drive as fast as possible, and before very long had the 
 satisfaction of seeing Wilfred's little straw hat and sunny 
 curls disappearing through a long vista of overhanging 
 trees. The pony was ambling along gently enough, 
 while the little boyish figure was as immovable as he 
 had been taught to be, and entirely in accord with the 
 motions of the animal. 
 
 " I should like to keep Master Wilfred in sight, Mala- 
 chi," she said to the faithful old darky, " but would 
 rather he did not see that we are behind him." 
 
 " Yaas, Mis' Pelham. I un'erstand, marm," returned 
 Malachi eagerly. And her instructions were carefully 
 carried out, both then and later, for while she stopped at 
 Cynthia's cottage she sent the pony-wagon into the 
 village with the same directions, and when, his com- 
 mission ended, Wilfred had gone safely by the cottage 
 again on his way back to Fernwood, Malachi came 
 and waited on the side of the hill until Mrs. Pelham 
 was ready to drive home also. 
 
 "Bress de chile, Mis' Pelham, marm. I hope you
 
 214 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 beent goin' to 'quire old Malachi to tell his pa dat he 
 hab been goin' to Duffy's and buy candy widout 
 orders ?" he asked, anxiously. 
 
 " On the contrary," said Mrs. Pelham, " I do not want 
 to know where Master Wilfred went myself, or what he 
 did, and in case any one asks you, you are not to know 
 either. All that you are concerned with is the fact that 
 he went safely. Do you understand ? Now drive home." 
 
 "Yaas, Mis' Pelham, marm. I jis' un'erstands es- 
 ackly what you means, marm," returned Malachi, de- 
 lighted. 
 
 But in spite of Mrs. Pelham's honest abhorrence of 
 anything in the nature of prying, and of her deter- 
 mination not to be told of Wilfred's errand, she was 
 doomed to know the very thing of which she de- 
 sired to be ignorant, for as she entered the dining- 
 room, whither she had been summoned to luncheon, 
 she heard Wilfred's voice speaking to his mother on 
 the other side of the India-silk curtain which hung 
 in the wide door-way between the dining- and drawing- 
 rooms. 
 
 " Indeed, mamma, the woman said that Mr. Ledyard 
 was not there. She said he was gone away." 
 
 " That is impossible," said his mother, in a low, impa- 
 tient tone. " He was there only last evening." 
 
 " She said, mamma, that he was gone to New York, 
 and she wanted me to give her the note to send to him, 
 but I told her how you had said that I was to give 
 it to him -myself, and not to any one else, and so 
 and so " 
 
 " And so you kept it ? I only wish you had kept 
 quiet, too. Here, give it to me, or no, put it in that 
 basket there. Quick ! Quick, I tell you !" 
 
 The last words were spoken in extreme agitation, and 
 the next moment Mrs. Pelham heard Millard's voice 
 in the hall-way, and he entered the drawing-room, bring- 
 ing a great draught of cold air with him, which puffed 
 out the thin curtains even before he came between them 
 himself, followed by Mrs. Henderson and Wilfred, both
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 21$ 
 
 looking flushed and excited and the boy greatly crest- 
 fallen. 
 
 Millard, however, was in such excellent spirits after 
 his long ride to the factory, and so absorbed in some new 
 ideas of reform which he immediately began explaining 
 to his aunt, that the uncomfortable constraint which 
 Mrs. Pelham momentarily experienced at the sense of 
 something in the air which was not healthy, soon passed 
 off. When her mind reverted to it later, she was a 
 good deal surprised at what she had heard ; she put it 
 aside with a resolution not to think of it again, as it 
 certainly could not in any way be considered a matter 
 with which she was concerned, and was probably capable 
 of some very simple explanation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 DR. DANFORTH was summoned about this time to 
 Camelot to see old Mr. Betterton, who had taken a very 
 bad cold. Danforth had been called on often to go to 
 Camelot during the past nine or ten years whenever 
 anything was wrong with the household, from the least 
 important member of it to Mrs. Betterton herself, and 
 ever since Tom and Florence had had the scarlet fever, 
 when they were children, had formed the habit of stuffing 
 something in his pocket which he thought, according to 
 his Western vernacular, would " please the youngsters" 
 when he went. 
 
 With regard to one of them, at least, this habit had 
 continued, although not with regard to the other. Mr. 
 Thomas Betterton would, indeed, have been rather sur- 
 prised now that he wished to be thought the glass of 
 fashion and the mould of form in the gay world if, on 
 his rare visits to Camelot, such indisposition as might 
 befall him had been soothed by an orange or ameliorated
 
 2l6 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 by the considerate offer of a nosegay from the family 
 doctor. But with Florence it was different. 
 
 A girl always likes flowers as an attention, although 
 her father's garden may be full of them, and the old- 
 fashioned cornucopia filled with village candy being re- 
 placed by a box of French bonbons still proved accept- 
 able to Miss Betterton. It was so much a matter of course 
 that George Danforth should bring her something when he 
 came to see them, professionally or otherwise, that Flor- 
 ence would have thought that she must have managed 
 unintentionally to offend him had he omitted to do so. 
 
 To be sure, it did occasionally happen that, when first 
 summoned as a doctor, especially if the call were urgent, 
 he might not have a gift to bring, and so must come 
 empty-handed ; but by his second visit he was certain to 
 have provided himself, and Florence was generally on 
 the lookout for him at the parlor window, and would fly 
 into the entry as his chaise drove up to the house, and, 
 getting ahead of the functionary whose business it was 
 to open the door, would fling it wide for him herself, 
 with just as much pleasure in the supposed surprise when 
 a young lady of eighteen as when she was a child of nine 
 years old. 
 
 From Florence's point of view, Danforth was also the 
 same grown-up playfellow now that he had been then. 
 He was so much older than herself that it never occurred 
 to her to think of him in any other light ; but Dr. Dan- 
 forth harbored a very tender feeling for " little Florry," 
 as he called her in his thoughts, although not a feeling 
 of which he ever intended to ask a return. He knew 
 quite well that it was confidently hoped that Florence 
 would make a very grand marriage indeed, and he could 
 no more bend his pride to the prospect of being rejected 
 by Mrs. Betterton, with such scorn as he conceived her 
 likely to heap on his pretensions did she dream of them, 
 than he could to being said to have " married for money," 
 in the unlikely event of his suit being viewed more favor- 
 ably, for he was quite aware of his disadvantages of age 
 and fortune.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 21? 
 
 On the occasion of his first visit this time he found 
 Mr. Betterton much more ill than he supposed from the 
 message which had reached him, and was further sur- 
 prised by the old man's making it evident to him that he 
 was quite aware of his own critical condition and rather 
 preferred that his wife and children should not share the 
 information. 
 
 "Do you think you can pull me through, doctor?" 
 he asked, confidentially, after Dan forth had examined 
 him thoroughly as a patient. 
 
 " I think so, Mr. Betterton." 
 
 " Will you make me a promise that, if so be you can- 
 not, you will tell me first, and not set the tongues of the 
 women to clamoring ?" 
 
 "I will, indeed; but, as you require careful nursing 
 quite as much as medicine, you must allow me to speak 
 of the gravity of your illness now to some member of 
 your family. To whom shall it be ?" 
 
 " To whom would you rather be speaking now in 
 all the household ? Tell me the truth, man," replied 
 the old fellow, with a humorous twinkle in his small 
 eyes. 
 
 " To whomsoever you are willing to have come up 
 here and take you in hand, sir. Would you rather that 
 it should be your son ? I warn you that I shall give 
 very decided directions, and -if you are not better to- 
 morrow shall send for a trained nurse." 
 
 " But that is not answering the question I asked you, 
 doctor ?" 
 
 " Well, if you ask me as a doctor" replied Danforth, 
 not by any means so unconscious as he chose to appear 
 of the old man's real meaning, " I think that Miss Flor- 
 ence would make the best nurse." 
 
 " Then you would really rather speak to her than to 
 her mother, but it is only as a doctor ?" 
 
 " Come, sir," replied Danforth, desperately, " which 
 would you rather have for a care-taker, Mrs. Betterton 
 or your daughter ?" 
 
 " I am not going to go back on my good woman," re- 
 K 19
 
 21 8 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 turned the patient stoutly, in answer to a certain threat- 
 ening expression in the doctor's eyes as he uttered the 
 name of Mrs. Betterton ; "but she is not just soothing 
 for a sick-room ; and Tom is a fool about everything but 
 spending money. He is clever enough at that, indeed ; 
 but you may as well call Florry." 
 
 Danforth did as he was bidden, but he was so much 
 surprised by the unexpected discovery that his secret had 
 been guessed by the last person in the house whom he 
 thought likely to suspect it that he felt unusually shy and 
 awkward in the presence of his sweetheart, and instead 
 of breaking the fact of her father's serious illness to 
 her gently, as he would otherwise naturally have done, 
 he merely gave her his directions with great clearness 
 and decision in the presence of the patient and then 
 went away. Florence, wondering why George was so 
 " cross," began to feel rather sore at heart, as well as 
 "sure there must be" grave cause for anxiety in her 
 father's condition. This was indeed true, as well as that 
 Florence was really fond of her father. She threw all the 
 strength of her nature, therefore, into the effort to do 
 exactly as she was told. 
 
 When Danforth came again that evening and twice the 
 next day, she was still more anxious ; but the day after 
 he looked less solemn, although she was too much dis- 
 turbed in mind to run to meet him. On the fourth day 
 things were more as usual, yet there was none of the 
 pleasant loitering in the parlor or the entry which he 
 sometimes permitted himself, nor did Danforth appear 
 to have any offering for Miss Betterton. Thanking her 
 formally for opening the door for him, instead of with 
 the frank cordiality of manner that was habitual to him, 
 he went directly to her father's room ; but he found Mr. 
 Betterton decidedly better and beginning to grow quite 
 cheerful. 
 
 " She is a pretty good nurse, Danforth," said the 
 latter, as they stood on either side of his bed. " I be- 
 lieve you are right to like her, as a doctor. It's a pity 
 you cannot in another way," he continued, with a sly
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2ig 
 
 laugh, putting his rough mechanic's hand over his thin, 
 curving mouth so as rather to display than to conceal 
 his amusement. 
 
 Despite his pride in the rapid recovery of his patient, 
 Danforth could have done anything, short of wring- 
 ing his neck, to keep him from saying any more, but 
 glancing at Florence, he saw only a slightly surprised 
 expression on her face. It was evident that she had 
 no key to the cause of her father's merriment. " So far 
 so good," he thought, but the more quickly he got her 
 away the better. 
 
 " May I speak to you in the next room for a moment, 
 Miss Florence ?" he asked, distantly. 
 
 She assented, and nurse and doctor retired. 
 
 " Have I done anything to make father worse ?" in- 
 quired Florence, anxiously. 
 
 " On the contrary, by your faithful and devoted care 
 of him I think you have saved his life. On Monday 
 he was suffering with an acute attack of pneumonia. 
 To-day the inflammation has much subsided, and if he 
 continues to do as well to-morrow I shall consider him 
 out of danger." 
 
 " Oh, how thankful I am ! Do you know, doctor, I 
 was sure he was very ill by the way you looked at me? 
 If it had not been for that, I should have fancied you 
 were angry." 
 
 " How absurd ! Why should you have fancied any- 
 thing so nonsensical ?" He drummed nervously on the 
 window-pane. 
 
 " Well, only on account of your way of looking and 
 and speaking. Besides," she added, regaining some- 
 thing, of the spoiled child's audacity which usually 
 characterized her with those she knew well, " you 
 have not brought me anything pretty, as you generally 
 do," 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 " What is it?" she asked, all smiles and blushes. 
 
 He drew from his pocket an oval stone about the 
 size of the palm of his hand, on the surface of which.
 
 220 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 worn smooth by long friction, was painted a geyser in 
 full play, against a cloudless blue sky, with orange- 
 colored earth all round it. 
 
 " Where did you get it?" 
 
 "A friend of mine has just brought it to me from the 
 West. He painted it himself. It is a fountain in the 
 National Park." 
 
 " How curious it is, and how well done ! He must 
 be an artist." 
 
 " So he is. And now good-by until to-morrow. Keep 
 on doing exactly the same things, and I will come early." 
 
 He wondered, as he went his way, what he could have 
 said or done which had betrayed his weakness to Mr. 
 Betterton. He knew that he had never been conscious 
 of an act to lead to the faintest suspicion of the condi- 
 tion of his heart in the mind of any member of the Bet- 
 terton family, although one or two of his men acquaint- 
 ances, with whom he might be less guarded in his words 
 and looks when speaking of Miss Betterton, especially 
 of an evening after a stiff glass of punch, shrewdly sus- 
 pected the truth. 
 
 Among these was Millard Henderson, who had taken 
 the privilege of an old friend to repeat his suspicion to 
 his wife, as may be remembered, some six weeks before 
 the time of the dinner which he was about to give in 
 honor of his aunt's return. It was very natural indeed, 
 therefore, that talking matters over he and Posey should 
 decide that Dr. Danforth must go in to dinner with 
 Miss Florence Betterton. It was further arranged by 
 Mrs. Henderson that Mrs. Pelham and Mr. Ledyard 
 should go in together, and that Millard should take in 
 Miss Arkwright, while she and Nathalie and Mr. Thomas 
 Betterton were all to go together at the end as an in- 
 formal trio. But the day before the dinner these plans 
 were upset by Henderson's receiving a hasty note from 
 Dr. Danforth and an equally unexpected one from Mr. 
 Ledyard. 
 
 The first said that Dr. Danforth was about to take the 
 very great liberty of asking if he might bring a friend
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 221 
 
 with him to Fernwood who had come without notice 
 to make him a visit, but he could not help hoping oppor- 
 tunely, as he believed him to be a man whom Hen- 
 derson could not fail to enjoy meeting, and one who 
 might also be acceptable to Mrs. Henderson, in short, 
 an agreeable addition to any dinner. 
 
 The second note was dated from New York, and 
 informed Lieutenant Henderson that, to his great regret, 
 Mr. Ledyard found himself detained in that city, and 
 would be unable to get back to Dundaff in time to give 
 himself the pleasure of dining at Fernwood on the fol- 
 lowing Saturday, as he had hoped to do. 
 
 " What a nuisance !" cried Millard. " And I particu- 
 larly wanted Aunt Sarah to meet Ledyard !" 
 
 " It is too bad !" responded Posey. " Such a pity, 
 to be sure !" 
 
 Yet, so far from sounding despondent, her voice was 
 almost joyous. The next moment, however, her tone 
 changed. 
 
 " I should like to know who this mysterious man 
 can be," she continued, anxiously, " whom Dr. Danforth 
 wishes to bring with him ?" 
 
 " Why mysterious ?" asked Millard. 
 
 " It is so strange that he should not mention his 
 name," she answered, in a troubled tone. 
 
 " It is odd," admitted Henderson, looking again at 
 Danforth 's note. " He certainly does not mention the 
 name. It must be an oversight." 
 
 " It sounds intentional," said Posey. " I thought so 
 when you first read me the note." Her face had grad- 
 ually assumed the half-frightened, half-suspicious ex- 
 pression which it sometimes wore of late, as though 
 she feared some hidden danger and knew not where it 
 might be lurking and whence it might spring out upon 
 her. Her husband noted it with anxiety. He had seen 
 the look before, and dreaded lest it might indicate the 
 first step towards insanity. How often had a perma- 
 nently unsettled mind been the consequence of a sudden 
 blow on the head, especially if combined with such a 
 
 19*
 
 222 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 severe shock to the whole nervous system as hers had 
 sustained ! 
 
 He was most solicitous, however, that she should not 
 read his thoughts, and turned with relief to Mrs. Pelham, 
 who, accompanied by Wilfred, entered the drawing-room 
 at this moment, where they were awaiting the announce 
 ment of dinner. 
 
 " What do you think, Aunt Sarah ?" he asked ; " does 
 it seem to you that the name of Dr. Danforth's fuend 
 has been intentionally omitted from this note ?" 
 
 " Why, certainly not," returned Mrs. Pelham, after 
 reading the epistle, which he extended towards her, with 
 the help of her gold eye-glasses. 
 
 " Do you not think so ?" asked Posey, anxiously. 
 
 " Of course I do not. What would have been the object 
 of such an omission ? The doctor may have been sum- 
 moned to see a patient just in the midst of his composition 
 and forgotten to mention the name. His letter seems, by 
 the bye, a veiy creditable one for a country practitioner." 
 
 "So it is," said Millard, reassured. "It is a capital 
 note, and Danforth is a capital fellow. I am not afraid to 
 promise a welcome to any friend of his." Which accord- 
 ingly he did, going to his study to write the answer as 
 soon as dinner was over. This was immediately de- 
 spatched to the village by Malachi, and received by Dr. 
 Danforth the same evening. 
 
 Meanwhile, when the situation had been fully ex- 
 plained to Mrs. Pelham, she continued to take a very 
 cheerful view of it. 
 
 " It is a great pity, of course, about Mr. Ledyard," she 
 said, " and I am the more sorry, after all Millard has told 
 me of his earnestness and zeal, which inspired me with 
 a sincere desire to meet him ; but this is only a pleasure 
 deferred, I hope ; and if we are to lose the young rector, 
 we are particularly fortunate, I think, in having his place 
 supplied by an agreeable stranger." 
 
 "That is what I think, too," rejoined Posey, with a 
 return of better spirits under the soothing influence of 
 Mrs. Pelham.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 22$ 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 DR. DANFORTH was in his consulting-room when 
 Lieutenant Henderson's note was handed to him. He 
 read it, and passed it to a man who was seated at the 
 opposite side of the table on which the doctor was in the 
 habit of writing his prescriptions. He occupied the very- 
 chair, in fact, to which Danforth consigned his anxious 
 patients while he diagnosed their cases, holding them 
 quite at his mercy as to what nauseous drug he would 
 prescribe for their sins of imprudence before he granted 
 them absolution. 
 
 Had he had such a design in this instance he could 
 not have placed his visitor to better advantage for scruti- 
 nizing inspection, as the strong light from a student-lamp 
 fell full on his face ; but he must have been somewhat dis- 
 couraged by his almost ostentatious appearance of trucu- 
 lent health, together with certain decidedly obstinate lines 
 about the corners of his mouth. Indeed, as he sat gazing 
 abstractedly at the red glare of a hard-coal fire, but dimly 
 discerned through an isinglass window in the door of a 
 sheet-iron stove, the lower part of his face looked ruddy 
 with exercise and exposure to weather, in strong con- 
 trast to the parchment-like skin of his forehead and the 
 shining surface of his bald head, on which the light of 
 the lamp first fell. The skin was so dark that but for his 
 black, gleaming eyes, and the reddish tinge already re- 
 ferred to, which gave to his cheeks, chin, and nose the 
 color of fine old mahogany, he might almost have been a 
 mummy. He had neither beard, whiskers, nor moustache, 
 which lent to his high cheek-bones and aquiline nose the 
 greater prominence ; but, with all its strangeness, there 
 was enough conformity in the general lines of the face 
 to leave it a rude look of distinction, while the combined 
 expression of pride and indifference, which chilled one in 
 the eye, was contradicted by a net-work of lines about the
 
 224 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 corners of the large mouth. These seemed to denote an 
 amiable disposition, with a rather careless way of looking 
 at life, besides the fact that he had looked at it, in one 
 way or another, for some length of time, and without 
 much favor. 
 
 Perhaps no more complete opposite could have been 
 imagined to the bright blue eyes, the fair hair and com- 
 plexion, the vivacity, and the thin, worn face of George 
 Danforth ; so that had there been any question as to 
 whether one of the two men needed medical aid, the 
 stranger might well have said to him, " Physician, heal 
 thyself," even if unaware that the doctor had contracted a 
 disease to which as a leech he was powerless to minister. 
 
 It has been hinted, however, that for a man in love 
 Danforth was not communicative, and his guest was the 
 reverse of penetrating, although an acute observer of 
 outward effects. Besides, he knew of nothing and no 
 one that he had not known ten years before, and was 
 ignorant even of the existence of Miss Florence Bet- 
 terton. Much less did he conceive that the souvenir 
 which he had brought his old comrade had been so 
 quickly transferred to this young lady's keeping. 
 
 " It will be a rather odd sensation for me to be once 
 more at a dinner-party," he said, with a chuckling laugh 
 which showed a row of shining teeth almost too white 
 for beauty. It was, besides, unmistakably the laugh of 
 a deaf man, reminding Danforth of this infirmity of his 
 friend. " After my experience in the far West, I am not 
 by any means sure that I shall remember how to con- 
 duct myself on so critical an occasion," he continued. 
 "You will hardly believe it, Danforth, but I really have 
 difficulty at times in understanding English." 
 
 " And pray what do you understand ?" 
 
 " I can talk very good Dakota, as good as any Sioux." 
 
 "Was it among the Sioux Indians that you passed 
 most of your time ?" 
 
 " All of the time. I was among them for eight years, 
 which ought to give some familiarity with their mode 
 of speech."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 22$ 
 
 " And all those years did you hear no English ?" 
 
 " How should I ? Was I not guarded with the most 
 vigilant care, made a member of the household of the 
 great chief Crazy Horse ? He was so jealous, in fact, 
 of my being recaptured, that, when he decided to sur- 
 render himself and his people to General Crook, he sent 
 me into Canada with a strong detachment of warriors, 
 whom it is said he was plotting to rejoin at the time of 
 the attempted escape which caused his death. This I 
 learned after my liberation." 
 
 " I should not have supposed that so fierce a tribe as 
 the Sioux Indians would preserve the life of a captive." 
 
 " You are right in supposing that they would not 
 generally. I should have been scalped and cut limb 
 from limb, like all my poor companions, but for the sin- 
 gular chance that, owing to the darkness of my skin, 
 they mistook me for one of their own tribe who had 
 been stolen away in childhood. It so happened that at 
 the time the stage-coach was attacked I had from pure 
 love of experiment taken my place on the back of one 
 of the horses in true Mexican fashion, and was playing 
 mail-rider, having rigged up a dress which was at least 
 as picturesque as the character I was representing. 
 One of the warriors had lost the boy whom they fancied 
 I resembled, and on account of my shortness of stature 
 they took me for a much younger man than I was. 
 Accordingly, they led me to their chief, who decreed that 
 I was to be kept a prisoner until I should recover what 
 they believed to be my native tongue, so that I might 
 tell my story. You can imagine that, having gathered 
 these facts, I was slow to acknowledge such progress as 
 I made in speaking their language, fearing to be in a 
 position to prove that I was not the man they thought 
 me." 
 
 " What a terrible position to be placed in !" ejac- 
 ulated Danforth. "To face death on the battle-field 
 would be nothing, compared to thus feeling your life 
 at stake at any moment that your identity might be 
 betrayed !"
 
 226 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Yes, it wasn't pleasant, but there was a sense of 
 novelty and excitement which kept me up for the first 
 two years at least. I could communicate with them 
 quite freely by signs, and I got to be almost at home 
 with them at last. Many were the speeches that I heard 
 from the great Sitting Bull, the medicine-man, who had 
 such a wonderful flow of words that, with his ringing 
 voice and haughty mien, it got him the reputation of 
 valor, as I afterwards learned, which fairly belonged 
 to Crazy Horse, the warrior chief. The latter was silent, 
 sad, almost morose at times, but yet most interesting in 
 his sombre consistency of character." 
 
 " There must have been a great deal that was attrac- 
 tive to a man of observation like you in studying such 
 an entirely new phase of life," said Dr. Danforth. 
 
 " To be sure," responded Neil ; " and the scenery, even 
 during my lonely tramp through the National Park after 
 my escape from captivity, was an intense pleasure, and 
 one never to be forgotten ; yet I was glad enough when 
 I reached a place of shelter." 
 
 "Your memories are not all agreeable, I imagine," 
 said Danforth, musingly. 
 
 " No ; the wild life suited me well enough, but I am 
 sorry to say that I was obliged to witness certain new and 
 rather unattractive forms of death. The Custer mas- 
 sacre, for instance, was not a pleasant spectacle. Mais 
 revenons a nos moutons. What was it you were telling 
 me of an accident to Millard Henderson's wife ?" 
 
 " Simply that she was thrown out of her carriage a 
 month ago and nearly killed. You do not seem to have 
 forgotten your French, by the bye, with your English ?" 
 
 " Not entirely. I chanced to have a French novel in 
 my pocket for odd reading at the time that our wagon- 
 train was surrounded by the Indians. But I am dis- 
 tressed at what you tell me about Mrs. Henderson." 
 
 " Oh, she is all right now, or nearly so. When I 
 last saw her she looked almost like her old self." 
 
 " I am glad of that. I remember her as a girl, and 
 should be sorry to think of anything happening to mar
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 22/ 
 
 her health or her beauty. She must be a remarkably 
 fine-looking woman." 
 
 "A pretty little thing, certainly," replied Danforth, 
 " and behaved with more pluck than I should have ex- 
 pected." 
 
 " Little !" ejaculated Granby Neil, for Danforth's vis- 
 itor was none other than this long-absent artist, as the 
 intelligent reader will no doubt have guessed. " Well, 
 as I remember her before her marriage, she certainly 
 was not little ; but some men have a way of calling 
 every woman they admire 'a pretty little thing/ especially 
 a married woman. They seem to think that it gives a 
 harmless and innocent flavor to season their admiration 
 in this way, particularly where they are nominally friends 
 of the husband." 
 
 " Was there ever such nonsense !" exclaimed Danforth, 
 with amusement. " In the first place, Mrs. Henderson 
 is not a great favorite of mine, in spite of my having 
 found her a rather interesting case. In the second 
 place, I am not nominally, but actually, a very warm 
 friend of Millard Henderson, who, to my thinking, is 
 worth a dozen of his wife. It is evident you have had 
 your morals badly perverted by reading that one French 
 novel." 
 
 " To be sure I have," said Neil, cheerfully. " I should 
 be ashamed of myself if I had not got all the bad and 
 all the good out of it. Why, I have not seen another 
 book for ten years ! However, we will not quarrel about 
 Mrs. Henderson, whom I always was inclined to admire 
 extravagantly. So far from thinking her little, she seemed 
 to me mentally and physically on a grander scale than 
 most women ; but it is Henderson himself that I am 
 most anxious to see again. It will be great fun to sur- 
 prise the old man. I do not think from his note that 
 he suspects at all your friend's being any one whom he 
 has ever seen before. Do you ?" 
 
 " No, certainly not. He is bound to be surprised," 
 said Danforth, reverting to one of the expressions of his 
 boyhood in the Southwest.
 
 228 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Meanwhile, on the hill above the main street of Dun- 
 daff, in which Dr. Danforth lived and displayed his pro- 
 fessional sign, a great consultation had been going for- 
 ward for the last three days at Miss Arkwright's little 
 cottage on the subject of the gown which Cynthia was 
 to wear to the dinner-party. 
 
 " The truth is, Nathalie, that I have nothing, of course, 
 which is made in the present fashion," said Cynthia, de- 
 spondently. " Indeed, if it were not that I want you to 
 see the old house, and you would not like to go alone, 
 I think I should back out of the whole thing." 
 
 " And what would Mrs. Pelham say ?" asked Nathalie, 
 reproachfully; "and little Wilfred or Mrs. Henderson, 
 for that matter, who wrote you such a touching note 
 about your great kindness to her when she was ill at 
 your house? Besides, your dress will be beautiful." 
 
 " I should not like to disappoint Mrs. Pelham, cer- 
 tainly," admitted Cynthia. 
 
 " I should think not, when she cares more for you than 
 for all the rest of us put together !" exclaimed Nathalie, 
 with spirit. 
 
 " Nonsense !" returned her sister, with a smile, how- 
 ever, which betrayed the pleasant consciousness that, 
 long as it was since she had lent her countenance to any- 
 thing so frivolous as a dinner-party, she could not absent 
 herself from this one without being missed and regretted 
 by more than one of the persons present. 
 
 Nathalie had persuaded her to have brought out all 
 the old silks and velvets which contributed to her fash- 
 ionable toilets of ten years ago, and which, but for the 
 venerating devotion of old Marjory, first to her mistress 
 and second to all relics of the past, would long ago 
 have become the prey of those corrupting influences of 
 moth and rust to which the treasures of this earth are 
 subject. 
 
 Nathalie, who was profoundly ignorant of the inimical 
 attitude which Marjory mentally assumed towards her, 
 had been unconsciously conquering the old woman's 
 prejudice, but nothing could have gone further towards
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 229 
 
 reconciling her to Nathalie's presence in the household 
 than the eagerness which she showed as to the matter of 
 Cynthia's dress for the dinner-party, while the respect 
 with which the girl looked on the rich stuffs the bro- 
 cades, the satins, the cloths which had so long been her 
 charge went far towards sweetening the embittered feel- 
 ings of the old servant towards the intruder. 
 
 Indeed, the hearty good will with which Nathalie set 
 to work to revive Cynthia's wardrobe, using all the most 
 recent knowledge of modes and shapes which her late 
 visit to Paris placed at her command in order to prepare 
 a costume which should be worthy of her sister's visit 
 to Fernwood, could not but recommend itself to any 
 spectator. It touched Cynthia very much, and when 
 on the evening before that of the dinner she stood in 
 front of an old-fashioned mirror for final inspection, few 
 persons who had been in the habit of seeing her in the 
 simple and rather severe style of dress which she had 
 adopted for convenience since her return from the 
 convent but would have been startled at the transfor- 
 mation could they have witnessed it, while even Cyn- 
 thia was brought to see and confess that Nathalie's 
 efforts were fairly successful. Nathalie herself was mod- 
 estly triumphant, not so much at her own achieve- 
 ment as at the inspiration which had filled her intui- 
 tively with the certainty that some of the stately garments 
 in which she remembered Cynthia as a child must still 
 be available. 
 
 Her choice had fallen on a rich brocade petticoat of 
 green and silver-gray, over which fell a train of dark satin 
 sweeping on the floor behind Cynthia in luminous green 
 folds, while a dark-green velvet bodice, which still proved 
 to fit the graceful lines of her figure faultlessly, had been 
 adapted to the fashion of the day by cutting short the 
 sleeves at the elbow and trimming them with fine old 
 lace, which drooped over her shapely arms. The neck 
 of the dress had also been cut square, and some of the 
 same lace so disposed as to enhance by partly concealing 
 the pretty curves of the throat and bosom. It was finally
 
 230 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 fastened, by Nathalie's own hands, in front of the bodice 
 with a beautiful diamond pin that had belonged to Cyn- 
 thia's mother, and was the only bit of jewelry she would 
 consent to wear. 
 
 She was obstinate, too, in rejecting all decoration of 
 the hair, insisting on retaining her ordinary style of 
 parting it in a straight, thread-like line through the 
 middle, brushing it down in all its glossy smoothness, 
 and combing it back from each side of the temples, 
 where, in spite of the comb, it would pause to wave 
 before it was drawn sedately together and all its luxuri- 
 ant abundance disposed of in a simple knot at the back 
 of the head. But perhaps no other way of dressing it 
 would have shown her fine, thoughtful forehead, her 
 pencilled eyebrows, and the classic curve of her head 
 and neck to so much advantage. 
 
 Some idea of this sort was probably passing through 
 Nathalie's mind as she put the final touches to her 
 sister's toilet, for she said, impulsively, 
 
 " How fortunate it was, Cynthia, that they left you 
 your hair when you went to be a nun ! I thought they 
 always shaved the heads of novices." 
 
 " So they do," replied Cynthia, " before they take full 
 orders." She colored faintly through her dark skin. 
 
 " And did you did they do that to you ?" 
 
 " Yes, they cut mine off, too. You know I took the 
 black veil." 
 
 " I did not know," replied Nathalie, with some awe, 
 while Marjory, who had been summoned to approve 
 the result of Nathalie's labors, shook her head myste- 
 riously by way of indicating superior knowledge of 
 many things beyond the sphere of Nathalie's youthful 
 inexperience. 
 
 " It was probably the best thing which could have 
 been done to my hair," said Cynthia, taking pity on her 
 sister's suppressed curiosity, " although I little guessed 
 at the time that I should ever let it grow again. I think 
 
 should have been likely to lose it during the fever 
 if it had not been cut, whereas it all grew out after
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 23! 
 
 my long illness. I recollect that it curled about my 
 head at first as if I had been a child. Do you remem- 
 ber, Marjory?" she asked, turning to the old servant. 
 
 "Do Hi remember? Well, Hi should think Hi did! 
 Why, you 'aven't quite lost the curl hout of hit yet, hand 
 w'en you was younger hit was straight as a poker !" 
 returned Marjory, determined that her powers of recol- 
 lection should not lightly be confined to so recent an 
 event as the illness which occurred when Nathalie was 
 nine years old. 
 
 They were seated at breakfast the next morning, when 
 Marjory brought in a note addressed to Cynthia. It 
 was postmarked New York. 
 
 " How did this come ?" she asked, wonderingly, for 
 the letter-carrier had not appeared in these primitive 
 days at Dundaff, and letters were only delivered when 
 called for at the office. 
 
 " Hit was Mr. Ledyard's 'ousekeeper that brought 
 hit, marm, hand she says as 'ow she 'opes hit don't con- 
 tain no bad news." 
 
 " I hope not, indeed," said Cynthia. 
 
 " I told 'er not to worrit, but she's hanxious because 
 she hain't 'ad no letter for two days, hand Mr. Ledyard 
 'e said for certain as 'ow 'e'd be back this morning." 
 
 Cynthia broke the seal and hastily glanced down the 
 page. " Tell her that Mr. Ledyard is well and hopes 
 to be back to-morrow," she said to Marjory, who, being 
 dismissed, retired for a rare social enjoyment in the way 
 of a morning chat with Mrs. Fowler. 
 
 " What does Mr. Ledyard say ? Will he not be at 
 the dinner, after all ?" asked Nathalie, her disappointment 
 showing through an attempted air of unconcern. 
 
 " I will read you the letter," replied Cynthia. It ran 
 as follows : 
 
 " MY DEAR Miss ARKWRIGHT, You have been so 
 kind in your efforts to interest people about the Open- 
 Air Service and lecture for Sunday afternoon, that I 
 write to tell you not to be anxious if I should not appear
 
 232 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 on Sunday morning. Should I by any chance be so 
 long detained here as to miss the morning service at 
 St. Andrew's, I shall get a friend of mine, a very good 
 fellow, to run down to Dundaff and preach for me; but 
 if I do not come in the morning train, I shall certainly 
 arrive at three o'clock, in time for the service in the woods. 
 " Hoping, therefore, to see you soon, and with kindest 
 regards to Miss Nathalie, 
 
 " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " RICHARD LEDYARD." 
 
 " Then he will not be at Fernwood, of course !" ex- 
 claimed Nathalie. " What in the world can have hap- 
 pened to detain him in New York ?" 
 
 " It is impossible to imagine," replied her sister, " with- 
 out knowing more of his errand." 
 
 "But he told you, just as he told me, that he was 
 merely going to try to find a man whom he had once 
 known, and have some sort of explanation with him 
 which would prevent him from making mischief, or the 
 like. Surely it would not take all these days to do 
 that." 
 
 " He may have had difficulty in finding the man, or 
 difficulty in persuading him not to make mischief," 
 reasoned Cynthia. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE sun shone on the Saturday clear and bright, 
 while all seemed to promise fair for the Fernwood dinner- 
 party. Nevertheless, Mrs. Pelham's mind was filled with 
 a vague sense of uneasiness almost amounting to a pre- 
 sentiment of evil. She was dressed early, and after a 
 last look at the pretty dinner-table, about which Posey 
 had shown her usual taste in the dainty arrangement 
 of flowers and fruit, she entered the drawing-room, where 
 she was pleased to see Mrs. Henderson very becomingly
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 233 
 
 arrayed in a striking combination of red and gold, a 
 contrast of which she was fond. 
 
 She was glad, too, to see her gayly dressed, as her 
 own heavy black gown, only relieved by the transparent 
 whiteness of her widow's cap, seemed hardly in keeping 
 with the festive nature of the occasion, but most of all 
 she was glad of a brighter and more interested expres- 
 sion on Posey's face than she had seen there since her 
 return to FeYnwood. 
 
 " Don't you think the house looks very nice, Aunt 
 Pelham ?" she asked, cheerfully ; and Mrs. Pelham had 
 just time to assure her that she did, when they heard 
 the sound of wheels, and were joined by Millard and 
 Wilfred in a high state of expectation. 
 
 The first guests to arrive, as chance would have it, 
 were Cynthia and Nathalie Arkwright. Cynthia came 
 first, and it must be acknowledged that her appearance 
 did credit to the time and exertion which her sister had 
 expended upon it. She looked eveiy inch a queen as 
 she advanced, followed by Nathalie in a pretty girlish- 
 looking gown of pink and white muslin ; while no sooner 
 did the two sisters enter the room than Mrs. Henderson 
 hastened forward, extending both little hands with great 
 cordiality to Cynthia, who took them in her larger, more 
 beautifully shaped ones and looked down kindly at her 
 hostess. 
 
 " Let me welcome you to Fernwood, my dear Miss 
 Arkwright," Posey said, and then turned to Nathalie 
 and began expressing pleasure, which was evidently less 
 strained, at meeting her, mixed with polite regret at 
 having failed to find them in the cottage a day or two 
 before. 
 
 It was Mrs. Pelham's turn next to congratulate her- 
 self on seeing her dear Cynthia once more at Fernwood ; 
 and last of all came Millard. 
 
 He had been both pleased at his wife's greeting to 
 Miss Arkwright and touched by the gracious dignity 
 with which it was received, but somehow the sight of 
 Cynthia so arrayed as to display her stately beauty to
 
 234 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 its full advantage seemed to carry him back to such 
 vivid remembrance of past years that the room began 
 whirling round with his effort to concentrate his atten 
 tion on the present moment, and he could hardly trust 
 his voice to speak to her, lest he should betray the sense 
 of unreality in all about him which had suddenly taken 
 possession of his usually steady brain. 
 
 By the time, however, that his aunt turned from the 
 older to the younger Miss Arkwright he had regained 
 his self-command and outward serenity, and was exhibi- 
 ting to Cynthia a portrait of his uncle, Mr. Pelham, 
 which Mrs. Pelham had had painted in Italy and had 
 just brought home with her. 
 
 While they were thus engaged, the Betterton carriage 
 drove up, and a moment or two later Florence Betterton 
 and Mr. Thomas were shown in, and had made their 
 way to where Mrs. Henderson was standing, near one 
 of the drawing-room windows, after greeting whom, and 
 answering all inquiries satisfactorily regarding the prog- 
 ress of her father's recovery, Miss Betterton sought 
 Mrs. Pelham. This was not merely with a view of 
 making polite speeches to the lady for whom the din- 
 ner was given. She was intent on telling Mrs. Pelham 
 how she remembered various kindnesses which she had 
 bestowed on her as a little girl, and had, it seemed, 
 entirely forgotten ; but, for all that, Mrs. Pelham was 
 pleased at her long-lived gratitude and favorably im- 
 pressed by her sincerity of manner. She decided that 
 Florence was of a very different nature from her mother. 
 
 Mr. Tom Betterton, meanwhile, was talking any amount 
 of slang and nonsense to Mrs. Henderson, when his eye 
 fell on pretty Nathalie, and he hastened to her side. 
 
 Hearing again a sound of wheels, Mrs. Henderson 
 drew curiously aside the curtain of the window near 
 which she was standing, from which, as it was a clear 
 moonlight night, she could distinguish Dr. Danforth's 
 professional chaise approaching, and in it two persons, 
 seen at first indefinitely, but becoming more and more 
 distinct as the carriage drew near, when something in
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2$$ 
 
 the aspect of the man who was seated beside Dr. Dan- 
 forth struck her with a dread sense of familiarity, and 
 so held her attention that it gradually became riveted on 
 his figure. 
 
 His face was turned away, until just as the chaise 
 passed the window he looked suddenly towards the 
 house, while every line and feature stood clearly out in 
 the light of the early moon that fell full on face and 
 figure. 
 
 She reeled, and would have fallen had she not caught 
 hold of one of the thick cords which drew back the 
 heavy window-curtain, leaning under the shadow of the 
 drapery, where she was fortunate enough to avoid notice 
 for a moment, while she rallied all her faculties to her aid. 
 
 In this, to her, supreme moment of awful helpless- 
 ness and absolute terror, in which she hung as it were 
 suspended between belief in a supernatural visitation 
 and the paralyzing conviction of an actual presence in 
 the flesh, more fearful than the worst phantom which 
 her excited fancy could have conjured up to drive her 
 to despair or desperation, in this all-deciding moment, 
 by some strange chance, the thought of Cynthia Ark- 
 wright came to her as her only possible salvation from 
 immediate discovery, followed by shameful detection. 
 
 If she could but get Cynthia to help her, she told 
 herself, she might yet be extricated from the scene di- 
 rectly before her, be relieved from instant and open 
 disgrace, from seeing her husband's expression of in- 
 credulous amazement, from watching it turn to bitter 
 contempt ! At the bare suggestion of such deliverance 
 a faint pulse stirred within her of returning hope. It 
 gave her strength to quit her place of shelter and hasten 
 across the room as far as where Millard and Cynthia 
 were still standing together in front of Mr. Pelham's 
 portrait. 
 
 The picture had been hung over the mantel-shelf just 
 opposite the door of entrance, to which the backs of 
 both Lieutenant Henderson and Miss Arkwright were 
 naturally turned.
 
 236 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Millard," said Posey, placing herself behind them, 
 and also turning her back to the door, with the apparent 
 excuse of joining in their inspection of the painting, 
 " Millard, I hear another carriage, and fancy Dr. Dan- 
 forth and his guest are coming. Had you not better go 
 out and welcome the stranger ?" 
 
 If his mind had not been pleasurably occupied with 
 other matters, probably her husband would have noticed 
 how strained and hard her voice had become. As it 
 was, he only caught the sense of her words, which seemed 
 to him both natural and to the point. 
 
 " To be sure : I should not forget my duties as host," 
 he responded, gayly. " If Miss Arkwright will excuse 
 me, I will go at once." He bowed as he spoke, with a 
 glance of appeal to Cynthia, and, without waiting for 
 any other answer than her amused permission, hastened 
 away. 
 
 The instant he was gone she felt a cold hand on her 
 arm, and became suddenly conscious of the blanched 
 face of Mrs. Henderson upturned to hers with a look 
 of supplication. 
 
 " Miss Arkwright, will you come with me, please ?" 
 she whispered between her white lips. 
 
 " Of course I will ; but where ?" 
 
 "Out of this room. No, not that way ; we should meet 
 them. Come back through the dining-room, quick ! 
 There is just time !" 
 
 Cynthia thought that Posey had been suddenly taken 
 ill, and naturally wished to slip away from her guests with- 
 out attracting attention. Hastily placing her arm through 
 hers, she guided her between the silken curtains which 
 divided the drawing-room from the dining-room, and 
 perceived that as they closed behind them her compan- 
 ion experienced a sense of relief. She immediately pro- 
 posed to her to sit down and have something brought 
 to revive her strength, but to all such suggestion she 
 shook her head. " Do not call any one," she said. " I 
 want nothing but to get quietly away to my own 
 room."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 237 
 
 Accordingly, they hastened towards the door leading 
 from the dining-room to the entry, as this was the only 
 way of getting up-stairs ; but when they reached the door 
 and had opened it, Mrs. Henderson paused and shivered, 
 clinging more closely to Cynthia, with an expression of 
 nervous horror, as the sound of loud voices reached 
 them from farther down the hall, between the drawing- 
 room and the front door. 
 
 " Why, Neil ! Granby Neil ? My dear friend Neil ! 
 Can it be you ? What does it mean ? Granby Neil 
 living ? For Heaven's sake, Danforth, where did he 
 come from ?" 
 
 This much they heard in Millard's voice, and then 
 came other tones : the loudest ones were Dr. Danforth's, 
 who seemed to be offering some explanation. 
 
 " But how came you not to tell me it was he ?" pro- 
 ceeded Henderson. " My wife said she thought you left 
 the name out of the note on purpose. Did you, though ? 
 Was it all done to surprise me ?" 
 
 " Ah, that was all my fault, Millard. Danforth was 
 not at all in love with the plan, but he would not consent 
 to go without me, although I said that when a man was 
 supposed to be dead he had no right to expect to be 
 asked to dinner." 
 
 This was said in a much louder voice, with the pe- 
 culiar chuckling laugh belonging to the stranger. It 
 was a voice lacking modulation, as is often the case 
 with the speech of a deaf man, and Cynthia remembered 
 it well as characteristic of Millard's old friend, long 
 believed to be dead, the eccentric artist, Granby Neil. 
 Then the voices passed into the drawing-room, where it 
 was evident that there was a cordial greeting going on 
 between Neil and Mrs. Pelham. 
 
 " Now," whispered Posey, imperiously, " help me up- 
 stairs, please, as quick as possible. There is not a 
 moment to lose." 
 
 Cynthia put one arm round the slender little woman, 
 and, half dragging and half supporting her through the 
 entry to the wide stairway, soon gained the top of the
 
 238 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 stairs and assisted her to a couch in a small morning- 
 room, which opened out of her bedroom. 
 
 " Send away Teresa," whispered Posey, as her maid 
 came anxiously forward with a look of great concern ; 
 " tell her to go down and say to Millard that I felt a 
 little faint, but that you are with me, and I shall soon be 
 better. Say I hope to be able to come down again in a 
 few minutes." 
 
 Cynthia gave the message to the maid as Mrs. Hen- 
 derson desired, while Posey turned to Teresa herself and 
 added a word of warning to her husband not to leave his 
 guests, and to the waiter not to let dinner be served quite 
 yet; reiterating, with a ghastly smile, that she would 
 " soon be better," although she really seemed unable to 
 speak above a whisper. 
 
 " And now," said Cynthia, " you must let me loosen 
 the waist of your dress and give you something to 
 take." 
 
 To this she consented, but with evident impatience. 
 
 " Be quick, then," she said. " There is ammonia in 
 that bottle on the stand. A few drops in some water will 
 make me all right. I am not ill in body, only distracted 
 with anxiety." 
 
 " Why, what has happened to distress you ?" 
 
 " Will you promise not to betray me if I tell you ?" 
 
 " Betray you to whom ?" 
 
 ' To any one, to my husband or Aunt Pelham." 
 
 Cynthia looked very much troubled. " I will certainly 
 not do or say anything without letting you know of it 
 beforehand," she said, " if you wish to trust me, but I 
 cannot promise anything without knowing what I am 
 promising about." 
 
 " Well, then," replied Posey, sadly, " I can only trust 
 you in part. This much I will say. That man who has 
 just come with Dr. Danforth knows something about 
 me which my husband does not know." 
 
 " You mean Mr. Granby Neil ?" 
 
 " I do. Now, if he finds out who I am, I think he ib 
 sure to tell my husband this thing ; but it has occurred to
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 239 
 
 me that there is just a chance of his never having heard 
 who Millard's wife was, as I do not think that Dr. Dan- 
 forth knows my maiden name, and it was after after he 
 went away and we all supposed him dead that that we 
 were married." 
 
 " I understand. Then you do not, of course, intend 
 to really go down-stairs again ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. I sent that message to prevent Millard 
 from coming up, but we must be quick or he may yet do 
 so. It is of the utmost importance to me to ascertain 
 whether whether Mr. Neil knows who I am or not ; and 
 if, as I hope, he may be ignorant, that he should remain 
 so, if only for this one evening. Will you not go down 
 and try to find out what he knows ? Will you try to 
 manage so that he may not be told ?" 
 
 " I will do my best." 
 
 " First you must go to my husband and tell him that 
 I am better, but not able to appear. Millard will, of 
 course, make my excuses, and Aunt Pelham will take 
 my place at the head of the table. Then if you could 
 only arrange so that Mr. Neil should take you in to din- 
 ner, you could mount guard over him and all might yet 
 be well. Do you think you could do this ?" 
 
 " I am not much accustomed to manoeuvring, and am 
 not sure about getting Mr. Neil to take me in to dinner, 
 but I can do the rest." 
 
 " Well, do what you can ; and when the ladies leave the 
 dinner-table you can slip up here on pretence of seeing 
 how I am, and tell me the result." 
 
 " I will do all this for you gladly," replied Miss Ark- 
 wright. " But suppose that we should succeed in staving 
 off this discovery for one evening, what then ?" 
 
 " It will give me time." 
 
 " Do you mean that you will tell your husband your- 
 self?" 
 
 " Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Because that seems to me the only right thing to do." 
 
 " Well, I will think about it. Now go down, please, 
 and do not worry if Millard or Aunt Pelham should
 
 240 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 insist on running up-stairs to see how I look. I am feel- 
 ing ill enough, in all conscience, not to be suspected of 
 playing possum. Ah, here is Teresa again. I will send 
 her to order the dinner served." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 WHEN Cynthia returned to the drawing-room the first 
 person she saw was Millard Henderson, still keeping up 
 the semblance of a conversation with Granby Neil and 
 Mrs. Pelham, but with his eyes uneasily fixed on the 
 door. 
 
 He hastened forward to meet her the moment she ap- 
 peared, questioning her closely and anxiously as to how 
 she left Posey, and, when she told him that Mrs. Hender- 
 son would not be able to come down to dinner after all, 
 ended by asking her to excuse him one moment that he 
 might slip up-stairs and find out if there were anything 
 he could do for his wife. 
 
 " Mrs. Henderson hoped you would explain her regret 
 and her indisposition to her other guests, and that you 
 would ask Mrs. Pelham to take her place at the head of 
 the table," interposed Cynthia, thinking it better that he 
 should not go and question Posey if it could be avoided, 
 as the interview was likely to be productive of fresh agi- 
 tation ; but Millard, who had cause of a nature she did 
 not suspect to be anxious about his wife, still persisted. 
 
 " I must tell her," he said, " who our new guest is. 
 Have you heard, by the bye, of the return of Granby 
 Neil ? I knew nothing of it, and the surprise was over- 
 whelming for a moment, being really attached to the 
 man and having long believed him dead." 
 
 " I can easily understand it ; but will it be best to speak 
 of this to Mrs. Henderson just now?" 
 
 " I think so. She would want to know ; and, besides, 
 I have asked him to come and spend Sunday with us
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 As for making her excuses, I have already spoken of her 
 not feeling quite well to Neil and to Danforth as a reason 
 for her absence from the room. It will be easy to explain 
 to them her non-appearance later, and to give a hint to 
 Aunt Pelham to play the hostess ; or perhaps you could 
 do that ?" 
 
 " I will speak to Mrs. Pelham of it as a request from 
 you, if you wish it," replied Cynthia, who saw in this 
 suggestion an opportunity of carrying out Posey's in- 
 structions with regard to Mr. Neil, as he was now talking 
 to Mrs. Pelham. 
 
 Millard answered with a grateful smile. 
 
 Cynthia did not let herself stop to think what part 
 she was playing in this complicated drama, in fact, she 
 did not know, but advanced to where Mr. Granby Neil 
 and Mrs. Pelham were standing. 
 
 " I wonder whether you remember me, Mr. Neil, as 
 well as I do you ? Have you forgotten the Cynthia 
 Arkwright of many years ago ?" 
 
 " Forgotten Miss Arkwright ! I should think not," 
 said Granby Neil. " I was saying to Dr. Danforth last 
 evening how well I remembered you. And Mrs. Pelham 
 here has just been pointing out to me another Miss 
 Arkwright, who has spent her time in becoming a woman 
 while I have been passing mine in a coffin." 
 
 " In a coffin, Mr. Neil ? Oh, surely not ! People do 
 not paint beautiful pictures in their coffins," cried Mrs. 
 Pelham. " Just look, Cynthia, at this pretty souvenir 
 which Mr. Neil has been so kind as to bring to me of a 
 view in the National Park," she continued, showing as 
 she spoke a small painting, something like the one which 
 Dr. Danforth had presented to Miss Betterton in sub- 
 ject, but it was painted on the skin of some animal, and 
 larger. The chief object in the foreground was in both 
 instances a geyser in full play, but a low group of ex- 
 quisitely-tinted shrubs and several human figures were 
 brought in on one side of this picture, giving a more 
 realizing idea of the size and grandeur of the great nat- 
 ural fountain. Not being constrained by the hard sur-
 
 242 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 face of a stone, the artist's brush had also been free to 
 render the atmospheric effects of the clouds of spray, 
 the sky, and the distance with much more truth and 
 beauty in the tiny landscape he brought Mrs. Pelham 
 than in the huge paper-weight he had given Dr. Dan 
 forth. 
 
 " Truly, if you wished us to believe that you had 
 Deen in your coffin you should not have brought back 
 such memories, Mr. Neil," returned Cynthia. " We are 
 more apt to believe that you have strayed into another 
 brighter world than this our own dull sphere." 
 
 " How is Posey ?" asked Mrs. Pelham of Cynthia, as 
 their heads were bent together over the painting, speak- 
 ing in a low tone which she knew the deaf man could 
 not hear. 
 
 Cynthia explained in the same key that Mrs. Hen- 
 derson was not able to appear, adding the request from 
 Henderson that his aunt would preside in his wife's 
 place; whereat Mrs. Pelham turned to excuse herself 
 to the artist. 
 
 "Mrs. Henderson is not feeling well," she said, "and 
 there is something which I must attend to for her." 
 Cynthia saw that she too was contemplating a visit to 
 Posey, at which she was half amused and half regretful, 
 but could only let things take their course. 
 
 " I hear on all sides that Mrs. Henderson is not feeling 
 well, and I am sorry to hear it," said Granby Neil, turn- 
 ing to Cynthia as Mrs. Pelham left the room, " but I 
 confess, my dear lady, that I never have seen you looking 
 better, no, not even at your first ball, where I distinctly 
 remember having had the pleasure of taking you to 
 supper, although you have probably long since forgotten 
 the incident." 
 
 Cynthia was gratified, surprised, and a little puzzled 
 by this uncompromising compliment. Few of us dislike 
 to be told that we are looking well, however, and it was 
 with a pleasant sense of exhilaration that she answered, 
 assuring Mr. Neil that if she did not remember going 
 to supper with him on this particular occasion, she could
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 243 
 
 yet recall many pleasant conversations which they had 
 had together. 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Pelham and Henderson re-en- 
 tered the room. Little Wilfred was with them, clinging 
 shyly to his great-aunt's hand. Cynthia saw Millard 
 speak to Dr. Danforth and Mr. Betterton, who were 
 severally engaged in talking to Florence Betterton and 
 Nathalie. He then advanced to where they were stand- 
 ing. He had apparently decided that it would be proper 
 that Granby Neil should take his aunt, Mrs. Pelham, to 
 dinner in the absence of his wife ; but perhaps he noticed 
 that Cynthia and the artist were in the midst of a pleas- 
 ant conversation. 
 
 " I do not know whether to ask you to take in Mrs. 
 Pelham or Miss Arkwright, my dear Neil," he said, 
 affectionately. 
 
 " Oh, as for that, my good fellow, do not trouble your- 
 self about me," replied Neil, who evidently did not catch 
 Mrs. Pelham's name at all, but turned his eyes in the 
 direction of Nathalie Arkwright, where she was seated in 
 a graceful attitude on a low ottoman beside the fire, talking 
 or listening to Tom Betterton, who looked very contented. 
 
 " Miss Arkwright appears to be more appropriately 
 mated than she would be with me," proceeded Neil, 
 "and if I am to have any say in the matter, I shall 
 decide unhesitatingly to take in Mrs. Henderson." He 
 bowed, as he spoke, to Cynthia, and offered her his arm, 
 but she did not take it. Her face suddenly became 
 suffused with a deep, burning blush. Millard Henderson 
 looked at Cynthia with a throb of dismay, as they both 
 became conscious that Granby Neil had mistaken her for 
 Millard's wife, but his consternation changed to surprise. 
 
 " You thought Mr. Henderson suggested to you to 
 take my sister, Mr. Neil ? I only wish you could make 
 a picture of her just as she is," said Cynthia, quickly. 
 " Some day I shall get you to paint a portrait of her for 
 me. I should like one looking just as she looks at this 
 moment." 
 
 " I should like to paint it," said Neil.
 
 244 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 She thus succeeded in entirely diverting the artist's 
 attention, but, gallantly as she strove to conceal her 
 confusion, her embarrassment grew as she more and 
 more fully comprehended the extreme awkwardness of 
 the situation. 
 
 It was easy to see just how the misunderstanding had 
 come about. First Henderson apologized to his guest 
 for his wife's absence, on the ground of temporary indis- 
 position, declaring that she would soon return, and Cyn- 
 thia at this time had been out of the room. She came 
 back a short while after, and was met by Millard with 
 solicitude at the door. Then she had advanced and 
 greeted Neil warmly, as a hostess might who recognized 
 in him an old friend. 
 
 All this flashed through Cynthia's mind in an instant, 
 as also Neil's surprise that she should be said to feel 
 ill when she was looking so well, which explained his 
 reassuring compliments ; but back of it all lay a cir- 
 cumstance which she had failed to recall until now, that 
 the last time she had seen Granby Neil she had been 
 engaged to be married to Millard Henderson. 
 
 Henderson, who was conscious of this fact from the 
 first, as Neil had been one of the few confidants of his 
 betrothal to Cynthia, was also fully alive to the diffi- 
 culties of their position. This was not only too painful 
 and complicated to be accounted for in a few words, but 
 how could explanations be offered to a man as deaf as 
 Mr. Neil which would escape being heard by every other 
 person in the room ? 
 
 He could not know of another fear which added to 
 the paralyzing sense of helplessness which was beginning 
 to creep over Cynthia ; that is, the question as to whether 
 Posey's identity would not surely be betrayed in any 
 explanation which could be thought of? Was Millard 
 about to explain ? She expected every moment to hear 
 him do so, and, hearing nothing, she raised her eyes to 
 his, perhaps unconsciously conveying some of the appre- 
 hension which she felt. "What is to be done next?" 
 her eyes seemed to be asking him.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 24$ 
 
 At any rate, Henderson must so have interpreted them, 
 for he said in a low tone which only she could hear, 
 "It is much better to let it pass. I will explain later;" 
 and then added, more loudly, " As you please, Neil. I 
 will take Mrs. Pelham gladly; and as the dinner is given 
 for her, it is perhaps more appropriate that I should do 
 so, although I would have provided her with a more 
 agreeable companion." He turned away quickly, and 
 there had been a momentary light in his face which 
 Cynthia did not quite understand, but that was all. 
 
 It was indeed fortunate that the artist, whose eyes 
 were as sharp as his ears were dull, should have had 
 his attention occupied by observing the subject of the 
 future picture that he had been told would be wanted 
 from his brush, and should have chanced to be struck 
 with something unusual in the girl's face. Thus led 
 to make a mental note of its peculiar combination of 
 strength and softness, as well as of the momentary atti- 
 tude and expression of Nathalie Arkwright, he was 
 prevented from noticing Cynthia's agitation or the tele- 
 graphic communication that passed between herself and 
 Henderson. 
 
 As she and Granby Neil followed behind all the others 
 into the dining-room, Cynthia had time to consider how 
 strangely everything had happened according to the 
 exact letter of Posey's wishes, although through means 
 and causes as unforeseen as they were unintended to 
 produce these results. Mr. Neil was as far as possible 
 from imagining what Mrs. Henderson's maiden name 
 had been, and nothing had happened to enlighten him on 
 the subject. He did take Cynthia in to dinner, although 
 entirely of his own impulse, and, in consequence of the 
 unparalleled mistake which he had been led into so nat- 
 urally, she had much greater facility for watching over 
 him and much more power to prevent him from learning 
 that of which Mrs. Henderson desired him to remain 
 ignorant than she could have attained in any other way. 
 
 The only question which caused Posey's temporary 
 accomplice any uneasiness was as to what might be said 
 
 21*
 
 246 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 to inform Mr. Neil of his mistake after the ladies left the 
 dining-room. Would not Henderson probably seize the 
 first opportunity after the ladies were gone of speaking 
 to his friend apart from the other men, and endeavoring 
 to make him understand things, so as to avoid future 
 awkwardness ? Such, indeed, would have been the course 
 of events that she would most have desired had it not 
 been for Mrs. Henderson and the promise she had made 
 her, but it was evident that to carry this out she must 
 devise some plan to prevent Millard and Granby Neil 
 from being thrown together. 
 
 The dinner passed to her as a strange dream. She 
 was conscious that every one was in excellent spirits 
 in spite of the defection of the hostess. She knew that 
 Dr. Danforth, who sat next her, was unusually absorbed 
 in his conversation with Florence Betterton, and that 
 Nathalie, who sat opposite, if slightly bored was rather 
 amused by Florence's brother, who was waxing more 
 and more attentive. She saw her turn to Millard, on 
 whose right hand she had been placed, for relief, and 
 realized that Henderson, who could always shine in 
 society when so minded, was talking more brilliantly 
 than usual. She did not fail to note the charming mix- 
 ture of grace and dignity with which Mrs. Pelham pre- 
 sided, just as she remembered having seen her do many, 
 many times in the old days at Fern wood, when Mr. 
 Pelham sat at the other end of the table where Hen- 
 derson was sitting now, and she could not help wondering 
 whether he too were thinking of those old days when 
 they had first met beneath this very roof. Then she 
 was recalled to the present by feeling Millard's eyes 
 upon her with a half-quizzical expression, as though he 
 could not resist the temptation of teasing her a little 
 over the absurdity of their situation, which if it had 
 held no element of tragedy in it for either, would have 
 been so very comical for both. 
 
 The repast was nearly ended before any expedient for 
 preventing the explanation which she would have been 
 only too thankful to have over presented itself to her
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 247 
 
 tired brain. Then she suddenly remembered Mr. Pel- 
 ham's portrait, which had already done good service 
 that evening, but it was possible Neil might not have 
 seen it, and happily she discovered that he had not. 
 
 " I should like so much to show this picture to you," 
 she said. " Will you go back with us to the drawing- 
 room and forego your cigar ? I am sure you are a man 
 who cares much more for a contemplative pipe than a 
 social cigarette !" She laughed rather nervously as she 
 said this, having but the faintest hope that her random 
 shot would find a mark. 
 
 " How in the world did you guess that ?" asked Neil, 
 in great astonishment. " Oh, I see ; Millard must have 
 told you, of course. No ? Well, then you are a fairy 
 as well as a goddess. I suppose you know that we all 
 used to compare you to a goddess, or a daughter of 
 the gods, perhaps, I forget which ! It was that fellow 
 at the end of the table who used to do most of the 
 quoting about your being ' divinely tall and most di- 
 vinely fair,' and the rest of it." 
 
 " Indeed, I did not know. I fear you must have 
 dreamed it, or mixed me up with some other tall young 
 woman, for if I had ever heard myself so apostrophized 
 should I not be very apt to recall it, since I have such a 
 good memory with regard to your preference in smok- 
 ing ?" said Cynthia, demurely. She did not dare look 
 in the direction of Henderson. If she had done so she 
 would have seen that it was his turn to blush, while 
 Granby Neil, who dearly loved to amuse himself at the 
 expense of his friends and was delighted to perceive 
 that Millard recognized his own folly, winked at him 
 in the most knowing manner. Indeed, he considered 
 himself especially happy in his allusion, and did not 
 regret that, owing to his loud tone, it was even heard 
 by Mrs. Pelham, while that lady wondered a little in her 
 gentle way at his want of tact in not letting things which 
 were so properly bygones be bygones, but said nothing. 
 
 " The truth is," resumed Neil, in answer to Cynthia's 
 return to the subject of his smoking, " that a man who
 
 248 BROKEN CHORDS, 
 
 does not care to smoke with other men, as I do not, 
 learns a great deal more about their secrets than one 
 who does, if he be inclined to sit and talk to them while 
 they are inspired by the soothing weed. The smoke of 
 a cigar seems to be a sort of outward aroma of the iden- 
 tity of the smoker, and a great deal of confidence is 
 often bestowed with it upon the ungrateful air, while 
 the blessed condition of giving puts a man out of the 
 so much less noble state for receiving. Why, I remem- 
 ber how Henderson there was possessed with the idea 
 that he had no chance at all in a certain direction, and 
 that I had to repeat to him all the nice things I had 
 ever heard the lady say about him before he could get 
 courage enough to propose ; and yet to see him ordi- 
 narily in society you would think him as conceited a 
 fellow as ever went courting." 
 
 As Mr. Neil proceeded, he had turned and was now 
 addressing himself to Mrs. Pelham, still serenely uncon- 
 scious of the embarrassment he was causing on all sides 
 of him. Presently, however, when he glanced back at 
 his neighbor, he did notice that her color was consider- 
 ably heightened, and he had the grace to change the sub- 
 ject, having an old-fashioned theory that the more a man 
 were put to confusion the better the joke, but that it 
 was no truly gallant gentleman who would not spare a 
 woman's blushes, let them be ever so becoming. 
 
 Mrs. Pelham, without having the key to the situation, 
 was fully alive to its unpleasantness. She perceived that 
 both the Bettertons and Dr. Danforth were looking sur- 
 prised and curious, while only Nathalie Arkwright pre- 
 tended to be unconscious, and, noting the ill-feigned 
 indifference of Mr. Neil's two victims, decided to put an 
 end to it by giving the sign to rise from table. 
 
 " I should like very much to see the portrait you 
 spoke of," said Neil to Cynthia, as he held the door foi 
 her to pass out, " and will take the permission which 
 you kindly offer me to follow you to the drawing-room." 
 
 She was so completely unstrung by the ordeal of the 
 last few minutes that she could hardly get up the courage
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 249 
 
 to answer, yet at least it was well to feel that she had 
 gained the point which had cost her so dear, and she 
 therefore bestowed a faint but encouraging smile upon 
 the innocent and aggravating cause of her discomfiture. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 As for Mrs. Henderson, her mind continued in a 
 ferment of apprehension and indecision until after her 
 husband's visit to her. From this she learned two 
 things : first, that there had been no immediate commu- 
 nication made to him by Mr. Neil of the character which 
 she dreaded, and, second, that he had asked his old 
 friend to spend the following day at Fernwood. 
 
 " 1 know you will be glad, my dear, to hear that 
 Granby Neil has promised to come to us for a little 
 visit," Millard had said. " It may be a short one, as he 
 has some urgent matter to attend to in New York next 
 week, but I have arranged to meet him after church to- 
 morrow and drive him home, so that at least we shall 
 have him with us for a day and night ;" and then Posey 
 no longer felt any doubt as to what she would do. Her 
 mind was fully made up. 
 
 She lay still, after her husband had left her, for half an 
 hour, until she had received the sympathy and solici- 
 tations of Mrs. Pelham, and knew by the sound of voices 
 that her guests had passed into the dining-room, when 
 she arose, and, having carefully locked the doors of her 
 bedchamber and dressing-room, proceeded to divest her- 
 self of the pretty dress which she had put on with an 
 almost happy heart an hour before, and to replace it by 
 a short, tight-fitting walking-suit of dark cloth. She 
 encased her feet in stout boots, and, removing the orna- 
 ments from her hair, put on a bonnet of the same dark 
 color as the dress ; but when about to cover it with a veil 
 she paused as though struck by a sudden thought, then
 
 250 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 quickly took it off, and unlocking a deep, square drawer 
 in a desk which stood in the outer room, or boudoir, 
 searched in it until she found a roll of bank-notes, which 
 she folded in a leather pocket-case and hid in her breast, 
 buttoning it tightly beneath the waist of her dress. She 
 then slipped the bonnet and veil and a pair of gloves 
 inside the drawer and turned the key. 
 
 As she accomplished these preparations she. heard a 
 step outside her door, and, hastily throwing a large, loose- 
 sleeved India silk dressing-gown about her, the volu- 
 minous folds of which entirely concealed her cloth cos- 
 tume, admitted Teresa, who had been sent up with some 
 dinner, of which the invalid partook sparingly. She 
 reclined on a couch the while, with an embroidered 
 afghan thrown across her feet. 
 
 Here, indeed, Cynthia found her later when, having 
 succeeded in drawing Mrs. Pelham into the conversation, 
 she ventured to leave Mr. Neil in order to keep her 
 promise of returning to report to Posey; but in the 
 mean while Mrs. Henderson said to her maid, 
 
 " Teresa, I have had some bad news." 
 
 " Oh, my sakes, Mrs. Henderson ! I thought you was 
 looking all gone away like !" cried the vivacious Teresa, 
 who was from one of the northern States of New Eng- 
 land, the general direction of which she was in the habit 
 of describing by saying that she came from " down East." 
 
 " Yes, I have had a message from from my mother. 
 She is ill, and I must go to her at once." 
 
 " Do tell !" ejaculated the maid. " Why, how ever did 
 it come ?" 
 
 " Oh, it came when Dr. Danforth did, and that was 
 what made me feel so badly. And now, Teresa, I want 
 you to say nothing to any one, but go into my room 
 and put a few things together in a small bag such as I 
 shall need for the night, and then take the bag down 
 and tell Malachi to get the close carriage ready and 
 bring it to the side door, and see that the bag is put in 
 it Remember, not a word to any one but Malachi, 
 Teresa."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 25 I 
 
 " No, to be sure not ; but how soon are you going, 
 marm ?" 
 
 " As soon as Malachi can get the carriage. Tell him 
 to hurry. There, you can go and be packing the bag 
 while I eat my dinner." 
 
 Teresa vanished, and returned in a few minutes not 
 more than ten with the travelling-bag and a large shawl 
 over her ai m. 
 
 " Shall I not help you get your dress on, marm, before 
 I go, or shall I come back for that ?" 
 
 " No, you need not come back. I can manage very 
 well, thank you, without help. Go down at once and 
 speak to Malachi, and be ready to come when I ring, 
 not before. I think I hear Miss Arkwright on the 
 stairs, and I must see her first. That shawl is a good 
 idea, Teresa ; just throw it over the bag as you go down- 
 stairs ; and you might as well go through my chamber : 
 you will be less apt to meet any one." 
 
 " Well, what news ?" she asked, breathlessly, of Cyn- 
 thia, who came in one door as the maid went out the 
 other. 
 
 Cynthia gave her a brief account of what had hap- 
 pened, contenting herself with assuring her that Mr. 
 Neil certainly did not know who Mrs. Henderson had 
 been, and that she succeeded in preventing any one 
 from telling him, at which Posey breathed a sigh of 
 relief. Miss Arkwright did not mention the mistake 
 through which she was furnished with a proof of these 
 facts. She saw no reason why she should encounter 
 the annoyance of discussing it. " Now, what have you 
 decided to do ?" she asked, at last. 
 
 "About what?" 
 
 "Do you not remember what we were talking of 
 before I went down-stairs ?" 
 
 " You mean the advice you gave me as to the expe- 
 diency of telling my husband ?" 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " You have never been married, Miss Arkwright." 
 
 " No."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " If you ever had been, and knew that there was some- 
 thing which if you told your husband might prevent 
 him from ever speaking to you again, do you think you 
 would tell it to him ?" 
 
 " I think I should, that is, if I loved him." 
 
 " If you loved him ? Why, if I did not love him I 
 should tell him in a minute ; but to lose his love, to 
 lose his care, even his kindness !" she cried, passion- 
 ately. " I cannot do it ! It is more than I could bear !" 
 
 " Are you not exaggerating the probable or possible 
 results of this communication ?" asked Cynthia. " Surely 
 your husband would not turn from you entirely in con- 
 sequence of something which happened before he had a 
 right to claim you ? The only pity is that you should 
 not have told him of it before." 
 
 " Yes, yes, in a way, the long concealment makes it 
 worse ; but yet if I had told him he would know" 
 
 "And would not the worst be over when he did 
 know?" 
 
 " It might have once, but not now. Now I must 
 prevent his knowing, at any cost." 
 
 " Then you intend to continue to deceive your hus- 
 band about something which he evidently has a right to 
 be told, although you are liable at any moment to be 
 plunged in a paroxysm of anxiety such as that which 
 overtook you before you came up-stairs to-night? 
 Surely, surely, it would be better to brave his anger, 
 whatever you may have done, than to live such a haunted 
 life, always fearing discovery !" 
 
 " Haunted indeed," said Posey, faintly, " for we all 
 thought Mr. Neil was dead. It was natural I should 
 have been a good deal shaken at seeing him again. 
 That, at least, is over. He can only come back once." 
 
 " But, as I understand it," persisted Cynthia, " it was 
 not merely seeing him. It was the fear of what he 
 might divulge which shocked you so. Is it not much 
 better to take the chance which now is yours and be 
 '.he^ first to speak of this thing to your husband ?" 
 
 She had taken Posey's hand, was holding it in hers,
 
 BROKEN CHOHDS. 253 
 
 and looking into her face very anxiously and earnestly, 
 but the hand was drawn away impatiently. 
 
 " You do not understand ! How can you ? You do 
 not know as I do how it would be with Millard. He 
 might want to forgive, he might be sorry for me, but 
 
 he would not think it right to to Oh, I cannot 
 
 explain ! No one can help me !" 
 
 "No one?" 
 
 " There is one person who might, but he is not here." 
 
 " Who is it ?" 
 
 Posey looked at Cynthia doubtfully a moment, then 
 she said, " It is Mr. Ledyard. You do not happen by 
 any chance to know the address he left with his house- 
 keeper? I mean the name of the hotel at which he 
 intended to stay in New York ?" 
 
 " I had a note from him this morning," said Cynthia, 
 gravely, " which was dated from a hotel in New York." 
 
 " What hotel ?" 
 
 " Why do you want to know ?" 
 
 " Because he is the only person who can advise me. 
 Tell me quick ; I hear some one coming !" 
 
 Cynthia listened ; she too heard footsteps on the stairs. 
 " There would be no use in your writing to him." she 
 said. " He could not get a letter there, for he will be 
 here to-morrow." 
 
 " I can telegraph ; to-morrow will be too late. Tell me, 
 for mercy's sake, dear Miss Arkwright ! I swear to you 
 that I mean no harm in asking him to help me !" she im- 
 plored, seizing the hand she had rejected and looking up 
 in her turn with beseeching eyes. 
 
 Cynthia hesitated. Her faith in Mrs. Henderson was 
 not so great as it had been before this conversation, but 
 
 o 
 
 that in Richard was strong as steel, and he had certainly 
 given her to understand that the matter which had taken 
 him to New York concerned some one whom she had 
 already guessed to be Mrs. Henderson. It suddenly 
 flashed through her mind that the man of whom he 
 had spoken as having been supposed to be dead could 
 be none other than Granby Neil, and, if this were the
 
 254 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 case, by going to New York he had just missed his 
 aim. Thought is so quick that all this passed in an in- 
 stant, while she was conscious of the footsteps drawing 
 nearer. Then she stooped and whispered the name of 
 the hotel in Posey's ear just as Henderson entered the 
 room. 
 
 They both looked slightly startled as he did so, but 
 neither was prepared for the transformation from his 
 usually calm expression to the one that his face now 
 wore. He was very pale. His brow was contracted 
 almost as though in pain, and his eyes shone with a dark, 
 angry light. 
 
 He did not look at Cynthia, but went directly to his 
 wife's couch with a paper in his hand that proved to be 
 an open note, and, spreading it out before her, said, in a 
 low, unsteady voice, " Posey, what does this mean ?" 
 
 " DEAR DICK" (the note said), " I want to warn you, 
 if you should come, that my husband as yet knows 
 nothing. I am aware that the week is past, but I cannot 
 bring myself to tell him. I have tried, indeed, but to 
 speak now, after keeping silent for so long, seems to me 
 impossible. For pity's sake say nothing ; or if you will 
 tell him of our real relation to one another, as you 
 threatened, invent some other reason than the one you 
 know for my having hidden it from him ever since he 
 and I were married. 
 
 " Remember, Richard, that I love him as I never loved 
 any other man. I will not forgive you if you deprive 
 me of his affection, now or ever. 
 
 " Your most forlorn, despairing 
 
 " POSEY." 
 
 Mrs. Henderson gazed at it speechlessly, with hope- 
 less eyes. It was the note which she had been writing 
 an evening or two before, when her husband entered the 
 drawing-room unexpectedly and caused her to put it 
 away, and that she had sent afterwards by Wilfred to 
 Mr. Ledyard, to whom it was distinctly directed, but
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2$$ 
 
 who was destined never to receive it, as, owing to the 
 over-faithfulness of the little messenger, it had been 
 brought back on Wilfred's learning of Mr. Ledyard's 
 absence, which prevented him from delivering it into his 
 own hands. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" repeated Henderson more 
 sternly, while Cynthia, although filled with anxiety for 
 both of them, felt that it was in no way proper that 
 she should assist at such a scene, and was already has- 
 tening towards the door. 
 
 Posey turned her eyes slowly from the open note to 
 Cynthia's retreating form. "I beg you not to go, Miss 
 Arkwright," she said, in a hard, strained tone ; " or, if 
 you must leave me, take my husband with you. Per- 
 haps you can make him understand that I have not been 
 feeling very well this evening, and that his manner of ad- 
 dressing me seems very strange, very strange indeed," 
 she continued, turning a sudden wild look of desperation 
 upon Henderson, like some haunted thing at bay. 
 
 " Have you no explanation to offer, Posey ?" he asked 
 for the third time, and on this occasion, her help having 
 been solicited so plainly that she could hardly refuse 
 it, Cynthia thought it right to interpose. 
 
 " It is true, as you know, my friend, that your wife is 
 not well," she said, softly. " She could not stand when 
 I first brought her up-stairs. Whatever that note may 
 be, for I have not seen its contents, I am sure, from 
 the name of the person to whom it is addressed, which 
 I could not help seeing, that it can be explained when- 
 ever Mrs. Henderson is feeling better and able to make 
 the effort." 
 
 " That is right, Miss Arkwright," said Posey, with 
 sudden bitterness. " Pin your faith on Richard Led- 
 yard. He is an irreproachable young man." 
 
 Whether she had caught the expression of relief with 
 which Henderson turned to Cynthia, or resented the tone 
 in which she had appealed to him as her friend, or was 
 merely wounded at the obvious confidence felt in Led- 
 yard's integrity and honor rather than her own, un-
 
 256 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 reasonable as such offence might be after all she had 
 said and left unsaid that very evening, her scornful tone 
 sent a shudder through Cynthia, recalling as it did a 
 certain other occasion when Posey had spoken in that 
 key, with such disastrous results to her own happiness. 
 Could it be that this woman was twice destined to destroy 
 her belief in a man who had seemed so much above his 
 fellows as to draw out all her sympathy ? 
 
 " I wish you would both go away," continued the in- 
 valid, in a petulant tone. " I am tired of talking ; I 
 must have rest !" 
 
 " Would it not be well to leave her for a little while ?" 
 asked Cynthia, mindful of the alarm which she knew 
 Mrs. Henderson to have already undergone that evening. 
 
 Millard, on the other hand, was so far thrown off his 
 guard by his wife's flighty manner and strangely child- 
 ish way of taking the terrible suspicion to which her 
 note laid her open, that the doubt of her entire sanity, 
 which had before occurred to him, returned as a very 
 plausible explanation of the whole matter. In fact, she 
 seemed to be becoming more and more excited. 
 
 " You heard what Miss Arkwright said," she cried, 
 with shining eyes. " Do you not believe Miss Ark- 
 wright ? Is she not a saint in your opinion ? Yet she 
 thinks the note can be explained. Now, I, too, tell you 
 that I can explain it, and if you leave me I will ; but 
 my word is of no account, of course !" 
 
 For all answer Henderson lifted the letter from where 
 it lay and placed it before Cynthia. " If my wife desires 
 you to advise in this matter, you must do so understand- 
 ing it fully," he said, coldly. He watched her face while 
 she read, and, as she ended, asked, 
 
 " Do you still think that this note to Mr. Ledyard can 
 be satisfactorily explained ?" 
 
 " I still think that it cannot mean what it seems to 
 mean," she answered, faintly. 
 
 " Then, Posey, you shall have your wish. Miss Ark- 
 wright and I will leave you, and I rely on your promise 
 to explain everything when I return."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2$? 
 
 " Thank you," replied Mrs. Henderson, with the same 
 hard look which her face had worn when he first entered ; 
 but as they reached the door, she suddenly called " Mil- 
 lard !" in a strange, vibrating, appealing tone which Cyn- 
 thia never forgot. She left the room hastily, while 
 Henderson turned back and went and stood silently 
 beside his wife. Then it was that she raised her head 
 and fixed her eyes on him imploringly, with an unspoken 
 plea for mercy. 
 
 " What is it, dear ?" he asked. " Why will you not 
 speak, and tell me what it all means ?" 
 
 " Only one kiss, just one !" she whispered. And when 
 he bent down to her very gravely, still with a stern brow, 
 she flung her arms suddenly about his neck, and held 
 him for a moment clasped closely to her heart. " All 
 shall be explained, Millard," she murmured, with her face 
 buried in his breast. 
 
 " Then why not explain now ?" he asked, drawing 
 back gently and trying to look into her face. 
 
 " Oh, I cannot ! I cannot ! Only go, only leave me !" 
 she cried, passionately. " Have I not promised to ex- 
 plain everything?" And, bursting into a torrent of tears, 
 she wept as though her very heart were breaking. 
 
 Millard was much moved, but he was also greatly 
 perplexed and rendered very anxious. He tried in every 
 way to soothe and calm her, but finding that, as long as 
 he asked the reason of her agitation, nothing which he 
 said had any effect, he at last desisted. Saying that he 
 would return when she was more composed, he left 
 her, with a parting kiss, but with a troubled mind.
 
 258 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 HENDERSON had forgotten all about his guests, but it 
 did not appear that his absence had been especially re- 
 marked by them. 
 
 Granby Neil and Mrs. Pelham were no longer dis- 
 cussing the portrait, but had fallen to talking of old 
 times over the drawing-room fire. Miss Betterton and 
 her brother had ordered their carriage, and were about 
 to take their departure. Dr. Danforth had also gone 
 to see about having his horse and chaise brought round, 
 while Miss Arkwright and her sister had had time to 
 exchange a few hurried words before Millard came in. 
 Returning to the room just in time to receive the adieus 
 of the Bettertons and to see them into their carriage, he 
 also returned to the realization of all such other obli- 
 gations which, as a host, he seemed to be strangely neg- 
 lecting. Granby Neil had to be said good-by to and 
 offered a light for the brier-wood pipe with which he 
 proposed to solace himself on the way home, while there 
 were anxious inquiries from kind Dr. Danforth with 
 regard to Mrs. Henderson's health that had to be met 
 and answered in the spirit in which they were made, 
 without betraying the so much more poignant and press- 
 ing cause of uneasiness that weighed upon his spirits. 
 These various duties took some time, perhaps three- 
 quarters of an hour. To him they seemed endless. 
 
 In the midst of it all he quite forgot that he had found 
 no opportunity to set Neil right with regard to Cynthia 
 and himself, while she was so absorbed in the same 
 doubt and perplexity that afflicted him as also to fail to 
 remember the mistake which had caused her such annoy- 
 ance. Somehow she could not bear to leave the house 
 in her troubled uncertainty as to the result of all she 
 had learned or suspected or feared, but there seemed no 
 excuse for lingering, now that the other guests were
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 259 
 
 going or gone, and she and Nathalie accordingly pre- 
 pared to follow, amid affectionate farewells from Mrs. 
 Pelham. While this kind lady was saying a parting 
 word to Nathalie, Henderson drew Cynthia aside. 
 
 " You will be very careful, I know," he said, " that 
 nothing is heard by any one of the very painful scene 
 you witnessed to-night. It is not necessary to caution 
 you on this point, but may I ask you to speak to your 
 sister and desire her to be equally discreet as to the note 
 which she happened to find and which I took from 
 her?" 
 
 " Nathalie was telling me that she found the note, or, 
 rather, that she and Miss Betterton found it together," 
 replied Cynthia. " I can answer for Nathalie as for 
 myself; but had I not better tell her to warn Florence 
 Betterton ?" 
 
 " As you please. I think, as a rule, the less words 
 with a Betterton the better. I am very sorry she saw 
 the note." 
 
 Millard grew suddenly red. " Heavens and earth !" 
 he exclaimed. " When I think what that girl's mother 
 dared to say to me, and that I would not give it a second 
 thought! May I ask you what reason you have for 
 placing such reliance in the integrity of Mr. Richard 
 Ledyard ?" 
 
 As Cynthia opened her mouth to answer, there was 
 a sound of wheels driving rapidly past the house. 
 
 " What is that?" asked Henderson, nervously. 
 
 " Perhaps it is our carriage," said Nathalie, to whom 
 the dinner had not been so interesting or exciting as it 
 had been to Dr. Danforth, for instance, and who was 
 also impatient to get home and " talk things over" with 
 Cynthia. 
 
 " It was the noise of a carriage being driven past the 
 house towards the stable," replied Millard. " If you 
 will excuse me, I will ask what it was." He stepped 
 back and questioned Pompey, the dusky waiter, but 
 without result, as Pompey did not know. He had evi- 
 dently been asleep in the pantry by way of recuperating
 
 26O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 after the unusual exertions of the day, and had not even 
 heard the wheels. 
 
 " Go and find out at once," said Henderson, decidedly. 
 " You can also ask to have Miss Arkwright's carriage 
 brought round." He returned to the front drawing- 
 room, and a moment later Pompey appeared. 
 
 " Please, Lieutenant Henderson, sar, Miss Arkwright's 
 carriage is at the door, sar." 
 
 " But what was the other carriage I heard ?" 
 
 " Oh, as fer dat, sar, it wore Malachi, and he say he 
 wore obeying orders, but he comin' to explain, sar." 
 
 " Oh, that is all right," said Henderson, in a relieved 
 tone. " Tell him to wait until I have seen these ladies 
 to their carriage. I am so absurdly apprehensive," he 
 added, in a low tone, as he offered his arm to Cynthia, 
 " that I make mountains out of mole-hills. I had prob- 
 ably given some direction to Malachi which I have en- 
 tirely forgotten, but I do not remember telling him to 
 go out with the coupe after Aunt Sarah assured me that 
 you were unwilling that I should send it for you." 
 
 " I thought your hospitality sufficiently taxed in en- 
 tertaining a guest so unaccustomed to society," she 
 answered playfully, and then added, with an earnest look, 
 " I quite understand your feeling anxious, but cannot 
 help hoping that there is no serious cause for it. The 
 whole matter, whatever it may be, has probably been 
 enormously exaggerated by nervous fear." 
 
 " You are always kind and reassuring," responded 
 Millard, as they shook hands and parted, but as the 
 carriage drove away a great sense of gloom seemed to 
 settle down upon him. He mounted the steps slowly, 
 and in the entry met old Malachi, followed by Teresa, 
 his wife's maid. 
 
 " Well, Malachi, what in the world did you go out 
 with the carriage for ?" 
 
 " Please, Lieutenant Henderson, sar, I wore only comin' 
 back from de railway-station." 
 
 " From the railway-station ! What did you want 
 there ?"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 26 1 
 
 The old darky became suddenly frightened, and looked 
 with dismay towards the maid. 
 
 " Please, sar, here is Teresa, sar, wid a message from 
 Mis' Henderson," he said, retreating as she advanced. 
 
 " If you please, Mr. Henderson," said Teresa, briskly, 
 " Malachi went to take Mrs. Henderson to the train. 
 You don't ever tell me that you didn't know as how 
 her mother was took sick, and that was why she felt so 
 bad before dinner ?" 
 
 Henderson had turned perfectly white at the mention 
 of his wife's name, but he made a supreme effort at self- 
 control. " You are mistaken," he said, severely. " I 
 knew as much about her mother's illness as Mrs. Hen- 
 derson herself, but I did not intend to allow her to make 
 the journey alone. Put the horses in the carriage again, 
 
 Malachi ; and you, Teresa, pack my bag at once." 
 
 * * * * # ' * # 
 
 Meanwhile, with the luck which often seems to attend 
 the unfortunate, Mrs. Henderson had just caught the 
 last train which left Dundaff that night, and it chanced 
 to be an express train for New York. On arriving in 
 that city at about three o'clock in the morning, she drove 
 directly to a drug-store which she knew of, and rousing 
 the sleepy clerk, to whose torpid memory she was also 
 able to recall herself, she succeeded in making several 
 purchases. 
 
 She then gave her driver the name of the hotel which 
 she had learned from Cynthia Arkwright, asked to see 
 the hotel register, and, finding the name of Richard Led- 
 yard in it, took a room and retired for a few hours, yet 
 not to sleep. She had declined any refreshment, but 
 ordered pen and ink brought up from the office, and, 
 taking off her veil and gloves, sat down in her bonnet 
 and walking-dress, without even removing her jacket or 
 her boots, or seeming conscious of bodily weariness or 
 discomfort, to write a letter. The first dim light of 
 early dawn, infinitely dreary as seen through dusty 
 window-panes across the narrow hotel court-yard, still 
 found her thus engaged, when it slipped its way into
 
 262 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the lonely room, making the flaring gaslight look red 
 and dim, and enhancing the ghost-like pallor of the anx- 
 ious, absorbed face which she bent above her letter as 
 she still wrote on. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 RICHARD LEDYARD had not gone directly to New 
 York on leaving Dundaff. He had taken a ticket to a 
 station half-way between Baltimore and Philadelphia 
 that served as a junction to a small local railway on which 
 there was little traffic. He was thus obliged to wait for 
 some time before the train came which would convey 
 him to his first destination, but he did not allow himself 
 to be any longer delayed there than necessity compelled, 
 and by the close of the day on the morning of which he 
 set forth on his journey he was in New York. 
 
 His first evening was spent in examining the registers 
 and questioning the stewards of the principal hotels and 
 most fashionable clubs in town. Then he went among 
 the studios of the artists, and then to the theatres, for 
 he knew the man he sought, although an artist of ac- 
 knowledged ability, had been engaged in painting scenery, 
 as well as pictures, before his disappearance ; but he 
 heard nothing of him in these places. In short, all the 
 exact information he obtained was gained the first even- 
 ing, but here and there he would come on a trace of the 
 man's recent presence, which filled him with the hope of 
 finding him, and just as he had been on the point of 
 giving up the quest, he received a note telling him that 
 several letters had come to the little post-office at the 
 village he had visited, addressed to the man he was look- 
 ing for, on which had been printed, " If not delivered 
 within ten days, return to Louis Westlock, Esq.," giving 
 the number and street in New York. 
 
 Now, this Louis Westlock was a well-known artist, but 
 one to whom Ledyard had not thought of applying, not
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 263 
 
 being aware of his acquaintance or friendship, whichever 
 it ^might be, with the artist he wished to find. He re- 
 ceived the note on Thursday morning, and set out at 
 once for Mr. Westlock's house, but learned, to his cha- 
 grin, that he was out of town, and was not expected back 
 until the following Saturday afternoon. 
 
 Ledyard had a sharp struggle with himself between 
 duty and inclination. The former said that he ought 
 not to turn away when just on the scent without accom- 
 plishing what he had come for ; that the fact that this 
 gentleman knew of the artist's return, and of his inten- 
 tion to go to the village in question, pointed to the strong 
 probability of his being able to tell where he might be 
 at present. Inclination, on the other hand, said, " Give it 
 all up ; go back to your own neglected affairs. Let this 
 poor, foolish woman take care of herself! The blame of 
 the situation is nothing to you, compared to her part in 
 it. Let her bear it." 
 
 It is not necessary to say which voice conquered, 
 since the reader knows that he wrote to excuse himself 
 from the dinner-party at Fernwood, the invitation to 
 which he had accepted, albeit under a false impression. 
 
 On the Friday it occurred to him that in case he 
 should obtain a clue from Mr. Westlock, the following of 
 it up might possibly detain him over the next night, and 
 he looked up the clerical friend of whom he wrote to 
 Cynthia, a hard-working man who had taken up the 
 disheartening labor in the lower part of the city in which 
 Ledyard himself had been so long engaged. 
 
 On the Saturday afternoon he sought Mr. Westlock, 
 but was told that his return was postponed until evening, 
 and in the evening went again. He was most kindly 
 received and most courteously entertained. He, how- 
 ever, learned that Mr. Westlock knew exactly as much 
 as he himself had discovered of the outward movements 
 of his man, and even less of his probable motives. They 
 were both aware that he had arrived by the New York, 
 Lackawanna and Western Railroad on the Friday pre- 
 vious ; that he had booked himself at the Fifth Avenue
 
 264 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Hotel, where he had had interviews with a number of 
 business-men, and received several packages of clothing 
 from tailors ; that he had spent the Sunday at the very 
 small, unimportant little hamlet which Ledyard had vis- 
 ited the Monday after ; had traversed the unfrequented 
 railway, by means of a return ticket, to New York, and 
 had expressed his intention of remaining in town for 
 some time, until he should have succeeded in acquiring 
 information with regard to a matter about which he was 
 exceedingly troubled. Besides this, Ledyard, who had 
 gathered so much from the person living in the little 
 village to whom the traveller had imparted his intention, 
 knew that the one idea of this person had been to get rid 
 of him as quickly as possible. It had not occurred to 
 her that it might be a matter of importance to find him 
 again, and she had not asked, therefore, what his address 
 would be in New York. She had simply endeavored to 
 give him no information which she could possibly with- 
 hold, and been careful not to let him imagine that she 
 knew anything which she did not think best to men- 
 tion. 
 
 It thus appeared that Ledyard was rather better in- 
 formed than Mr. Westlock, to whom he only imparted a 
 portion of what he knew of the probable intentions of 
 Mr. Granby Neil. To be sure, Mr. Westlock had seen 
 Mr. Neil, which Ledyard had not, and he was certain 
 that he expected to be in New York that week, but why 
 he had not come, or where he had gone, he could not 
 tell. 
 
 They were both of them ignorant of his life-long 
 friendship with Millard Henderson, as well as of his old 
 comradeship with Dr. Danforth, so that the idea of his 
 turning his footsteps in the direction of Dundaff never 
 presented itself, even to Richard, much less did he im- 
 agine that on the day after he started on his quest the 
 man he sought was safely ensconced in Dr. Danforth's 
 spare bedroom, where he had made a special request 
 that he might be allowed to remain for a day or two 
 in absolute seclusion, until he had recovered from th*
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 26$ 
 
 fatigue of body and mind which he had recently under- 
 gone. 
 
 As it was, Ledyard was profoundly discouraged. It 
 was too late then to catch a train that night for Dundaff; 
 besides that, his friend and substitute was already on the 
 way thither, dreaming, no doubt, of green fields and the 
 delight of preaching to an independent congregation. 
 On one thing Richard was resolved, however, let Mrs. 
 Henderson's troubles be what they might, that he would 
 not break his promise of being present at the afternoon 
 service and miss preaching to the people in the woods 
 on the morrow. Indeed, he fell asleep thinking of all he 
 would say to them, and planning how he would rise be- 
 times and be ready for an early start for home. He was 
 still in a state of anticipation when he awoke. The day 
 broke clear, and he determined to go home as quickly as 
 he could. Of course it was hard to feel that all his time 
 and trouble since he left there had gone for nothing, but 
 he knew that he had done his best, and to one of his 
 temperament this was something. 
 
 Thus, in spite of the dislike of giving up anything that 
 he had once undertaken, which was also a part of his 
 , nature, he was almost cheerful at the prospect of getting 
 away from the gloomy thoughts and memories that had 
 oppressed him since he started on this self-imposed 
 mission, and of once more returning to the hopes and 
 interests of the new life at Dundaff which seemed open- 
 ing before him. 
 
 He was not prepared for the shock that awaited him 
 when, just as he had finished his toilet on the Sunday 
 morning, he answered a faint and hasty rap at the door, 
 to find Mrs. Millard Henderson standing before him.
 
 266 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 " POSEY !" he exclaimed. " What does this mean ?" 
 
 " Please don't be angry with me, Dick." 
 
 " Not be angry, when you have done such a thing as 
 this ! What has induced you to come to New York ? 
 Where is your husband ? What do you want ?" 
 
 It was impossible for him to help speaking impatiently 
 and somewhat indignantly, so great and sudden were 
 the surprise and disappointment of her unexpected ap- 
 pearance ; but a moment later he repented of his harsh- 
 ness, for instead of rendering some pert or incisive an- 
 swer, as was her wont, her lips began to quiver at the 
 mention of her husband, and then her whole face became 
 convulsed with uncontrollable agony. She raised her 
 hands to hide it, and would have sunk upon the floor 
 in a passion of weeping if he had not caught and sup- 
 ported her to a chair. Just as he was doing so, a colored 
 waiter passed along the entry, paused before the open 
 door, and, staring curiously into the room, asked, impu- 
 dently, 
 
 " Did you ring, sir ?" 
 
 " I did not, but I should like a glass of water for this 
 lady. She has been travelling all night, I fear, and is 
 very much exhausted." 
 
 " Yes, sir, directly, sir," returned the negro. 
 
 " You can't fool me so easy," he said to himself, with 
 a knowing grin, as he walked off. " Dat's de berry lady 
 dat arrived here at half-past three dis morning and took 
 a room in de nex' corridor, for it was me dat showed her 
 to it, and I ain't bin a night porter dees two years for 
 noffing." 
 
 Ledyard paid little heed to the man or to his muttering; 
 he was distressed beyond measure at the evidently de- 
 spairing grief of the poor little lady, who lay speechless 
 with sorrow in the large arm-chair in which he had placed
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 26j 
 
 her, her whole body trembling and shaking with the force 
 of the great sobs which seemed to tear her very heart. 
 
 " What is it? why, what is the matter, my poor, poor 
 Posey?" he asked, with a clumsy attempt to smooth the 
 hand which lay apathetically at her side ; but she did not 
 answer, indeed, he saw plainly that she could not, until 
 the paroxysm of her grief had expended itself. He took 
 a turn up and down the room, as was his wont when 
 much concerned or absorbed in thought, while all the 
 possible complications which could have arisen chased 
 one another rapidly through his mind. 
 
 At last Posey seemed to have sobbed herself out, and, 
 wiping her tear-stained eyes, leaned back in the chair, 
 with her sad gaze fixed on Ledyard, looking more dead 
 than alive. " You ask me what I want," she said in the 
 tone of a forlorn child who believes, because it may 
 have suffered some trivial disappointment, that there is 
 no hope left in life ; but Ledyard knew that the cause 
 of Mrs. Henderson's distress was not trivial. " You ask 
 me what I want, and I have nothing to tell you ; there is 
 nothing left for me to want. I came to you thinking 
 you might help me, but I see you cannot, and there is 
 no one else who can." 
 
 Ledyard went close to her again and laid his hand 
 upon her head, as he had a way of doing when he was 
 sorry for her. " You do not know yet, dear," he said, 
 gently, " whether I can help you or not. If you wish for 
 my help you must tell me all that has happened." 
 
 " Granby Neil has come back." 
 
 " Yes, I knew that he had." 
 
 " And you never told me ?" 
 
 " I wanted to save you the pain of knowing, it if I 
 could. The truth is that I came here to New York in 
 the hope of seeing him and making him understand 
 how things were. I felt sure if he once knew all he 
 would not think of confronting you, or proclaiming that 
 which could only make your life wretched ; but I have 
 not been able to find him. How did you hear of his 
 return ? Do you know where he is ?"
 
 268 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " He is in Dundaff." Posey shuddered as she an- 
 swered. " Last night he was at Fernwood." 
 
 " At Fernwood ! Then you have seen him ?" 
 
 " I have seen him, but he has not seen me." 
 
 Mrs. Henderson proceeded to narrate the incidents of 
 the previous evening, only omitting to mention, whether 
 from indifference or from design, the finding of her note 
 to Ledyard by Henderson, and his demand of an ex- 
 planation in consequence. 
 
 She had never for a moment forgotten that she had 
 promised him an explanation, but it may be that in the 
 midst of all her other trouble the precise event which 
 led to his desiring it did slip her memory. When she 
 had ended, Richard looked at his watch. He did not 
 again exclaim over her want of judgment and patience 
 in thus flying, although he was petrified with her rash- 
 ness upon learning that she had left home without her 
 husband's knowledge. He felt that all depended on 
 her retaining the calmness which she had gradually re- 
 gained ; for to act, and act quickly, offered the only hope 
 of attaining her safety and his most cherished wish. 
 
 " Now," he said, kindly but decidedly, " there is only 
 one thing to do. You must come down with me and 
 eat some breakfast, so as to be in a fit condition to travel, 
 which at present you are not ; and then you must let 
 me take you and leave you with your mother, or put 
 you in the way of going to her, while I push directly 
 on to Dundaff. If there be any hope at all of per- 
 suading your husband to see the matter in an extenu- 
 ating light, it must be by my getting there before any 
 further explanation takes place between Henderson and 
 Neil ; for, from what you say, it appears that by some 
 miraculous chance Miss Arkwright has been able to pre- 
 vent Neil from finding out who you were, and if I can only 
 get there and tell him all that he should know, some 
 alleviation might be thought of. At least he will wish 
 that Henderson should be made to understand, if he 
 cannot forgive." 
 
 " Do you really think so ?"
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 269 
 
 " I am sure of it." 
 
 Posey breathed a sigh of relief. " Dear Dick, you 
 have a kind heart after all !" she said, impulsively, " and 
 I cannot help hoping you may be able to do some good, 
 Dick." 
 
 It became less difficult after this to induce her to do 
 as he desired. They went down-stairs, and took a hasty 
 breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Ledyard paid her bill 
 and his own without a thought, and, driving rapidly 
 to the ferry, they reached Jersey City just in time to 
 catch the through train for Washington, on which all 
 Ledyard's hopes of reaching Dundaff, at the hour he 
 had promised, were staked. 
 
 It was not until they were actually in the train that 
 another distracting doubt seemed to force itself upon 
 Posey. 
 
 " You did not mean that you would speak to Mr. 
 Henderson yourself, Dick ?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Yes. I see nothing else to do." 
 
 " But suppose Granby Neil could be induced to go 
 away quietly and make no further trouble ?" 
 
 " That was what I had hoped, Posey. It seemed to 
 me that if you did not know of his return this might be 
 managed ; and your mother thought so too ; but now, 
 what good would it do ?" 
 
 " What good ? Why, every good !" she exclaimed, 
 vehemently. " Where did you see mother ?" 
 
 "At Dunstable. She it was who received a letter 
 from Neil announcing his return, and wrote at once to 
 ask me if something could not be done to prevent him 
 from making trouble for you. You must have written 
 her, by the bye, Posey, of your interview with me in which 
 you told me of your marriage, for she referred to that." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I had written her of it, of course," returned 
 Posey, coloring slightly. " Indeed, she advised me the 
 last time I was with her to seek an opportunity of speak- 
 ing to you as soon as I went home. Do you not re- 
 member that I had just returned from Dunstable the 
 day you lunched at Fernwood ?" 
 
 23*
 
 2/O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " To be sure, and you were too tired to come down to 
 luncheon." 
 
 " I could not risk your recognizing me before Millard ; 
 but go on with what you were telling me about the letter 
 from Granby Neil." 
 
 " He said in it that shortness of money had obliged 
 him to take the place of a brakeman and work his way 
 on a freight train from St. Paul, so that, knowing how 
 slow those trains are, I hoped he could not reach this 
 part of the world for some time after the letter ; but when 
 I got to Dunstable, I found by the post-mark -that his 
 letter had also been delayed, so that, as a matter of fact, 
 he arrived there three days after it did, and he left there 
 the day before I arrived." 
 
 " How too provoking !" 
 
 " Yes, it is a very great pity, for could you have been 
 kept in ignorance of his return from the dead, and all 
 that it menaces, you could have lived on peacefully, 
 that is, provided you had told the truth to Henderson, 
 as I urged you to do." 
 
 " Then Millard would have had to be kept ignorant too 
 of Neil's return." 
 
 " Certainly he would. There would have been no 
 wrong in that if Neil consented, whereas now " 
 
 " Now, Millard must not know anything/" cried she. 
 
 Ledyard's brow grew stern. " Do not misunderstand 
 me," he said, severely. " As soon as I have seen Neil I 
 shall seek out Millard Henderson." 
 
 "You mean that you will tell him all?" asked Posey, 
 who had grown deadly pale. 
 
 " All that there is left to tell him." 
 
 " But when I came from home he knew nothing" pro- 
 tested Mrs. Henderson. " If Mr. Neil can be induced to 
 keep silent," she added, pleadingly, " why need Millard 
 be told?" 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you had not told him of 
 my part in the matter ? Did you actually allow your 
 husband to ask me to dinner without knowing who I 
 was ?" asked Ledyard, incredulously.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2/1 
 
 " Oh, Dick, don't be angry ! I wanted to speak, but I 
 had not the courage." 
 
 "And then you left home without his knowledge, and 
 you came to me for counsel !" continued Richard, in a 
 tone of bitter condemnation. " Of what avail was all the 
 counsel I had given you before, if this is the way you 
 have followed it?" 
 
 Posey said nothing this time. She had drawn her 
 veil closely over her face and turned from him towards 
 the window. They chanced to be passing over a par- 
 ticularly dreary waste of country. It was perhaps in 
 harmony with the brief little wasted life which she was 
 contemplating. At last, when they had traversed some 
 fifty miles in silence, she turned on him a countenance 
 which seemed even through the folds of the veil to have 
 grown rigid and hard. 
 
 " You are determined, then, that you will see my hus- 
 band ?" she asked, in a changed voice. 
 
 " Yes, I intend to see Lieutenant Henderson." 
 
 " And you are determined to tell him everything ?" 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " In that case," she said, opening the travelling-bag 
 which lay at her feet and drawing from it an envelope 
 containing a thickly-folded paper, "you had better give 
 him this letter when you see him. It will save you 
 some words and him some trouble." 
 
 Ledyard took the package from her in surprise. It 
 was addressed to " Millard Henderson, Esq.," and care- 
 fully sealed. A kind of fear came over him, when he 
 had put it safely away in his breast-pocket, as to whether 
 the poor little woman were really in possession of all 
 her senses, her face continued to look so white and fixed, 
 while to all his questions after this she gave but the 
 shortest possible answers. 
 
 At the small way-station which served as a junction 
 for the trains to D unstable he parted with Mrs. Hen- 
 derson, enjoining her the last thing to be sure to tele- 
 graph to her husband of her whereabouts as soon as she 
 reached home. She smiled rather strangely, but gave
 
 2/2 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 no promise. Yet she waved him a farewell, and the last 
 he saw of her as the express sped out of the station was 
 standing looking steadily after the receding train. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ANXIOUS as Nathalie had been for an opportunity of 
 talking to Cynthia, there was little said between the two 
 sisters on their way home in the carriage. It was not 
 until they were fairly in the cottage, and Nathalie had 
 stirred up the embers of the dying wood-fire and Cyn- 
 thia had lighted the lamp in the cosey little parlor, that 
 the spirit moved either of them to express the thoughts 
 which occupied the minds of both. 
 
 " Cynthia," said Nathalie, coming close to her sister 
 and playing abstractedly with the diamond pin in front 
 of her dress, " did you see that note ? What could it 
 have meant?" 
 
 " How did you happen to see it, Nathalie ?" 
 
 " Why, after dinner Florry Betterton and I were talk- 
 ing of Mr. Neil and his wonderful escape from the 
 Indians that he had been telling Mrs. Pelham about, 
 and little Wilfred, who had been sitting beside his aunt 
 listening with all his eyes and ears to the story of adven- 
 ture, came over to me and asked me if I had ever seen 
 a tomahawk such as Mr. Neil said the Indians used to 
 scalp people with. 
 
 " I said I had seen one in a museum, and then he 
 wanted to know what they looked like, and Florence 
 tried to describe one to him, but I said that if he would 
 get me a bit of paper I would draw him a picture of 
 one. 
 
 " Wilfred was delighted and very eager. We looked 
 about for some paper, but there seemed not to be any 
 in the drawing-room, when suddenly he exclaimed, 
 
 " ' I know where there is a bit of paper !' and, opening
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2/3 
 
 one of those Mount Desert baskets with a cover to it, 
 which seemed to be used for cards of visitors, he pulled 
 out a three-cornered note from under the cards and 
 began unfolding it. 
 
 " ' Why, what are you doing, dear ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' Nathalie !' exclaimed Florence at the same moment, 
 ' that note is addressed to Mr. Ledyard.' 
 
 " ' Of course it is,' said Wilfred, with an air of supe- 
 riority. ' I knew that, but it is no good, for Mr. Led- 
 yard was away when mamma sent it to him, and so I 
 had to bring it back, because she told me not to give it 
 into any one's hands but his.' 
 
 " I tried to stop him at this point by nodding my head, 
 as much as to say that that was enough, but the little 
 fellow would not be silenced. 
 
 " ' I should think I ought to know about it,' he con- 
 tinued, in his high, piping voice, ' for it was I that rode 
 to the village with the note, and all the way to Mr. Led- 
 yard's house, quite alone.' 
 
 " Florence looked at me meaningly, but we had no 
 words, as just then Dr. Danforth came up and claimed 
 her attention, while Lieutenant Henderson, who entered 
 at the same moment, crossed the room in our direction 
 and asked Wilfred carelessly what he was saying about 
 Mr. Ledyard. 
 
 " The boy repeated his explanation, ending by begging 
 me to draw the tomahawk, as I had promised, on the 
 paper, which he was sure was ' no good/ and spreading 
 out the note on my knee as he did so. I could not help 
 seeing the words ' Dear Dick' at the top of the page, 
 although, of course, I read no more, but I was confident 
 that Mr. Henderson had seen them, too, for he seized 
 the note suddenly and put it in his pocket, saying some- 
 thing to Wilfred about that not being the way to treat 
 mamma's notes, and then, apologizing to me for his inter- 
 ference, told Wilfred that it was time for him to go to 
 bed, with a very white, stern face, and, taking him by the 
 hand, led him from the room. 
 
 " It all took place so quickly that there was no time
 
 2/4 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 to think, and gave me a dreadful feeling, as if some 
 catastrophe were about to happen. I stole one glance at 
 Florry, who was still sitting near, and met my gaze with 
 a hard look, which I could not mistake. It was evident 
 to me that she too had read those words, and had no- 
 ticed Mr. Henderson's change of manner, but the worst 
 of it was, Cynthia, that her eyes were so severe ! Do 
 you suppose that by this petty little incident she could 
 be made to believe Mrs. Betterton was right in all those 
 dreadful things she said about Mr. Ledyard and Mrs. 
 Henderson?" 
 
 " Well, I suppose she might," Cynthia admitted, with 
 a troubled look. 
 
 " Cynthia !" exclaimed Nathalie, fiercely, "you do not 
 think so ?" 
 
 " No, I do not." 
 
 " I knew you could not. I feel like never speaking to 
 Florence Betterton again ! I hate suspicious people." 
 
 " But, Nathalie, why do you take up this matter in 
 such a personal way, dear ? What is it to you ?" 
 
 Nathalie colored crimson, suddenly withdrew from her 
 sister's side, and was silent. Cynthia looked anxiously 
 after her, but her face was averted on pretence of unfast- 
 ening the clasp of her cloak before the long, low, old- 
 fashioned mirror which hung over the mantel-shelf across 
 the chimney. She could only see her reflection lit up 
 by the fire-light, the glow of which might perhaps 
 account for some of the color which appeared to mantle 
 her cheeks and brow, but could not be responsible for 
 the quivering eyelid of the downcast eye which Cynthia 
 saw in profile, the dilated nostril, or the proud curve of 
 the usually placid mouth. 
 
 " Never mind answering my question, dear," said Cyn- 
 thia, in an altered tone, which was infinitely gentle. " I 
 should not have asked it but that I have been so- torn 
 with apprehension as to what it might be my duty to 
 do in this matter." She sat down, as she spoke, on a 
 low chair beside the fire, and leaned her face upon her 
 hand.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2/5 
 
 Nathalie sat down, too, on the opposite side of the 
 fireplace. " I do not understand what matter you refer 
 to," she said, stiffly. 
 
 " Well, dear, a great deal has happened this evening 
 which I could not explain to myself. It is most of it no 
 affair of mine or yours, but I feel as if I ought to say 
 one thing to you, my little sister, and that is this. I have 
 only known Mr. Ledyard since he came to Dundaff, 
 about six months ago. I know nothing of his past his- 
 tory, of what influences he may have been subjected to, 
 of what temptations he may have had to contend with. 
 I only know that he has impressed me as a man of un- 
 usually pure and good impulses and of noble aspirations, 
 so that I find it very difficult to doubt his truth or ques- 
 tion his integrity; but, Nathalie, such men have been 
 known, often and often, in moments of weakness, to be 
 unworthy of their better selves." 
 
 " And why do you say this to me ?" asked Nathalie, 
 proudly. 
 
 " Because, dear, when you first were with me you were 
 constantly in Mr. Ledyard's society, and your judgment 
 of him, both then and now, may unconsciously have 
 been affected by the high opinion of his character which 
 you could hardly fail to see that I entertained." 
 
 " Well, suppose that it were, Cynthia?" responded Na- 
 thalie, a gleam of humor relieving the constrained 
 expression which her face had worn since the question 
 was asked, to which she had not been able to find an 
 answer. 
 
 But Cynthia looked graver than ever. " Suppose it 
 were, Nathalie," she said, " and suppose you were to 
 find that I had been mistaken ?" 
 
 " I would much rather that were so than to have sus- 
 pected all sorts of horrid things of a person who was 
 loyal and deserved to be trusted !" returned Nathalie, 
 hotly. 
 
 Before she answered, Cynthia rose from her seat and 
 walked slowly across the room to a little writing-desk 
 which stood in one corner of the parlor. This she
 
 2/6 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 unlocked, and took from it a box containing a small, old 
 fashioned gold locket, made in the shape of a heart. 
 Unclasping it, she approached Nathalie, and, passing her 
 arm round her sister, showed her the open locket on 
 her extended palm. 
 
 " That is the hair of a man whom I believed deserved 
 to be trusted, Nathalie, but I found that trustworthy as 
 he was to me, he had not been so to others. I was, 
 therefore, deceived in him." 
 
 Nathalie, to whom Cynthia's love-story was quite un- 
 known, and who had accepted the tale told by her half- 
 sisters, of how Cynthia never cared for any man, or took 
 any pleasure in society, in spite of all the attention she 
 received, but thought only of a convent and of forsaking 
 the world, was profoundly astonished. In the family it 
 had not been thought well to canvass Cynthia's short 
 engagement, as such a process would only have con- 
 cluded with the statement of fact which was common 
 among her casual acquaintances, that Miss Arkwright, 
 who had been driven into the entanglement through un- 
 congenialitywith her step-mother, had jilted Mr. Hender- 
 son because she preferred a cloister to a loveless marriage. 
 
 Nathalie distinctly remembered Millard as one of the 
 visitors at the house during her childhood, but she 
 hardly distinguished him from any of Cynthia's other 
 admirers, and was far from associating the sunny wisp 
 of hair in the locket with his much darker locks, already 
 beginning to grow slightly grizzled with care and ad- 
 vancing years. 
 
 She took Cynthia's hand gently in hers and looked 
 long and reverently at this relic of the hope and the faith 
 of her youth. Then she kissed the hand. 
 
 " Thank you, dear," was all she said, while Cynthia 
 hid away her treasure, and without more words they 
 parted for the night.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2// 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 PERHAPS neither sister slept very well. Each may 
 have been visited by more or less disturbing thoughts 
 that night. The noise of the birds beginning to chirp 
 and twitter in the garden fell faintly upon Cynthia's ears 
 at break of day, and then another noise, quite a distinct 
 one, which caused her to start up on her elbow and 
 listen anxiously. There it was again ! It was the sound 
 of knocking on the cottage door. 
 
 Hastily wrapping herself in a shawl, Cynthia threw 
 open the front window of her bedchamber, and, looking 
 down, dimly beheld the figure of a man standing under 
 the shadow of the veranda roof, with a travelling-bag in 
 his hand. She believed she recognized the figure even 
 before he said, " Is that Miss Arkwright ?" in a voice 
 which she would have known anywhere, under any cir- 
 cumstances, however unexpected. It was surely Millard 
 Henderson's voice, in spite of a tone of strained impa- 
 tience, which was unfamiliar. 
 
 " I want very much to speak to you," he continued. 
 " Can you come down without delay ? There are only 
 twenty minutes before I must leave to catch my train." 
 
 " Certainly," she replied ; " I will be with you in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 Why was Millard going away, and where? Every 
 species of anxious doubt which her imagination was 
 capable of forming swept through it while she was 
 dressing. Yet when, her hasty toilet ended, she opened 
 the cottage door to admit Henderson, she was still un- 
 prepared for the news he brought or for the look of 
 misery in his face. 
 
 To be told that the instant her husband had left her 
 Mrs. Henderson had taken flight was a worse blow than 
 Cynthia anticipated ; but the worst part of it was a fear 
 which darted through her lest the bit of information that 
 
 24
 
 278 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Posey had begged so hard, and which she had yielded to 
 the unhappy woman's persuasion, might have influenced 
 her determination or her destination. 
 
 Without knowing what was passing in her thoughts, 
 Henderson said, " I came to see you, Miss Arkwright, 
 before starting in search of my wife, because my aunt, 
 Mrs. Pelham, suggested that you were with her so much 
 last evening after her strange and sudden indisposition 
 as possibly to be able to suggest some clue to her leav- 
 ing her home, or to the direction in which she may have 
 turned her steps. There are two suppositions : one held 
 by my aunt and the servants, that she has gone to her 
 mother, and another, most reluctantly entertained by 
 me, that she has gone elsewhere. I should not be spec- 
 ulating here on the subject if there had been any way 
 by which I could leave Dundaff last night in order to 
 follow her, you may well imagine, but when I arrived at 
 the station the last train had gone, and, as I learned to 
 my despair, Mrs. Henderson had gone in it ! It was an 
 express train from Washington to New York, but I 
 gathered from the station-master that the fastest trains 
 are obliged to stop for a flag or to drop off a passenger 
 at the junction from which she could have changed cars 
 for her mother's house. I, of course, intend to take the 
 first morning train, which happens also to meet an ex- 
 press from Washington to New York, and the question 
 is whether I am or am not to get off at the junction I 
 mention. If I should do so, and my wife should not 
 prove to be at Dunstable, I shall have lost four or five 
 hours. If I push on, and she should not have gone to 
 New York, I am equally thwarted ; besides that, I have 
 no idea where to search for her in that city. Every way 
 I look is uncertainty and disgrace." He sank down in a 
 chair before the dead embers of the burned-out fire in 
 Cynthia's little parlor, clasping his hands above his head, 
 and staring at the wall in front of him with a sort of 
 dull despair. Cynthia could not but feel the profoundest 
 sympathy for his distress, but she saw that what he 
 needed was not compassion, but counsel.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Has Mrs. Henderson any relative in New York to 
 whom you could telegraph ?" she asked. " Have you 
 thought of telegraphing to Dunstable ?" 
 
 Millard shook his head. " Her aunt in New York is 
 dead," he replied. " I sent a message to Dunstable last 
 night, but have received no answer from her mother, and, 
 knowing the leisurely way in which telegrams are deliv- 
 ered in country places, have very little hope of doing so 
 before I start. Will you tell me," he continued, looking 
 up at her earnestly, " whether the supposition that my 
 wife's mind may have been affected since the blow on 
 her head at the time of her accident seems to you pos- 
 sible ?" 
 
 "It seems very possible," she returned, "although I 
 cannot say that it has before occurred to me. Has such 
 an idea been suggested to you before now ?" 
 
 " Again and again. She has been very unlike her- 
 self, as I told my aunt last night. Mrs. Pelham is in- 
 clined to believe that Posey cannot be responsible for all 
 she does and says, but Aunt Sarah has not seen her note 
 to Mr. Ledyard, which is capable of two interpretations. 
 Tell me frankly, for heaven's sake, have you formed to 
 yourself any other theory to account for that or for her 
 going away?" 
 
 Thus questioned, Cynthia felt in a most painful posi- 
 tion ; her conscience and her inclination both bade her 
 help Millard in any way she could honorably, but to 
 betray a confidence, especially that of an utterly help- 
 less person who had cast herself upon her mercy, was 
 antagonistic to her whole nature. True, she had refused 
 to promise secrecy with regard to what Mrs. Henderson 
 was about to tell her of Mr. Neil, and had not been told 
 all that otherwise would have been confided to her on 
 this account, but she had given Posey to understand 
 that she would not speak of what she did trust to her 
 without warning. She therefore determined to say noth- 
 ing of Mrs. Henderson's fear of seeing Neil, both for 
 this reason and because she fancied from what she had 
 gathered that Granby Neil was not further implicated
 
 280 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 than as a witness the only one, perhaps of something 
 which Posey wished to have plunged in oblivion ; and 
 if this were so, and if Ledyard and Mrs. Henderson 
 had been, as she was beginning to fear, the chief actors, 
 it would certainly be better for Millard, as well as for 
 them, that he should hear the truth from their own lips, 
 whatever it might be, than from those of a third person. 
 
 Of the information which she herself had given to 
 Mrs. Henderson, however, with regard to Ledyard's ad- 
 dress, she did not feel at liberty to remain silent. She 
 disliked to increase the weight of suspicion against Led- 
 yard, but it was her plain duty to speak the truth, even 
 if she had had no desire to help Millard, and, clinging as 
 she did to the hope of Ledyard's innocence, she told 
 herself that, if really not to blame, the truth would serve 
 him best. There could be no doubt, on the other hand, 
 of the advantage to Mrs. Henderson of being found by 
 her husband as quickly as possible. 
 
 " The only explanation which has occurred to me of 
 the whole matter," she said, at last, " is that in his pro- 
 fessional character as a clergyman something in the life 
 of Mrs. Henderson has come to the knowledge of Mr. 
 Ledyard which none of the rest of us know, and that 
 this being the case, she has gone to consult him as to 
 what she had better do in the present emergency." 
 
 " You mean the emergency of her note to Mr. Led- 
 yard's having fallen into the wrong hands ?" asked Mil- 
 lard, sardonically. " Very like the note of a penitent to 
 her spiritual adviser, was it not ? So you have reason 
 to believe, Miss Arkwright, that my wife has gone to 
 join this fellow Ledyard ?" 
 
 " I am not by any means sure of it," rejoined Cynthia, 
 coldly. 
 
 " Forgive me," said Henderson, in a changed tone. 
 " I do not mean to speak so, but what you have been 
 saying confirms me in my very worst fears. In that 
 case, whether sane or insane, her reputation and my 
 honor are gone !" 
 
 " Oh, do not say that ! It is not true. I am con-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 28 1 
 
 vinced that there is something in this whole matter 
 which we do not and cannot understand. I am certain 
 that, however he may be to blame, Mr. Ledyard is no 
 villain !" 
 
 " And I am certain that, whatever else he may be, he 
 is a hypocrite !" returned Millard, fiercely. " Please be 
 good enough to bear with me," he added, " and give me 
 briefly your reason for thinking my wife has followed 
 this man." 
 
 " My reason for fearing that she may have done so is 
 that she urged me to give her his present address. She 
 may only have written to him and be gone somewhere 
 else, but if she should have followed him, I do not think 
 that she has done so with any bad intention," said Cyn- 
 thia, stoutly. " She told me as much, and I believe her." 
 
 " Did she tell you, then, that she wished to go to him ?" 
 
 " No, no, of course not ! She said she would tele- 
 graph to him, and that he was the only person who 
 could advise her." 
 
 "Advise her as to what?" asked Millard, sternly. 
 
 " As to some trouble, which she would not confide 
 to me, but which was pressing keenly upon her." 
 
 " Was there ever anything more transparent !" ex- 
 claimed Henderson. " Oh, what a fool I have been ! 
 You told her the address, of course, and it was " 
 
 Cynthia mentioned the name of the hotel in New 
 York which she had confided to Posey. 
 
 " Thank you," said Henderson, rising and drawing his 
 great-coat about him. " I think I have just time now to 
 be sure of my train, and I shall take my ticket to New 
 York." He turned to leave her, but paused to look back 
 as he reached the door-way, and, noticing how wan and 
 sad her face was, said more gently, lifting the hat he 
 had just assumed, " Good-by, dear friend. You have 
 helped me more than you imagine. I will try, like you, 
 to trust on to the bitter end. " 
 
 Returning to her chamber after he had gone, Cynthia 
 thought long and anxiously of all that had passed, until 
 she was startled by Nathalie's knocking at her door all 
 
 24*
 
 282 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 dressed and ready for breakfast. She determined not to 
 tell her sister of the shocking intelligence which Millard 
 had conveyed to her, feeling that the most direct inter- 
 pretation of the cause of Mrs. Henderson's flight could 
 not be the correct one. She had, indeed, guessed enough 
 of the sensitive nature of Nathalie's feelings, during their 
 conversation the night before, to believe that the warning 
 that she had then given was all that it was fair to give 
 while in such painful uncertainty as to the truth regard- 
 ing one who had been to her so kind a friend and had 
 seemed so good a man as Richard Ledyard. 
 
 She contented herself, therefore, with telling Nathalie 
 that Henderson had been there, and had consulted her 
 about his wife's mental condition, which was giving him 
 great uneasiness. She asked her sister to try to persuade 
 Florence Betterton not to speak of the note they had 
 both seen. When Nathalie, in consequence of this re- 
 quest, however, took the trouble to walk to Camelot after 
 church on the Sunday morning, and was at much pains to 
 assure Florence how certain she felt that the note from 
 Mrs. Henderson, which began so strangely, could be ex- 
 plained, declaring that she and Cynthia were inclined to 
 believe that the poor lady was slightly deranged, she 
 met but a cold reception and vainly tried to induce Miss 
 Betterton to share her view. 
 
 This was partly because the course of events had 
 subtly undermined her friend's faith from the time that 
 Florence had seen Mrs. Henderson escaping from Mr. 
 Ledyard's door like a hunted thing to the finding of 
 the note the previous evening, while the final blow to 
 her faith had been dealt that very morning in a manner 
 which Nathalie little suspected. 
 
 How could Nathalie guess that Dr. Danforth had been 
 called the night before between twelve and one o'clock 
 to prescribe for the child of the station-master, which 
 was suffering from a violent attack of croup ? How 
 could she conceive that he had been informed by that 
 functionary of Mrs. Henderson's leaving Dundaff in the 
 New York express that evening, and of Lieutenant Hen-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 283 
 
 derson's having come to the station too late, and seemed 
 terribly agitated? How could Nathalie imagine that 
 Dr. Danforth should have occasion to visit Mr. Betterton 
 on the Sunday morning and acquaint Florence with this 
 incident under a solemn promise of secrecy, or how could 
 any one dream that Miss Betterton would forthwith as- 
 sociate the fact thus acquired with that of Mr. Ledyard's 
 unexpected absence from the morning service at St. 
 Andrew's ? 
 
 Perhaps no one took into account the so much more 
 convincing effect upon a practical mind such as hers of 
 what one sees with one's own eyes, or puts together in 
 one's own mind, than what one merely hears asserted. 
 Be that as it may, Nathalie certainly returned from 
 Camelot with a sense of keen disappointment in her 
 former friend, and never again professed the same affec- 
 tion for Florence that she had felt before. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 THE spot chosen some three weeks before by a com- 
 mittee to decide where the services in the woods should 
 be held, of which Cynthia Arkwright and Florence Bet- 
 terton were the most active members, was the flat space 
 on top of the so-called Tarpeian Rock. There were no 
 associations with its heathen appellation for Florence 
 which were inharmonious with such a choice, and for 
 Cynthia the natural beauty of its surroundings outweighed 
 any sense of incongruity. 
 
 Very early on the Sunday afternoon, the weather hav- 
 ing continued clear and bright, the working-people began 
 to gather together on and around the rock, generally 
 wearing what Mr. Betterton would have designated as their 
 decent clothes, but not invariably. Indeed, the exceptions 
 to the rule formed a conspicuous minority. There they 
 were, old and young, clean, and unclean spiritually and
 
 284 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 bodily; a strong wave of curiosity having swept the 
 idle or the indifferent towards the spot as readily as the 
 earnest and the devout had been impelled by a higher 
 motive. 
 
 Apparently the greater number of the former class 
 were children and half-grown boys, just as the more nu- 
 merous of the serious worshippers were women ; but by 
 far the most formidable portion of the Bohemian con- 
 gregation thus assembled was a small and determined 
 band of middle-aged men, who were neither believers 
 nor purposeless spectators. They were distinctly scoffers. 
 
 There was a certain element among the factory work- 
 ers which Mr. Betterton had always recognized as revo- 
 lutionary in its tendency and of which he had warned 
 Lieutenant Henderson. There was a dangerous combi- 
 nation in it of ignorance and irreverence, together with 
 an avidity for political news, that rendered him not un- 
 reasonably anxious when any important strike took place 
 among the employees of other corporations. 
 
 Just now this element had been especially stirred up 
 by the very measures which Henderson had inaugurated 
 with a view to improving the condition of laborers. As 
 a body of men it held closely together, and, while it de- 
 sired nothing better than to overturn the existing order 
 of things, looked jealously upon all innovation which 
 did not originate within itself. It was probably unaware 
 of its own descent, but its opinions represented the worst 
 type of German socialism, and the distinction which the 
 new system tended to make between a good workman 
 and a poor workman in the same grade of employment 
 was especially offensive to it. 
 
 This faction angrily contended that whether a man were 
 clever or stupid at his trade it made no difference in the 
 need of his having clothes to wear, or the amount of food 
 required to support himself and his family ; and on this 
 ground it insisted that every individual who consented 
 to take extra pay for an equally short day's work as his 
 fellow-laborer's, or equal pay to that given the next man 
 who had worked for a greater number of hours, on the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 285 
 
 ground that he had earned it by what he had accom- 
 plished, was robbing his less gifted neighbor of the means 
 of subsistence. Vainly was it explained to the malcon- 
 tents that because the able and energetic workman was 
 receiving more than before, the stupid or apathetic one 
 was not receiving less. 
 
 They sullenly maintained that the stupid man ate as 
 much, which was incontrovertible, and considered that 
 his right must therefore be equal, even should it exceed 
 his necessity. Indeed, they looked upon Henderson's 
 plan for helping the men to benefit themselves as a subtle 
 scheme to bribe the workers from their allegiance to the 
 various trades-unions and other organized combinations 
 for forcing the employer to listen to the claims of the 
 laborer, because the first principle of these societies was 
 the old fallacy of the natural equality of all men, and 
 that principle was so evidently unrecognized by the new 
 mill-owner. 
 
 As Lieutenant Henderson was known to be favorably 
 inclined towards the holding of these services in the open 
 air, it had somehow gone forth among the demi-gods 
 that they were designed to disseminate the treacherous 
 principles which had been propounded by him, and they 
 had resolved, therefore, to attend these ceremonies and 
 to make their lack of sympathy evident by their way of 
 deporting themselves. 
 
 Had Richard Ledyard fully realized the difficulty of 
 the task before him, it is probable that a less troubled 
 spirit than his for the last two weeks had become, might 
 have quailed at the thought of the ordeal, but as he leapt 
 from the arriving train at twenty minutes after three 
 o'clock on that Sunday afternoon, and hastened up the 
 hill on which the little rectory stood, intent on making 
 the necessary preparations for officiating in the woods at 
 four o'clock, his only sensation was one of thankfulness 
 that, in spite of much anxiety, he had arrived in time to 
 keep his promise. 
 
 When, having succeeded, in the course often or fifteen 
 minutes, in making his arrangements, he emerged again
 
 286 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 from his house, washed and completely redressed, with 
 his sermon-case under his arm, he was too much pre- 
 occupied to notice that one or two of the villagers whom 
 he met looked supernaturally grave, or returned his 
 hasty greeting with a stiffness which he had never before 
 encountered. He was entirely absorbed in what he in- 
 tended to do and say, and thus thought nothing about 
 their looks; but when, on arriving at the place of assem- 
 bly, he beheld the whole of the hill-side covered with 
 men, women, and children, a great throb of enthusiasm 
 pulsed through him like the mighty chord of some vast 
 organ, filling his soul with solemn music, and lifting his 
 whole being far above the trivial chances of the every- 
 day world, that had become as unreal to him as the pres- 
 ence of all these eager, curious, anxious, earnest, de- 
 vout, or antagonistic spirits whom it was his mission 
 to meet and to minister to, was absolute and all-im- 
 portant 
 
 He hardly saw the Bettertons, or Dr. Danforth with 
 his guest beside him, or Mrs. Pelham, or even Cynthia 
 Ark wright, much as her presence meant to him, but 
 Nathalie he did see, Nathalie and the people ! 
 
 His weary-looking friend the curate, from the mission 
 chapel in New York, was already on the ground, and 
 evidently experiencing much embarrassment from the 
 unusual situation. Indeed, the wild and picturesque 
 surroundings, the strange mixture of ages, classes, and 
 dispositions, which was evident even to an ordinary 
 observer, might well appall his timid spirit ; but to Led- 
 yard the strangeness of the scene was an incentive and 
 its wildness a source of inspiration. 
 
 He was pleased at the heartiness with which the con- 
 gregation joined in the opening hymn. He had inten- 
 tionally selected one with a well-known tune, and lines 
 which he hoped might be familiar to most of them, but 
 had forgotten that Cynthia's boys were trained to sing 
 in chorus together, and although less accustomed to 
 sacred songs than to old English ballads, which she had 
 taken pleasure in teaching them, were ready at any mo-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 287 
 
 ment to exercise their healthy lungs, in or out of season, 
 for the faintest persuasion. With such an organized body 
 to lead the choir, therefore, men, women, and children 
 joined in the good old refrain of " Rock of Ages," and 
 it is highly probable that many of the little ones shared 
 the impression which Tommy Baker afterwards confided 
 to Cynthia, that the Rock referred to was the very one 
 round which they were sitting, and momentarily expected 
 to see it open to such a sonorous and urgent appeal, so 
 as at least to give him an opportunity of seeing the inside 
 of it. About the joy of hiding there for any length of 
 time he felt more doubtful. 
 
 There was no levity shown, however, by him or by 
 others, during the services. The gentle voice of Mrs. 
 Pelham and the deep tones of Dr. Danforth, with M"iss 
 Betterton's soprano, might be distinguished leading the 
 responses, while the recurring murmur from the many 
 mouths of the kneeling people was like the rush of 
 the wind among the forest-trees about them. Very 
 sweet and impressive were the fine old prayers uttered in 
 Richard's earnest, manly tones, and so persuasive were 
 his strong, vivid face and his steady eyes, in which burned 
 a fire of enthusiasm, that by the time he began his ser- 
 mon a perceptible change had taken place in the mental 
 attitude of three classes of his auditors. 
 
 First among these were the discontented ringleaders 
 of the Dundaff Mills. It was a long while since these 
 men had been to any church, and they had most of 
 them never before heard the original Episcopal service. 
 They had been prepared for hymns and extemporaneous 
 prayers, such as were heard in the Methodist gatherings 
 of this character, and then for the expounding of the 
 Bible, being under the impression that the most danger- 
 ous portion of the seditious influence that they had corne 
 to oppose would be conveyed in this subtle form. They 
 perhaps feared that some such parable would be chosen 
 as that of the laborers who came at the eleventh hour 
 and yet received equal pay from the lord of the vineyard, 
 in order that it might be used to illustrate the plan which
 
 288 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 they chose to consider a perversion of justice on the part 
 of Lieutenant Henderson. 
 
 Their spirit of contemptuous disapproval was cer- 
 tainly losing ground. It had been somewhat daunted 
 by the unwonted solemnity of the occasion. The unex- 
 pected dignity of the service, in which so many of the 
 congregation joined with fervor, was a revelation to them ; 
 but what impressed them most they would have found 
 it least easy to explain. This was a certain remoteness 
 from things of this world in the face and manner of the 
 rector, which, indefinable as it seemed incomprehensible 
 to their practical minds, was yet more convincing than 
 any argument could have been of the futility of their 
 fears. 
 
 What had a man filled with such thoughts as possessed 
 him to say of this or that fancied grievance or petty 
 prerogative? "And they shall come from the east, and 
 from the west, and from the north, and from the south, 
 and sit down in the kingdom of God," was the text of his 
 sermon, and as it rang out, in his clear tenor voice, over 
 the heads of the people, they realized that it would not 
 either, in the faintest possible manner, be made to apply 
 to any of the problems of political economy. 
 
 The second division of the multitude which underwent 
 a decided modification of opinion with regard to the 
 meaning of this gathering together of the people was 
 that composed of the well-to-do shopkeepers of Dundaff, 
 who had opposed the open-air services from the first, but, 
 led by curiosity or their wives, had come in considerable 
 numbers, to judge for themselves, with a view of after- 
 wards denouncing the impropriety of such a convoca 
 tion, and the want of appreciation of the fitness of things 
 on the part of Mr. Ledyard, who was thus willing to 
 turn the worship of sober-minded, respectable people like 
 themselves into a sort of show for the sake of making 
 a theatrical display of his own eloquence ! He should, 
 these worthy villagers thought, be led to realize the 
 unseemliness of so unauthorized an effort, to collect 
 \ congregation and preach to it beyond the walls of
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 289 
 
 a consecrated building ! And yet and yet there cer- 
 tainly was no want of reverence on the part of the young 
 rector, and no lack of earnestness to be noted in the 
 aspect of the people. By the time the service was over 
 these good men were considerably shaken in their opin- 
 ions, instead of being strengthened in them, as they had 
 fully expected to be. 
 
 But the third class of converts were turncoats of the 
 most shameless type. They consisted of the wives of 
 the village magnates, who had heard the evil stories cir- 
 culated by their leader and chief scandal-monger, Mrs. 
 Betterton, and fervently believed them at the moment, 
 but who did not hesitate to forsake their commanding 
 officer and abjure the creed which had been embraced 
 by them, as to the righteousness of her cause, simply 
 because Mr. Ledyard's face looked " so stern" at one 
 moment and " so inspired" the next that they could 
 not associate the idea of laxity of duty, or the sinful 
 pursuit of amusement at the expense of propriety and 
 honor, with such a rapt demeanor and so much force of 
 will. 
 
 It is not worth while to mention Cynthia and Nathalie 
 Arkwright as of this class, for they neither of them had 
 been able to bring themselves actually to doubt Richard 
 Ledyard, while, strangely enough, Miss Betterton, who 
 had been so strongly prejudiced in Ledyard's favor, had, 
 ever since the sight of Mrs. Henderson's note, been com- 
 pletely convinced of the truth of her mother's theory as 
 to his duplicity and inexcusable lightness of conduct, 
 and nothing but the fact that she had been so instru- 
 mental in getting the congregation together prevented 
 her from remaining away. She was, therefore, the one 
 instance of a convert in the opposite direction, and she 
 alone of all the concourse of worshippers, so it seemed 
 to Nathalie, remained rigidly unimpressed by Ledyard's 
 fervor or the magnetic force of his stirring address. 
 
 He first suggested to them the idea of a vast assem- 
 blage of all the nations of the earth in this our nether 
 world, using the unusual opportunity afforded by the 
 N t 25
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 wide-spread landscape about him to awaken the imagina- 
 tion of the people with the fancy that all the hills and 
 fields and valleys, which rose and fell and stretched them- 
 selves as far as the horizon, might be covered with this 
 multitude gathered from east and west and north and 
 south, and asked what persons would be most highly 
 honored in such a throng. Would not the great rulers, 
 the men of wealth, of exalted birth, of science, of litera- 
 ture, of art, the political leaders, the statesmen, the finan- 
 ciers, be those in each nation to whom the others would 
 bow down ? Then he asked them to picture to them- 
 selves such an assemblage in heaven. He did not dwell 
 on the surroundings or the pageant in this conception, 
 but inquired what persons here would be most sought 
 after or most honored. Would it be kings and prin- 
 ces ? Would it be men of wealth, or of lofty birth, or 
 of great intellectual powers, or political leaders, or rail- 
 road magnates, great artists, statesmen, discoverers ? 
 
 The audience was prepared for a negative answer to 
 these questions, but the answer which the orator gave 
 was qualified. It would depend, he said, upon how these 
 men of exalted position or of transcendent talent and 
 capability had used their powers whether any of them 
 might attain first places, but he could tell his audience 
 what kind of people would surely stand first, would 
 undoubtedly be sought, and admired, and surrounded 
 by loving faces and devoted followers, and these were 
 the men who had faced death to save the lives or homes 
 of others, whether from fire or flood or the swords of 
 enemies, and had yet had a kindly word always for a 
 companion, or a helpful hand for one who was sick or 
 wounded; the women who had worked and suffered, 
 who had borne hunger and want, for those they loved, 
 but yet had found it in their hearts to give of their 
 slender earnings to some helpless neighbor more desti- 
 tute than they ; the brothers who had been stanch and 
 true to one another; the sisters who had been tender 
 and forbearing ; the wives who had been cheerful, loving, 
 and forgiving; the husbands who had toiled and strug-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 gled for their families and yet been considerate and 
 affectionate in their homes ; the fathers and mothers 
 who had done their duty, when hardest, to their chil- 
 dren ; the children who had tried to be kind to one an- 
 other, who had tried not to complain when ill, who 
 had tried to help their parents and to sweeten and make 
 happy their lives as they were meant to do. He could 
 not close the list of those they would all be wishing to 
 love and honor most in heaven, he said, without speaking 
 of those who had borne the most grievous suffering on 
 earth, of body or of mind, striving not to make others 
 suffer for the pain they felt; of the hopeless invalids 
 whose lives were worn out in endless pain, or those 
 mysteriously-afflicted beings forced at times to live with- 
 out the light of reason, whose whole experience on earth 
 had been inexplicable misery, and yet who had borne it 
 patiently. Those had been known who, in the midst of 
 such an existence of bitter hardship, had kept a bright 
 faith in the world to come when able to think in the 
 midst of suffering, had tried, when conscious of what they 
 did, to be charitable to the faults of those who wounded 
 them through ignorance, and to be grateful for the kind- 
 ness of those who gave them sympathy or love. 
 
 Now, why would all these people whom he had been 
 describing be loved in heaven ? Would it be on account 
 of the good they had done on earth ? They would 
 many of them have done good, no doubt, but many of 
 them would only have succeeded in not doing harm. 
 For what, then, would they be honored ? What was the 
 one part that they all held in common ? 
 
 Surely it was that they had each thought of others 
 before themselves ! It was the spirit of unselfishness 
 which had controlled them in this world, and which was 
 the law of the kingdom of God. 
 
 After this fashion was Ledyard's very simple discourse, 
 made intentionally easy to grasp for the youngest or 
 most ignorant of the motley throng assembled before 
 him, and carefully kept free of dogma. It was also de- 
 livered with much simplicity and directness of manner,
 
 292 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 and only the great earnestness and the easy flow of 
 forcibly descriptive language which were natural to the 
 preacher made him seem eloquent at times. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 THE sermon was over. The congregation had been 
 dismissed with a short prayer, and were dispersing 
 rapidly, the children and many of the young people 
 betaking themselves to the woods for a healthy ramble 
 before the sinking sun should set, and the mothers of 
 families hastening home to prepare the evening meal, 
 while the men collected in groups, as is their nature, 
 to smoke their Sunday pipes and compare impres- 
 sions. 
 
 Among those who wandered into the forest was Flor- 
 ence Betterton, accompanied by Dr. Danforth. She in- 
 vited Nathalie to go with them, but the younger Miss 
 Arkwright did not accept the invitation. She preferred 
 rather to linger near her sister, who was engaged in a 
 low-toned conversation with her friend Mrs. Pelham, 
 and, as she stood thus waiting, was joined by Mr. Granby 
 Neil, the friend of Dr. Danforth. 
 
 " A man of great talent, that young Ledyard," said 
 Mr. Neil. " I had no idea that he was settled here until 
 Danforth asked me to come to hear him this afternoon. 
 What a striking way he has of putting things ! It is 
 more that, and his earnestness, than anything he says 
 which is particularly new or clever." 
 
 Nathalie said nothing. Her opinion of Richard's 
 ability may have been less qualified, but if she had 
 thought Mr. Neil were praising him too highly she could 
 not have been more guarded. 
 
 " I used to know him years ago," proceeded the artist, 
 whose manner was unusually excited, " but had lost 
 track of him, as of so many others, and curiously come
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 293 
 
 upon him in this unexpected corner of the earth, just as 
 I had made up my mind to go to New York to-morrow 
 for the express purpose of looking him up." 
 
 " Of looking up Mr. Ledyard ?" Nathalie, who had 
 been standing in a listless attitude of half-attention, sud- 
 denly awoke to interest. She fancied she had some 
 clue to what Mr. Ledyard had wanted with Mr. Neil, 
 but what could Mr. Neil possibly want with Mr. Led- 
 yard, she wondered. 
 
 " Yes, I think I should have gone to-day, in which 
 case I should have missed my man, but that I had prom- 
 ised to dine with Millard Henderson before he was called 
 unexpectedly away, ' on business,' as he writes me," re- 
 plied Mr. Neil, in his hard, unmodulated tones. 
 
 " It is certainly strange that you should have been so 
 intimate a friend of Lieutenant Henderson and of Dr. 
 Danforth both, and also an old friend of Mr. Ledyard, 
 and should find them all living in the same neighbor- 
 hood," returned Nathalie. 
 
 " Oh, as for Ledyard, it is not a matter of friendship 
 with him, exactly. I wanted to find him because I thought 
 it just possible he could give me some information which 
 I did not know how else to obtain ; that was all. I am 
 only waiting for him to get rid of his clerical friend now 
 before speaking to him on the subject," answered Mr. 
 Neil, quite unconscious that his voice grew louder and 
 louder as he spoke. " Why can't the fellow go ?" he 
 added, impatiently. 
 
 " Mr. Ledyard and his friend are coming this way !" 
 shouted Nathalie desperately in the artist's ear; and, 
 indeed, before Mr. Neil, whose back was towards the 
 advancing figures, could turn fairly round, they were 
 close beside them. Nathalie would have been ready to 
 laugh at the startled expression of the spectacled curate, 
 if courtesy had not forbidden, for it was evident that he 
 was not deaf, and that he had overheard Mr. Neil's un- 
 guarded allusion to himself, but she felt a something 
 between fear and gladness as Ledyard drew near which 
 overcame her sense of humor and so surprised her with 
 
 25*
 
 294 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 herself as to produce a large infusion of frigid dignity 
 into her greeting to the young rector. 
 
 Indeed, so far from giving way to the momentary 
 amusement which the curate's look of alarm had caused 
 her, she found herself turning with relief to Mr. Cush- 
 man, whom Ledyard immediately presented, and flinging 
 herself with energy into the effort to restore his lost 
 equanimity. 
 
 The greeting between GranbyNeil and Mr. Ledyard, 
 meanwhile, had not been exactly cordial, although there 
 seemed to be an effort on both sides to render it so. 
 There was a certain constraint apparent in Ledyard's 
 manner, and a kind of nervous eagerness in Mr. Neil's, 
 which did not belong naturally to either. 
 
 " I am very anxious for a word with you, Mr. Led- 
 yard," said Neil, almost sharply. 
 
 " And I, too, am anxious to speak to you," rejoined 
 Ledyard, with some stiffness. " Shall we walk back to- 
 gether? My friend Mr. Cushman will, I am sure, excuse 
 me. I will see you at the rectory, Cushman," he contin- 
 ued to the latter, and then added in a lower tone, address- 
 ing Nathalie, " Will you kindly take my guest in charge 
 for me, Miss Nathalie ? and may I hope to see you soon ?" 
 
 " When do you wish to do so ?" she asked, proudly. 
 
 " This evening ?" 
 
 " As you please." She spoke without raising her eye- 
 lids. Indeed, her whole face looked calm and cold to 
 Mr. Cushman's rather restricted vision, but the next 
 moment a swift and sudden change came over it, for, 
 without waiting until they were out of ear-shot, Mr. Neil, 
 who had been standing by with ill-concealed impatience, 
 put his hand on Mr. Ledyard's shoulder just as they 
 were turning away, and said, in what he no doubt in- 
 tended for an undertone, 
 
 " What do you know of Posey ? Tell me quick, man. 
 Is she alive, or dead ? Can you guess where she is ?" 
 
 " She is living, and I saw her this morning," Ledyard 
 said, also speaking in a loud, clear tone, to make his 
 companion hear.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 2$$ 
 
 " Living ! Where ?" was the breathless rejoinder ; but 
 how Mr. Ledyard may have answered this question they 
 could not tell, as the two men had passed by this time 
 far down the hill on the opposite side of the rock to 
 theirs. 
 
 Cynthia and Mrs. Pelham were slowly descending the 
 declivity by a more regular path, which Nathalie and the 
 curate also hastened to follow. 
 
 This path joined the narrow lane which bordered the 
 river, and for a few moments they pursued it in silence. 
 Nathalie was entirely absorbed in the train of thought 
 unexpectedly started by what she had just heard. Her 
 brow was slightly contracted, and her teeth set firmly 
 over her lower lip, as was a way of hers at times when 
 troubled. She had almost forgotten the existence of 
 Mr. Cushman, until her attention was awakened by seeing 
 that he was looking at her with timid wonder. Then it 
 was that, rising to the occasion, she cut short his further 
 study of her expression by launching into an animated 
 conversation with him on all sorts of subjects, which 
 she kept up until they reached the village. 
 
 Just as they did so, a little imp of a telegraph-boy 
 came hopping from stone to stone across the river, which 
 was very shallow below the dam, and, leaping up the 
 bank with wonderful agility, landed at Mr. Cushman's 
 side, into whose hand he stuck a yellow envelope and 
 grinned from ear to ear. " Sign the book !" ejaculated 
 this tyrant, producing the record from his pocket, to 
 which a pencil was attached by a very dirty string. 
 
 " Here, give the book to me. I will sign it," said 
 Nathalie, perceiving that her companion was completely 
 overcome by the suddenness of the attack. He probably 
 had visions of his father's house in flames, or his mother 
 desperately ill, poor fellow, as his trembling fingers has- 
 tily tore open the envelope, while Nathalie signed the 
 book and slipped a ten-cent piece into the expectant 
 hand of the bearer, who departed rejoicing. But what 
 was the curate's astonishment to be greeted by these 
 words :
 
 296 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " If you are not a coward as well as a villain, you 
 will meet me at the railway-station in DundafF at eleven 
 o'clock to-night. 
 
 (Signed) " MILLARD HENDERSON." 
 
 " Millard Henderson !" repeated Mr. Cushman, help- 
 lessly. " What can this mean ? I never knew such a 
 person. There must be some mistake." 
 
 " Of course there is," returned Nathalie, looking un- 
 ceremoniously over his shoulder. " Do you not see 
 that the message is not addressed to you at all ? It is 
 intended for Mr. Ledyard. Give it to me, please," she 
 continued. " Here, boy !" She shouted in vain. The boy 
 was already half-way across the river on his return 
 voyage, and, glancing at the telegram, which she now 
 held in her hand, Nathalie suddenly changed her mind. 
 " On the whole," she said, quietly, " it is hardly worth 
 while to call him back, for since the cover has been 
 opened it could not be intrusted to him. I can give it 
 to Mr. Ledyard, as he spoke of coming to see me this 
 evening. In case you should see him first, Mr. Cush- 
 man, will you kindly tell him that a message came, and 
 that I took charge of it? It no doubt seems oddly 
 expressed to you," pursued this wily diplomatist, " but it 
 is probably only some joke of Lieutenant Henderson's, 
 as he and Mr. Ledyard are friends, and he is very full 
 of fun." 
 
 Mr. Cushman looked as though he thought it an odd 
 sort of fun, but he heaved a sigh of relief as his visions 
 of death and destruction vanished. Here Mrs. Pelham, 
 who had walked some little distance ahead all the way, 
 still absorbed in earnest talk with Cynthia, turned sud- 
 denly back to the younger girl and asked if she might 
 not take them both home in the carriage, which was to 
 meet her at the druggist's in Dundaff. Nathalie con- 
 sented, regretting, as she parted with her new ac- 
 quaintance, that although a high-minded young man 
 he seemed to be mentally as well as physically short- 
 sighted.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Seated in the Fernwood carriage, she and Cynthia 
 were soon mounting the hill towards the cottage with 
 Mrs. Pelham, but there was not a word interchanged 
 between any of them until, leaning forward and taking 
 her sister's hand in hers as they were nearing the gate, 
 Cynthia said, 
 
 " Would you miss me much, Nathalie, and feel very 
 lonely if I left you to-night ?" 
 
 Nathalie looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 " To leave me !" she ejaculated. " Why, where do you 
 think of going?" 
 
 " It is all my selfishness, Nathalie dear," said Mrs. 
 Pelham, anxiously. " I have been trying to persuade 
 Cynthia to come home with me, because because my 
 nephew has had to go away on business, and I feel lonely 
 myself, and well, just a little bit worried." There were 
 tears in the voice of the gentle lady, which had been 
 bravely held back from appearing in her troubled eyes. 
 Nathalie's quick ear detected the note of distress, al- 
 though not in possession, as was her sister, of all Mrs. 
 Pelham's reasons for anxiety, and she immediately formed 
 a theory of what she supposed to be the situation. 
 
 As Lieutenant Henderson was indeed away, poor Mrs. 
 Pelham was left alone, of course, with that excited woman, 
 and no wonder she felt apprehensive as to what Mrs. 
 Henderson might do or what might happen before her 
 husband could return. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Pelham, you are not selfish at all to want 
 Cynthia to be with you," said Nathalie, earnestly. " It 
 would be very selfish if I wished to keep her from going 
 home with you for the night, and I trust she will do 
 so ; but I cannot help hoping that Lieutenant Henderson 
 may return sooner than you think. At any rate, you 
 must not be troubled about me. I have a book which 
 I particularly want to read," she added, nodding gayly 
 at her sister, with a brave effort to hide her own anxiety. 
 
 Cynthia laughed. " You see, Mrs. Pelham, that Nath- 
 alie really does not want me," she declared, turning to 
 her friend.
 
 298 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 They reached the point at which the narrow track 
 leading to Cynthia's cottage turned off from the main 
 road just then. Nathalie kissed her sister, who saw that 
 she was secretly troubled, but did not guess how much, 
 as she talked reassuringly to Mrs. Pelham while Cynthia 
 got together the few things she wanted for the night, 
 gave various parting directions to old Marjory, and, en- 
 joining her to take good care of Nathalie, bade them 
 both farewell. 
 
 After the carriage had driven away, however, and 
 Nathalie had put aside her bonnet and disposed of the 
 solitary evening meal, not rendered more cheerful by 
 the grim presence and severe attentions of old Marjory, 
 she began to look much less hopeful, and, in spite of 
 every effort to concentrate her attention on the book she 
 had mentioned, was overcome with a nameless depression, 
 together with an unusual sense of restlessness. She 
 tried to persuade herself that it was the fading of the 
 daylight which led her to change from one chair to 
 another in the little parlor of the cottage, and finally 
 to wander out on to the veranda and seat herself where 
 the last rays of the sun fell full across her page, before 
 its brightness slowly passed away; but, despite this 
 special illumination, the meaning of what she read 
 did not become any more clear to her. She might 
 have said with Hamlet that it was " words, words, 
 words," while all the while her brain received only the 
 sound of them, being engaged with quite a different 
 matter. 
 
 By and by the evening mellowed to a tender after- 
 glow, and then deepened into the gray tints of dusk. 
 All the sweet odors of a summer night were in the air, 
 and distant sounds fell faint but distinct upon the ear. 
 The first clear light of the rising moon was beginning to 
 silver the edges of the foliage in the little garden, when 
 another sound not a distant one, and growing nearer 
 was borne to the solitary listener. It was certainly 
 the sound of approaching footsteps, and seemed unmis- 
 takably the echo of a man's tread. Nevertheless, she
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 299 
 
 feared to trust the evidence of her ears, and drew her 
 breath hard, but the next moment saw a figure, which 
 could belong to none other than Richard Ledyard, be- 
 coming more plainly visible at each step as he came 
 rapidly up the garden walk. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE moon, so far from finding Nathalie out, as the 
 sun had, only deepened the gloom about her into ab- 
 solute blackness, while it shone on the path before the 
 house, on the steps of the veranda, and frosted the honey- 
 suckle vine which climbed the wooden pillar of the 
 narrow porch. Seated in the deep shadow thrown by 
 this vine, she was conscious of a sudden and unreasonable 
 desire to avoid the observation of the very person for 
 whom she had been watching the last two hours. She 
 was glad that Ledyard did not know she was there. 
 She was glad of the sheltering darkness. She only 
 feared that Neptune, who had bounded forward to meet 
 the visitor, might betray her. But Neptune was too 
 much absorbed in welcoming one of his best friends to 
 take account of a foolish little girl who was suddenly 
 overcome with an unusual fit of shyness. Indeed, had 
 not her gown been of some light material which caught 
 a faint reflection of borrowed brightness, they might 
 have passed into the house together without noticing 
 her. 
 
 As it was, Mr. Ledyard was close to the steps on 
 which she was sitting before he could distinguish the 
 outline of her form; and yet he was hoping to see her! 
 When the faint vision dawned on him at last, however, 
 he did not seem to doubt her identity. He merely 
 stretched out his hand for hers, and, without a word of 
 greeting, she laid her little cold fingers in it. 
 
 " How glad I am to see you !" he said, softly. " May
 
 300 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 I sit here, Miss Nathalie ?" She bowed her head, still 
 silent, but Ledyard began to talk at once. 
 
 " Tell me," he said, turning his face towards her in 
 the darkness, " how you have been all this time. Has 
 your sister been well, and is she at home ? I fancied 
 this afternoon that your face had changed, as if you had 
 had some trouble. Is that so ?" 
 
 " My sister is well, thank you, but she has gone to 
 Fernwood to spend the night with Mrs. Henderson and 
 Mrs. Pelham," replied Nathalie, quietly, temporarily ig- 
 noring his last question ; but there was something so 
 kindly, so frank, so confiding, and so much manly con- 
 cern in his manner, that she was completely won from 
 the half-doubting and faintly hostile attitude of self- 
 defence to which she had striven to school herself for 
 the last ten days. 
 
 He seemed to realize her confidence, for he said, im- 
 pulsively, 
 
 " It has seemed to me a perfect age since the last time 
 I sat beside you and told you of the anxiety which had 
 just begun to press on me, and which has become so 
 heavy since then that at times I have hardly known how 
 to bear it !" He paused and heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 Nathalie was unaccountably moved. She felt a great 
 rush of sympathy for him in his mysterious trial, although 
 she could not guess its nature. Rashly, perhaps, she 
 determined to trust him come what would, and in return 
 to make him trust her. It was a bold resolve, in the 
 face of all the circumstantial evidence which had accu- 
 mulated against him, one such as many a woman has 
 lived to regret, but then Nathalie was not only a brave 
 girl morally, but one who had been carefully guarded 
 from all evil knowledge of the world. She was also 
 ignorant as yet of the crowning circumstance of Mrs. 
 Henderson's flight, although she had heard Mr. Led- 
 yard acknowledge unhesitatingly to having seen her 
 that very morning. 
 
 How, when he had been supposed to be in New York 
 or not yet returned from there, during the hours of the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 30! 
 
 morning service, he could possibly have managed to do 
 this, was one of the questions which had been puzzling 
 her brain that evening. The other was as to the tele- 
 gram. What could those terrible words mean ? She 
 was determined that she would find out; that if Mil 
 lard Henderson really wrote them in earnest, as seemed 
 too probable, she would try to avert a meeting between 
 these two men. Indeed, she had taken possession of the 
 strange and insulting message for no other purpose. 
 
 " By the bye," said Ledyard, suddenly, " did not 
 Cushman say something of your having a telegram 
 which came to him by mistake for me ? I had almost 
 forgotten to ask you for it. Do you know whom it is 
 from?" 
 
 " I have not answered your other question yet," re- 
 turned Nathalie, evasively. " You asked me whether I 
 had had anything to trouble me since you went away ? 
 I have been very much troubled about you." She was 
 so anxious to keep this message from him until she 
 knew more of the facts that she did not stop to think, 
 or take time to realize all that the betrayal of her own 
 interest in the matter might imply. 
 
 " About me !" His eyes flashed into hers that same 
 look of radiant surprise with which they had greeted her 
 once before. " How, about me ?" he asked, breathlessly. 
 
 " First about the dreadful reports which got in circu- 
 lation before you went away, then at what you yourself 
 told me, that you have just referred to, but would not 
 explain. Then at a very strange note, which chance 
 threw in my hands, from Mrs. Henderson, of which I 
 read nothing of the contents, of course, but I could not 
 help seeing the beginning, where she addressed you 
 familiarly by your Christian name. And last of all by 
 hearing you say to Mr. Neil this afternoon, as I could 
 not avoid doing, that you had seen Mrs. Henderson, 
 who must have been at.Fernwood, this very morning, 
 when every one supposed you to be in New York !" 
 
 Richard smiled, a trifle sadly, and then said, seriously, 
 " Do you think that I was not really in New York ?" 
 
 26
 
 302 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " What, then ?" 
 
 " I do not understand." 
 
 " I cannot explain. Please give me my telegram." 
 
 " You mean that you will not explain ! There is no 
 hurry about the telegram," she added ; " it is only to 
 ask you to do something. Do you want to know what 
 I really think of your conduct ?" 
 
 " More than anything else in the world," he declared 
 with fervor ; " but first tell me, was that message from 
 Mrs. Henderson or about her?" 
 
 Nathalie laughed at this, a trifle unnaturally. Why, if 
 Ledyard were in earnest, as she felt all the time that he 
 was in spite of her assumed levity, why should he be 
 anxious about this other woman ? She would not listen 
 to the inner voice that asked this question, but answered, 
 
 gayly 
 
 " Well, no ; it was not from Mrs. Henderson, and I 
 hope not about her. Now as to what I think, it is this f 
 You have allowed yourself to be placed in a false posi- 
 tion in order to shield some one who is really to blame." 
 
 " That is not exactly true," replied Richard. 
 
 " Is it not true that you have been misrepresented by 
 appearances ? Have you not been trying to do right ?" 
 
 " In my way, I have, of course, and I am deeply grate- 
 ful to you for believing it in the very teeth of calumny, 
 but I may not say more." He rose from his seat as he 
 spoke, and Nathalie rose too in dismay. Should she 
 let him go without the message ? 
 
 " At least you have acknowledged that it is calumny" 
 she said. " So far I am triumphant." 
 
 " Why should you care ?" he asked, with emotion. 
 
 Nathalie hesitated. "Because I hate injustice!" she 
 said, virtuously. 
 
 " And I love you !" he returned, drawing himself up 
 to his full height and crossing his arms on his breast. 
 " I did not mean to tell you so, but / cannot help it. 
 Have I any hope ?" 
 
 She did not answer. They were standing opposite
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 303 
 
 to one another now in the veranda. The tardy moon 
 had crept round impertinently until it was looking di- 
 rectly into Nathalie's face, and although her eyelids had 
 swept suddenly down so as to hide the expression of 
 her eyes, there was a smile of tremulous gladness on 
 her lips which betrayed her to Ledyard's joyous, in- 
 credulous eyes. 
 
 " Do you love me, dear Nathalie ?" he asked, drawing 
 nearer as he spoke. " Can you ? Will you ?" he whis- 
 pered, gazing at her with entreaty, still half in doubt. 
 
 Her answer was so faint that it might have been mis- 
 taken for a sigh, but the next moment his lips were close 
 to hers. He was holding her in his arms. He had laid 
 her lovely head upon his shoulder and was kissing the 
 soft locks of her hair, that looked like a halo about her 
 face in the silver light. His surprise and delight at 
 finding that she cared for him were so great that for a 
 time he forgot all else. He only remembered that he 
 had not dared to hope that she could love him as he 
 knew that he loved her almost from the moment they 
 first met. He no longer thought of her worldly position 
 as a barrier, and the advantages she was likely to have 
 had of opportunity, or her probable taste for society that 
 would find little gratification in his humble life of work. 
 Even had he suspected that she was an heiress, had he 
 known of all the admirers she had had during the pre- 
 vious winter, it is not likely that he would have been 
 less mad. He was swept for the time being beyond his 
 bearings, beyond the power of reasoning, or the dictates 
 of common sense and cold, hard judgment. He only 
 knew that she had said she loved him. He only realized 
 in a moment of intensest joy that their happiness was 
 mutual, and was conscious, as a drowning man might 
 be, of all his past life that seemed to lead up to this one 
 point, while all his days to come, on which he had 
 counted for their probable fruit, seemed vanishing into 
 smoke, as if they were nothing and would bring nothing 
 without the crowning good which he only now might 
 grasp !
 
 304 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 And Nathalie yielded to his caresses for a while, thrilled 
 with the wonder and the sweetness of being loved by 
 one who had seemed to her so far above her in all the 
 qualities she prized most dearly, that she had deemed 
 her own love presumptuous at some times, at others 
 hopeless. But a reaction came to all his gladness, and 
 it came first to her when memory, temporarily lulled to 
 sleep by happiness, awoke and roused within her a pro- 
 phetic sense of approaching evil, a certainty of misfortune 
 closing in about them, which lent an element of tragedy 
 to the very extremity of joy. 
 
 There were her mother and her worldly half-sisters 
 already holding up shadowy fingers of disapproval in 
 her fancy at Nathalie's engagement to this obscure Mr. 
 Ledyard from no one knew where ! What did they 
 know of the transcendent eloquence, the rare devotion 
 to his calling, the lofty views, the all-conquering enthu- 
 siasm, the irresistible charm of the village pastor, in 
 which qualities she believed so firmly? There was 
 Cynthia even, who, much as she liked and admired Mr. 
 Ledyard, had tried to warn her only the night before, 
 and, whatever she might say in gentleness through pity 
 for Nathalie's weakness, would be sure to accuse her in 
 her own calm, strong heart, so the younger sister thought, 
 of acting rashly, ignorantly, without due deliberation or 
 regard for herself and others ! 
 
 Then there was that fatal message in Nathalie's pocket, 
 the meaning of which was so mysterious ! Did she dare 
 to keep it from her lover any longer ? Had she any 
 right to do so without knowing that which he had re- 
 fused to tell? Would she have him branded as a 
 coward? Surely not! The insulting word filled her 
 with rage. How might it be if he never received the 
 message, could any one accuse him for not obeying it ? 
 She shook her head at this suggestion. It would require 
 to be proved that he had not received it, and how could 
 that be? Did not Mr. Cushman know of its having 
 come ? Had she not taken charge of it with the osten- 
 sible purpose of giving it to Mr. Ledyard? Had he
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 30$ 
 
 not been told by Mr. Cushman of its arrival, and come 
 to see her with the apparent intention of obtaining it as 
 one of his objects ? 
 
 Just at this moment Ledyard spoke. " Dearest," 
 he said, " it is growing late. I must not linger longer. 
 With your sister away it is not right, hard though it be 
 to part. Give me that telegram," he added, gently, 
 " for it may be something to which I should attend at 
 once, although you did not think it of importance." 
 
 At these words her very heart stood still. It wa? 
 hard enough to part, as he had said, but to be called 
 upon to deliver such a message ! 
 
 " What if I should refuse to give you the telegram 
 until you make me some further explanation ?" she asked, 
 archly. " Have I not a right to ask it ?" 
 
 " You have, indeed. There is no limit to your right, 
 or to the confidence that I would give you if I could. 
 The restriction is only in what / have a right to say to 
 you or any one," said Ledyard. 
 
 " You are sure that it is not a question of what you 
 want to say ?" 
 
 " Quite sure, for you are dearer to me than any other 
 thing on earth ; and do you not believe that I would tell 
 you if I could?" 
 
 " Perhaps ; but must you see this message ?" 
 
 " I must, indeed. You have not even told me from 
 whom it may be. Are you not rather a tyrant ?" 
 
 " Do you think so ?" she asked, contritely. " Well, it 
 is from Lieutenant Henderson. Come into the lighted 
 room, where you can read it." 
 
 "From Henderson! Oh, let me see it at once!" he 
 exclaimed, anxiously, as she led the way into the little 
 parlor. Then as he took it from her trembling hand, 
 opened and read it by the light of the shaded lamp 
 which Marjory had placed on the table, his face changed. 
 Nathalie had never seen it wear an expression of such 
 -pride or so much restrained indignation. 
 
 " Surely you had no thought, my love, of withholding 
 such a message as this ?" he inquired, proudly. 
 u 26*
 
 306 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 She did not answer, but watched him crumple it up 
 angrily and stuff it into his waistcoat-pocket before he 
 took his hat and turned again to her, evidently to take 
 leave. 
 
 " Must you go ?" she asked, imploringly. 
 
 " I must, indeed." He glanced nervously towards the 
 clock. It was ten minutes after ten. " Good-night, dear 
 Nathalie," he said, gravely. 
 
 " Oh, if you knew the misery of being left thus in 
 ignorance, in solitude, and in suspense !" she cried, des- 
 perately. 
 
 " Do not be worried, dear heart. Nothing will happen 
 to me, and to-morrow I promise to explain everything. 
 It is only a misunderstanding, after all, this part of it 
 at least," he added, hurriedly. 
 
 " What part of it ? You cannot make me believe that 
 you are not angry, or that you are not going to meet 
 another angry man ! I can read the danger in your 
 eyes." 
 
 " Come, sweet love, be brave !" he answered, tenderly, 
 as she clung to him in mortal fear. 
 
 " I know he will kill you, or you him !" she cried. 
 
 " Nonsense ! There is no cause. It is all a mistake. 
 Come, let me go, dear. There is no danger. Do I look 
 like one about to commit murder ?" 
 
 He pressed her in his arms with a long parting kiss, 
 then placed her in a chair beside the window near which 
 they were standing. 
 
 " I understand all your anxiety, my most dear Nath- 
 alie," he whispered, " and now that I realize that after 
 you knew me to have been thus taunted you yet gave 
 me your heart, I am doubly grateful for your generous 
 love and trust."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 307 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Ir was curious that Mrs. Henderson never distinctly 
 realized that she had left her home, her husband, and 
 her child of her own determination, casting aside with 
 them all that was most dear to her, until the moment 
 that she was waving a farewell on the platform at Dun- 
 stable junction. She had been too much occupied with 
 the necessity for immediate action, with the impossibility 
 of remaining another night at Fernwood if she would 
 not face that which she dreaded more than death, to be 
 alive to the full meaning of what she did, or to see or 
 hear any material thing about her, even to feel bodily 
 pain. 
 
 Great grief, like intense joy, is narrowing in its effect 
 upon the intellect, or the perception of those things which 
 surround us, as long as its pressure urges us to action ; 
 but once the time when it is possible to do is past, and 
 all is done which devotion or ecstasy or passion had dic- 
 tated, so that there are no alternatives but resignation 
 or despair, the smallest thing about us begins to intrude 
 itself on our reluctant attention. It may challenge us in 
 the form of some petty annoyance, it may bid us look 
 on a more bitter trial than our own just when we would 
 hug our sorrow or magnify it, as we will, and long to be 
 at peace. Sometimes relentless association stirs in the 
 magic boots of fancy, by which we travel over leagues 
 of territory, but now made desolate at a single leap, or 
 fly backward or forward over years or centuries as with 
 one flap of Time's swift wings, seeing no familiar face to 
 comfort, no faintest ray of hope ! 
 
 Thus it was that Posey, to whom the night journey to 
 New York, the arrival long after midnight in a great 
 city, the questioning faces of the sleepy clerk and surly 
 driver, or the impertinent grin of the hotel porter, had 
 been as nothing, unnoticed and uncared for ; who was
 
 308 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 hardly conscious of the shape, or of a single article of 
 furniture in the bedroom in which she had not touched 
 the bed the night before, unless mayhap the general 
 form of the marble-topped table on which she had writ- 
 ten her letter, suddenly awoke when the letter was no 
 longer in her keeping, after she had said good-bye to 
 Richard Ledyard and the train which was bearing him 
 and it back to Dundaff had left the station at which she 
 was expected to await the train for Dunstable, her girl- 
 hood's home ! 
 
 She found that she had begun to think, to see things 
 about her. She even wondered in a strange, impersonal 
 sort of way, without taking much interest ir. the matter, 
 where she might be going, and how it happened that she 
 was there. Then she was conscious of a violent pain in 
 her head, and that her limbs felt stiff and weary as though 
 she had grown suddenly old, but she could not keep her 
 attention upon herself. Her mind went wandering off, 
 aimlessly, to anything and everything she saw. 
 
 She noticed in detail a family party waiting as she 
 was for a train to take them thence, only that they were 
 bound for one of the large cities through which she had 
 just passed and had come from such a quiet hamlet as 
 was her destination. 
 
 There were a man, a woman, a baby, and two boys, 
 who were bent on taking with them their favorite pet, 
 that looked something between a dog and a monkey, 
 but might be classified as a puppy. One of the boys, 
 the older, had it buttoned up inside his reefer for fear it 
 should be seen by the conductor of the train they were 
 expecting, on which dogs were not allowed except as 
 baggage. The other lad, who seemed wiser if younger, 
 feared the dog would be suffocated, and thought this 
 would be almost as distressing to it as a separation from 
 its master. 
 
 Finally they compromised on the luncheon-basket 
 which the woman had brought from home heavily loaded, 
 while her husband carried the baby, not an uncom- 
 non division of labor in our free country. Evidently the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 309 
 
 chief fear of the whole party at setting forth on their 
 journey had been that of starvation, but the time of 
 waiting at this their first stopping-place being tedious, 
 and the smell of cold corn-bread and bacon beinsr ren- 
 
 o 
 
 dered more appetizing by the fresh air, they forgot their 
 fears for the future in the enjoyment of a premature 
 luncheon. 
 
 The life of the puppy was saved by its being allowed 
 to put its head out to eat something and its refusing to 
 do so, while on the happily-achieved emptying of the 
 covered basket he was briskly transferred from the inside 
 of his master's jacket to this more airy prison, with his 
 confinement in which it yet appeared more difficult to 
 reconcile him. But the sound of the approaching train 
 striking terror to the hearts of his jailers, they hastily 
 shut him in, a wriggling bundle of legs and tail, at the 
 imminent risk of breaking some of these appendages 
 with the sharp edge of the descending lid. 
 
 Then they both scrambled on to the rear car just in 
 time, almost on top of their mother and the baby, who 
 had been pushed on first by the hard-working father. 
 Thus they all went off, borne by the great steam monster, 
 which shrieked and spluttered fiercely as it vanished, 
 leaving only a whiff of smoke behind. 
 
 After this everything was quiet for a long while. 
 There were fewer travellers than usual, the day being 
 Sunday, when there is a feeling abroad that it is not 
 canny to travel. Even the man who carried the baby 
 had thought it necessary to explain to the station-master 
 that he was going that day because he could only get 
 work in the city if he were there early on the Monday 
 morning. 
 
 Posey heard and saw all these things as she sat at one 
 side of the little square waiting-room and stared hope- 
 lessly at the huge rusty iron stove in the centre, that she 
 remembered, as it seemed to her, always. How hid- 
 eously ugly it was! and yet it must have been kept for 
 ornament in summer, one would suppose, as it was only 
 of use in winter.
 
 3 TO BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 By and by the train from the nearest market-town 
 came along, and paused in a sociable, easy manner to 
 take passengers before proceeding on its leisurely way 
 to Dunstable. Should she get into it or not? She 
 wondered what she was about to do, much as if she had 
 been speculating over the movements of a stranger, but 
 finally decided that she was more willing to do that than 
 anything else, and got in. Individual adventure seemed 
 to have grown strangely unimportant to her. The chief 
 object for which she was struggling was to avoid seeing 
 her husband's face. Yet it was always before her, she 
 found, unless she made a great effort to concentrate her 
 attention on something besides. It did not look natural, 
 of course, not as she knew it and loved it, but altered as 
 it had seemed when he came to her with that note yes- 
 terday, as it would look when he had read her letter ! 
 Oh, if it would but look less stern and bitter ! If it 
 would but hold one ray of pity, of tenderness, how- 
 soever mixed with disapproval, even with contempt! 
 He had been, she told herself, so dear a husband to her, 
 and ah ! she had loved him so, and it was all over over 
 over over. 
 
 The monotonous rattle and irregular motion of the 
 car, shaking from side to side, as it passed along the 
 badly-laid rails of the rough rural track, seemed to take 
 up the word and repeat it indefinitely. There were but 
 two cars to the train, and but three other persons in the 
 one in which she sat. They were all solitary travellers 
 like herself, yet two of them seemed inclined to socia- 
 bility. They made acquaintance and struck up a lively 
 conversation, which increased her headache. Being men, 
 they talked of politics. The woman who was her third 
 companion was very silent, and Posey soon discovered 
 that she was asleep. 
 
 It was three o'clock when they reached Dunstable, 
 the same hour at which the express train in which 
 Richard Ledyard had pursued his way was due at Dun- 
 daff, after passing over three or four times the distance 
 traversed by her, but she was entirely indifferent to the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 31 1 
 
 delay. Time no longer seemed of value. It was a 
 beautiful afternoon. The sun was shining with unwonted 
 splendor. A soft breeze fresh from the sea greeted her 
 as she stepped from the train, but it brought no balm, 
 no refreshment, no comfort to her, in her despair. 
 
 She knew well the wooded path she had to traverse 
 from the village to the parsonage, but it looked strange 
 to-day, and when she reached her girlhood's home it 
 seemed suddenly unfamiliar. There it stood, a square 
 white-painted wooden house, quite dazzling in the sun- 
 shine, with prosaic old commonplace green shutters and 
 that particular expression of having looked the same 
 always, which she remembered so exactly, and yet it 
 seemed different. It was difficult to define what had 
 happened to it and its surroundings, otherwise than that 
 they no longer appeared to be tragically dull and color- 
 less as they once had impressed her in her youthful im- 
 patience, but almost seemed to her unreal and ghostly. 
 
 She shuddered, and gave a great sigh, which was half 
 a sob now, as she stood before the door, while her heart 
 swelled nigh to bursting with its lonely sorrow, but she 
 would not go in to meet the love the house held for her. 
 An instinct warned her against the softening influence 
 of her mother's eyes. What if she should ask her about 
 Wilfred? She dared not trust her hard resolution to 
 the melting touch of sympathy, and, after pausing for 
 some length of time within a few yards of the door, 
 she turned off, following a path which led to a grove of 
 scrubby pine-trees behind the house. 
 
 It was here that Henderson had first kissed her in 
 the twilight, on the eve of his departure with Neil from 
 D unstable after' the boyish love-making that meant so 
 little with him and so much to her. She remembered 
 it all quite well, and how she moped about the place 
 when he was gone, and how the simple homely life that 
 had been pleasant enough before seemed utterly unbear- 
 able until Mrs. Pelham had come and taken her away. 
 She wished she had not gone upon the stage, and felt 
 more sure than ever that she would not have done so
 
 ? 12 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 but that her father had commanded her to return to that 
 eventless life filled with a hopeless longing. Yes, it was 
 all her father's fault she decided, and she had been very 
 hardly treated in the world, and she was desperately 
 sorry for herself. To any misfortune which she might 
 have chanced to bring on any one else she was either 
 unconscious or indifferent. 
 
 As she sat down on a mound of sand among the pine- 
 trees she did not think of her husband's desolated home, 
 of all her child might suffer from the want of her care and 
 love, the idea that with many women in her position 
 would have been paramount. She was saved the inde- 
 cision which might have risen from conflicting motives 
 in another nature, as well as the forms of suffering 
 which would have afflicted a more sympathetic soul, by 
 the simplicity of her incentive, which was, as it always 
 had been, to do what she wanted to do herself, at any 
 cost. Let no one imagine, however, that on this account 
 her lot was less difficult, for it is, after all, with mental as 
 it is with physical suffering, one can only endure a given 
 amount of it, and one form shuts out another. 
 
 Just now Posey was filled with memories of her girl- 
 hood. The spot to which her wandering feet had 
 brought her was one where she used to play with her 
 older brother when he came during his school vacations 
 to Dunstable, while Posey was yet a very little child, and 
 later with her younger brothers and sister. As she sat 
 in this well-remembered grove, the slight elevation of 
 which enabled one to see the ocean spread out peace- 
 fully in the sunshine while its waters washed up in min- 
 iature waves on the sandy shore, a great desire came 
 upon her to once more see her mother. She wished 
 for one last look at her, she told herself, but she would 
 not run the risk of being seen by her. She determined 
 to wait where she was until it should be dark, so that 
 she could look in upon her and see without being seen. 
 
 The soft sighing of the wind among the pine-trees, 
 the distant breaking of the waves, and the great physical 
 fatigue which she had undergone, gradually conspired to
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 313 
 
 lull her to sleep, and with her weary head against the 
 trunk of a tall pine she temporarily forgot her grief. 
 
 The sun was gone when she awoke, and the moon 
 had come instead, making strange fantastic shadows all 
 about her from the black-stemmed pines. She was chilled 
 with the night air, and shivered, but her first act was to 
 feel in her bosom nervously for a little vial which had been 
 there since she arrived in New York and visited the 
 druggist the night before. It would be well to end all 
 this, she said to herself. Then she recalled the thought 
 with which she had fallen asleep, and rose, and cautiously, 
 stealthily, crept near the house. 
 
 A ruddy glow might be seen as she approached, 
 thrown by the light in the kitchen. Posey passed round 
 to the front, where the evening lamps were lighted. She 
 knew well what her mother would be doing at about 
 this hour of a Sunday evening, and where to find her. 
 She silently approached the room that had once been 
 her father's study, and climbed on to a wooden seat be- 
 neath the window, where a bed of sage and mignonette 
 was sweetening the air. Thus she peeped into the 
 lighted room through the half-open slats of the shutter, 
 inside of which the glass was closed. 
 
 Her mother was seated by the table. She and Posey 's 
 younger sister and two little brothers were taking turns 
 in reading from the Bible. They seemed deeply ab- 
 sorbed. Of course they little dreamed of the sad, cold 
 face, with its look of bitterness and desperation, which 
 was pressed against the blind just outside; the while 
 with so much between, Posey could only hear the mur- 
 mur of voices and nothing of what was said. She only 
 knew that they were in peace while she was in torment. 
 She only realized that a gulf yawned between herself 
 and the once innocent life which she had hated and fled.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 MEANWHILE, Millard Henderson arrived in New York 
 about five hours after his wife had left there. He lirove 
 at once to the hotel of which Cynthia had give) him 
 the address, and asked for Richard Ledyard. H ; was 
 told that Mr. Ledyard had left that morning. He nsked 
 if he had any one with him, and was answered that he 
 went away in company with a lady. Feeling sick at 
 heart, he inquired the description of the lady, whether 
 she had come with Mr. Ledyard, etc., only to learn that 
 the lady had arrived in the middle of the night, and, on 
 the night porter's being summoned, to hear his wife's 
 dress and bonnet described exactly, while without further 
 questioning the fellow went on to detail the scene which 
 he had witnessed when summoned by Mr. Ledyard to 
 bring a glass of water to his fainting companion that 
 morning. 
 
 Searching the hotel register, it was discovered that 
 Posey had written her name as Mrs. Periwinkle, already, 
 as it seemed to Millard, casting aside his. name, as she 
 had done his wishes and protection. Could any case 
 seem clearer? Had he not the best possible proof of 
 her unworthiness ? And what was he to think of 
 PJchard Ledyard ? What words could be too black to 
 paint so arrant a knave, so hypocritical a blasphemer of 
 God and of man's highest instincts, such a desecrator 
 of good faith, of honor, of decency ? 
 
 All these and many more such bitter thoughts and 
 indignant expressions flashed through the brain of Mil- 
 lard Henderson as he listened to the malicious negro, 
 who half suspected the fact that he was speaking to the 
 husband of the lady whose character he was doing his 
 best to blacken. Yet Henderson made no sign of what 
 he felt, until he surprised the fellow by suddenly turning 
 upon him a look of such concentrated fury as effectually
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 315 
 
 silenced his evil tongue, and, flinging him a silver coin, 
 strode out of the hotel with a demon in the place of the 
 calm and reasonable spirit which usually governed his 
 judgment and his actions. 
 
 He had forgotten that there was no proof that Mr. 
 Ledyard had planned or intended to decoy his wife 
 away ; he had forgotten that he knew nothing as to what 
 course he had advised her to pursue, or what motive 
 had induced her to seek him. The theory of Posey's 
 possible insanity, with which he had been so filled that 
 morning, had somehow all faded from his memory. His 
 mind had become as a blank to every impression except 
 the all-mastering conviction which possessed him, that 
 he had been deeply, shamefully wronged. 
 
 He felt it his duty to follow as quickly as possible on 
 the track of his reckless wife, and to this end he was 
 obliged to acquire all available information; but the 
 farther he proceeded in the graceless inquiry the more 
 he hated his task, and the stronger grew his indignation 
 against her partner in what he had already come in his 
 thoughts to condemn as the most shameless of intrigues. 
 
 It was easy to ascertain that the two people he wished 
 to trace had left their hotel for a certain station with the 
 declared purpose of taking a certain through train for 
 Washington. It was a little more difficult to learn 
 whether they had really gone to this station and taken 
 this train, to conjecture at what precise point on the road 
 they had intended to stop, or to imagine where they 
 might be now. At length, by dint of describing them, 
 however, and minutely questioning porters, station-mas- 
 ters, and last, but not least, the ticket-vender, he was 
 convinced that they had done what they said they would 
 do, and even succeeded in making the agent remember 
 that one ticket, at least, had been purchased for Dundaff : 
 he was not sure about others. Henderson was not long 
 in concluding that wherever Posey might have taken 
 refuge, which the eccentricity of her late conduct ren- 
 dered it impossible to determine just yet, Mr. Ledyard 
 was certainly likely to have returned to DundafF, hoping
 
 316 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 by so doing to divert suspicion from himself. Millard 
 bought his own ticket accordingly, and occupied most 
 of the time before the next train started in sending the 
 ferocious telegram which caused such a profound com- 
 motion in the gentle breast of Mr. Cushman, by whom 
 it was first received. 
 
 Millard had very little hope that the message would 
 either find the true delinquent or be regarded by him, 
 for he argued that the person who could betray his con- 
 fidence and his honor with such barefaced imposture as 
 Ledyard had employed was likely to be a " sneak" and 
 a " coward," as well as a " scoundrel ;" and as such he 
 denounced him while he consumed a hasty luncheon. 
 It was, however, an undoubted if a painful satisfaction 
 to have given so much vent as the telegram afforded to 
 his overwrought feelings, and a first step towards his 
 object of finding Mrs. Henderson to find Ledyard, even 
 if he had not longed to meet and taunt him face to face. 
 He said to himself grimly that if Mr. Ledyard should 
 receive the message it might " render his saintly smile a 
 shade less complacent." 
 
 On, on, on rushed the train, carrying him back to his 
 dishonored roof, back to his desolate home, back to his 
 forsaken child, back to his vengeance ! It swept past 
 station after station, past towns and villages and lonely 
 hamlets, through bright fields and through dark forests, 
 between high hills that shut out the sunshine, across 
 wide rivers that reflected it from daylight unto dusk, and 
 then for hours of faint, cold moonlight! 
 
 Sometimes Millard sunk into a half-sleep, only to start 
 and waken suddenly with a chill sense of loneliness and 
 misery. 
 
 It was during this last and longest-drawn-out portion 
 of his wretched journey that he passed the station at 
 which Posey had parted with Ledyard that morning. 
 
 " D unstable Junction !" shouted a brakeman, and Hen- 
 derson turned instinctively towards the window. He 
 had not been to Dunstable since that boyish excursion 
 long ago on which he had first met Posey. She had
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 317 
 
 held no communication with her family since their mar- 
 riage until the death of her father, and on the only occa- 
 sion since then when she had visited her mother had 
 not been willing that he should accompany her, as he 
 now remembered with peculiar bitterness. Still, it was 
 natural that he should associate the place with her, and 
 no marvel that he should have gazed out anxiously over 
 the cold moonlit country with a vague stirring of un- 
 easiness lest she might have sought shelter with her 
 mother, and he should be missing his chief object of 
 quickly finding her, in his impetuous desire to meet the 
 man who had wronged him and to be revenged. 
 
 Could his eyes have pierced the mists of evening, 
 defying distance ; could his spirit have flown as his mem- 
 ory did to the little fishing-village of Dunstable on the 
 bleak sea-coast, where Posey that afternoon had stepped 
 on to the platform at the station which was the terminus 
 of the local railroad ; could he have followed the long 
 lonely road from the village to the isolated parsonage 
 as she had done, the rest of his life might have been 
 different. As it was, however, the train swept by the 
 junction and carried him with it. 
 
 Little did he dream of the desolate figure which was 
 flitting like a ghost about the home of her childhood, 
 with despair in her heart and a mind possessed with 
 but one idea, which grew more and more near and ter- 
 rible to herself with every passing moment. If he had 
 done so, he must have realized that, however grave the 
 faults of his wife might be, she was suffering enough 
 this day to expiate them ; but he did not. He was think- 
 ing most of Richard Ledyard, of how shamefully he 
 had used him, of the satisfaction that it would be to con- 
 front him and denounce him as a hypocrite and a liar, 
 face to face !
 
 3l8 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 SEATED in the window, Nathalie looked after Richard 
 Ledyard until his form became as a shadow and at last 
 faded quite away in the moonlight. Then she leaned 
 her face on her hands, and thought with the most in- 
 tense earnestness, searching in her mind for the hun- 
 dredth time to find the clue to the mystery. 
 
 With the strange half-human instinct of sympathy 
 which one often sees in intelligent animals, old Neptune 
 became troubled at her attitude, and came to her side, 
 softly whining to attract attention, but in vain until he 
 actually pressed his cold nose against her hands after a 
 manner which forced her to remove them, if only to ad- 
 monish him for his interference. Then followed the 
 sportive Buttercup with playful wiles to divert her into 
 an evening romp with a ball, but Nathalie was not to 
 be moved. She was filled with apprehension which she 
 could not throw off. 
 
 The wilful little kitten, bent on having its play, finally 
 enticed Neptune into a hurdle-race over the furniture 
 and under it, in the midst of which frolic it came out 
 with a crumpled bit of paper from beneath the sofa, one 
 moment clawing and biting it vehemently, the next 
 pushing it along with its soft little paws and patting it 
 affectionately after the manner of kitten-kind. 
 
 Suddenly Nathalie noticed that there was writing on 
 the paper, and, stooping down, hurriedly picked it up, 
 when, to her utter astonishment, the first words which 
 met her eyes were those which composed the name that 
 was echoing through her heart, about which all hope 
 and all sensation seemed just then to centre. It was 
 the full name of Richard Ledyard. She experienced a 
 dazed sensation, and laid her hand over the crumpled 
 page for a moment, while she tried to think. Should 
 she read this writing which had thus strangely come into
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 319 
 
 her hands ? Why not ? Had he not said himself that 
 there was no limit to her right in him ? Yet he had re- 
 fused to tell her what she asked. Was that because to 
 do so would involve some other person whom he might 
 not betray? At least she believed so, and she had 
 arrived at a point of conviction that to-night was to be 
 the crisis of his fate and hers. Should she let a mere 
 scruple, however honorable to herself, stand in the way 
 of obtaining the information possessing which she might 
 possibly save him from death or disgrace ? 
 
 Her conscience, or her will, thus questioned, answered 
 definitely, no ! She flew to the little table in the centre 
 of the room, and there, spreading out the crumpled letter, 
 read its contents almost to the end, although it was not 
 even addressed to Ledyard, but to another person, with 
 whose affairs she had even less right to meddle. It was, 
 in fact, the letter which Mrs. Henderson had received 
 from her mother when just recovering from the illness 
 that followed her accident, the letter which had been 
 given her to read by her husband in that very room, 
 and which must, when she was suddenly overcome with 
 faintness, have dropped down behind the sofa, and there 
 remained unheeded all these weeks. (Its presence did 
 not speak well for old Marjory's care in sweeping the 
 room, but should probably be charged to the account 
 of her failing eyesight.) " Although you begged me 
 not to write to you, dear Posey," began the letter, " I 
 cannot but send a line to express to you the anxiety 
 and distress I have felt at hearing of the terrible acci- 
 dent in which you came so near losing your life. The 
 account of it was copied into The Dunstable News, our 
 county paper, and I saw to my dismay that ' Mrs. Hen- 
 derson was found senseless on the road, and carried to 
 the nearest cottage by the Rev. Richard Ledyard '/ My 
 dear, did he recognize you ? And if so, how is that 
 marriage to be any longer kept a secret? Would it not 
 be better to tell your present husband of it frankly, and 
 so avoid the shock and shame of its being found out?" 
 
 Nathalie paused with a strange tightening of the
 
 32O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 muscles about her heart, as if a cold hand had seized 
 and was compressing it. " That marriage !" What 
 could the words mean ? Surely not that the man she 
 loved had loved and been married to this other woman ? 
 And, yet, what else? The letter spoke next of the 
 death of the writer's husband, Mrs. Henderson's father, 
 within a year. Nathalie read on desperately, with a 
 burning sense of injury that dulled all other feelings for 
 the time. 
 
 " I have not told you, my dear, how Richard felt when 
 I explained to him the unfortunate circumstances prior to 
 your hasty marriage, or how indignant he was both with 
 me and with you for having left him ignorant of them so 
 long. Vainly I assured him that I had been ignorant 
 of them myself until too late to interfere. He was quite 
 implacable, even when I gave him your deprecating 
 note, and as unreasonable as men usually are when they 
 are angry. It is true that, being the only explanation of 
 your disappearance, this little note may have seemed 
 rather aggravating. You remember that while you were 
 careful to withhold from him the name of your former 
 lover, you did not hesitate to tell him that you were now 
 united to the only man whose wife you should ever have 
 been, and went on to say that the reason you had gone 
 away as you did and would not give any clue to your 
 new name and surroundings, was through fear that he 
 might try to follow you. Indeed, your conduct was 
 hard enough to forgive for all of those who loved you, 
 your refusing to hold any communication with me, 
 especially ; and you certainly deceived Richard cruelly, 
 appealing as you did to his compassion, and trying to 
 awaken his old affection ; but he need not have been so 
 furiously excited as he was. He assured me in tones of 
 the most concentrated scorn that he never wished to be 
 hold your face again. He declared that you had 'duped,' 
 ' betrayed' him, ' entrapped his honor,' and used Heaven 
 knows what other exaggerated expressions of displeasure. 
 But enough of this. I only write of it at all to show you 
 what temper your sudden departure left him in,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 321 
 
 that although his anger has probably long passed, the 
 memory of it may make him hard and unyielding now. 
 Indeed, dear, in view of the strange coincidence of Richard 
 Ledyard'f being called to the church at Dundafif just 
 as you and Lieutenant Henderson have returned from 
 abroad and are to live there permanently, it would be 
 much wiser to speak to Mr. Henderson at once, hard as 
 it would be, and tell him all the truth ; or, if you cannot 
 bring yourself to do this, you must seek an interview 
 with Richard as soon as possible, and see what terms 
 you can make with him. How I wish that I could see 
 you, my erring yet beloved child !" 
 
 The letter was after this but the expression of a 
 mother's unchanging devotion, and, although not im- 
 pressed with the general tone of the writer, which might 
 certainly have been more lofty, Nathalie, excited as she 
 was and shocked as she felt by what she had read, did 
 not feel that she had the faintest excuse to pry further 
 into its confidence. Indeed, besides the pain there was 
 at her heart, she laid it down with an unwonted sense 
 of shame at her determined perusal of what had been 
 intended for no other eyes than those of the unhappy 
 woman whose secret history was thus laid bare before 
 her. 
 
 " It serves me right ! It serves me right !" she mur- 
 mured, burying her face in her hands and giving way 
 to a passionate burst of tears. Then came the reaction 
 to her self-contempt, in which she asked herself how it 
 happened that she of all others, Nathalie Arkwright, 
 had been treated like this. What had she done? 
 How dared any one behave to her as Ledyard had? 
 She tried to hate him, and hated herself that she but 
 half succeeded, while she was still plunged in these 
 bitter feelings, when a sound of wheels and the tramp 
 of horses aroused her to listen, with a sort of startled 
 wonder as to what might bring a carriage on that lonely 
 road so late at night. Then the idea occurred to her 
 that it might be the carriage from Fernwood, and with 
 it came the thought of Henderson's dreaded arrival and
 
 322 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the interview she had been so anxious to prevent, a half 
 an hour before, between him and Ledyard. Even as the 
 fancy flitted through her mind she heard the carriage 
 stop for one moment just opposite the entrance, and then 
 drive on faster than ever. 
 
 Some one had alighted and was coming through the 
 garden. Nathalie could hear the footsteps, and the bushes 
 being pushed aside, before she could see the figure, al- 
 though she was now again at the window, straining 
 out into the still, bright moonlight. There was a faint 
 rustle accompanying the steps, which told of a woman's 
 skirt, and the next instant she distinctly saw the tall 
 figure of her sister drawing rapidly near. 
 
 " Cynthia !" 
 
 " Yes, Nathalie." 
 
 " What brought you back ?" 
 
 " Several reasons. One was that I could not feel easy, 
 dear, about you. I had a fear that you might want me. 
 There was a look in your eyes when I left you to-night 
 which kept returning to my mind and troubled me all 
 the evening." 
 
 Cynthia was in the room by this time, standing in front 
 of Nathalie, who still sat by the window, and turned her 
 face instinctively away from the light of the lamp towards 
 the more friendly moonlight. She could not prevent 
 her tear-stained cheeks, however, and the tremulous 
 curves of her mouth, from being seen. When Cynthia 
 with her strong yet tender face bent over her, put out 
 her arms, and gathered the girl to her heart, Nathalie 
 gave a sigh of relief at the sense of comforting sympathy 
 and affection that, while it could not remove her distress, 
 seemed somehow to render it less unbearable than during 
 the lonely misery of the first realizing consciousness of 
 loss. But she could not tell her grief; it was as yet too 
 fresh ; and, finding her unable or unwilling to reply to her 
 anxious questioning, Cynthia was silent for a while, and 
 then began to talk of other things, explaining how on 
 arriving at Fern wood that evening she and Mrs. Pelham 
 had been greatly relieved by finding a telegram from
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 323 
 
 Lieutenant Henderson to say that he would return in 
 the eleven-o'clock train. This had made Cynthia feel 
 it unnecessary to remain there all night. She had ac- 
 cordingly taken advantage of the carriage, which was 
 ordered to the station to meet the master of the house, 
 to come back to Nathalie; but she had no sooner men- 
 tioned this fact than Nathalie started up distractedly, 
 recalled to a sense of the immediate danger to her lover, 
 the thought of whom, even though unworthy, so pos- 
 sessed her that for the moment she could think of noth- 
 ing else. 
 
 " Was that the carriage ? Has it gone after him ? 
 Has he come already? There will be a duel, Cynthia! 
 There will be a duel !" she exclaimed, wildly. " Mr. 
 Henderson telegraphed to Mr. Ledyard oh, such a 
 shocking message, and he has gone to meet him ! What 
 shall we do ? What can we do ?" 
 
 " We must prevent it," replied Cynthia, instantly re- 
 alizing the gravity of the situation. " Where was the 
 meeting to be ?" 
 
 " He told him to meet him at the station." 
 
 " So much the better. Nothing very bad could happen 
 there I think. We must go at once, though." 
 
 " Where ?" 
 
 " To the station." 
 
 " Can we go there ?" 
 
 " Not alone, of course. I shall stop for Dr. Danforth 
 and get him to go with us. Come, Nathalie, it is ten 
 minutes of eleven. There is not a moment to be lost. 
 But perhaps, dear, you had better not go ? You looked 
 tired when I came." 
 
 " Tired !" exclaimed Nathalie. " Do you think I would 
 let you go without me ? I was only borne down with 
 a sense of powerlessness and misery ; but it seems to me, 
 Cynthia, that you are never powerless. It is wonderful 
 how you always think of something to do." 
 
 The two sisters were already half-way down the garden 
 as Nathalie spoke, for both were fully conscious of the 
 pressure of time. It so chanced that the moon, although
 
 324 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 still high in the heavens, had gone behind a cloud, so 
 that the tall shrubs and lilac-bushes seemed to stand up 
 black and threatening as they passed. They were soon 
 out on the high-road, had crossed it, and Nathalie, with 
 Cynthia's aid, was passing rapidly down the steep steps 
 which led from the top of the hill to the village. 
 
 She clung closely to her sister as they came out on 
 the narrow, dark street, with its irregular line of lanterns, 
 and here and there a belated light showing faintly from 
 an obscure shop-window ; but Cynthia was not long in 
 guiding her to the door of Dr. Danforth's house, where 
 they paused to knock, but, as they did so, perceived that 
 there was a bright light in his consulting-room, where 
 the curtains were not drawn as usual, while some one, 
 whom they supposed at first to be Danforth himself, was 
 walking rapidly to and fro, but on approaching the win- 
 dow they perceived the figure to be the very opposite 
 to Dr. Danforth in eveiy way. In fact, as soon as they 
 could distinguish the outline against the glow of the 
 lamp and the fire beyond, they both recognized Mr. 
 Granby Neil, who appeared to be undergoing some vio- 
 lent mental agitation, as from time to time he shook his 
 fist or struck his hands together as he walked. He did 
 not seem to have heard their summons to the door, so 
 Cynthia repeated her knock more loudly, remembering 
 Mr. Neil's deafness, and fearing that Danforth was out 
 and his servant gone to bed. 
 
 This indeed proved to be the case ; but a moment or 
 two later the door was opened by Granby Neil himself, 
 from whom they learned that Dr. Danforth had been 
 sent for, a few minutes before they came, to see the child 
 of the station-master, which was again threatened with 
 croup. 
 
 " Is there anything the matter ?" asked Mr. Neil, 
 kindly, if a trifle absently. " Perhaps there may be some- 
 thing I can do ?" 
 
 Whereon it occurred to Cynthia that, as in some mys- 
 terious way which she did not attempt to understand, 
 Mr. Neil was mixed up in the cause of the trouble
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 325 
 
 between Mr. and Mrs. Henderson, he might be the best 
 person they could appeal to in the present emergency. 
 At any rate, they had no choice, and she knew the man 
 of old, that he had a good heart. 
 
 She was not prepared, however, for the rapidity with 
 which he took in the position of affairs, or his evident 
 indignation as soon as she had barely indicated it in her 
 hasty explanation. 
 
 " Go ?" he exclaimed. " Of course I will go ! But 
 do I understand you to say that Henderson sought this 
 meeting? Surely it was Ledyard! And yet when he 
 had borne with him so long, it was rather late in the day 
 to seek vengeance, for him, at least. I beg your pardon, 
 Mrs. Henderson, I am talking wildly; but do you not 
 think it would be as well that you and your sister should 
 remain here? Matters such as this are not for women, 
 but for men to settle among themselves. If things are 
 as I fear they may be, it would be much wiser for you 
 to come in and sit down. Let me urge your doing so. 
 I will promise to return, or send Danforth to tell you all 
 that has happened. 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Neil, you are very kind," said Cyn- 
 thia, blushing up to the roots of her hair, " but you 
 know you made a mistake last evening when you took 
 me for Mrs. Henderson, because she was ill and unable 
 to appear, and Nathalie and I would much rather go 
 with you to the station, as we think it just possible that 
 we may do some good there, and we are sure we cannot 
 do any good here." 
 
 " Of course. I beg a thousand pardons, Miss Ark- 
 wright. I knew from what Mr. Ledyard explained to 
 me this afternoon that I must have been laboring under 
 some strange illusion last evening only pardonable in a 
 man who has been dead and is alive again. I was so 
 sure you would marry him that I find it hard to realize 
 the truth. Old impressions are much stronger than new 
 ones, and seeing you to-night this one recurred to me. 
 Indeed, I hardly know what to believe, after all the dis- 
 illusioning I have had to-day, and am so shocked besides
 
 326 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 by the news you tell me that I cannot think what I am 
 about. That which is to be done must be done now, of 
 course, so if you insist upon going we will set out im- 
 mediately." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Neil seized his hat 
 and started at a rapid pace for the railway-station, ac- 
 companied by the two sisters. There was little said as 
 they went along; all three had too much to think of. 
 Cynthia was mystified by Mr. Neil's behavior. The 
 violent excitement which he displayed the moment she 
 spoke of Henderson, and his first unguarded exclama- 
 tions, were quite inexplicable to her, although to poor 
 Nathalie they seemed intelligible enough in the light 
 of what she had read, and only served as confirmation 
 of her worst fears. 
 
 The whistle of the still distant locomotive struck upon 
 their ears when but a few yards from Danforth's door, 
 and then the whiz of the rapidly-approaching train. 
 Indeed, although they redoubled their speed, it had 
 reached the railway-bridge before they were within sight 
 of the steps that led up to the station. They saw the 
 train, however, quite plainly on top of the great stone 
 arch that spanned the street, with all its lights gleaming 
 against the moonlit sky, belching out clouds of impa- 
 tient, half-luminous smoke, for this was the great West- 
 ern express, fresh from the junction where it had met 
 its rival for Washington, and thought itself very good- 
 natured to trifle away an instant on so unimportant a 
 matter as the town of Dundaff. Indeed, before they 
 had time to realize tLat it was there it was off again, and 
 the sound of its many wheels became mingled with the 
 fierce panting of its engine, that grew louder or fainter 
 as it turned the sudden railway-curves caused by the 
 bending and winding of the river, until it reverberated 
 away among the hills. 
 
 Granby Neil pushed ahead, and was also lost to view 
 by the time Cynthia and Nathalie were at the bottom of 
 the station stairs. Having mounted these as fast as they 
 could, they came upon him in front of the door of the
 
 BROKEN CHORDS, 327 
 
 waiting-room, questioning Dr. Danforth, who looked 
 very much perplexed, evidently not understanding the 
 cause of Mr. Neil's excitement. 
 
 "Yes, I have just seen Henderson," they heard him 
 say, speaking louder than usual on account of his friend's 
 deafness. " He got out of the New York train, and I 
 was talking to him, when Ledyard came up. I do not 
 know what the trouble is, but they looked anything but 
 amiably at one another. I never heard Ledyard speak- 
 so haughtily before, and Henderson was barely civil. 
 They walked off together, though, as by mutual consent, 
 to have it out, perhaps." 
 " Which way did they go ?" 
 
 " Why, up the railroad. I think I saw them turn to 
 cross the cow-path bridge that leads over to the meadows. 
 What the mischief is the matter with you, Granby ? 
 You look as if you were out of your mind !" 
 
 Then followed some hurried explanation from Mr. 
 Neil, at the end of which Cynthia and Nathalie drew 
 near and joined the group. 
 
 " You don't mean to say so," Danforth was saying in 
 more subdued tones. " I had no idea of anything as 
 bad as that. They must be followed at once." 
 
 " Of course they must. Will you come with me ?" 
 " I will, indeed." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, do you think we can go ?" cried Nath- 
 alie, who was clinging to her sister's arm in great agi- 
 tation. 
 
 " We will, of course," returned Cynthia, decisively. 
 Neil, who had already started, turned back on hearing 
 this. " Let me beg of you, ladies, to remain in the sta- 
 tion here while Danforth and I go together to see what 
 we can do," he urged. 
 
 But Danforth replied, " Why not let them come, Neil? 
 If Miss Nathalie Arkwright has half the nerve and 
 presence of mind of her sister, they may be of service." 
 Without more words they all hurried forward over 
 the irregular footing afforded by the wooden supports 
 of the railroad to where it was crossed by some planks
 
 328 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 fitted down between the rails, over which it was cus- 
 tomary to drive the village cows, who were obliged to 
 face this danger and then to traverse a narrow rustic 
 bridge in going to and from the meadows on the oppo- 
 site side of the river, where they were pastured. Neil, 
 who had kept always ahead, was now half running, and 
 soon led the way across the bridge, which could be plainly 
 seen, as well as the fields beyond, since the moon had 
 once more come out and was shining with twice her 
 former radiance. Indeed, she was what is called the 
 harvest-moon, it being already the beginning of Septem- 
 ber, and almost capable of turning night to day. 
 
 A row of pollard willow-trees fringed the low bank 
 on the farther border of the river, to which the fertile 
 meadows sloped gradually down, while on the other side 
 they stretched imperceptibly upward towards the range 
 of wooded hills beyond them. The more or less troubled 
 thoughts in the minds of all the pedestrians were in 
 striking contrast to the tranquil scene which was thus 
 peacefully illumined. There was not even a road to 
 break the soft, uninterrupted green carpet that the fields 
 spread before them until at the very brink of the river a 
 narrow foot-path ran along the water's edge beneath the 
 shade of the willows. 
 
 As those they sought were nowhere visible on the 
 moonlit plain, it was naturally along this shaded path 
 that the eyes of the whole party were anxiously bent 
 after they had crossed the bridge ; but although they 
 believed them to be somewhere among its shadows, 
 they might have gone in either direction, and the ques- 
 tion was whether, in following, to turn up or down the 
 river. 
 
 A moment or two of anxious consultation was about 
 to result in a separation, when all doubt was suddenly 
 and terribly ended by two sharp reports of a pistol, which 
 rang out unmistakably on the right of the bridge and 
 from a point much farther up the river. Nathalie uttered 
 a faint cry, and would have fallen, but that her sister 
 caught and held her firmly, whispering something in her
 
 BROKEN CHORDS 
 
 car at the same moment which caused the girl to rally 
 her forces with a supreme effort, and join Cynthia in 
 following Neil and Danforth, who had both set forth at 
 the top of their speed to run in the direction from which 
 the shots had been fired. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 A DARK figure lying on the ground with face upturned 
 in the moonlight, some one bending over it with grave 
 concern. Another figure leaning against a tree near by, 
 with arms crossed on breast, a lowering brow, and de- 
 fiant mien, while a fourth man, standing in front of him, 
 was gesticulating wildly, pointing now at the prostrate 
 form amidst the long grass of the river-bank, and now 
 to himself, as though to emphasize what he was saying. 
 This was what the two sisters saw as they rounded a 
 sudden bend in the river and came out on a space where 
 the path which bordered it was comparatively free from 
 trees. 
 
 It required but a glance to tell them that the man 
 stretched upon the grass was Richard Ledyard, and that 
 it was Danforth who bent over him. The one who 
 leaned against the tr ,-e-trunk was plainly Henderson, as he 
 was much taller than the rest, while the gesticulating 
 figure was that of Granby Neil. Indeed, as they drew 
 nearer they could hear quite plainly what was said, but 
 one, at least, of them was too much wrought upon by 
 the terror of what was seen to pay much heed to the 
 wild words which were pouring from the artist in a tor- 
 rent of reproachful indignation. 
 
 There was no more shrinking, no thought of fainting, 
 now, on the part of Nathalie Arkwright. In an instant 
 she was kneeling beside Dr. Danforth. She had taken 
 Ledyard's cold hand in hers, and was warming it against 
 her breast, while she raised her eyes imploringly to Dan- 
 
 28*
 
 33O BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 forth's face, silently asking the question she could not 
 utter. 
 
 " He is badly wounded, but I think not fatally," the 
 doctor said, and the tears rushing from the girl's eyes 
 bathed the hand she held. They were tears of relief, 
 for she had not dared to admit the fear that knocked at 
 her heart. 
 
 Cynthia, meanwhile, stood by in consternation for a 
 moment at Nathalie's strange conduct ; then her dulled 
 ears began suddenly to quicken and collect the sense of 
 what Granby Neil was saying. He was calling some 
 one a villain, a coward, a traitor! Whom could it be? 
 Surely not the senseless m,m upon the ground, from 
 whose arm or shoulder that dark stream of blood was 
 dripping, which Nathalie was stanching with her hand- 
 kerchief, while Danforth tore his own in strips, making 
 a hasty bandage with which to bind up the wound ? 
 No, it seemed that it was not Richard Ledyard. Al- 
 though without the faintest ray of reason to explain it, 
 by aught in Cynthia's knowledge, it seemed that Mr. 
 Neil had turned upon the man who was his friend from 
 boyhood, of whose hospitality he had partaken but the 
 day before, who had been so overjoyed at his return, 
 because he had mourned him as one of the dearest of 
 his dead ! 
 
 No wonder that Millard wore that look of bitter scorn ; 
 no wonder that he stood there as a i'tone while the blood 
 of his victim flowed, with a dreadful attempt to seem 
 indifferent to the mischief his passion had wrought ! At 
 least so thought Cynthia, who knew his haughty na- 
 ture. In another moment there would be a second 
 deadly quarrel if things went on. Without hesitation 
 she stepped to Millard's side. 
 
 " I am afraid that you do not know what you are 
 saying, Mr. Neil," she said, in a calm, clear voice, which 
 was nevertheless decided enough to cause Granby Neil 
 to hesitate a moment in the midst of his vituperations, 
 glowering at her, as he did so, with little amity. " Mr. 
 Henderson has been very sorely tried," continued Cyn-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 331 
 
 thia, steadily; "and if, as may chance, he made the 
 mistake misled by appearances of taking a true man 
 for a false one, if he have not withheld his hand from 
 that vengeance which belongs not to man, but to God, 
 there is at least no reason why yon should accuse him 
 as you are doing, or venture to traduce his good name, 
 even before his face!" 
 
 " And what if it be /who have made the mistake you 
 so aptly describe, Miss Arkwright? Supposing it be I 
 who, reversing your proposition, have taken a false man 
 for a true? Since you insist upon interfering in this 
 matter, which, as I assured you, is one of a character 
 only to be discussed by men, you must go out of your- 
 self in order to judge of it as a man. Let me ask you 
 how you would feel if you were a man somewhat in the 
 decline of life, and you should suddenly discover that 
 your bosom friend in all the years that you had lived 
 had made a dupe of you ; that he had betrayed the 
 honor of the woman you loved, not once, but twice, both 
 before her marriage and after, and that he had ended his 
 list of evil doings by murdering one of the best men that 
 ever lived !" 
 
 " It is not necessary to consider how I should feel in 
 such a case as that," said Cynthia, " because there is no 
 such case in point. The man who has been your friend 
 in all these years, if that man be Lieutenant Henderson, 
 has played no traitor's part. Whatever sin he may have 
 committed he has striven nobly to atone for; he has 
 never stooped to deception, and has been most loyal to 
 you, so that you are evidently laboring under some mis- 
 conception. I am sure Mr. Henderson knows as little 
 as I do what you mean when you talk of the woman you 
 love, or accuse him of murder /" 
 
 On hearing this, and for all answer, Granby Neil 
 turned and pointed to the senseless form of Richard 
 Ledvard. Then Henderson spoke for the first time. 
 
 " If you mean to accuse me of wounding the man who 
 lies yonder, Neil," he said, coldly, " you do not need to 
 point at him. It is a matter beyond all question that I
 
 332 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 sent him a threatening message, that I met and accused 
 him of that which could not be pardoned by me, and 
 that on his declining either to deny the facts, to explain 
 them, or to fight with me, I refused to read the commu- 
 nication which he ventured to bring me from my poor 
 misguided wife, and offered him a weapon, telling him 
 that if he would not take it and defend himself he must 
 take the consequences. What all this trash is that you 
 are talking about the woman you love I do not know. I 
 was not aware that you had ever loved any woman." 
 
 " For what reason, then, did you think I had mar- 
 ried ?" 
 
 " I never dreamed that you had married." 
 
 " You did not know of my marriage ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. How should I know it, if you, who 
 professed the long friendship to which you have just 
 been referring, did not find it possible or desirable to tell 
 me ? When were you married ? Where ? To whom ? 
 Was your wife the daughter of an Indian chief or a 
 Western settler ? Why did you not bring her back with 
 you ? or did you do so ? You forget that I am as igno- 
 rant of this as of all the other events of the last ten years 
 of your life." 
 
 " And you know well, you cunning rascal, that my 
 marriage was not an event of the last ten years of my 
 life ! You are perfectly aware, however you may pre- 
 tend otherwise, that I was married before I went away 
 to the poor girl whom you had previously ruined with- 
 out my knowledge ! You know that it was a great con- 
 venience to you to have her taken off your hands just 
 at that time, as you were engaged to be married to an- 
 other lady, excuse me, Miss Arkwright, I am obliged 
 to speak plainly, but that subsequently, having been 
 rejected by that lady, as I learned only this afternoon, 
 you renewed your relations with this girl, regardless of 
 the fact that she had become the wife of a man who was 
 absent, and whom you continue to call your friend !" 
 
 " Do not apologize, if you please, for speaking plainly. 
 out speak a little more plainly, Mr. Neil," said Cynthia,
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 333 
 
 with spirit. " Am I right in conjecturing that the lady 
 whom you married was poor Miss Periwinkle?" 
 
 Henderson drew a long breath between set teeth as 
 Neil answered, " That was her name." 
 
 " My God !" cried Millard, and trembled so beneath 
 the shock of the disclosure that he put his arm against 
 the tree-trunk for support. "Then you actually be- 
 lieved," he asked of Neil presently, in a shaken tone, 
 " that when I sought her again it was not with the 
 intention of marrying her, you thought I knciv of 
 this?" 
 
 It was Neil's turn to be astonished. 
 
 " Do you mean to say she never told you," he asked, 
 incredulously, " not in all these years ?" 
 
 " That is what I mean." 
 
 " Do you wish me to believe that you believed her to 
 be your wife?" 
 
 " That is as you please," with a faint return of his 
 haughty manner. " There is one thing quite certain," 
 continued Henderson. " I was not married to Miss 
 Periwinkle until after the report of your death had 
 reached us both. It was, of course, believed by both ; 
 and if it had been a true instead of a false report, she 
 would have been in fact what she was and is in verity, 
 my sadly-erring wife." 
 
 Just at this moment Danforth came up. " What in 
 the world do you mean, Granby Neil," he asked, sharply, 
 " by standing there talking when there is a wounded man 
 to care for, whose life depends upon his being got to 
 some place of shelter quickly, and another man whose 
 safety depends upon his being sent away from Dundaff 
 as rapidly and quietly as it can be done ? 
 
 " True enough," said Cynthia, anxiously ; " although," 
 she added, with a meaning glance from Neil to Hender- 
 son, " I think the last few moments have not been wasted. 
 Dr. Danforth." 
 
 Danforth bowed his head in acquiescence, his eyes 
 following hers in the direction of Henderson, who looked 
 like a man awakening from a dream. It was no moment
 
 334 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 for unnecessary words, or he would have said that he 
 never suspected Miss Arkwright of wasting time. 
 
 The attention of the whole party was now turned to 
 Ledyard. Before the wound was bound up he had 
 fainted from loss of blood, and his condition seemed 
 critical enough to warrant all the anxiety which Dan- 
 forth showed, if not quite all that Nathalie felt. Indeed, 
 the white immobility of his face was such a painful con- 
 trast to the vivid changes seen sweeping over the same 
 face that afternoon that none of them could- gaze at it 
 without emotion, and least of all the man whose rash act 
 had led to this result. He was just realizing the truth 
 that he had done he knew not what. Millard Hender- 
 son, who was now standing with the others, had put his 
 hand on Danforth's shoulder, and, turning towards him, 
 the doctor saw for the first time that he, too, was pale as 
 death. 
 
 " Why. Millard, what has happened to you ?" he asked, 
 in astonishment. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " But there is something the matter. You are bleed- 
 ing. How came you to be wounded ? I thought you 
 said Ledyard refused to fire ?" 
 
 " So he did. I am not a butcher, though ; and when 
 I gave him a dose of lead, I of course intended to take 
 one too." 
 
 "You mean to say that you shot yourself? Then 
 you are more of a fool than I thought." 
 
 " I wish I were only a fool," replied Henderson. " I 
 would give all I have to know why that man has been 
 torturing me so unnecessarily, if he really is not what 
 I took him to be." 
 
 " Did you not say that he offered you a letter to read 
 from Posey ?" asked Cynthia, gently. " You were very 
 wrong to refuse it, for his sake, her sake, and your 
 own." 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 " Where is the letter ?" she continued. 
 
 " In his pocket, I suppose, poor devil."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 335 
 
 >; Will you not let Dr. Danforth attend to your wound ?" 
 
 " Not now ; we must see what can be done for Led- 
 yard. Is there no way of reviving him? What have 
 you tried ?" he asked of Danforth. 
 
 The doctor mentioned two restoratives which he hap- 
 pened to have in his medical bag. 
 
 " I have some brandy here," said Mil lard, drawing a 
 flask from his pocket, which Danforth immediately took 
 advantage of; while a few drops between Ledyard's set 
 lips had the result of bringing a faint color to his cheeks, 
 and more of the spirit gently applied to forehead and 
 temples had a still more reviving effect. 
 
 Richard opened his eyes and looked at Dr. Danforth 
 with some surprise, then he turned his gaze to where 
 Cynthia and Nathalie were standing, side by side; pass- 
 ing over Miss Arkwright, still with a look of wonder, 
 until his eyes fell on her sister, where they rested, with a 
 subtle change of light which told its tale so plainly that 
 none could doubt their meaning. 
 
 " Nathalie," he murmured. 
 
 She stooped down instantly, and took the hand again 
 between her own that she had before been chafing. By 
 some mysterious process, in no way allied to reason, 
 every shadow of the doubt of him that grew to cer- 
 tainty an hour before was fading from her mind. 
 
 " How came you here ?" asked Ledyard, with a faint, 
 sweet smile; but before the girl could answer Danforth 
 interposed. 
 
 " It is of no real consequence, Mr. Ledyard, how any 
 of' us came here. The great point is that we did come, 
 and we are all now bent on getting you at once to some 
 shelter where you can be made more comfortable," he 
 said, cheerily. " You are doing very well indeed," he 
 continued, feeling the pulse of the hand opposite to that 
 which Nathalie was still holding, very much to Cynthia's 
 surprise. " A little more of that brandy, please, Hen- 
 derson," continued the doctor; "there, that will do. 
 Now take some yourself; you nee^ it badly enough. I 
 must stop that blood."
 
 336 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 The last words were said in an undertone, not being 
 intended for Ledyard's ears; but he evidently caught 
 them, for he looked up quickly. 
 
 " Is Lieutenant Henderson wounded ?" he asked. 
 " How is that ?" 
 
 " It is nothing to speak of," replied Millard, hastily , 
 and then, bending over Ledyard, he said, " I have heard 
 that in the last ten minutes, Mr. Ledyard, which leads 
 me to think that I may have been grossly mistaken 
 in accusing you, or rather in the implied accusation 
 which I made. I do not yet fully understand the part 
 you have played, or I have played myself, for that 
 matter, but I am ready to ask your pardon if you 
 simply say that you are innocent, as you may remember 
 that you refused to do." 
 
 " I consider it unnecessary," returned Ledyard, over 
 whose face a great change of expression had come while 
 Henderson was speaking. It now wore the same look 
 of pride and obstinacy which had so dismayed Nathalie 
 when her lover first saw the telegram she wished to keep 
 from him. " Will you be kind enough," he continued, 
 turning to Dr. Danforth, " to put your hand in my breast- 
 pocket and take out a letter for Lieutenant Henderson 
 from his wife ?" 
 
 Danforth did as he was bidden, and drawing out the 
 letter which had cost poor Posey so much anxious misery, 
 handed it to Henderson, who took it in silence. 
 
 " I positively forbid you to attempt to read that letter, 
 Lieutenant Henderson," said the doctor, " until I have 
 attended to your wound." Henderson looked at him in 
 surprise. One would not have expected so much de- 
 cision from the man's usually careless manner. " Take off 
 your coat," continued Danforth, laying hold of the gar 
 ment in question at the same moment ; and realizing that 
 there was not light enough to see to read the letter, and 
 feeling that he was momentarily losing strength, Millard 
 submitted to such hasty surgical treatment as the time 
 and place admitted of his receiving. 
 
 Meanwhile, Granby Neil, who now that the violence
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 337 
 
 of his excitement was past proved an able assistant to 
 Danforth, was hastily constructing a stretcher, like those 
 he had seen used among the Indians, by cutting two 
 long poles from the nearest willow-tree, which he con- 
 nected together at either end by intertwining the smaller 
 branches so as to hold them parallel about a foot and a 
 half apart. He and Dr. Danforth then raised Ledyard 
 gently between them, placing him on a long cloak, which 
 Cynthia had had about her on the drive from Fernwood 
 and in her haste forgot to throw aside at the house, al- 
 though the night was so warm that when she set out to 
 walk up the railroad she took it off and carried it on her 
 arm. This they used to sling across the two willow 
 poles, which, with Henderson's aid. were lifted with diffi- 
 culty until they rested on the shoulders of Granby Neil 
 and Dr. Danforth, who were thus enabled to carry their 
 helpless burden slung between them in a kind of ham- 
 mock formed by the cloak, the two sides of which were 
 held firmly in place by Nathalie and Cynthia walking on 
 the right and on the left, while Henderson brought up 
 the rear, insisting on helping Danforth from time to time 
 in spite of the doctor's remonstrances, who plainly saw, 
 as did all the others by this time, that Henderson was 
 suffering severe pain. 
 
 He had entirely refused either to be helped or to be 
 left behind, or to take the first train to Baltimore, as 
 Danforth wished him to do until time should have de- 
 cided on the fate of Richard Ledyard. 
 
 " I am not going to run away," he said, obstinately, 
 and walked on with an evident determination to hide 
 what he was enduring. 
 
 After a hasty consultation it had been decided that 
 Mr. Ledyard should be taken to Dr. Danforth's house, 
 both because Danforth insisted upon it and because his 
 own house was the only one in the village to which the 
 doctor's going out or in caused no comment. He was 
 convinced, therefore, that it was the only place of shelter 
 in which it would be possible to conceal the nature and 
 cause of Ledyard's misfortune, 
 p w 29
 
 338 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 They all agreed that to do this was only second in 
 importance to saving his life, both for the sake of the 
 young clergyman himself, whose whole influence might 
 be destroyed if the facts should be known without a 
 proper explanation, and for that of Henderson, whom 
 Danforth still hoped to persuade to go away somewhere 
 quietly and quickly as soon as he had done what might 
 be needful for him. Fortunately, the lonely spot to 
 which the two men had inclined their steps by mutual 
 consent, in order to prevent what they each wished to 
 say to the other from being overheard, had probably 
 prevented the tell-tale shots fired from being heard either. 
 
 The lateness of the hour also helped them by wrap- 
 ping half Dundafif in peaceful slumber, and Danforth 
 comforted himself by recalling the absence of the sta- 
 tion-master from the platform at the moment the Balti- 
 more train arrived. 
 
 He had reason to think that no one but himself and 
 the conductor of the New York train had seen Ledyard 
 meet Henderson, and noticed that they walked off to- 
 gether as by appointment. 
 
 Still, the thoughts of all the little group were gloomy 
 enough as they moved noiselessly along by the dimin- 
 ished light of the now sinking moon, and next to Hen- 
 derson's those of Nathalie were perhaps the least envi- 
 able. She believed herself to have reached the most 
 complete realization of the dread foreboding which had 
 haunted her towards the close of that day. Nor was it 
 so wonderful as it was womanly and unreasonable that 
 in her anguish at the fear of losing Ledyard she only 
 thought of him as the hero that she had made him 
 in her fancy, with the halo about him of his recently- 
 discovered love for her, and ceased to remember the 
 grave doubts of his previous conduct, which had been 
 confirmed so strangely that very evening. This in spite 
 of the fact that he had fallen, as it seemed, for the sake 
 of the very woman whom she believed to have been her 
 rival 1
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 339 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THERE was still a lamp burning brightly in Dr. Dan- 
 forth's consulting-room between two and three o'clock 
 the following morning, but the heavy outer blinds were 
 closed now and the curtains carefully drawn over the 
 windows, so that but the faintest intimation escaped into 
 the forsaken village street of the light within, where Mil- 
 lard Henderson sat quite alone reading his wife's letter. 
 
 His arm proved to be not so badly wounded, but hit 
 nearly in the same place that Ledyard's was, it having 
 been the curious fancy of the angry man to deal forth 
 what he had intended for justice by taking exactly what 
 he gave (although not consciously meting it out on the 
 model of the Hebrew law) ; but, like many attempts at 
 human justice, it had failed of its object ; the failure being 
 partly due to the different temperaments and constitutions 
 of the two recipients and partly to that element of the 
 incalculable which is always confounding the would-be 
 arbiters of fate. 
 
 Thus the second shot, although as truly aimed, could 
 be borne without a sign by Millard himself, who, when 
 forced to have the wound bound up, could walk with it 
 to Dundaff, where, after having the ball properly ex- 
 tracted in Danforth's office, he could still endure the 
 smart ensuing, almost unconscious of the weakness of 
 body which it caused, owing to the excess of mental 
 excitement under which he was laboring, while the first 
 did infinitely more damage, and had a very serious effect 
 upon the more highly nervous organization of Richard 
 Ledyard. 
 
 Indeed, the ball fired at Ledyard had torn the flesh 
 and shattered the bone above his elbow so severely that 
 there were grave doubts as to whether the whole arm 
 might not have to be sacrificed to save the life of the 
 man. He had also had a fall ; but the chief enemy which
 
 340 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Dr. Danforth had to contend with in his case was a de- 
 pression of the whole system as a result of the shock 
 of being fired upon, the indignation he had felt at Hen- 
 derson's accusations, and the loss of blood, which he 
 could much less readily afford to lose than his more 
 robust antagonist. Indeed, Danforth felt so anxious that 
 he insisted on sitting beside this patient all night long, 
 while just now, that Cynthia and Nathalie were being 
 escorted safely home by Mr. Granby Neil, Henderson 
 was left to his own reflections. 
 
 After all the torture of mind he had been through 
 that day, he was thankful for a few moments in which 
 to readjust his disturbed order of thought to the seem- 
 ingly impossible disclosure that had been made to him 
 this night before he broke the seal of the fate-freighted 
 letter. 
 
 " My dear Millard," Posey began with great simplicity, 
 in the irregular, somewhat childish handwriting which 
 had always been hers, " I must speak of things which 
 happened a great while ago, and which we have both 
 tried to forget, in order to make you understand all that 
 has come to pass ; but before I say anything else I will 
 say this, I loved you always. I never loved any one but 
 you. I say it in the beginning, and I will say it again 
 at the end. It is my first and my last word. I suppose 
 it has been the misfortune of my life, but I would not 
 have it otherwise. I would rather have all the suffering 
 and keep the love. 
 
 " Do you remember how you came to Dunstable, when 
 I was a half-grown girl, with your friend Mr. Granby 
 Neil ? That was when I loved you first. You were a 
 mere boy, and were just having what you would have 
 called a little fun, I suppose, with a country girl whom 
 you never thought to see again. I know all about such 
 things now. I quite understand how you looked at it, 
 but I did not then. 
 
 " To me you were a hero. I cannot tell you all you 
 seemed, or how I missed you when you went away. My 
 home had been dull enough, but it had not been unbear-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 341 
 
 able, before you came. That is what it seemed to me, 
 though, after you were gone. 
 
 " Then Mrs. Pelham chanced to come. Mr. Neil it 
 was who told her of the place, and she said he spoke 
 of me to her, but she never mentioned your name.' Yet 
 when she asked me to go home with her, I went, in the 
 hope that we might meet, for were you not her relative ? 
 It so chanced though, as you may recall, that you were 
 not in town all that winter, but in the Naval Academy, 
 hard at work. Mr. Neil was there, and came often to 
 see me ; but I never cared for his attentions, for I barely 
 liked him. Then it came time for my visit to end. My 
 father was very angry because I had not told Mrs. Pel- 
 ham of my promise to him, and had let her take me to 
 the theatre. He said that I must come home at once and 
 ask his pardon. I determined not to do so. There is no 
 use dwelling on all this. You know that I did not go. 
 I went on the stage instead. You remember, too, our 
 strange meeting in San Francisco, your lingering after 
 Mr. Neil had gone, and the rest. 
 
 " Now I come to the most painful part of what I have 
 to write, that terrible meeting, after our long parting, in 
 the theatre in Baltimore, when you told me that all was 
 over between us ; that I must not think of you any more ; 
 in short, that you were about to marry another woman ! 
 Oh, Millard, if you had ever cared for me as I had cared 
 for you, you would have known what that meant ! As 
 it was, you could not, I think, realize your cruelty. I 
 am sure you did not! 
 
 " I cared for nothing then. I was in despair, and 
 knew that I was on the verge of shame and disgrace. 
 It was just at this time that I was surprised by a declara- 
 tion from Mr. Granby Neil. He told me that he thought 
 you cared for me and he feared I loved you, and so he 
 had never spoken of his own love before ; but that now, 
 when you were to be married to some one else, he felt 
 that he might speak, and he came to ask me if I would 
 not marry him. At the same time he told me that he 
 had made an engagement, which he could not break, to
 
 342 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 go with a party of artists to Montana, in order to supply 
 scenery to a wild Western drama to be brought out the 
 following autumn, and go he m^st. 
 
 " He wanted me to consent to marry him at once, be- 
 cause* he said that as a married woman I should be more 
 protected in my professional life, and then when he came 
 back to claim me that I should leave the stage. His 
 offer opened a mode of escape to me from disgrace. I 
 thought all hope was over of my ever seeing you again. 
 The fact that Mr. Neil was going away immediately also 
 tempted me. While I was hesitating, my mother came 
 to Baltimore to see me. She begged me to give up the 
 stage at any cost. She implored me to come home with 
 her, promising to brave my father's anger, to bear all his 
 reproaches for me, etc. I was in daily terror lest she 
 should discover my secret, and, wishing to show reason 
 for resisting her entreaties, I spoke of Mr. Neil. At length 
 I told her that I had promised to be his wife, and I con- 
 ceived the plan of marrying him without telling him 
 that which he would have had most right to know. 
 
 " The difficulty was to get the thing done quickly and 
 quietly. I thought of my half-brother, Richard Ledyard, 
 who was a divinity student at a seminary in New York. 
 He was my mother's son by her first husband (the former 
 rector at Dunstable), and never liked her marrying my 
 father, who had been his father's assistant : so Richard 
 seldom came home. He lived with my mother's sister 
 in New York. I had not seen him since I was a child, 
 but he used to pet me and play with me then, and I knew 
 he was fond of me, although until now I had almost for- 
 gotten him. 
 
 " I got Richard's address from my mother, and wrote to 
 him, begging him to come to me in Baltimore, which he 
 did, with evident reluctance. So devoted was he to his 
 unenviable calling that he had obtained permission to visit 
 the sick and needy outside the school while pursuing his 
 theological studies, and his work lay amid the dirtiest 
 and most hopeless haunts of sin and misery in New 
 York. Ah, well, it is a strange world ! I used every
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 343 
 
 argument I could think of to induce him to marry us at 
 once. He flatly refused. He said he had not as yet been 
 even ordained a deacon, and was not empowered to per- 
 form the marriage ceremony. He also said that he saw 
 no reason for such haste, and was opposed to it. It would 
 be better to wait until Mr. Neil came back. When Mr. 
 Neil spoke of my unprotected life, and I said to Dick that 
 he used to be fond of me once, he urged me to leave the 
 stage and let him take care of me until Mr. Neil's return. 
 My mother urged it too ; Richard would give me a home 
 if I still feared my father's wrath ; but I positively declined 
 this. I suddenly remembered my aunt's having told me 
 how Richard had married two persons in New York, 
 who went to him in great distress, when he was merely a 
 lay reader, before he became a student of divinity, and 
 I asked him how he had done it. He said he had used 
 the ' civil form.' Then I besought him to use it for us. 
 Mr. Neil, who had to start that evening, joined his en- 
 treaties to mine. Even my mother came over to our 
 side; and so Richard took Mr. Neil apart and talked to 
 him, and at last yielded, although he would not use the 
 church ritual, as he said there was a canon to forbid its 
 use without authority. 
 
 " We were married by the civil form in a room in my 
 lodging house, with only my mother and my landlady 
 looking on, and it was not until after Mr. Neil and my 
 brother were gone that my mother learned the real facts. 
 She was greatly shocked, but, as I said nothing, she 
 thought Mr. Neil to blame. When we believed him to 
 have been killed, I wrote to her the whole truth. This 
 was after you had come back, and I wanted her to 
 understand. 
 
 " How strangely it happened that you should have 
 been the person to tell me of his death ! In the moment 
 I knew that I was a widow I saw the sudden hope of 
 being reunited to my only love! I should have told 
 you all, 1 know ; but I was afraid. What if you should 
 think me disloyal to you or heartless to your friend and 
 refuse to marry me for that reason ? Especially I dreaded
 
 344 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 to have you learn the deception I had practised on Mr. 
 Neil. I feared if you should meet my mother she would 
 tell you this. I was sure if you met my brother he 
 would tell you of my marriage to Mr. Neil. I therefore 
 pretended that the letter I wrote home to my parents to 
 tell them of my marriage to you had been returned to 
 me unopened. I wrote to my mother secretly, and de- 
 clared that I wished to break off all intercourse with my 
 family, lest they should tell you that which I did not 
 wish you to know ; that we were going abroad, and I 
 should not send her our address. I begged her, if she 
 loved me, not to try to find it out or to tell Richard the 
 name of the man I had married. With regard to my 
 father, no such precautions and no feigning were neces- 
 sary. He had been implacable from the first, and my 
 mother could only see or write to me unknown to him ; 
 but when Richard learned from her the true state of the 
 case he was very indignant with me, and could not for- 
 give himself, being such a good young man, for having 
 unconsciously helped to deceive Mr. Neil, any more than 
 he could forgive me for deceiving him ! 
 
 " Little did I dream when we sailed away from all our 
 cares, as it seemed to me, to those happy foreign lands, 
 of the awful retribution which was corning upon me in 
 Mr. Neil's strange resurrection. 
 
 " Here I am married to two men ; one whom I love, 
 but I am legally the wife of the one whom I loathe ! 
 How can I ever look in your face again, my own true 
 husband, when you know these things ? I have deter- 
 mined that I will not ! I can see no hope anywhere ! 
 On every side of me is misery and despair, unless Rich- 
 ard can devise some plan to save me from destruction. 
 
 " I have promised you a full explanation, and so I 
 write it. It is indeed the story of my life, but if ever it 
 be placed in your hands, Posey will be no more !" 
 
 As he finished reading this letter, Millard Henderson 
 started to his feet. 
 
 " Merciful Heaven ! what a brute I have been !" he 
 cried, striking his forehead with his clinched hand.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 345 
 
 " Why did I refuse to read her letter when that poor 
 fellow offered it to me ? Why did I suspect him of such 
 vileness as I could not myself have stooped to, when I 
 was in reality not worthy to hold a candle to him ?" 
 
 Just then he heard the sound of a latch-key in the 
 street door. It was Neil returning, as he guessed at 
 once, and, with an instinctive shrinking from meeting his 
 old friend, who now held so strange a relation towards 
 him, he looked to be sure that the door of the consulting- 
 room was bolted on the inside, as he thought he remem- 
 bered that he had fastened it when he first came in. 
 Yes, it was quite secure. But the next moment there 
 came a sharp double rap on the other side. 
 
 " What is it ?" he asked, sternly. 
 
 " A telegram." 
 
 The door was opened instantly, and Henderson and 
 Neil stood face to face. Neil's whole expression had 
 changed. He looked ten years older than the day before. 
 
 " I am sorry to have spoken as I did to you, Millard," 
 he said, hoarsely. " I understand now that we were both 
 deluded." 
 
 Millard hardly heard what he said. His eyes were 
 riveted on the yellow envelope which Neil held. It 
 was addressed to " Lieutenant Henderson," and not yet 
 opened. 
 
 " That is enough, Neil. No one has been so unjust 
 or so mistaken as I have been," he said, hastily. " Give 
 me the message, please." He took the telegram as he 
 spoke, tore open the cover, and read these four words : 
 
 " Posey dying. Come immediately. 
 
 (Signed) " MARY PERIWINKLE." 
 
 What happened after this he never could distinctly 
 remember. Granby Neil, who read the message almost 
 at the same moment, seemed also greatly shocked. 
 There was a buzz of voices. Danforth had come down, 
 and was giving some directions to them both. Then he 
 was walking through the village street again. It was
 
 346 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 still dark, and had begun to rain. Neil was with him, 
 and was carrying a bag. When they got to the railway- 
 station it was ten minutes of four, and he realized that 
 he was about to take precisely the same train by which 
 he had left the same station on the morning of the pre- 
 vious day. 
 
 Neil was buying his ticket. Then the train had come, 
 and Neil was speaking to the conductor about him. He 
 heard him say " Dunstable," and then he was handed 
 the bag. Neil had said " Good-by" to him in a strained 
 tone, and was gone, or, rather, the train had started with 
 Millard in it and Neil was left behind. The conductor 
 was especially attentive, took him into a compartment, 
 and told him to lie down. 
 
 Henderson looked more closely at the bag which was 
 left in his hand, and recognized it as his own, the same, 
 in fact, with which he had left DundafT the morning 
 before. What had happened since then? He vainly 
 tried to recall things in any kind of order; in fact, worn 
 out as he was in body and mind by all he had gone 
 through, and weakened by loss of blood, he was merci- 
 fully falling asleep, lulled to oblivion by the monotonous 
 motion of the swiftly-advancing train. 
 
 He could always remember the chilled misery of his 
 arrival at Dunstable, between eight and nine o'clock on 
 the Monday morning, in the midst of a pelting rain, and 
 that when leaping from the train he knocked the elbow 
 of his left arm against the hand-rail, thereby causing 
 himself a twinge of intense pain, but nothing else made 
 any impression until he was standing in a square, low- 
 ceil inged room of the old parsonage before a bed on 
 which a figure could plainly be distinguished beneath a 
 white sheet. 
 
 " It is all over," some one was saying. " The end was 
 very peaceful. We hoped she might return to con- 
 sciousness, but she did not. She only lived a few hours 
 after we found her, and did not seem to have suffered 
 beyond the first half-hour, so thought the doctor." 
 
 " Found her ! Where f" he asked, with horror.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 347 
 
 " Why, in the grove behind the house." 
 
 " How long had she been there ?" 
 
 " We do not know. She was seen to arrive at Dun- 
 stable by the three-o'clock train, but we never dreamed 
 she was here. We should not have thought of looking 
 for her when we did, if your telegram of Saturday night, 
 asking if Posey were at Dunstable, had not come last 
 evening, after lying all Sunday at the closed office. It 
 is all too terrible! Do you know why she did it, Mr. 
 Henderson ?" 
 
 The speaker was Posey's poor mother. Millard looked 
 at her for a moment in wide-eyed misery. 
 
 " Did what?" he asked. 
 
 " Took her own life," replied the woman, bravely. 
 " She had swallowed poison, and was too far gone, the 
 doctor told us, for there to be any hope of his recovering 
 her, although he tried every means we could devise. I 
 hoped, I fancied, that if you had come but of course it 
 was impossible !" 
 
 Millard gave a sort of gasp and gulped down a sob. 
 Then he drew reverently near and raised the sheet which 
 hid the face. There she lay, with her delicately-perfect 
 profile, like a waxen image of the pretty Posey of his 
 youth, for the hand of death had smoothed out all the 
 lines of care, and the sweet, child-like smile that had 
 first attracted him was on the still, white lips. 
 
 It is not for us to intrude on this, the hour of Millard 
 Henderson's desolation. Enough to say that, could the 
 poor little woman who had loved him so unhappily have 
 seen his pitying face and felt his unaccusing sorrow, the 
 most eager longing of her self-absorbed nature would, 
 for the time, have been at rest.
 
 348 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 ALTHOUGH the Monday morning was bleak and dreary 
 at DundafT as it was at Dunstable, Cynthia Arkwright, 
 who had, like her sister, passed another disturbed night, 
 rose early and went with Nathalie to Dr. Danforth's to 
 ask after Mr. Ledyard. The doctor came down worn 
 and haggard after his long night's watch, looking very 
 grave over his patient. " He is sleeping now," he said, 
 "but a troubled sleep, and his temperature has been 
 very high all night. The arm looks badly, too. What 
 I fear most is mortification ; but I would not have him 
 know this for the world." 
 
 " Would would it kill him ?" asked Nathalie, with 
 trembling lips. 
 
 " Not necessarily ; but I should have to amputate his 
 arm, of course," replied Danforth, sadly, "and in his 
 condition that would be a serious matter." 
 
 " You look so completely tired out, Dr. Danforth 
 cannot Nathalie and I take charge of poor Mr. Ledyard 
 for a few hours and let you get some rest?" 
 
 " I am rather fagged," returned Danforth, " for I 
 expected to have Neil to call on, but he was so 
 knocked down by that telegram that came last night 
 that after he had seen Henderson off I had to send him 
 to bed." 
 
 " What was the telegram ?" asked Cynthia and Natha- 
 lie together, and were then told of the fatal four words 
 which had summoned Millard Henderson to Dunstable. 
 
 " Cynthia," whispered Nathalie, laying her hand on 
 her sister's arm, " ought you not to go to Mrs. Pelham ? 
 Just think how anxious she must be!" 
 
 " Yes, Nathalie, I think I ought. Cannot my sister 
 at least sit by Mr. Ledyard while he sleeps, doctor?" 
 she continued, while Danforth, looking doubtfully at 
 Nathalie, met her entreating eyes, recalling the look of
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 349 
 
 agonized supplication with which they had been raised 
 to his the night before. 
 
 " Will you be very careful to do exactly what I tell 
 you, Miss Nathalie, and promise if .Mr. Ledyard should 
 awake not to let him talk ?" 
 
 " I will," she answered, somewhat as she might have 
 given the same response in a certain momentous cere- 
 mony, but quite unconscious that there was anything 
 unusual in her tone. 
 
 Accordingly, Dr. Danforth went up-stairs with this 
 earnest young person, and, having given her careful 
 directions, left her in charge of his patient, who was still 
 sleeping. He then came down again to Cynthia. She 
 had asked to be allowed to wait, and he found her pacing 
 anxiously to and fro in his consulting-room. Indeed, 
 sorry as she was for Ledyard's suffering, she was most 
 troubled over the painful nature of facts connecting so 
 much discredit with the past histoiy of Mrs. Henderson 
 and the terrible position in which Henderson himself 
 would be placed if Ledyard should not survive the injury 
 that had been inflicted with such rash injustice. Feeling 
 that it was most important to clear away every shade 
 of misunderstanding between Henderson and Neil, and 
 strengthened by all that she had heard in the belief that 
 the truth would serve Mr. Ledyard best, she had taken oc- 
 casion to narrate to Mr. Neil, when he was accompanying 
 Nathalie and herself home the night before, that circum- 
 stance of the note to Mr. Ledyard which had seemed so 
 inexplicable to Millard Henderson, asking whether he 
 could form any conjecture as to the reason that poor 
 Posey had addressed Mr. Ledyard as " Dear Dick" and 
 been so anxious to conceal her acquaintance with him, 
 whatever it might be, from her husband ? It was, then, to 
 her utter astonishment and to the infinite relief and satis- 
 faction of Nathalie they had both been told of the relation- 
 ship between Richard Ledyard and Posey Periwinkle, 
 who was his half-sister; while Neil, on his side, was 
 surprised beyond measure to learn that Posey had not 
 only concealed her former marriage from Millard, but 
 
 30
 
 350 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 had kept him ignorant of the very existence of this 
 brother! 
 
 When they reached the safe harbor of the little cottage 
 and had said good-night to Mr. Neil, Nathalie's full heart 
 overflowed, and she told her sister, with many blushes, 
 of all that had passed between herself and Richard that 
 evening, and also of the letter she had found which 
 seemed so compromising, and yet could so easily be un- 
 derstood in the light of what they had just heard. 
 
 Cynthia was now anxious to consult with Danforth as 
 to the best means of avoiding the annoyance to all con- 
 cerned, and possible danger and disgrace to Henderson, 
 of having the matter made public. 
 
 " Do you think the thing can be kept quiet, doctor ?" 
 she asked, as soon as he returned. 
 
 " I think it must" replied Danforth ; " and to that end 
 I was going to suggest to you to ask Mrs. Pelham to say 
 nothing to any one of the events of last evening, as every 
 person who is told of a thing of this kind increases the 
 chances of its being found out. Indeed, I would tell 
 Mrs. Pelham herself only what is needful at first. To 
 hear it gradually will break the shock of such a dis- 
 closure. As long as Mr. Ledyard is shut up in my spare 
 bedroom I can insure the acceptance of the story that I 
 shall tell of his having met with an accident. I shall 
 say that he fell and that his arm was broken, which is 
 circumstantially true, the only falsity being in the order 
 of the facts, as that the arm was broken and then he fell 
 would be truer ; but once Henderson returns, and is seen 
 walking about also with his arm in splints, and I may 
 say what I like ! no one will be fool enough to refer twc 
 such accidents on the same evening to natural causes ; 
 while if Ledyard should not recover, Millard actually 
 runs the risk of being prosecuted for murder in the first 
 degree ! I never heard of such mad conduct as his in 
 sending that threatening message, and then following it 
 up as he did ! He must be kept from coming back at 
 all hazards !" 
 
 Dr. Danforth only put into words the fear that had
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 351 
 
 been haunting Cynthia all night, but she answered, with 
 a composure which cost her some effort, 
 
 " There was certainly no intention on Lieutenant Hen- 
 derson's part of killing Mr. Ledyard ; I think that would 
 be considered, and could be proved ; but you are quite 
 right in thinking that he should not return, and if his 
 poor wife is dying he is not likely to wish to come back 
 for the present." 
 
 " That is true. Poor Mrs. Henderson ! It might be 
 the best way out of the dreadfully-complicated state of 
 affairs for her! I think in that case the whole thing 
 could be suppressed. There is certainly good reason, 
 for my old friend Neil's sake, if for that of no one else, 
 why nothing should be known of the sad story of his 
 duped affection and betrayed confidence, which he told 
 me last night If the woman who played such havoc 
 with the lives of two men should have gone to her last 
 account, there will be every facility for letting the matter 
 rest, and every motive for doing so." 
 
 " There will indeed, for we none of us know what her 
 temptations may have been, or what she may have suffered 
 in expiation of her faults," replied Cynthia, solemnly. 
 
 On further consideration it was decided that Mrs. 
 Pelham must be told at once of Posey's danger, in case 
 she might not already have been informed of it, and also 
 be urged to use all her influence to prevent Henderson 
 from returning to Dundaff for the present. Cynthia was 
 of opinion that it would therefore be necessary to break 
 to her the true nature of Ledyard's injury, and explain 
 to her the misunderstanding which led to it. She said, 
 however, that she would leave Henderson to tell her as 
 much or as little of the circumstances which induced his 
 wife to conceal her relationship to Ledyard as he de- 
 sired. She fully agreed with Danforth that, for Mr. Neil's 
 sake as well as for Posey's, they should not be made 
 known to any one. " Indeed," she continued, " I have 
 always believed that the right of each human being to 
 privacy in his own personal experience of joy or sorrow 
 was inviolable."
 
 352 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Right glad was the good doctor, when after Cynthia 
 went away he looked in again at Ledyard, to find him 
 yet sleeping and Nathalie sitting beside him as still and 
 as watchful as he could desire. He bade her be sure 
 to call him in case certain symptoms, which he very 
 carefully described, should appear, and stole softly away 
 to the little study which he had fitted up for reading and 
 smoking next the sick-room on one side, while on the 
 other opened his own bedchamber, temporarily surren- 
 dered to the use of Granby Neil. Danforth was in the 
 habit of declaring himself to be a confirmed old bach- 
 elor, but the eyes of a certain young lady which looked 
 out of a small, carved wooden frame over the mantel- 
 shelf somehow mocked the assertion, as did Danforth's 
 own expression as he gazed at the portrait for a mo- 
 ment, in spite of his extreme fatigue, before he wrapped 
 himself in a travelling-rug belonging to Neil, and, fling- 
 ing himself down on a hard, leather-covered couch, sank 
 into the most profound sleep. 
 
 The house was very quiet after this. There was no 
 sound in the sick-room but the troubled breathing of 
 the wounded man, whose slumber was by no means so 
 peaceful as that of his physician. He was lying with 
 his head pillowed on the well arm (fortunately, the right 
 one) and his face turned towards the wall, from time to 
 time making a low, moaning sound. Nathalie watched 
 him with sad eyes, and yet she was infinitely grateful to 
 Cynthia and to fate for the possibility of thus ministering 
 to the man she loved. By and by he moved uneasily 
 and began muttering something which was only half 
 articulate. Nathalie caught the name of " Posey" sev- 
 eral times, uttered in a tone of remonstrance, but she 
 understood the reason for his speaking to Posey thus 
 anxiously now, and began to realize all it must have cost 
 him to lay aside his own interests completely for the 
 last two weeks in order to devote himself to hers. She 
 longed for an opportunity of asking forgiveness for ever 
 having permitted a doubt of his truth and integrity to 
 enter her mind, but it would not come, she knew, for
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 353 
 
 even should Richard awake she was not to let him 
 talk. 
 
 Dr. Danforth had laid no injunction, however, against 
 her allowing Mr. Ledyard to talk in his sleep, which was 
 fortunate for his anxious and conscientious nurse, as 
 presently he turned half towards her, and asked, ex- 
 citedly, 
 
 " Do you suppose your first marriage was legal ? It 
 would have been in New York, I am sure ; but how about 
 Maryland ? It was by the civil form, you know, and the 
 laws of States differ. What do you think ?" he asked, 
 eagerly, and then added, with a change of tone, " but of 
 course you do not know ; poor child, how should you ?" 
 
 Nathalie, whose nerves had been a good deal wrought 
 upon, not unnaturally, by all she had felt and suffered in 
 the last two days, was further startled at this moment 
 by seeing the door that led into Dr. Danforth's bedroom 
 open and a figure appear upon the threshold which she 
 recognized as that of the artist, just as Ledyard exclaimed 
 in his delirium, " Granby Neil could find out ! Where 
 is Mr. Granby Neil ? I must speak to him. There is 
 not a moment to spare ! If you delay, Posey, we shall 
 miss the train ! Quick, quick !" 
 
 Nathalie put her finger on her lips to indicate to the 
 real Mr. Neil, who evidently caught his name and was 
 about to speak, that Mr. Ledyard was unconscious, but 
 as she did so Richard cried out again, almost joyfully, 
 still addressing the imaginary Posey, " There would be 
 a way out of your difficulty. If your marriage to Mr. 
 Neil should not have been legal, then that to Henderson 
 is valid." 
 
 Mr. Neil, who looked badly enough when he first 
 appeared, became absolutely ghastly at these words. 
 He strode a step or two into the room, and then paused 
 irresolute. " What makes you think my marriage was 
 not legal ?" he called out hoarsely, in a much louder tone 
 than he realized. 
 
 The question was quite unheeded by the sick man, 
 who fell to frowning and muttering something unintel-
 
 354 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 ligible, but it roused Dr. Danforth, for in spite of his 
 exhaustion he was too anxious not to wake easily, and 
 he was in the room before Ledyard spoke again, this 
 time with a faint smile, as though in answer to something 
 said by Posey : 
 
 " Why did I not think of it before ? Yes, I was think- 
 ing about the service in the woods, you mean ? I knew 
 you would say that ! I never married any one else in 
 Baltimore. I told you I ought not to marry factory 
 
 people the church ritual " His voice died away in 
 
 a faint murmur, very aggravating to Mr. Neil, who, de- 
 spite Nathalie's signs, had been approaching gradually 
 nearer, trying to catch Ledyard's disjointed words. 
 
 " Factory people !" he now exclaimed, and was about 
 to say more, when Dr. Danforth laid a detaining hand 
 upon his arm, and, drawing him to a little distance, said, 
 in a low, severe voice close to his ear, 
 
 " Are you determined to take away the small chance 
 for his life that poor Ledyard has, by talking to him in 
 that loud tone ?" 
 
 Granby Neil colored hotly and .looked thoroughly 
 ashamed of himself, as Nathalie thought he should be. 
 She was not in a charitable mood enough to consider 
 all he had suffered, perhaps, but she thought a good 
 deal of what Ledyard had had to bear, as well as of what 
 he had said in his fever, after she reluctantly surrendered 
 her post beside him and was wending her way back to 
 the cottage. 
 
 Mr. Neil, too, thought of it, and when he found a later 
 opportunity to weigh the doubt which had seemed so 
 harrowing on its first suggestion, he felt it of importance. 
 
 When Cynthia reached Fernwood, meanwhile, she 
 found all in confusion. Mrs. Pelham was not only in 
 possession of the sad piece of intelligence which she 
 intended to break to her, but had received a second tele- 
 gram from Henderson within the last half-hour, telling 
 of his wife's death. 
 
 " I must go to Millard, of course," she said at once to 
 Cynthia, who found her in her own bedchamber greatly
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 355 
 
 agitated, while the weeping Teresa was packing her trunk, 
 and Wilfred was asking questions which no one as yet 
 had courage to answer. 
 
 Cynthia it was who drew him softly away to his 
 father's study later and tried to make him understand. 
 But before this she found an opportunity of explaining 
 to Mrs. Pel ham her anxiety in case Henderson should 
 return to Dundaff, as well as of expressing her sympathy 
 with regard to the death of poor Posey, to whom, in 
 spite of her many faults, Mrs. Pelham had always been 
 attached, and for whom Cynthia herself had acquired 
 a feeling of affection mingled with compassion. They 
 neither of them knew as yet of the manner of her death, 
 but both were greatly shocked at the suddenness of it. 
 Mrs. Pelham's plan was to go with Wilfred to the inn 
 at Dunstable, where she had once stayed so many 
 years before. She would be there until after Posey's 
 funeral, and then see if she could not persuade Millard 
 to go elsewhere with her and the child and stay quietly 
 until his wound were healed. She would write to Cyn- 
 thia, of course, and keep her informed of their where- 
 abouts, and would be very anxious for news of poor Mr. 
 Ledyard. 
 
 So it was settled, and when her hasty preparations 
 were made and the carriage came to the door, Cynthia 
 helped in Mrs. Pelham and poor little Wilfred, who now 
 looked supernaturally grave, and last of all Teresa, and 
 drove with them all to the station, where, to their very 
 great surprise, the first person they saw was Mr. Granby 
 Neil, very pale and worn-looking. He too had received 
 a telegram, it seemed, and was bound for Dunstable.
 
 356 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 THE village gossips were not regaled with the story 
 of the one-sided duel between Lieutenant Henderson 
 and Mr. Ledyard. The fact that Mr. Ledyard had met 
 with a serious accident and was lying at the house of 
 Dr. Danforth in a very critical condition did come to 
 light, but not at first ; and when it was known, there was 
 every story but the true one circulated with it. Some 
 people said that he had slipped and fallen from the 
 Tarpeian Rock after the service in the woods. Others 
 declared that he had caught his foot in one of the wooden 
 supports of the track in crossing the railway, and, while 
 trying to extricate it, had fallen, twisting his arm under 
 him so that it was broken. 
 
 All accounts declared that something was the matter 
 with his arm, and when the most famous surgeon in 
 Baltimore was known to have been summoned in con- 
 sultation by Dr. Danforth, it was also declared that 
 things looked very, very grave. Unfortunately, the 
 great consultant and the villagers agreed about this, for 
 he admitted to Danforth that the only hope for Mr. Led- 
 yard's life, in his opinion, lay in instant amputation. 
 
 As Dr. Danforth had fully made up his own mind to 
 this effect, the operation was performed without further 
 delay, and the famous surgeon, having seen the patient's 
 pulse react in a satisfactory manner, left him to come out 
 of the influence of the anaesthetic, while he caught the 
 next train to the city, but not without giving a promise, 
 which he took the very best means of keeping, that he 
 would say nothing to any one as to the nature of the 
 injury, for good and sufficient reasons, which were care- 
 fully explained, and which he promptly forgot, together 
 with the whole matter, having many other things to 
 think of that were of greater importance to him than 
 Mr. Ledyard.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 357 
 
 Neither did Richard Ledyard die of the effect of the 
 operation. On the contrary, he began to do better the 
 moment the poor mangled arm was taken off, and showed 
 what seemed to Danforth a marvellous amount of cour- 
 age and cheerfulness in facing the prospect of a maimed 
 existence. 
 
 Dr. Danforth, however, had reason to suspect a secret 
 source of strength and comfort which Richard Ledyard 
 was encouraged to draw on freely at this time, for Cyn- 
 thia and Nathalie continued to share with him the task 
 of caring for Mr. Ledyard. They almost always came 
 and went together, but on returning one day with a tell- 
 tale countenance from a visit to Camelot, where an inter- 
 view with Miss Florence Betterton had ended in a most 
 unexpectedly satisfactory manner to both of them, he 
 overheard the following remarks from the sick-room 
 while washing his hands in the adjoining chamber: 
 
 " Yes, Cynthia says that I have no right to promise 
 without mamma's consent," spoke a certain soft soprano. 
 
 " Then remember that you are not pledged to me," 
 said Ledyard, quickly. 
 
 " I will never marry any one else, and so I have written 
 mamma." 
 
 " Dear Nathalie ! I am afraid I shall make but a poor 
 substitute for a husband. It is not quite fair, is it, sweet- 
 heart, to be tied to a cripple ?" 
 
 Whereupon followed an interval so suspicious that 
 Dr. Danforth thought it necessary to cough twice before 
 pushing open the partly-closed door between the two 
 rooms preparatory to his noonday visit to his patient. 
 The younger Miss Arkwright while awaiting the return 
 of her sister, who had gone to attend to some household 
 matter in the village, was then discovered seated very 
 demurely with her hands folded on her lap, her eyes 
 cast down, and rather a brilliant color. When Danforth 
 took occasion later to express to Cynthia the pleasure 
 he felt at the idea of the engagement, she begged him 
 to say nothing about it until Mrs. Arkwright should be 
 heard from, but frankly admitted that nothing would
 
 358 BROKEN CHORD S. 
 
 make her happier than to feel that her sister's future life 
 was to be joined with that of a man whom she admired 
 and trusted as she did Mr. Ledyard. 
 
 Nor was it with Cynthia alone that a change had oc- 
 curred in the degree of estimation in which Mr. Ledyard 
 was held. Not but that he had been personally liked 
 and admired before, but now he was strongly believed 
 in, the change which had taken place comprising all that 
 lies between doubt and certainty. 
 
 Perhaps no moral suasion could have had so whole- 
 some an effect upon those of his congregation who had 
 been inclined to lend a willing ear to Mrs. Betterton, or 
 been more damaging to the authority of that lady's 
 dictum, than the strange disclosure that Mr. Ledyard 
 had been the brother of poor Mrs. Henderson, the tragic 
 manner of whose death could not be kept a secret, 
 having formed the subject of a leading article in the 
 Dunstable News, and was now set down, together with 
 the rest of her erratic and ill-regulated conduct, to dis- 
 turbance of mind resultant upon the shock of her acci- 
 dent. Then the illness of the young rector, when it 
 became known that his life was in danger, appealed to 
 the hearts of the villagers just after his eloquence had 
 excited their admiration, and last, but not least, they 
 were taught to appreciate him most highly by the long, 
 wandering, mildly theological and generally illogical ser- 
 mons which his worthy substitute, Mr. Cushman, now 
 delivered to them regularly every Sunday at St. Andrew's. 
 
 Millard Henderson did not return to Dundaff until 
 his wound was healed. Mrs. Pelham with great diffi- 
 culty brought him to consent to go elsewhere for a while 
 with little Wilfred, while she herself came back to the 
 house at Fernwood to make such arrangements as were 
 needful. It is perhaps doubtful whether she might have 
 succeeded in prevailing upon him to yield to her in this 
 but for the added persuasions of Mr. Granby Neil, who 
 behaved with great dignity and self-control at Dunstable, 
 and after the funeral of the unfortunate Posey attached 
 himself to Millard with almost his old affection.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 359 
 
 He even tried to induce Henderson to go abroad with 
 him for the winter, but this he stoutly refused to do, 
 declaring that it was utterly impossible for him to leave 
 his affairs at Dundaflf, his work at the mills only just 
 begun, and his new system not fully established. 
 
 When Mrs. Pelham came back to Fernwood she sent 
 for Cynthia, whom she greeted with even more than her 
 usual affection, urging her to stay with her, which Cyn- 
 thia gladly consented to do while she was alone, as 
 Nathalie had been called peremptorily to Baltimore and 
 she too was alone, while Mrs. Pelham evidently clung' 
 to and looked up to her with increased dependence. 
 
 " Perhaps I had better confess to you at once, my 
 dear Cynthia," that lady said, with feeling, as they sat 
 together before the fire, " that I now know everything 
 I have been told enough by Millard to easily guess the 
 rest, and since I understand at last the noble motive 
 which led to your abandoning all that was dear to you 
 long years ago, you are doubly precious to me. I long 
 for your companionship now that no dread mystery any 
 longer stands between us, and am resolved never again 
 to part with you if I can possibly influence you to be 
 with or near me." 
 
 But although Cynthia responded warmly, she was not 
 destined to satisfy her friend's desire for her society for 
 some time to come. The truth was that each had now 
 new ties, or, rather, the old ones had become so tightly 
 knotted round them as to interfere with independent 
 action. Mrs. Arkwright, whose health had been failing 
 much more rapidly than her daughters realized, grew 
 suddenly more ill. She never read the letter in which 
 Nathalie attempted to explain to her all that she felt on 
 the subject which was nearest to her heart, but, going to 
 the post-office between hope and fear of the answer she 
 might find there from her mother, Nathalie was greeted 
 by a hasty note from one of her half-sisters, summoning 
 her to meet them in Baltimore, whither Mrs. Arkwright 
 was being taken by slow stages, having left Berkeley 
 Springs before Nathalie's letter got there because of her
 
 360 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 increased weakness and what the doctors considered a 
 very alarming change for the worse in her condition. 
 Indeed, she only lived a few weeks after she reached 
 home. 
 
 As soon as she heard of the death of her step-mother, 
 Cynthia felt that her place was beside Nathalie, who wrote 
 urging her to go to her in Baltimore, and whom she hoped 
 to be able to bring back to the little brown cottage and 
 devote herself to cheering and comforting in this her 
 first great sorrow ; but Nathalie had taken a very severe 
 cold during her mother's illness, which developed into 
 pneumonia. She was critically ill for a week or more, 
 and was left with a cough and other symptoms which led 
 the city doctors to declare that she required a complete 
 change to some soft, warm climate, where she could spend 
 much time in the open air, while even Dr. Danforth, 
 whom Cynthia insisted on summoning in consultation, 
 was obliged to decide that a winter in Dundaff would be 
 too severe a test of her sister's returning strength. It 
 was accordingly arranged that Cynthia and Nathalie 
 should go abroad for a year, which they did with great 
 regret, for, happy as they were together, the thoughts of 
 each turned anxiously back to those they left behind. A 
 winter passed in the south of France and a summer in 
 travelling through Germany and Switzerland, however, 
 completely restored Nathalie to health. 
 
 Meanwhile, Millard Henderson plodded on at his work. 
 It had been a severe trial to return to Dundaff, carrying 
 with him, as he did, a sense of shame and self- disgust 
 sharpened to intensity by his clear recognition of the 
 irreparability of the wrong he had inflicted. If the pen- 
 alty had only been visited upon himself, he could have 
 faced it proudly, or so he thought ; but when he knew 
 that he had done a life-long injury to Richard Ledyard 
 in one moment of rash passion ; when he awoke to realize 
 that, after all the years in which he had striven to repair 
 the fault committed in his youth, the bitterest fruit that 
 fault could yield was yet to be harvested, that its worst 
 consequences were to fall on the innocent and uncon-
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 361 
 
 scions head of his dearly-loved boy, such thoughts 
 were almost unendurable. Would it be possible to guard 
 Wilfred from ever knowing of the stain upon his birth ? 
 he asked himself; or might the careful concealment of 
 it on his part lead, as the boy grew older, to its chance 
 disclosure, to a sudden and violent enlightenment which 
 might not only embitter his existence, but poison his 
 mind and harden his heart against those whom he had 
 loved and reverenced ? 
 
 Mi Hard would spend hours in his library, moody, 
 silent, plunged in gloomy memories or in darker fore- 
 bodings. His only comfort was in the regular round of 
 his prosaic duties, which he performed with a sort of 
 fierce promptitude and regularity. He had written to 
 Ledyard to ask his forgiveness while yet the man was too 
 ill to be allowed to read his letter, but Richard was the 
 first person whom he sought on reaching Dundaff. The 
 young rector had returned to his own house, and was in 
 his study one evening, when the door opened to admit 
 the sad, grave face, the wistful eyes and massive form of 
 Millard Henderson. He was prepared for a very cold 
 reception, and was all the more touched and surprised by 
 his first greeting from Ledyard, who held out his single 
 but still strong right hand with as much warmth and cord- 
 iality as if there had been no midnight meeting between 
 them and he were not a cripple for life in consequence 
 of their misunderstanding. There was nothing which 
 Millard would not have done for him after this, and by 
 degrees they fell back into their old relations, the natural 
 charm of manner which drew the younger man towards 
 the older one when they were first thrown together being 
 enhanced by a congeniality of taste and of temperament 
 which also rendered Richard's society and companion- 
 ship especially agreeable to Henderson. 
 
 Then, too, they had a strong interest in common from 
 their mutual hopes and plans for the good of the peo- 
 ple, which received unprecedented encouragement from 
 a most unexpected circumstance. This was the fact that 
 old Mr. Betterton, whose failing health unfitted him for 
 Q 3
 
 362 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 the active supervision of his affairs, was placing his busi- 
 ness at the cotton-mills more and more in the hands of 
 Dr. Danforth, whose engagement to Florence Betterton 
 was now openly acknowledged, and who possessed a 
 rare quality for a professional man, a clear head for 
 finance.^ But, although he delighted old Mr. Betterton by 
 the skill and ability he showed in this respect, he did not 
 share his intended father-in-law's dislike of everything 
 new, and was more than tolerant of Henderson's schemes. 
 Millard felt a shade less miserable as time went on, and 
 began to make an effort to respond to Mrs. Pelham's 
 gentle attempts to cheer and brighten the dreary house, 
 so filled with haunting associations. Then came Granby 
 Neil, who, it seemed, had taken Cynthia's cottage for the 
 winter, with all its furniture and belongings, not excluding 
 old Marjory. There was an air of mystery about Neil 
 which Millard did not understand, until one day his friend 
 appeared with a huge white envelope directed with great 
 care to 
 
 Granby Neil, Esq., 
 
 Dundaff, Howard County, 
 
 Maryland. 
 
 " Read that !" shouted Neil, quite unconscious of the 
 loud tone he used in his excitement. " That has just 
 come. It is from Blank," naming a famous Baltimore 
 lawyer. " He says that my marriage was no marriage 
 at all ! I am free to marry again, again, if you please! 
 Thank God, he cannot bring me to that !" 
 
 Mrs. Pelham, who was busy with her crochet-work 
 beside the fire, a low lamp, which had just been lighted, 
 at her elbow, looked up at Mr. Neil with amazement, 
 and then from him to Henderson with ill-concealed anx- 
 iety. For a moment Millard almost shared her impres- 
 sion that Neil had gone out of his senses ; then he took 
 the paper, as requested, and rapidly ran over its contents. 
 
 It was an opinion from the great authority whom Mr. 
 Neil had mentioned, that, owing to the peculiar exaction 
 of the law of Maiyland, which required that a religious
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 363 
 
 ceremony should be " superadded to the civil contract," 
 a requisition of which both Neil and Ledyard had 
 been ignorant, the law of Maryland differing in this 
 respect from that of New York and many of the other 
 States, the civil ceremony conducted by Richard Led- 
 yard in Baltimore, intended to unite Granby Neil to 
 Posey Periwinkle, at a given date, did not constitute a 
 marriage. 
 
 Neil had apparently given the barest possible outline 
 of facts, mentioning his long absence and supposed death, 
 and that his wife, thinking him no more, had married 
 again. As he had not mentioned her death, and said 
 nothing of any other reason for wishing to look into the 
 validity of the marriage, the lawyer whom he consulted, 
 not unnaturally, supposed that he wished himself to 
 marry again. 
 
 Just as Millard looked up from this singular document 
 his gaze lighted on little Wilfred, who had pushed aside 
 the curtain at the door of the drawing-room and was 
 peering in to see who was there, preparatory to kissing 
 them all good-night. With a wild flash of hope that 
 seemed to glare like lightning across the sombre 
 thoughts which had been induced by what he read, 
 Henderson suddenly realized what the establishment of 
 the nullity of this marriage would mean for his child. 
 He glanced from the boy to Neil, perceiving that he 
 had followed the direction of his eyes and now read his 
 thoughts. 
 
 " Why, of course," said Granby, nodding : " that is the 
 whole point of my having taken all this trouble." Hen- 
 derson flung his arms about Granby Neil's neck. He was 
 beside himself with joy. " Stop a bit ! stop a bit, Millard !" 
 said the artist, shaking himself free, not ungently, of his 
 friend's embrace. " There must be no misunderstand- 
 ing about this," he continued, loudly, and then suddenly 
 his voice failed him and sank almost to a whisper as a 
 great wave of feeling swept over his face. " I want you to 
 know," he murmured, " that this was not all done for you. 
 If Posey had but lived I would have done it for her sake,
 
 364 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 gladly ; and I thought, when she was gone, that the only 
 amends that I could make for having driven her, albeit 
 ignorantly, to a desperate end would be this : if it were 
 possible, to do it for her boy." 
 
 Henderson could not answer. The two men clasped 
 hands silently, and then little Wilfred came and put up 
 his innocent, wondering face to each in turn, and last to 
 " dear Aunt Pelham," for the good-night kiss.
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 365 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 EIGHTEEN months had come and gone since the events 
 mentioned in the last chapter. They had brought great 
 changes to Dundaff, and yet had left many things un- 
 changed, as is the capricious prerogative of Time. 
 
 Six months after his arm was healed, when Richard 
 Ledyard began to show signs that his hard winter's work 
 among the factory people was telling on his general 
 health, Dr. Danforth packed him off without a moment's 
 hesitation to join his lady-love at Nice, with orders to 
 travel with her through Switzerland. There was a good 
 deal of fun among the more light-minded of his con- 
 gregation over the young clergyman's indisposition and 
 what they wittily dubbed his " sympathetic cough," but 
 Richard cared little for their raillery, or was only amused 
 by it. He had a natural leaning towards the black sheep 
 of his flock, whom he rather preferred to their spotless 
 brothers. 
 
 Before he left Dundaff for his holiday, however, he 
 was called upon to perform a certain auspicious cere- 
 mony for his kind friend and care-taker, Dr. Danforth, 
 whom he joined in wedlock to Miss Florence Betterton, 
 and the reader may be very sure that he allowed no 
 needful formality to be omitted on this occasion. 
 
 When he was actually ready to set forth, what was his 
 surprise to learn that he was to have three companions 
 on his voyage across the ocean ! These were no less 
 important persons than Mrs. Pelham, Millard Hender- 
 son, whom his aunt had persuaded to go abroad with 
 her for the summer, and little Wilfred. 
 
 They intended to take one of the French vessels, 
 which Ledyard very gladly agreed to do also, with a 
 view of landing at Havre and proceeding at once to 
 Geneva, where Mrs. Pelham would rest and await with 
 Wilfred and his father the arrival of the others, while 
 
 31*
 
 366 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 Ledyard would push on to Nice, returning with Cynthia 
 and Nathalie to join their friends. 
 
 It was a plan so delightful, Richard thought, that he 
 could hardly believe in its real accomplishment, while 
 he was by no means the only person to whom the re- 
 union it promised seemed too great a happiness to be 
 seriously hoped for. Yet it was carried out in every 
 particular. 
 
 Ledyard found Nathalie looking taller, thinner, paler, 
 in her black dress, but with a light in her eyes which 
 made his heart leap up with gladness. And that dear 
 Cynthia was so beamingly considerate. She was so ab- 
 solutely absorbed in her packing that she could not give 
 them any time at all that evening, and Nathalie was so 
 much in her way that she was really grateful to Mr. 
 Ledyard for kindly occupying her with low-toned con- 
 versation on the moonlit balcony of the hotel while she, 
 Cynthia, made her final important preparations for their 
 departure on the morrow. 
 
 Then came the meeting at Geneva, never to be for- 
 gotten by two at least of the friends who had been 
 parted for so long. It was as they were all walking 
 home from the view of the sunset on the lake, at the close 
 of the day of their arrival, when Millard and Cynthia 
 had fallen a little behind the others, that Henderson tried 
 to say to her something of the deep gratitude which he 
 had borne in his heart for her championship of his for- 
 lorn cause " on that night when, but for the mercy of 
 God, I might have been a murderer !" It was only a 
 word or two that he could manage to get out, so dark 
 and terrible to him still were the associations thus called 
 up, but a word or two were quite enough to convey his 
 meaning. 
 
 The six weeks which followed were the happiest that 
 Cynthia had ever known. It was in itself delightful to 
 her to be once more with Mrs. Pelham, even if the pleas- 
 ure had not been enhanced by the companionship of 
 Millard Henderson, by the stimulant of the merry banter 
 between him and Ledyard, or by sympathy for the joy of
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 367 
 
 Nathalie and Richard. To see the color come back to 
 Nathalie's cheek, indeed, to note the returning elasticity 
 of step, the rounding away of angles left by her long 
 illness, and watch Ledyard's devoted care for her every 
 wish, his thoughtful consideration of her weakness, filled 
 Cynthia with glad hope for her sister's future. 
 
 It is not often that a party of travellers are so perfectly 
 in accord. Even the child's bright face and eager delight 
 in what he saw were a source of enjoyment to them all, 
 while nothing could exceed the tenderness and affection 
 shown Wilfred by Mrs. Pelham and his father; but 
 underlying it all for Cynthia was a gladness which 
 would not be denied, in the unspoken bond between 
 Milbrd and herself, that seemed ever drawing closer. 
 They had never been thrown so much together, never 
 really known one another so well, and the more they 
 saw each of the other, the more they felt the broadening 
 and deepening effect that life had had upon the characters 
 of both. 
 
 It was wonderfully sweet and beautiful to her to ob- 
 serve Millard with his child when he least knew she 
 noted him ; and while he was now capable of appreciating 
 the thoughts she uttered as they stood together before 
 some masterpiece of art or nature, more truly than he 
 would have been in the old days, he felt instinctively 
 that her religious mind no longer shrank with distrust 
 or apprehension from his love for exact scientific modes 
 of reasoning. Thus they grew daily into deeper sym- 
 pathy with that half-conscious progress which makes 
 life's dearest blessing. 
 
 When the autumn came round, Ledyard and Hender- 
 son both felt that they should go back to work, and they 
 all turned their faces homeward. 
 
 The event of that autumn in Dundaff was the mar- 
 riage of Richard Ledyard with Nathalie Arkwright. 
 The ceremony was performed by the amiable Mr. Cush- 
 man, in the village church, of course, and the factory 
 children were in the gallery, and there was much re- 
 joicing, and many flowers were flung before the blushing
 
 368 BROKEN CHOJWS. 
 
 bride, both for her own sake and that of her bridegroom, 
 while after all this was over they went for a short visit 
 to Dunstable, where Richard's mother still lived, and 
 then came back very quietly to the little rectory at Dun- 
 daff. As it drew towards spring and they had been 
 married nearly six months, Nathalie's twenty- first birth- 
 day, with the right to her inheritance, also approached, 
 and she confided to her husband a design which she had 
 formed " long ago," to have a " paper" drawn a deed 
 of gift, Ledyard told her it would be by which half her 
 fortune should be handed over to Cynthia. 
 
 " Do you not think it should be hers, Richard ?" she 
 asked, thoughtfully, as they sat together over the fire 
 one bleak night in February, when Jack Frost was adorn- 
 ing the rectory windows, which rattled as the wind went 
 howling by. 
 
 " I not only think so, dear, but it seems to me very 
 unjust that she should not have had it all these years," 
 he answered, heartily. " There is no one who could 
 have done more good with it. But what is that?" 
 
 It was a rap at the outer door, which Ledyard opened 
 to admit Cynthia herself. She was bright and glowing 
 with health in spite of the cold wind, and carried beneath 
 her cloak a huge bunch of hot-house roses which Mrs. 
 Pelham had sent from Fernwood that afternoon. 
 
 " I thought they were a great deal too sweet for me, 
 and I would just bring them to you," she said to Nathalie. 
 
 Nathalie kissed her sister, and Ledyard thanked her 
 warmly. 
 
 " Do you know what I was thinking of when you 
 came in just now?" he asked. " It was of the first time 
 you ever spoke to me, when you appeared to Danforth 
 and myself in this very room and bade us follow you, as 
 we were both so glad to do." 
 
 Cynthia only answered with her rare, sweet smile. 
 She never talked of her good deeds, and seldom of her- 
 self if the subject could be avoided. 
 
 Meanwhile, the spring wore on slowly. Ledyard had 
 been gaining the hearts of the factory people, to whom
 
 BROKEN CHORDS, 369 
 
 he preached on Sunday afternoons in one of the large 
 mill buildings, while many of them now came regularly 
 to the morning service at St. Andrew's. They all loved 
 Mrs. Ledyard, for she no sooner became the wife of the 
 rector than she threw herself heart and soul into the 
 work which had so long been her sister's, helping her 
 to get her classes together again and to minister to the 
 poor and suffering as Cynthia had ministered for so many 
 patient years. Richard, who worshipped the ground she 
 walked on, was only anxious lest Nathalie should overdo, 
 for there was nothing going on in all the country round 
 but Nathalie had a share in it. She loved humanity, was 
 at home with all classes of people, and always in demand. 
 
 Perhaps the most popular person in the higher circles 
 of the country society in these days, however, was Mr. 
 Granby Neil. The wonderful stories he could tell of life 
 in the far West for older listeners, the Indian war-dances 
 which he could imitate for the benefit of the boys, the 
 charming portraits he could p;iint of the pretty girls in 
 the neighborhood, all conduced to this end, and he was 
 a welcome guest in every household, although especially 
 the property as they considered of Danforth and his 
 wife, who now lived in a fine new house on the hill be- 
 yond Cynthia's cottage, next to which Mr. Neil had built 
 himself a pretty studio, always to be found in the state of 
 picturesque disorder which was as the very breath of 
 life to the artist. 
 
 He had painted a very spirited picture of Wilfred 
 Henderson on his pony, the sittings for which took place 
 in Cynthia's garden, and were no less eagerly looked for- 
 ward to by the painter and the boy than by Henderson, 
 as they formed an excuse, while they lasted, for the most 
 delightfully informal daily meetings between himself and 
 Cynthia. They were, indeed, constantly in one another's 
 society in these days, alone or in the company of others, 
 and were at little pains to conceal the enjoyment each 
 derived from the association, but avoided by tacit con- 
 sent any expression of personal sentiment. It not only 
 Beemed to Cynthia as if no such expression were needed,
 
 370 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 but she had her own reasons for wishing most earnestly 
 for the undisturbed continuation of their present relations 
 of frankly affectionate friendship. To Mi Hard, on the 
 other hand, this feeling of hers was so transparent that 
 he struggled bravely with the hunger of his heart, which 
 would not be satisfied without the assurance that seemed 
 at times so plain and yet eluded definition. It was but 
 a question of time, perhaps, for at last it gained the 
 mastery. 
 
 One lovely day towards the end of June Cynthia had 
 just returned from the rectory, where a very important 
 event had taken place during the last two weeks, in the 
 birth of a little Miss Ledyard, whose mother and father 
 both insisted that her name was to be Cynthia, while 
 " Aunt Cynthia" objected strongly, on the ground that 
 Nathalie was a much prettier name. She found Rich- 
 ard and Nathalie very obstinate, however, not only on 
 this point, but as to that other important subject of the 
 " deed of gift." Not even when she appealed to them 
 on the plea that they were depriving this innocent child 
 of its rights was she able to move them to reconsider 
 their action in the matter ; and so she said, at last, that 
 she would hold the property in trust for her namesake 
 and give the income to people who knew " how to use it." 
 
 On this especial June morning, when once more in her 
 pretty cottage, where the flowers were all in bloom, she 
 was looking from her window as on a day gone by. 
 Her eyes were slightly dreamy, but there was a half- 
 smile on her lips even before she saw Millard Hender- 
 son riding up the road with his face turned towards her. 
 He sprang from his horse the instant that his look met 
 hers, and, throwing the reins to the groom, who led the 
 horse away towards Fernwood, came quickly up the 
 garden walk. The next moment he was in the cottage. 
 
 " Cynthia," he said, " I have come for you. I cannot 
 vait any longer. My love, do you love me?" 
 
 " Yes, Millard." 
 
 " Then you belong to me." 
 
 " No, Millard. I never can belong to you."
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 371 
 
 ' Never ?" 
 
 " Never in this world." 
 
 " But why, if you can love me in spite of the past ? 
 What is there now to hold us from one another ? Do 
 you not know how I love you, all you are to me ? 
 that my every thought is how to please you, my great- 
 est dread to give you pain ? Why may we not marry 
 at last? Cynthia, dear Cynthia, look at me. Surely, 
 surely you will be mine !" 
 
 But she had turned away. She could not answer for 
 a while, though it was infinitely sweet to her to hear him 
 call her by her name. She loved his voice. Its every 
 tone found answer in her heart. She longed, yet feared, 
 to meet his eyes. 
 
 "What have I done now, Cynthia? something for 
 which I may not be forgiven ?" he asked, in a changed 
 tone. 
 
 " No, dear love, you did not do it, and it is no sin ; but 
 ibis done. Do you not know, do you not remember?" 
 she asked, turning towards him at last and raising her 
 eyes to his with a pure, bright smile. " Do you forget 
 that when I went into the convent I took a solemn vow ? 
 Please understand me. I would undo it if I could, for 
 your sake ; nay, I will be honest, I would undo it for 
 my own ; but I am pledged." 
 
 He made a motion towards her, which she checked 
 with a glance. 
 
 " I may not marry," she said, sadly. 
 
 " Not when you have left the convent, when you are 
 living in the world ?" cried Henderson. " What differ- 
 ence can it make to break that vow, when you have 
 broken others?" 
 
 " The others were not broken willingly. I have told 
 you how they sent me from the convent. The breaking 
 of them in form was forced upon me. I have tried to 
 keep them in the spirit. I do not believe that we are 
 held responsible for that which we cannot control, but 
 this was a promise which I can help breaking. It is 
 quite within the power of my will to be true to this
 
 372 BROKEN CHORDS. 
 
 solemn pledge, and I believe that when I die I must 
 answer for it to my Maker." 
 
 " Then are you still a Romanist ? I thought you told 
 me that you had changed your faith." 
 
 " I have changed my faith. There was a time when 
 I was so sore pressed that I had almost lost it. I can 
 no longer claim to be of the Church of Rome, but I 
 never for one moment thought myself free." 
 
 " And I never dreamed of your thinking of yourself 
 in the light of a nun. You surely do not call yourself 
 the bride of Christ, and all that ?" 
 
 " I call myself nothing but a foolish woman who has 
 made a vow that she will not marry, and made it of her 
 own free will." 
 
 " But before that, Cynthia, you had given me your 
 faith. Ah, I know what your silence means," he con- 
 tinued, bitterly, after a pause in which she had not an- 
 swered. " You mean that I betrayed it ; and it is true ; 
 but that betrayal was before I had ever seen you, and 
 from the time I did see I loved you. I think you never 
 doubted it, although you could not know how much. 
 In truth, I would gladly have died for you, and before 
 you took this vow you were mine'' 
 
 " Yes, I once belonged to you," she said, with trem- 
 bling voice. " We need not speak of that which parted 
 us. It is all past. I know you loved me as you say, 
 and you know I loved you ; but, Millard; let us both be 
 brave and face the truth. It was chiefly because I loved 
 you and my heart was broken that J made this vow, but 
 I never meant it to be a mere form to shut me from the 
 world. I meant it to be the beginning of a new life, 
 one devoted to God through his creatures. I could not, 
 if I married, carry out the pledge even in spirit. I must 
 live partly for myself in living for you ; and what in- 
 terests, what temptations might not come to turn us both 
 from the direct path of duty ! It is not as though we 
 had ourselves alone to think of. You have your Wil- 
 fred, who needs all your love and care, and I the poor 
 and suffering, to whom I have promised my life in God's
 
 BROKEN CHORDS. 373 
 
 name. Should I not feel bound in honor to be true to 
 a promise to any human creature ? then how much more 
 by this to the God who has shown me infinite mercy and 
 forbearance ?" 
 
 Millard Henderson gazed at Cynthia, as she spoke, 
 much as he would have looked on a ship which was 
 sailing out to sea with all he loved, yet leaving him be- 
 hind. Then there came a change over his face. There 
 was no convincing power for him in what she said, but 
 he suddenly saw that it was absolutely true for her, and 
 that his cause was the more hopeless for the love she 
 would not deny. The look of anguish died, and one of 
 patient strength came in its place. He would not urge 
 his own claim now as in his passionate youth. Only 
 once for all the years of deprivation he took her in his 
 arms and pressed his lips to hers. 
 
 Only once, and then they parted. Yet not, as before, 
 in an agony of regret followed by months of hopeless 
 longing. They parted as lovers, each knowing that the 
 other would love on to the end, but to meet again as 
 friends that prized their friendship as the dearest thing 
 in life, both determined to make existence so much less 
 difficult as might be possible for either. 
 
 Indeed, as time went by and little Wilfred grew to 
 manhood, and Nathalie's children came about the cot- 
 tage, and Cynthia's hair was touched with silver, they 
 were no less true nor tender friends. Seldom did the 
 day pass, winter or summer, but Millard came to sit 
 awhile beside the cottage fire or paused to talk with her 
 on the flower-framed veranda, and he had no care and 
 she no sorrow which they did not share with one another 
 
 32 
 
 FINIS.
 
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