Pi^.v-ftv^SS 

 
 V 
 
 

 
 MR VAUGHAFS HEIE. 
 
 BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "MY DAUGHTER ELINOR," "MISS VAN KORTLAND," "MISS DOROTHY'S CHARGE," 
 "JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME," &c, &c. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE.
 
 FRANK LEE BENEDICT'S NOVELS. 
 
 MY DAUGHTER ELINOR. Svo, Paper, $i oo ; Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 Destined to attain a wide popularity. N. Y. Evening Past. 
 
 MISS VAN KORTLAND. Svo, Paper, $100; Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 Bright, lively, entertaining. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 MISS DOROTHY'S CHARGE. Svo, Paper, i oo ; Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 The brightness, freshness, grace, and good feeling of the whole story. Standard, London. 
 
 JOHN WORTHINGTON'S NAME. Svo, Paper, $i oo ; Cloth, 
 
 Of all our American novelists, he is undoubtedly the most accomplished, the most vivacious, the mos 
 the most natural Ckrittian Intelligencer. 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. Svo, Paper, $i oo ; Cloth, $i 50. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS will send either of the above works by mail, postage frtfaitt, to an<> 
 fart of the United States, on receipt of the price. 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, b Y 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
 
 To J. T. HART. 
 
 Dear Friend, 
 
 I dedicate to you this book, written in Florence during the past autumn 
 made so pleasant to me by your companionship. It will reach you at the time 
 when the work to which you have devoted ten years approaches completion. The 
 .rt-lovers and art-students of our day have already pronounced their verdict there- 
 upon, so that 1 only repeat what has been said and written scores of times when 
 I express the certainty that, once chiseled into marble perfection, it will be acknowl- 
 edged, not only by our own generation, but by all time to come, that the sculptor has 
 equaled the genius as well as the patience of the old Greek masters. 
 
 FRANK LEE BENEDICT. 
 
 St. Dalmas di Tenda, Italy, 1S7U, 
 
 206187
 
 MR. VAUGHAFS HEIR. 
 
 CHAPTEB I. 
 
 LA MALAD&YBE. 
 
 IT was a gorgeous September afternoon. The 
 steamboat neared Lausanne, on its way up from 
 Geneva to Villeneuve, and at length the far- 
 famed lake began to redeem the promise held 
 out by its reputation. Elizabeth Crauford sat on 
 the deck, talked with her father, watched the 
 people, and kept to herself a certain sense of dis- 
 appointment which had been growing from Ge- 
 neva to Ouchy. But once beyond the pretty 
 little watering-place, with gloomy Lausanne 
 frowning on the height above r the whole scene 
 changed. The hills towered into mountains ; in 
 the far distance Mont Blanc showed like a pin- 
 nacle of yellow flame. Here the real beauty of 
 the lake commences, increasing constantly, till, 
 within the sight of Vevay and Clarens, its full 
 perfection is reached, deserving to be raved over 
 and to have poetry written about it even in this 
 scoffing, materialistic age. 
 
 The sun was setting as they gained Vevay. 
 Behind stretched a lofty mountain range, glori- 
 ous with rainbow tints. In front rose the mighty 
 Dent-du-Midi, with its eternal crown of snow, 
 the Jamin peak and lesser crags guarding the 
 head of the lake like giant sentinels. Another 
 landing a village which is in reality a bourg of 
 Vevay, though taking a name from some pictur- 
 esque ruins near the water. 
 
 " Perhaps it would have been better to leave 
 the boat here," Mr. Crauford said ; then, with 
 characteristic vacillation, added immediately, 
 ' ' But we may as well go on to Clarens ; La 
 Maladeyre is nearer there, in fact." 
 
 Elizabeth was too well accustomed to unex- 
 pected propositions and their withdrawal on the 
 part of her father, whether in regard to journeys 
 or other matters, to pay much attention. She 
 was gazing up and down the lake watching the 
 magic light taking in every feature of the 
 beautiful panorama. But she did not forget to 
 answer. Mr. Crauford always waited for a re- 
 ply to his suggestions. As a rule, the response, 
 whatever it might be, did not exactly please 
 him ; but one of some sort must be given. So 
 now Elizabeth said dutifully 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 Mr. Crauford neither noticed nor heard. He 
 leaned over the railing, and looked earnestly out 
 
 toward the left bank, close to which the boat 
 ran. He had not seen the spot since he and his 
 wife came here during their wedding journey. 
 Mrs. Crauford had been dead many a da,v, and 
 her widowed spouse was past fifty ; still he liked 
 to indulge in romance of a lachrymose and un- 
 comfortable nature. He had determined to bring 
 his daughter to visit the place in which he had 
 been so happy, or thought he had, though he 
 and his bride had quarreled a good deal on the 
 banks of the famous Lake Leman, after the hab- 
 it of newly married people, wherever they may 
 chance to wander. He wanted to spend a month 
 in the very house in which he and his lost an- 
 gel had dwelt, and, writing to secure it, found 
 himself obliged to pay a high price for the indul- 
 gence of his fancy. It was probable that he 
 would be wretched, and would render his daugh- 
 ter, his faithful Gervais, and every body about 
 him, as miserable as he well could. 
 
 There is no companion more to be dreaded on 
 a journey than a man doing romance, unless it 
 be one who means to write poetry about the 
 marvelous scenes ; they both invariably scold 
 and find fault from morning to night. 
 
 Presently the boat passed a point of land jut- 
 ting out into the lake, covered with trees, two 
 great weeping-willows and three tall poplars con- 
 spicuous among them. Mr. Crauford pointed 
 to the roof of a house visible amid the greenery, 
 and spoke for the first time in many minutes. 
 
 "That is La Maladeyre, my dear." 
 
 Elizabeth looked and tried to feel sentiment- 
 al, and to fancy her father and mother there in 
 their youth ; but the fitting poetic sadness re- 
 fused to make itself felt it never will when one 
 tries to call it up. Somehow, her vagrant fan- 
 cy would only picture her living parent in a hid- 
 eous red and yellow dressing-gown, which he 
 donned in the seclusion of his chamber, and her 
 mother taking physic out of a large spoon. She 
 had enough pleasanter recollections of that dead 
 mother, but they refused to keep her company 
 now. 
 
 The Clarens landing v, as reached ; beyond lay 
 Verney, Terretet, and the Castle of Chillon ; a 
 little further sweep of water, then the vast mount- 
 ains closed' in the scene. It was almost dusk, 
 but Elizabeth could perceive that Clarens was 
 as unlike the Clarens of Rousseau as could well 
 be imagined.
 
 MR. VAUGIIAX'S HEIR. 
 
 10 
 
 "It is not far down," Mr. Crauford said, as 
 he and his daughter stood comfortably watching 
 Gervais and Margot struggle with porters over 
 the luggage. "We might walk; but we can 
 easily get a carriage," he added, before she 
 could agree to his first proposition. 
 
 Gervais learned that the road along the lake 
 was undergoing repairs ; it would be wise to 
 take another which wound among the hills from 
 Montreux to Vevay. M\ times Mr. Crauford 
 changed his mind, but Gervais ordered the coach- 
 man to go on to the tipper road. He had not 
 wavered in his determination, "though he let 
 his master talk," as he expressed himself later 
 to Margot. It was a pretty route, among trees 
 and sheltered farm-houses, a spick-and-span new 
 castle standing where the bosquet de Julie used 
 to wave. From thence a rapid descent between 
 the chestnut-trees, a sharp turn, an arch under 
 the railway to traverse, then the lake road and 
 the pretty campagne Mr. Crauford had pointed 
 out to his daughter. 
 
 The 'carriage passed through the iron gates, 
 just within which stood a picturesque chalet, 
 rolled on a short distance, and drew np before the 
 entrance to the villa. A square, rather gloomy 
 house, much older than it looked, but pleasant 
 and comfortable within though, after the fash- 
 ion of Swiss dwellings, the best room in it was 
 taken up by the kitchen. There was a pretty 
 salon, a library beyond, both looking toward the 
 chalet ; on the other side of the hall a dining- 
 room, with a view of the lake and the Dent-du- 
 Midi. Above- stairs a sleeping-chamber and 
 dressing-room for Elizabeth ; next that a large 
 apartment for her father, and a glorious outlook 
 from the windows. 
 
 They had dined early at Geneva, Mr. Crau- 
 ford met one of his numerous and sudden neu- 
 ralgic headaches at the house-door (they were 
 always lying in wait for him in the most unex- 
 jilaces), so he retired at once to his cham- 
 inking himself saddened by memories of 
 i reality, very rros* and fretful, scold- 
 - as long as that patient adherent 
 . to listen. 
 
 d from the house, and the 
 
 lions of its good-natured mis- 
 
 tre **- ' some tea later, and went 
 
 8 spot which was to be her 
 
 -ks. In front, a narrow lawn, 
 
 : to the right 
 
 l"ft a tangle of shrublxsrv, a 
 'ul an etpalier, where the great 
 per grew rich and golden, clumps of 
 inns, two vine -covered 
 
 
 I-ath to the back of the 
 
 dW f' I'"f rccnsward, dotted 
 
 v" to the massive 
 
 jail agaanit whirl, , he waves beat and 
 
 run n force thnt made one feel as if 
 
 POD the MMhore. In one place the land jut- 
 
 ted out in a point ; the basin thus formed made 
 a harbor for a sail-boat, and had a bit of outer 
 wall to protect it. Beyond the landing -steps 
 rose one of the grand old willows ; at the ex- 
 tremity of the point towered a poplar, its trunk 
 encircled by a bench. 
 
 The moon was coming up, tinging the snow- 
 crown of the Dent-du-Midi, and casting a broad 
 line of golden radiance across the waters. Away 
 stretched the beautiful lake ; far in the distance 
 streaks of daylight yet lingered ; great masses 
 of white clouds sailed slowly np the sky ; the air 
 was soft and warm, as if the sheltered valley had 
 been deep in Italy. 
 
 Then Elizabeth walked back to look at the 
 chalet along building, standing upon a declivity 
 which brought the ground-floor of the front part 
 on a level with the upper story of the back. A 
 wide gallery ran along the side, roofed by the 
 overhanging eaves ; at the back was a flight of 
 stairs. A home beneath the building (of course) 
 for the cows, and a paved space between the 
 chalet and villa, with a fountain sending its jet 
 into a huge stone basin, which'served as a drink- 
 ing-place for the cattle and a convenience for 
 the wife of the fcrmier established in some 
 rooms next the cow-house to wash her clothes, 
 Swiss fashion, in cold water. 
 
 There were lights in the upper room of the 
 chalet ; a young girl was pacing up and down 
 the long gallery, humming snatches of French 
 songs. Elizabeth stopped under the shadow of 
 the trees to look at her, but it was too dark to 
 distinguish more than a tall, slight figure wrapped 
 in a loose white mantle. Presently, through one 
 of the open windows, came a peevish voice, call- 
 ing in French 
 
 "It is that thou art resolved to take cold, I 
 suppose? Come in, I entreat thee, my child." 
 
 "It is not cold in the least," replied the clear 
 young tones; "and I do not wish to come in. 
 Thou art disagreeable, mamma, and Monsieur 
 La Tour is disagreeable likewise. I prefer the 
 gallery and my own society. '' 
 
 Expostulations from the peevish voice, en- 
 treaties from elderly masculine tones; but the 
 girl turned impatiently and resumed her march. 
 Elizabeth walked away, smiling at the brief 
 dialogue, and entered the house. 
 
 While she drank her tea, Madame Bocher m 
 formed her that the apartment in the chalet A 
 occupied by a lady and her daughter. T 
 name was L'Estrange. The mother was s 
 valid-here for her health. She would n 
 liere or any where long. Well, we must all d 
 Mademoiselle Nathalie was to marry Monsieur 
 La Tour. He was a little elderly man with a 
 wig, and Mademoiselle laughed at him a great 
 deal. She was a blithe young thing, was Made- 
 moiselle. Madame was devote, bigote even- 
 natural enough, since she must die soon. But 
 she was odd very odd ! However, Madame
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 11 
 
 Bochcr was not one to gossip, and the lady paid 
 her bills regularly, and Monsieur le Cure' came 
 several times a week from Vevay to visit her. 
 Of course, under other circumstances Madame 
 might wish to be rid of her lodger nothing hurt 
 a house like having a death happen in it but 
 Madame's lease of villa and chalet would expire 
 in the spring, and who could be cruel enough to 
 turn out the poor invalid when she had a fancy 
 to stay ? 
 
 "I hear a carriage," Elizabeth said at last, 
 more to interrupt Madame's torrent of talk than 
 because there was any thing extraordinary in 
 the sounds she mentioned. 
 
 "It is Monsieur La Tour driving away: he 
 stops at the Hotel du Lac, the grand hotel by 
 the landing near Vevay, " Madame explained. 
 
 Elizabeth went into the salon ; from its win- 
 dows she could look into a couple of rooms in 
 the front part of the chalet. She saw the young 
 girl who had been walking in the gallery. She 
 had her window open; the moon lighted her 
 face a pretty, girlish face. A window of the 
 salon was open too. At some noise Elizabeth 
 made she looked up, and waved her hand gayly. 
 
 "Good-evening,"' she said in English, with 
 scarcely a trace of foreign accent. "We are 
 neighbors, you see ; I have been expecting you 
 all day. Ciel, how could you bear to come to 
 this awful place ? Mamma will be in bed in a 
 few minutes ; then I am going down to the lake ; 
 don't you want to come ? Your papa is in his 
 room with a headache, Madame Bocher told me. 
 She tells more in less time than any body that 
 ever lived, except me. But I've not heard your 
 voice yet; to be sure, I've given you no chance! 
 Don't speak ; meet me under the great willow. 
 I want to hear your voice suddenly ; then I shall 
 know if we are to be friends or enemies do one 
 another good or harm." 
 
 She was gone, and Elizabeth stood quite con- 
 fused by this sudden and rapid outburst of talk, 
 delivered half in English, half in French. But 
 it did not weary her as Madame Bocher's mono- 
 logue had done. There was something bright 
 and piquant, more in the way the words were 
 spoken than in any merit they themselves pos- 
 sessed, which caused Elizabeth hastily to decide 
 "at the stranger would prove a pleasant com- 
 
 "ion. 
 
 e went dutifully up-stairs to inquire after 
 
 ther. but neuralgia and memory had been 
 
 uch for him. He could only kiss her 
 
 iy, grumble a little about Gervais, and 
 
 . his head on his pillow. So there was noth- 
 
 g.to prevent Elizabeth's accepting the- French 
 
 id's try.st by the lake. Margot met her in the 
 
 all, and insisted on wrapping a shawl about her. 
 Elizabeth submitted, because that was the quick- 
 est way to get her liberty. As she passed the 
 jreat tree which spread its branches out over 
 the lake, and sighed softly to the whispers of the 
 
 waves, she caught sight of a white-cloaked figure 
 on the bench by the poplar beyond. She re- 
 membered the French girl's odd words. Like 
 most young people, Elizabeth was fond now and 
 then of yielding to superstitious follies. 
 
 "Here I am is it for good or evil?" she 
 called suddenly. 
 
 The girl sprang to her feet with a sharp cry 
 started back as if with some wild intention of 
 running away then moved forward a few steps, 
 looked full in Elizabeth's face, cried out again, 
 tried to laugh, and ended, to Elizabeth's great 
 discomfiture, by bursting into a flood of hyster- 
 ical weeping. 
 
 "I frightened you; I beg your pardon. I 
 oughtn't to have come up so quietly," she said 
 in French. 
 
 "No, no, it is not that ; it is not that ! I was 
 waiting for you ; but it is for no good ! I shall 
 do you mischief; I know I shall do you mis- 
 chief." 
 
 Elizabeth began to laugh. 
 
 "We will not allow the old Breton supersti- 
 tion so much weight," said she. "I dare say 
 you are tired to-night." 
 
 "Yes, mamma was so wearisome, and Mon- 
 sieur La Tour was worse," returned the other, 
 beginning to laugh also. " What a goose I am! 
 You see it rained yesterday, and I could not get 
 out; and to-day mamma was suffering, and 
 needed me or thought she did!" 
 
 "Stopping in the house has made you nervous 
 and excitable," added Elizabeth, kindly. . 
 
 "Yes, that is it," returned the other; but she 
 still gazed earnestly at her new acquaintance, 
 and shivered as if the air had grown chill. 
 " Why, there is nobody to introduce us," she 
 continued, merrily. " Weil, I am Nathalie 
 L'Estrange." 
 
 "And I am Elizabeth Crauford." 
 
 " Yes, I know ; Madame has told me ; your 
 papa was here long ago." She laughed again. 
 "I beg your pardon, but it seems so droll! 
 Now I am sure that twenty years hence I shall 
 not go hunting up the places where Monsieur 
 La Tour and I spend our honeymoon. I am to 
 marry Monsieur La Tour ; of course Madame 
 has told you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Elizabeth, not knowing what 
 to say. and wondering if she ought to add some 
 sort of good wish or other polite nothing. 
 
 "Very soon, too," continued Nathalie, "and 
 he wears a wig! Mon Dieu! in the convent I 
 always said I would die before I would do that ; 
 but, after all, it is not worth while to die for 
 such a trifle now is it ?" 
 
 Elizabeth agreed that it was not all the 
 same, the idea of the wig made her shudder. 
 
 "I am just nineteen," said Nathalie. "Ho\v 
 old are you ?" 
 
 "About twenty." 
 
 "You are an American. So was my papa,
 
 12 
 
 MB. YAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 for all he had a French name ; but I never saw 
 him. You must not speak of him to mamma. 
 I have lived all my life in a convent. I only 
 came out to be married. Are you going to 
 marry ?" 
 
 "I don't know what may happen to me in the 
 future," replied Elizabeth, smiling at the other's 
 childishness; "but I entertain no such intentions 
 at present." 
 
 "They say American girls -choose their own 
 husbands," pursued Nathalie. " Well, I am 
 sure I would not have chosen Monsieur La Tour. 
 But I dare say he will do tolerably well , and I 
 have no dot, so mamma thinks I am very fortu- 
 nate. The corbeille will come next week ; she 
 says there will be lovely things in it. But how 
 have you lived, and where ?" 
 
 " We were in Europe a good while when I 
 was little. I was bom here," Elizabeth said. 
 "At last we went back to America, and lived in 
 the country. When papa and I were left alone, 
 he grew weary of that, and we crossed the ocean 
 again. This time we have been here four years 
 sometimes in England, but mostly in Italy." 
 
 "And I only know that horrid convent," 
 sighed Nathalie. " Mamma sent me there 
 when I was a tiny thing. It's in Paris the 
 Rue Ficpus where the grave of La Fayette is, 
 in the cemetery back, down beyond the alley of 
 lindens." 
 
 "Oh, I know it," rejoined Miss Crauford. 
 "Such a still, pretty place !" 
 
 "A horrible place," said Nathalie; "what 
 the English girls call a beast of a place. But I 
 used to rave over La Fayette, because I was half 
 American, and put on great airs." 
 
 "I remember the beautiful linden-tree alley 
 so well, and the bee-hives, and the old lame gar- 
 dener, and the sisters in their white dresses " 
 
 But Nathalie cut Miss Crauford's reminis- 
 cences short. 
 
 " You make me shudder ! I see it all again, 
 and old Sister Ursule, who used to tyrannize 
 over us. Bless me, any thing is better than 
 that even to marry Monsieur La Tour." 
 
 Love and marriage were sacred subjects to 
 Elizabeth inseparable, too vague, visionary 
 subjects, which looked very far off, very beauti- 
 ful, very solemn. It hurt her somehow to hear 
 her companion speak like that. Yet she had 
 lived in the world enough to know that such 
 talk and ideas as Nathalie evidently cherished 
 were not uncommon among her sex. 
 
 The French girl had turned abruptly away. 
 She sprang on the low wall that bordered the 
 liiv.ii like a parapet, and walked np and down in 
 silence, while Elizabeth sat and watched her. 
 'it, fruil creature, almost giving the idea 
 of delicate health, but the form so wonderfully 
 pliant that it appeared more slender than it 
 really was ; lovely violet eyes, quantities of 
 golden hair, and a mouth whose smiles were 
 
 at once childlike and coquettish sometimes 
 fairly cruel. 
 
 Of course all these details were not visible to 
 Miss Crauford in the uncertain light, but the de- 
 scription may as well be set down here. 
 
 She seemed a creature whose nature was not 
 yet half awake, which perhaps lacked force ever 
 to develop into real strength, though so capri- 
 cious that she would appear to have half-a-dozen 
 natures as the years went on. A girl who, wit'h 
 a stronger organization, mental and physical, 
 might have grown into something dangerous as 
 a tigress and cruel as death, sparing neither her- 
 self nor others in her reckless course. But the 
 feline instincts would probably never get beyond 
 the kitten stage. She might do mischief enough, 
 but it would be from caprice and vanity, not 
 hardened wickedness. 
 
 She darted off the wall as suddenly as she had 
 mounted it, and came back to Miss Crauford. 
 
 "I shall love yon very much," said she. 
 " Haven't you a pet name a nickname, as you 
 say in English ?" 
 
 "Papa calls me Queenie," replied Elizabeth, 
 smiling as one would at the forwardness of a 
 spoiled child. 
 
 "How delightful! I shall call you so too 
 may I, Queenie ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, if you like." 
 
 " Reine! That is better yet. You look like 
 a real queen so stately and Oh, dear, do you 
 believe you are prettier than I ?" 
 
 " No," said Elizabeth, honestly. She greatly 
 undervalued her own pale, grand beauty, and 
 thought Nathalie's piquant face a thousand times 
 more attractive. 
 
 "Well, I am glad of it. I might have hated 
 you if you had been !" 
 
 " Just for that ?" 
 
 " Of course ! Why, there are only two things 
 to make one woman hate another if she's more 
 beautiful, or a man comes between. " 
 
 Miss Crauford looked contemptuous. 
 
 " Both odd reasons," said she. 
 
 "Oh, you evidently know nothing about life, 
 though you have lived in the world,' 1 returned 
 Nathalie, sagely. "But ah, my presentiment; 
 I had forgotten that !" 
 
 "Then let it go," laughed Elizabeth. 
 
 " So I will ! At all events, it is not now I 
 shall hurt you, and we can keep out of each 
 other's way hereafter. Ay de mi! (What a 
 lovely Spanish girl we had in the convent !) 
 It's an o Id world, anyhow. Hark, there's old 
 Susanne calling me. She will wake mamma if 
 I don't go in, and then I shall get a dreadful 
 lecture. Good-night, Queenie good-night, ma 
 reine." 
 
 Away she ran, and Elizabeth followed in her 
 sober, dignified fashion. So their first meeting 
 ended ; but, unimportant as it seemed, the time 
 was to come when Elizabeth Crauford would
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 13 
 
 look back across the lapse of years, and shud- 
 der to remember Nathalie's childish mirth and 
 frightened warning. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A CALIFORNIA COURT-EOOM. 
 
 THERE is a certain excitement apparent in 
 Moysterville this morning. The town always 
 possesses life and animation enough, but it 
 shows something more now. 
 
 A crowd fills the street leading to the court- 
 house ; groups at shop-doors discourse eagerly ; 
 a, subdued, fiery indignation is apparent on all 
 faces, causing one to think of days gone by, 
 when Moysterville bore a less pretentious name, 
 and presented a very different aspect. Those 
 were days when it boded ill for any offender 
 whose crimes or misdemeanors had roused that 
 look of indignant determination, and brought a 
 crowd toward Shippey's "liquoring-place" on 
 the confines of the village. 
 
 Shippey's place had for some reason been ele- 
 vated to the dignity of serving as court-room, 
 and there stood in convenient proximity just a 
 little back toward the ravine an old oak-tree, 
 a gnarled, knotted oak which had suffered from 
 wind and storm in its babyhood, and grown up 
 with humps on its trunk ; and its branches, mis- 
 shapen, and many of them dead, stretched down 
 like gigantic hands in search of prey. The old 
 tree found prey enough at a period when even 
 peaceable, God-fearing citizens were forced to 
 admit that Judge Lynch's was the only law on 
 which they could depend to save their homes 
 and their town from ruin. 
 
 But those days are long gone. Shippey's is 
 not the oak is not Lock-jaw Corner is not. 
 Here is Moysterville now, broad-streeted, gas- 
 lighted, boasting handsome shops, hotels, thea- 
 tres, and a fashionable quarter. The town no 
 more remembers the time when it bore the ugly 
 appellation I have set down than a butterfly 
 does its season of being a grub. A fine, flour- 
 ishing place is Moysterville ; a very old town 
 (for California), and a rich one small wonder, 
 when it stands within the shadow of the mount- 
 ains whose hearts are gold, with a broad river 
 to help its commerce, and railways -which con- 
 nect it with San Francisco and Sacramento. 
 
 But this morning Moysterville, as I said, has 
 a certain repressed indignation about it which 
 reminds more than one of Lock-jaw Corner and 
 Shippey's, and the old oak that used to be called 
 "Luck's End." The truth is, of late Moyster- 
 ville has been very much annoyed by sundry at- 
 tempts at garroting, not to mention outbreaks 
 at the gambling-houses and rows in the streets. 
 Xow Moysterville has put all these annoyances 
 to the score of a party of "roughs "from San 
 
 Francisco, though there has been no possibility 
 of fastening the crimes upon them. But only 
 a few nights since a woman was arrested for 
 stealing some valuable jewels from a man stop- 
 ping at the hotel where she lodged. Moyster- 
 ville believes that at her trial there will creep 
 out disclosures which may serve to criminate 
 the rest of the band ; for it is a foregone conclu- 
 sion in the mind of Moysterville that the woman 
 was in league with the San Francisco despera- 
 does. It chanced that court week began forty- 
 eight hours after this woman's arrest, and now, 
 on the third day since its opening, she is to 
 have her trial. 
 
 So there is a throng in the street, and a dense 
 crowd in the court-room, waiting with what pa- 
 tience it may until several unimportant cases are 
 disposed of, and Milady is brought into public 
 consideration. 
 
 Every body knows that name for her, and no 
 other. During several seasons there was a noted 
 drinking -house in a bad quarter of San Fran- 
 cisco which bore for sign "Milady's," and this 
 woman ruled over the den and the gambling-ta- 
 bles up the tortuous back stairs where the police 
 so often stumbled. Milady disappeared from 
 her familiar haunts one fine day, and nobody 
 thought about her until it became known that 
 she was the person accused of stealing the dia- 
 monds, and that she made her entry into Moys- 
 terville at the same time as the gamblers and the 
 garroting attempts, and other disturbances of the 
 public peace by which the town had been of late 
 afflicted. 
 
 There is another cause of interest afforded by 
 the coming trial, which affects even the elegant 
 portion of the community who dwell amid the 
 grandeur of the court end. The principal wit- 
 ness against Milady will be Darrell Vaughan, 
 who has just come into possession of a large for- 
 tune by his uncle's death. Though Darrell 
 Vaughan is not a resident of Moysterville, and 
 was never here until a short time before his rela- 
 tive's decease, every body knows about him, and 
 the court end has a natural interest in his affairs. 
 
 Moysterville considers it a most fortunate thing 
 that old Mr. Vaughan died here, and that his 
 nephew came to catch his last sigh and inherit 
 his fortune, because it has been through the 
 young man's assistance that Milady was en- 
 trapped. Pious people call it a "providential 
 circumstance," and even those who are not pi- 
 ous feel a sense of obligation toward Darrell 
 Vaughan, since they hope that in the course of 
 Milady's trial there may come out damning evi- 
 dence against those men who have so lightly dis- 
 regarded Moysterville's power. 
 
 The last trifling case ends there is a sudden 
 hush in the court. Even judge and jury look 
 with undisguised interest toward the door, 
 through which a brace of constables lead, or 
 rather force, a veiled woman, who obstinately
 
 MR. VAUGIIAN'S HEIR. 
 
 hangs back, and is not to be induced to take her 
 proper position by any gentle means. 
 
 The preliminaries are gone through ; the wom- 
 an sits crouched on the bench where she was 
 placed, huddled together in an odd fashion, 
 which N mehow suggests a wild animal about to 
 spring. But she never stirs ; does not even 
 move her hands, which lie crossed in her lap 
 small white hands, too, though disfigured by 
 sundry scratches and red marks, the result of the 
 struggle wherein she indulged when the officers 
 arrested her. She is ordered to put up her veil, 
 but she pays no attention. A constable draws 
 the lace oft' her head she wears n6 bonnet. His 
 quick movement brings away the comb which 
 confines her hair, and that falls in heavy, dark 
 masses down her back, unkempt and ill arranged, 
 but beautiful hair still. Her face is visible now 
 a face which is young, though without a trace 
 of youth in it, which must once have been mar- 
 velonsly lovely ; not so many years ago either, 
 for Milady is not over twenty-five. The com- 
 plexion is fair yet ; the month, sullen and hard 
 as it is, possesses a certain feminine softness; 
 the low, broad forehead is smooth and white. 
 It is an utterly reckless, hopeless, apathetic face 
 a face that tells of degradation and sin and 
 evil courses, of womanly instincts grown fiendish, 
 and womanly gifts employed only as additional 
 aids in an awful life. 
 
 She wears a rusty black-silk gown, somewhat 
 frayed and rent ; an old shawl drawn over this : 
 but the ladies from the court end of town notice 
 that the faded garment is of Indian cashmere 
 a relic, probably, of days when sin brought pleas- 
 anter wages than it has done of late. It is evi- 
 dent that she has made no effort to arrange her 
 uttire before coming into court. She looks tum- 
 bled, soiled a mere wreck of what was once 
 beauty and grace ; yet there is an odd pathetic 
 shadow of the old fascination left about her still. 
 
 Suddenly Milady raises her eyes ; she has not 
 1-cfjre so much as stirred finger or eyelash has 
 not appeared even conscious where she was since 
 the constables pushed her down upon the bench. 
 But Milady looks up now. Her great brown 
 eyes wander slowly about the court-room ; there 
 is a dull film over them a film through which 
 they blaze with sombre fire. It is plain that she 
 sees nothing in that long, slow gaze she bestows 
 upon the throng nothing whatever. They are 
 like the eyes of a dead person, yet as if the dead 
 person had been consumed to the last by a fever 
 so horrible that the flame and heat are not 
 burned out, thougli death has mastered all the 
 real. 
 
 the attention of the crowd is 
 
 ; on her, for certain ques- 
 
 ;ire being put by the grave sen-ant of the 
 
 Uw. Her name is asked. She does not seem 
 
 .1 she is addressed. The lids have 
 
 fellcn over those heavy eyes. She sits as motion- 
 
 less as ever. An impatient constable near fur 
 from first to last they have guarded the woman 
 with unusual care touches her shoulder, and in 
 a whisper bids her speak. 
 
 " What is your name ?" 
 
 The great eyes are lifted again so quickly that 
 their blaze startles the very judge in his chair 
 and the jury on their bench. 
 
 "Milady," says she, in a hoarse voice. 
 
 It is suggested to her that this is no name 
 whatever. At the little preliminary exam- 
 ination on the occasion of her arrest she was 
 hopelessly obstinate. There is nothing to be 
 gained by this ; it will be much wiser to answer 
 civilly. Now she does indeed look hopelessly 
 obstinate. The mouth shuts as if the delicate 
 jaw were framed of iron ; the whole face grows 
 so much more hard, dull, and dogged that the 
 spectators wonder they could have thought it all 
 those before. 
 
 The hope in the minds of judge, lawyers, and 
 the rest is that this woman may be induced to 
 turn State's evidence against the men whom ev- 
 ery body believes her accomplices men who are 
 more than suspected of having been engaged in 
 the great Sacramento robbery a few months pre- 
 vious. Hence, before the district attorney be- 
 gins his statement of the case, this somewhat 
 informal questioning has been attempted. Cer- 
 tain hints of what is desired of her are thrown 
 out they can not be new ; she has heard such 
 several times during the past days but she 
 made no sign of comprehending then, and she 
 makes none now. 
 
 "What is your age?" is the next question, 
 tried in a mild tone, as if by way of holding a 
 little amicable conversation. 
 
 Then comes a quick answer, in the form of 
 an interrogatory though, and not at all what 
 could have been expected ; it is 
 
 " How old is your sister ?" 
 
 A subdued titter goes through the room. 
 Judge, jury, and lawyers are furious. Consta- 
 bles would like to believe that a knot of men 
 suspected of belonging to the band of despera- 
 does have been guilty of this infraction of order, 
 but the men are stolid and serious. 
 
 There is one more question attempted 
 
 " Will you tell your nnme and birthplace?' 1 
 
 Milady, roused into life, bends forward in her 
 seat, clasps the railing in front of her so tightly 
 that the muscles stand out on her lithe, clungdr- 
 ous-looking hands ; her eyes blaze so fiercely 
 for an instant that the film over them is quite 
 dispelled. 
 
 ''You go to hell!" she exclaims, with a fero- 
 cious candor which under any circumstances 
 would do much toward settling her case in ad- 
 vance with both judge and jury. 
 
 Nobody laughs now. There is something fair- 
 ly melodramatic and awful about the woman, 
 in spite of the coarse speech. She lets her
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 hands fall from the railing ; sinks slowly back in 
 her seat, her body and limbs huddled together 
 in that strange attitude so like a wild animal 
 crouched ready to spring; and the lids droop 
 again over the fiery eyes. 
 
 The prosecuting attorney begins his speech ; 
 he explains the charge; he goes on grandilo- 
 quently to state how he is prepared to prove by 
 competent witnesses the woman's positive guilt. 
 Yet even here he is mindful of that wish in all 
 hearts to persuade the creature into revelations 
 which shall bring to justice more dangerous 
 criminals than herself. She listens for the first 
 time ; looks toward him in a perplexed, ab- 
 sorbed way ; lifts her hand, and astounds all list- 
 eners by her sharp, hoarse voice. 
 
 "I wouldn't waste my breath, old fogy ! Mi- 
 lady I am game to the last. Now push on 
 with your caravan." 
 
 The prosecuting attorney brings his speech to 
 a hasty conclusion ; Milady has made a climax 
 which renders any efforts at eloquence on his 
 part utterly futile. 
 
 The first witness comes forward. He is only 
 a waiter at the hotel. His evidence is not im- 
 portant ; though every body listens attentively to 
 what he has to say every, body except Mila- 
 dy she evidently has lost interest in the pro- 
 ceedings. Another witness not much more ex- 
 citing. Milady is still absent, dull, vacant, look- 
 ing as if partially stupefied by the influence of 
 some powerful drug. 
 
 Darrell Vaughan is called; straightway he 
 emerges from a nook where he has been en- 
 sconced to avoid attention a tall, handsome 
 young man and takes his place in the witness- 
 box. Milady has not stirred at the utterance 
 of his name ; seems unconscious of his proxim- 
 ity. She does not look up while the oath is ad- 
 ministered, but his voice answering the first 
 question bongs her out of her stupor. 
 
 Again she leans forward in her seat the eyes 
 of the accused and the witness meet and look 
 full into each other. If it were not a folly, one 
 might say that the calm, steady gaze of the wit- 
 ness holds a strange menace and warning. One 
 might say that Milady feels it too, for she drops 
 again into her former attitude, only her eyes 
 never leave the witness's face ; there is no fire 
 left in them now they are quite dead and cold. 
 
 I have no intention of carrying you through a 
 chapter of such details as you might read in the 
 columns of a police newspaper. The evidence 
 against Milady was conclusive, and I shall give 
 it in a few words. Uarrell Vanghan had gone 
 in the dusk of evening to call upon Mr. Carstce, 
 an agent for the Moysterville property lately 
 come into the young man's possession. : Mr. 
 Carstoe lived at a second-rate hotel ; he was to 
 set out the next morning for San Francisco with 
 these diamonds, which he had taken in payment 
 of a debt. There were two studs, a ring, and a 
 
 quantity of unset stones a rare and valuable 
 emerald among them ; the market value of the 
 whole perhaps reaching thirteen thousand dol- 
 lars. Their loss will be ruin to Mr. Carstoe. 
 He went through a long, tedious suit to get them 
 from a former partner in business, who had 
 cheated him in their affairs, destroyed his pros- 
 pects, and yet kept himself secure from the law 
 for years. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe had taken the jewels out of the 
 bank, intending to start by the next morning's 
 early train. Vaughan was with him when he 
 went on his errand. 
 
 The two stood on the outer steps of the house, 
 and talked about the diamonds, Vaughan being 
 of opinion that Mr. Carstoe would do better to 
 send the gems to New York than to sell them in 
 San Francisco. They had held a long and ani- 
 mated discussion when they became aware that 
 the woman called Milady was standing just be- 
 hind them in the hall. The bank was in an up- 
 per story ; the lower floor held, shops, offices, 
 and, in a court at the back, an establishment 
 where money was lent upon tangible securities. 
 
 The two gentlemen stepped aside to let the 
 woman pass ; they both saw her face distinctly. 
 Whether she had just come up or had remain- 
 ed listening to their conversation neither knew, 
 nor did either, it appeared, think about the mat- 
 ter at the time. 
 
 On the evening of this day Vaughan went to 
 the hotel where Mr. Carstoe lodged ; he had 
 asked that gentleman to carry a parcel for him 
 to a friend in San Francisco. The waiter be- 
 lieved that Mr. Carstoe was in his room, so 
 Vaughan- walked on up the two flights of stairs 
 which led to No. 45. No. 45 was a room down 
 a narrow, dark passage off the broad corridor 
 traversing the house. A woman it was Milady 
 came swiftly out of this passage, and passed 
 Mr. Vaughan without seeing him, as he stood in 
 the shadow, uncertain whether he had takeu the 
 right turning. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe was not in his chamber ; the door 
 was locked. Vaughan waited for a little in the 
 corridor, thinking Mr. Carstoe might appear. 
 At last he went down stairs again, and confided 
 his packet to the waiter, with instructions that 
 it should be given to Mr. Carstoe. Vaughan 
 went home. Before the evening was over Mr. 
 Carstoe came to tell hira that the diamonds had 
 been stolen. It had immediately occurred to 
 him that he and Vaughan had been passed by 
 Milady on the bank steps. The suspicion in his 
 mind was of course rendered a certainty by 
 Vaughan's having seen Milady come out of the 
 passage which led to room No. 45. 
 
 The two went at once before a magistrate, 
 and procured without difficulty a wan-ant for the 
 woman's arrest. When they reached the hotel, 
 in company with the officer, the waiter the 
 same to whom Vaughan had confided the packet
 
 1C 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 told them that Milady had not left the house. 
 She was, indeed, found in her apartment in a 
 deep, lethargic sleep, from which it was difficult 
 to rouse her. Her dress was open, and fasten- 
 ing the band of her chemise was a diamond 
 stud, which Mr. Carstoe recognized as his prop- 
 erty. But no trace of the other jewels appeared. 
 In the bottom of Milady's trunk was discovered 
 a skeleton-key done up in a package of rags. 
 Probably this key was to have been thrown into 
 the river, but, oppressed by drink or opium, the 
 woman had lain down to sleep first. The general 
 theory was that a confederate had taken the dia- 
 monds away at once, that from some freak of 
 feminine vanity she had retained the button which 
 completed the chain of evidence against her. 
 
 Like a mad woman Milady fought, and the 
 faces of the officer and the waiter, called in to 
 assist, were tattooed as curiously as those of 
 South Sea Islanders before she was secured. She 
 refused to walk ; she yelled like a wild beast in 
 the street ; in the end she had been tied hand 
 and foot, thrown upon a dray, and conveyed to 
 jail. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe was not a vindictive man : many 
 persons thought he showed great weakness in 
 the matter, a culpable pity for the woman, but 
 he could not avoid pursuing the case. Darrell 
 Vaughan was firm, though very kind to Milady. 
 He actually visited her cell, and promised, for Mr. 
 Carstoe, that the proceedings should be dropped 
 if she would disclose the names of her confed- 
 erates. 
 
 Until Vaughan undertook this merciful er- 
 rand Milady had raged up and down her narrow 
 quarters like a bedlamite, beating herself against 
 the barred window and the iron door ; but from 
 that time till she appeared in the court-room to 
 undergo her trial she remained perfectly quiet 
 apathetic even. 
 
 Mr. Vaughau made no discoveries ; he repre- 
 sented Milady as never so much as speaking to 
 or looking at him during the half-hour he stood 
 pleading with her. But from that moment she 
 became composed sleeping a good deal, or, if 
 not sleeping, lying for hours on her truckle-bed 
 with her eyes half shut. The jailor knew that 
 she was under the influence of some drug, but 
 though they searched her and the cell, nothing 
 was found, nor did it seem that she wished to kill 
 herself probably it was an old habit to deaden 
 her senses in this way. 
 
 There had been such firm belief that she 
 could give information which would lead to the 
 tracking of the Sacramento thieves that many 
 Efforts were made during the diiys she lay in jail 
 before her trial. A clergyman went to see her; 
 :ile philanthropist paid her a visit; 
 both interview!) taking place after Darrell Vaugh- 
 an'i generous effort to save her an effort which 
 was considered at the court end of town a feat 
 more noble than that of any handsome Paladin 
 
 of old. Neither clergyman nor philanthropist 
 was more successful than Mr. Vaughan. Dur- 
 ing the clergyman's eloquent exhortation Mi- 
 lady uttered but one remark she repeated that 
 with such sullen persistency, and it was in itself 
 so absurd and irrelevant, that the good man 
 could only suppose her brain disordered by the 
 drugs she had taken. 
 
 "Twice ten are twenty he said so twice 
 ten are twenty." 
 
 The virgin philanthropist was quickly driven 
 from the field in disgust. She had requested the 
 keeper to stand at the door during her inter- 
 view, in order that there might be a witness of 
 her fervid eloquence. Milady sat crouched on 
 a bench when the servant of Vesta and all good 
 works entered ; it was one of Milady's utterly 
 dead hours. At length she interrupted the phi- 
 lanthropist by a question a question which 
 convinced that lady of the creature's utter de- 
 pravity, and the uselessness of trying to aid her, 
 though there was neither sneer nor mockery in 
 Milady's voice ; an odd tremulousness crossed 
 her features, and her glazed eyes softened for 
 the first and last time, as if they had tears under 
 them. 
 
 " Have you got a baby ?" she asked. 
 
 The philanthropist was convulsed with rage, 
 the keeper outside nearly suffocated himself in 
 an attempt to stifle his laughter, but Milady only 
 stared straight before her, with the same shadow 
 of softening in her stony face. 
 
 The daughter of Duty was gone ; the keeper 
 locked the cell and followed her. As he closed 
 the grating, he saw Milady look wildly about, 
 raise her arms high above her head, and fall or 
 throw herself heavily upon the floor ; but he 
 had no time to waste over her performances. 
 Let her bang about and bruise her body if she 
 liked, she could do herself no real harm. 
 
 So the trial has come on and ended. The jury 
 has no need to leave the box. The verdict re- 
 quires brief deliberation guilty, of course. Yet 
 when it does come, few people can be quite un- 
 moved ; many ladies shiver and weep, and Dar- 
 rell Vaughan looks pale and worn, and leans his 
 head wearily on his hand. But Milady is ut- 
 terly untouched ; she does pot appear to have 
 heard ; her head is bent, and under the shadow 
 of her forehead those dull eyes always watch 
 Darrell Vaughan. His glance never left her 
 while giving his evidence ; it has held her firmly 
 ever since he finished and seated himself almost 
 in front of her. 
 
 Then the judge's hard little speech, and the 
 judge's sentence. Milady is to have ten years 
 in the penitentiary ! 
 
 She hears that she rises she is looking still 
 at Darrell Vaughan, not at the judge her voice 
 is audible. 
 
 " Ten years. Oh, my God ! ten years !" 
 
 If it were not a folly, one might say that
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 17 
 
 Vaughan's firm lips frame the words also, "Ten 
 years ten years," while hia eyes never move 
 from hers. 
 
 A stir, a rustle among the audience, promptly 
 repressed by the constables. Hush, the judge is 
 speaking again. Ten years in the penitentiary 
 for Milady ! At the end of that time there will 
 follow a new case, if in the mean while Milady 
 has not come to her senses enough to give the 
 evidence which they are morally certain she pos- 
 sesses in regard to the Sacramento robbery a 
 new case which the judge promises her shall add 
 yet ten more years to her term of imprison- 
 ment. He does not explain, but most people 
 have heard something of this other business dur- 
 ing the last few days. Stories have spread that 
 Milady had attempted to steal documents and 
 bonds from old Mr. Vaughan's house just after 
 his death. So, altogether, this affair of Milady's 
 creates great excitement, because it is felt and 
 believed that she is only an instrument in the 
 hands of those abandoned men whom she so ob- 
 stinately refuses to betray. 
 
 "Ten years, and again ten ; you will no more 
 escape the iron hand of Justice then than you 
 have done now." 
 
 She hears the judge's words she is on her 
 feet her apathy or stupor quite gone. She 
 writhes to and fro her hands work up and 
 down. Only that it is a foolish thought, one 
 might say she is like a person partially magnet- 
 ized, trying to break the spell as she turns and 
 twists and strives to move her eyes from Vaugh- 
 nn's. Then at last her voice rings out, sharp and 
 discordant. She has half flung herself over the 
 railing. Her eyes, mad with newly awakened 
 agony, seek judge and jury. 
 
 "Oh, my God! gentlemen, ten years ! I can't 
 go to prison for ten years," cries the suddenly 
 distracted creature. " I can't go what will be- 
 come of the child ?" 
 
 Let us hope there are hearts to which that 
 cry strikes home ; lost, fallen as she is, let us 
 hope it ! Let us believe that even the judge has 
 a struggle to say so sternly 
 
 " You should have thought of that before." 
 
 "Ten years! Oh, my God! I can't! Ten 
 years! Oh! the child!" 
 
 Milady has dropped on her knees now, still 
 clinging to the railing. Her dilated eyes have 
 wandered from judge and jury wandered back 
 to Vaughan's face. Perhaps she does not see 
 him ; perhaps she is only blindly gazing about for 
 some trace of pity, some hopeless hope of help. 
 
 "Ten years! Oh, my God! gentlemen, I 
 can't ! Oh ! the child, the child !" 
 
 There are tears now from women, and men 
 too. No change could have been more sudden 
 or more unexpected to the spectators themselves 
 than this which has come over them. 
 
 Milady is still on her knees, swaying to and 
 fro, smiting her breast with her hands, her great, 
 B 
 
 tearless eyes uplifted, and again her voice rings 
 out in that frantic wail 
 
 "Ten years! Oh, my God! I can't! Oh! 
 the child, the child !" 
 
 The constables approach ; she pushes them 
 off ; she fights like a maddened animal ; her 
 long hair floats out like a torn, bright banner 
 in her struggles. Women cover their faces. 
 Strong men turn away unnerved. Always Dar- 
 rell Vaughan leans back in his seat, pale, weary, 
 watching still. 
 
 " Ten years ! Oh, my God ! the child !" 
 
 Still that agonized cry a horrible moan 
 now. The officers have seized -her, bound her 
 hands. She is lifted from the dock and carried 
 away ; but to the last that cry rings back a 
 low groan only, but piercing as a shriek 
 
 " Ten years ! Oh, my God ! the child !" 
 
 The court adjourns, and the crowd spring up 
 eager to get out. They had come for a sensa- 
 tion, but this closing scene has been more than 
 they bargained for. Milady goes back to jail 
 as a temporary residence before repairing to her 
 quarters in the penitentiary. People go off to 
 their employments, to drinking-places, and those 
 from the court end return home to dinner, for 
 the September day is drawing to a close when 
 the throng gets into the street. 
 
 Great piles of gorgeous red and yellow clouds 
 have gathered in the west and cast a lurid light 
 over the mountain- tops, which rise frowningly 
 above the town, strike the river with their fiery 
 tints, and turn it into a sea of flame. 
 
 The court-house and the jail stand near the 
 water, an open space in front. As Milady is 
 hurried from one to the other, she too catches 
 sight of the bright sunset. If the constables 
 were weak, imaginative men, they might wonder 
 what thoughts are roused in her mind by the 
 sudden glory which she may perhaps not see 
 again for years. But the constables are staid, 
 sensible fellows, bent on their duty that of get- 
 ting Milady as speedily as possible into her cell 
 before her demons again attack her ; and Milady 
 only gives one groan, half of misery, half of 
 sullen defiance, and allows herself to be led on. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AFTER THE TRIAL. 
 
 THE comfortable carriage in which old Mr. 
 Vaughan, deceased, used to take his airings 
 during the months he had for some years an- 
 nually spent at Moysterville, drives up to the 
 court-house. Young Mr. Vaughan comes out 
 surrounded by a group of the principal person- 
 ages of the town, who delight to do him honor. 
 There are the mayor and the judge, and sev- 
 eral lawyers and merchants with marriageable 
 daughters, and they are all exceedingly friendly
 
 18 
 
 with young Mr. Vaughan. 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 But lie looks tired ! last rnys of the setting sun touch DarreU's fore- 
 
 and pale still, and gets away as soon as he can, 
 though he has something pleasant and fitting to 
 say to each of the prosperous gentlemen, and he 
 savs it with a grace and cordiality which are 
 fascinating indeed. 
 
 Then he takes the arm of Mr. Carstoe, who 
 has stood modestly aside, as befits his humbler 
 station, and walks on toward his carriage. But 
 Mr. Carstoe receives greetings, too, from the 
 great men, somewhat patronizing, no doubt; 
 but, in his way, Mr. Carstoe is a person who 
 deserves and gains respect. 
 
 "You will come and dine with me," Darrell 
 Vaughan observes, as the sleek, fat horses trot 
 off in a decorous fashion. " What a set of tire- 
 some idiots those fellows are ! Now that is a dan- 
 gerous freedom of speech, Carstoe but you are 
 a safe man ; one can say what one likes to you. " 
 
 Mr. Carstoe smiles grimly, yet it is evident 
 he appreciates the compliment ; that the smile 
 looks grim is the fault of his- features, not his 
 will. He is thin, weedy, anxious looking, with 
 a stoop in his back and a melancholy crack in 
 his voice, but the face possesses energy, and 
 truthfulness into the bargain. The world has 
 not dealt kindly with Mr. Carstoe. He came 
 to California long years before, when other men 
 coined gold whichever way they turned, but 
 somehow misfortune always stood between him 
 and the wealth he was just ready to touch. 
 Since his partner ruined him he has subsided 
 into a small lawyer and agent for other peo- 
 ple's property, and is a man to be trusted, 
 else he would never have been admitted, as all 
 Moysterville knows he was, to the confidence 
 of the late Mr. Vaughan, as suspicious and rest- 
 less a gentleman as cghld easily be found even 
 among those unfortunates of the earth old 
 men with goodly fortunes which they must soon 
 
 The carriage crosses the bridge, rolls down 
 the principal street, gay with shops and showy 
 hotels, and makes its way up the hill toward 
 the quarter of the town where fashion dwells. 
 Very elegant houses there are here, filled with 
 gorgeous furniture and Parisian luxuries ; and 
 dinners and balls are given in them, and life is 
 so dull and stereotyped that one wonders these 
 dwellers in a new land are content to accept it. 
 
 On the outskirts of this little star of avenues 
 and streets stands the commodious villa erected 
 by Mr. Vaughan several years since, when the 
 physicians recommended the climate of California 
 as likely to invigorate his failing health. A fine 
 place, with o broad lawn, and grand old trees 
 spared in the destruction of the noble grove which 
 once towered here. Within there is comfort and 
 elegance, for in his quiet fashion Mr. Vaughan 
 had liked to enjoy the wealth heaped up by his 
 own exertion-. 
 
 The carriage stops before the entrance ; the 
 
 head as he descends, and with his usual courtesy 
 offers an arm to his elderly companion. 
 
 "It has grown chilly," Darrell says, and 
 shivers. 
 
 As he speaks, at the other end of the city the 
 door of a prison cell has shut ; a turnkey has 
 brought Milady her supper, and locked her in 
 alone for the night alone with her ghosts and 
 her remorse, if she is haunted by such alone 
 with the miserable plaint which still at intervals 
 breaks from her white lips the wail whose 
 fierce agony startled judge and jury, witnesses 
 and court, not long since in the court-room 
 "My child ! Oh, God 1 my child !" 
 
 The great doors of the villa have closed upon 
 Vaughan and his guest. The host leads the 
 way to the library, where the gas-lamps are al- 
 ready lighted, and a log of odorous Californian 
 wood blazes on the hearth. It is too early in 
 the season for the nights to be very cool, but 
 old Mr. Vaughan liked a fire at most times, and 
 the housekeeper has ordered it to be lighted 
 from habit. 
 
 " We shall have dinner in twenty minutes, 
 they say," observed Darrell. " Let's try a little 
 sherry while we are waiting." 
 
 The wine is brought. Mr. Carstoe contents 
 himself with a few sips, but Darrell drains two 
 glasses of the bright, golden cordial in rapid 
 succession drinks another as hastily when Mr. 
 Carstoe stands by the fire with his back toward 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe's meditations are naturally not 
 of the brightest. This recent loss is scarcely cal- 
 culated to raise his spirits. But life has been 
 too hard for him to be greatly astonished or cast 
 down by any new trouble. 
 
 " It is just what I might have expected would 
 happen," he has said to Vaughan more than once 
 during the past few days. "That money for 
 the diamonds were as good as money would 
 have started me afresh in the world. I meant 
 to buy up those loose lands about Mumford's 
 Hollow, and in two years I should have been a 
 rich man." 
 
 Probably he is going over a train of similar 
 thought now, perhaps contrasting his compan- 
 ion's position with his own, as he knocks the 
 toe of his boot against the low fender, glances 
 about the handsomely appointed room, and says 
 moodily 
 
 "And there are people who don't believe in 
 luck : why, if you're not born with it, life is about 
 as easy as climbing up a wall without any chinks 
 between the stones." 
 
 Vaughan laughs at the odd comparison, but it 
 is neither a hard nor an unsympathizing laugh. 
 
 "It is never too late for luck to turn," he re- 
 plies, coming up to the fire. "You're a good 
 fellow, Carstoe, and I've taken an immense fan- 
 cy to you. I know my uncle liked you.''
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIE. 
 
 19 
 
 " Well, I never knew any body's liking to do 
 me any great amount of good," observes Mr. 
 Carstoe, candidly. "Still, I own I am glad to 
 have it ; and I can say for your late uncle that, 
 though he was a difficult man, he paid well, and 
 did justice to one's attempts to do one's work. " 
 
 "And as far as that last goes, you shall find 
 his nephew resembles him," says Darrell, hold- 
 ing out his hand. " I've not said much words 
 are poor things but I'm deucedly cut up about 
 your misfortune, and Ah, here's Tony to an- 
 nounce dinner ; well, we'll feed- first and talk it 
 over afterward." 
 
 They dine exceedingly well, and Vaughan 
 presses many varieties of generous wines upon 
 his guest. By the time the meal is over and 
 they sit alone near the fire again, with their ci- 
 gars lighted, Mr. Carstoe is much more cheerful 
 and talkative than usual. He has reasons be- 
 yond the effects of claret and champagne for 
 this change. Darrell Vaughan has offered him 
 the agency of all the Californian property, from 
 the unopened mining tracts to the lands in several 
 growing towns offered not only a generous sala- 
 ry, but percentages so large that a new career, the 
 certainty of a moderate fortune, presents itself 
 suddenly to the eyes of the world-buffeted man. 
 They talk a great deal about the business ; they 
 talk of the late uncle, whose memory Mr. Car- 
 stoe holds in affectionate reverence. They 
 speak, too, of another matter connected with the 
 will, and of the person whom it affects. This 
 is Launcelot Cromlin, DarreU's cousin. When a 
 boy he had been a favorite with his uncle. Five 
 years previous, a youth of one-and-twenty at 
 the time, Launce Cromlin fell under the suspi- 
 cion of a terrible deed. Mr. Vaughan had been 
 spending the snmmer in Vermont on account of 
 his health. His two nephews had visited him 
 there in turn. Early in the autumn Launce 
 was going to Europe to pursue his art studies. 
 When the young man's birthday arrived, Mr. 
 Vaughan sent him a check for fifteen hundred 
 dollars. It was months before the old gentle- 
 man saw this check again ; when it came back 
 the amount had been altered to fifteen thousand 
 dollars, and on the back was an indorsement 
 signed by Cromlin, making the check payable to 
 the bearer. 
 
 Launce was in Europe. Mr. Vaughan made 
 inquiries of the bank-teller, but not in a way to 
 excite suspicion. The teller was positive that 
 Mr. Cromlin had presented the draft in person. 
 He recollected Cromlin saying he had been out 
 of town, and expected to send the paper by a 
 friend to be cashed, but had himself returned. 
 
 Mr. Vaughan was a secretive, proud man ter- 
 ribly suspicious too ; for he had suffered much 
 from the treachery of several persons whom he 
 had best loved. He kept the discovery from ev- 
 ery body but Darrell, whom he liked, though 
 this nephew had never been so dear to him as 
 
 Launce. Apparently Launce had hoped the in- 
 dorsement would persuade his uncle that the 
 check had passed through other hands, thus re- 
 lieving him from suspicion. 
 
 In his brief letter to Cromlin, Mr. Vaughan 
 did not even state the reasons which led him to 
 disown and fairly curse the youth he had loved 
 so tenderly. Epistles came from Launce ; they 
 were returne" 1 -aopened. Darrell naturally paid 
 no attention to the appeals which his cousin 
 addressed to him, begging to be told what had 
 caused this change in his uncle. 
 
 Tartly on account of his health, partly because 
 familiar haunts had grown hateful in his grief 
 and increased misanthropy, Mr. Vaughan went 
 to California, where he owned an extensive prop- 
 erty. He divided his time between San Fran- 
 cisco and Moysterville, only once revisiting the 
 Atlantic States about a year before his death. 
 
 Some two weeks previous to Mr. Vaughan's 
 decease, a lawyer friend in New York, to whom 
 during that last visit the old man had commu- 
 nicated the secret, sent him a statement of facts, 
 which, though they did not clear up the mystery, 
 were proofs to Mr. Vaughan that Cromlin had 
 been the victim of fraud and treachery. For 
 weeks before and after the presentation of the 
 check Laiince had lain in bed helpless from a 
 fracture of the right arm. Besides this, it had 
 been recently discovered that a systematic series 
 of thefts had been long carried on by the teller 
 and cashier of the bank. Both men were since 
 fugitives from justice, and it was probable that 
 the teller, at least, had had a share in the crime 
 until now ascribed to Cromlin. 
 
 Launce had never returned to America. He 
 had lived upon the limited income inherited from 
 his father and pursued ifis art studies. After 
 those first efforts at reconciliation the haughty 
 family spirit had risen, and he attempted noth- 
 ing further. He and Darrell had met once in 
 Europe, but Darrell gave him no clew to the 
 cause of their uncle's conduct, though he prom- 
 ised to tell their relative how honorable and 
 straightforward Launce's life was, and do his best 
 to end the estrangement. 
 
 When the news came which convinced Mr. 
 Vaughan he had wronged his nephew, he wrote 
 to his lawyer friend in New York, inclosing a 
 letter to be forwarded to Launce. There must 
 be some means of discovering the young man's 
 European address, and he begged piteously that 
 his friend would act with the utmost dispatch ; 
 he wanted to see his boy again. But all the law- 
 yer could discover was the name of a London 
 House to whom letters were forwarded by 
 Launce's bankers in New York. So Mr. Sand- 
 ford sent the epistle to them, and wrote to Mr. 
 Vaughan that he had done so, proposing to dis- 
 patch an agent to Europe in search of Cromlin, 
 but when his response reached California Mr. 
 Vaughan was dead.
 
 20 
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 After the old gentleman became convinced of 
 Launce's innocence, he told the whole story to 
 Mr. Carstoe, bitterly lamenting the injury he had 
 done bis boy. Mr. Carstoe was aware that the 
 fortune had been left to Darrell, with the excep- 
 tion of a small bequest (provisional in a certain 
 way), which even in his wrath he could not for- 
 bear allotting his former favorite. But from his 
 conversation, Carstoe supposed that on the re- 
 ceipt of this news he had changed his will, and 
 divided his wealth equally between his nephews. 
 He knew that on the very day the tidings came. 
 Mr. Vaughan was closeted for hours with his 
 lawyer, John Smith. The next day but one Mr. 
 Smith was sent for again, and this time it was 
 to add a codicil to the will, and that codicil 
 Vaughan read to Mr. Carstoe after he and the 
 housekeeper had witnessed it, and the lawyer was 
 gone. It was an odd, romantic codicil enough, 
 but in keeping with Mr. Vanghan's peculiar 
 character and theories ; and, indeed, that night, 
 talking to Carstoe more freely than he had ever 
 before done, he told him enough of his own past 
 to account for the whim. 
 
 After Mr. Vaughan 's death, to the law-agent's 
 astonishment, the original will was found, with 
 the codicil attached. Mr. Carstoe was utterly 
 confounded. The only solution to the mystery 
 seemed that Edgar Vanghan had composed the 
 codicil when his feelings changed toward Crom- 
 lin, but that he had put off, as men so often do, 
 the alteration in his testament until too late. 
 Darrell inherited the fortune, with the exception 
 of ten thousand dollars bequeathed to Launce. 
 Darrell was to pay the whole amount to his 
 cousin if he found the young man behaving well ; 
 if not, he was to retain the principal, and pay an 
 annual interest counted at ten per cent. But 
 evdB this interest was to be withheld for five 
 years if Darrell became convinced that Cromlin 
 would only squander it in dissipation. So to- 
 night the conversation between the two men gets 
 round to Launce Cromlin, and the strange stip- 
 ulation in the codicil concerning a certain por- 
 tion of the property. 
 
 "Your cousin is an artist, I think," Mr.Car- 
 stoe says. 
 
 "He dreams of being one," replies Darrell, 
 with a shrug; "whether he will ever do more 
 than dream is doubtful. I saw him about two 
 years since in Europe an agreeable fellow 
 clever, too ; but I am afraid not a man to trust. " 
 
 " Indeed ! And did you talk over that affair ? 
 It seems so odd, since he was innocent, that he 
 never tried to clear himself." 
 
 " I knew nothing about the matter then ; my 
 uncle never told me a word till he chose to 
 think he had proofs that Launce was not guilty." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe wonders how he could have been 
 so mistaken ; he thought Mr. Vaughan had told 
 him that Darrell knew all from the first. 
 
 ' W.,-11," he says, " when the poor fellow gets 
 
 our letters he will be glad to know that the af- 
 fair was cleared up before his uncle's death." 
 
 " Glad to know that my uncle was convinced, " 
 amends Darrell ; " real proofs of Launce's inno- 
 cence he never had." 
 
 " But you have no doubt ?" 
 
 "I can't tell ; I want to like Launce ; I mean 
 I want to believe in him like him I do. Now 
 about the will itself. You believe that my uncle 
 meant to make another ?" 
 
 "Yes, as I told you," Mr. Carstoe replies, 
 firmly. 
 
 "I shall act," says Dan-ell, "as I think my 
 uncle would like to have me. To divide the 
 fortune equally would not be fair, for the foun- 
 dation of a good deal of it was laid by my fa- 
 ther." 
 
 This is news also to Mr. Carstoe, but he can 
 not doubt the fact. 
 
 "You will behave rightly, I am sure," he an- 
 swers. 
 
 "The ten thousand dollars he will lune at 
 once," pursues Darrell. "If I find him steady, 
 hard-working, trying to atone for past errors, I 
 will make that sum a hundred thousand. More 
 than that I know my uncle would not have done." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe feels, and says truly, that under 
 the circumstances few men would do so much. 
 The declaration might sound less generous if he 
 were acquainted with Launcelot Cromlin ; he 
 would then be aware that there is not a possi- 
 bility of Launce's listening to such an offer. 
 
 " He has still another opportunity," continues 
 Darrell, with a smile. "If he succeeds in win- 
 ning Miss Elizabeth Crauford's hand, he will in- 
 herit the two hundred and fifty thousand dol- 
 lars of Eastern bonds and stocks that the codicil 
 awards to whichever of us two may gain her fa- 
 vor." 
 
 "It was a romantic sort of thing for a busi- 
 ness man to hatch," Carstoe replies; "but Mr. 
 Vaughan was very odd. He had once cared for 
 the young lady's mother. He talked freely with 
 me during that last fortnight, though I had al- 
 ways thought him a very secretive, silent man ; 
 but you often notice these changes toward the 
 end. He read me the codicil after Smith had 
 gone, and talked a great deal about Launce Crom- 
 lin about his own past too." 
 
 "Yes," from Darrell. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe had given every one of these de- 
 tails weeks ago, on the night of Darrell's arrival, 
 while Mr. Vaughan was still alive, but Darrell 
 has a certain pleasure in hearing them again. 
 
 "How odd that he should have outlived Smith, 
 after all. He was so frail and miserable, and 
 Smith looked such a tower of strength. I re- 
 member Mr. Vaughan 's saying to him in his 
 caustic way, ' You look so disgustingly well and 
 strong, Smith, it's fairly insulting.'" 
 
 Mr. Carstoe rubs his hands together, and 
 shakes his head.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 21 
 
 "And poor Smith was killed the very day of 
 my uncle's paralytic stroke," says Darrell. 
 
 " The very day ! Thrown from his horse, and 
 picked up with his neck broken," returns Mr. 
 Carstoe, opening his hands wide and bringing 
 them together again with energy. "It is odd 
 how we go very odd." 
 
 " Yes," once more an assent this time. 
 
 " I had gone away two days before on bus- 
 iness," pursues Mr. Carstoe, in a low voice. 
 "When I got back, Smith was dead and your 
 poor uncle little better." He sits silent for a 
 while, then speaks again, to get rid of this mourn- 
 ful train of thought. ' ' You will see your cousin 
 in New York ?" 
 
 "If he is there I shall." 
 
 " Oh, he'll come as soon as our letters reach 
 him. I lost no time, as you directed, in writing 
 about the legacy and the codicil. If he is in 
 Europe, those bankers whose address you gave 
 me will forward the letters at once. " 
 
 "Naturally," replies Darrell. 
 
 "And about your own chance. You don't 
 mean to let your cousin take it by default?" 
 asks Mr. Carstoe, slyly. 
 
 " I shall never sell myself for money," re- 
 turns Vaughan, quietly. "I never saw Miss 
 Crauford. I should be certain to dislike her. 
 Let Master Launce win her and the fortune, if 
 he can." 
 
 "If neither succeed, the whole goes to a char- 
 ity," pursues Mr. Carstoe ; " to a charity," mov- 
 ing his finger slowly, as if reading the conditions 
 of the codicil in the embers. 
 
 "Better, perhaps, for the young lady and 
 Launce Cromlin too." 
 
 "Then you put yourself quite out of the ques- 
 tion ?" 
 
 " I don't like that mixing up of romance and 
 business. I told you I should be sure to hate 
 her," replies Vaughan. 
 
 Tony brings in coffee and cura9oa and kirsch- 
 wasser. Darrell makes his guest taste both liq- 
 uids. He always likes to feel his power, no mat- 
 ter how trifling the thing in which it is shown. 
 He has pleasure in forcing his abstemious com- 
 panion slightly to muddle himself; he enjoys 
 seeing that the steadiest person has his weak- 
 nesses. Mr. Carstoe is a wonderfully temperate 
 man for California, but a little excess is excusa- 
 ble to-night. Since the loss of the diamonds he 
 has thought himself on the verge of ruin, until 
 Vaughan's generous proposals at dinner cleared 
 the way to comfort and a competency. It is not 
 surprising that he should be pleased and excited 
 enough to forget somewhat his customary pru- 
 dence under his host's persuasions. He is by 
 no means intoxicated ; his brain is quickened, 
 his thoughts come rapidly, he feels in a talkative 
 mood, and very happy that is all. He has not 
 forgotten the business either ; he begins discuss- 
 ing what wonders can be done with the mining 
 
 tract and the "town lots" in the new villages, 
 but Vaughan does not want to talk business. 
 
 "Time enough while we are going down to 
 San Francisco to arrange these affairs," he says. 
 " Besides, I shall stay theije for a few days." 
 
 "I shall come back as soon as I have attend- 
 ed to your matters there," Mr. Carstoe replies. 
 " But one thing about this house what do you 
 mean to do with it ?" 
 
 " Sell it when there is a chance ; in the mean 
 time you can look about for a good tenant or 
 purchaser. " 
 
 " Then you'll not live in California ?" 
 
 "I!" He utters the monosyllable in a tone 
 of disdainful surprise, but changes his voice as 
 he adds " No ; I may go abroad for a time, but 
 New York is my home." 
 
 ' ' And you have already made a start in pol- 
 itics ; think of having been a Congressman at 
 your age!" exclaims Mr. Carstoe, in an admir- 
 ing tone. He looks at the handsome, elegant 
 fellow who, still under thirty, has wealth and 
 honors in his grasp, and wonders why human 
 destinies differ so. He remembers when he too 
 was young, and had hopes and aspirations ; but 
 they have been dead so many years now that even 
 their ghosts have almost ceased to haunt him. 
 
 Darrell Vaughan is one of those men who 
 could drink a whole dinner-party under the table 
 without showing signs of being affected by his 
 potations. To-night he has an unusual craving 
 for stimulants a desire for companionship too. 
 He keeps Mr. Carstoe until very late. He or- 
 ders materials for hot punch, and will not spare 
 his guest. Such murderous hospitality is too 
 common in California for Mr. Carstoe to he sur- 
 prised, but he can not resist Vaughan's entreaties 
 as he is in the habit of doing those of other men. 
 This young fellow has a rare gift of fascination 
 about him, to which Mr. Carstoe yields as readily 
 as do most people. Brief as their acquaintance 
 is, Vaughan has assumed a complete ascendency 
 over him ; yet the lawyer is not an impressiona- 
 ble person. 
 
 Darrell talks in his turn, brilliantly, dashingly, 
 in terse, quick periods, which show talent, care- 
 ful thought and study too, easily and naturally 
 as he converses. He enjoys drawing out his vis- 
 itor. Mr. Carstoe is no ordinary business-hack ; 
 there are all sorts of odd corners and quaint ideas 
 in that mind long accustomed to the depressing 
 influence of business drudgery. Vaughan brings 
 these forth successfully ; he hears about the old 
 hopes and struggles ; old loves and disappoint- 
 ments too ; and is interested, even while he feels 
 a certain contempt for this man who had the 
 making of so much in his disposition, and yet 
 has never succeeded in raising his life beyond a 
 dull, commonplace failure. Of politics, of pro- 
 fessions they talk of women too ; for Vaughan, 
 who must always study somebody, is curious to 
 know what creeds or ideas are in the man's
 
 MR. VAUG HAN'S HEIR. 
 
 brain. But this last discussion brings to Mr. 
 Carstoe's mind the events of the day events 
 from which Darrell has hitherto kept the con- 
 versation aloof. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe shudders. He knows that it was 
 right the woman should suffer the consequences 
 of her guilt, be shut up beyond the possibility of 
 continuing her evil career; but to be forced to 
 bring the charge, to follow up the process, has 
 been the hardest task he ever undertook. Lost, 
 abandoned as the woman is, he has pitied her 
 from the first. Nothing but necessity, the sense 
 that it is right and just, has carried him through. 
 
 "I hope such a thing will never happen to me 
 again," he says suddenly. "But I could not 
 act otherwise I could not.'' 
 
 "You are somewhat excited still," Vaughan 
 replies coldly. " You could not condone crime ; 
 we have gone over all that often enough." 
 
 "Yes," sighs Mr. Carstoe. Then a pause, 
 after which he adds "There is some mystery 
 under it all that we shall never understand. 
 Mrs. Simpson says she did come twice to see 
 your uncle was with him when he had the fit. " 
 
 Vaughan is lighting a fresh cigar; when he 
 has succeeded, he puffs out a graceful column 
 of smoke, and says quietly 
 
 "No doubt there was an intention to make 
 some great haul like that at Sacramento. Peo- 
 ple here had better take care. Milady was prob- 
 ably only an instrument in the hands of those 
 men. It might not have been legal, but they'd 
 much better have kept her from trial on condi- 
 tion that she exposed the whole." 
 
 " It was your telling the judge of catching her 
 about the house after your uncle's death which 
 got her so long a punishment. " 
 
 Perhaps; it was my duty though," replies 
 I>ar>cll. "Ten years! Ten years is a long 
 time, Cars toe!" 
 
 Mr. Carstoe assents in a troubled way to this 
 >elf-evident proposition. 
 
 " Especially when one must pass them in 
 prison," adds Vaughan. 
 
 Again Mr, Carstoe shivers as he answers. He 
 could almost think there is a harsh, triumphant 
 ring in the young man's voice; but when he 
 looks up, Darrell is leaning his hend on his hand 
 and gazing wearily into the fire. From first to 
 l.i>t he has been very kind, and shown a humane 
 interest in the poor wretch. Mr. Carstoe feels 
 a pang of self-reproach that he can for an instant 
 have fancied there is any thing hard or cruel 
 about his engaging companion. 
 
 Vaughan drinks more punch, and Mr. Carstoe 
 ith difficulty escapes imbibing another glass, 
 which he feels would npset him entirely. lie 
 look* at his watch, pleads the lateness of the 
 hour, and suggests the propriety of a sober busi- 
 nm nut 11 getting home and to bed without delav. 
 
 "Nonsense," says Vaughan, "you can't go 
 back to-njght, J'd have the trap out, only ilie 
 
 sen-ants would hate me forever. You mnst 
 stop here. I told Mrs. Simpson to get a bed 
 ready." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe is quite overcome by this last 
 touch of friendly attention. He feels that Dar- 
 rell Vaughan is a man to work for, stand by, die 
 for if need be! Punch and gratitude render Mr. 
 Carstoe fairly heroic in his sentiments. 
 
 "They've given you the room next mine,'' 
 pursues the host, finishing his glass. "This 
 house is a gloomy old barrack at the best. I'm 
 glad of society. " 
 
 He moves impatiently, and stirs the embers 
 into a flame. It occurs to Mr. Carstoe that, in 
 spite of his energy and vitality, this young 
 Vaughan is a very nervous man any great 
 strain now or sharp illness would tell terribly on 
 him. Darrell begins laughing and jesting again, 
 and the guest forgets his thought. He has not 
 seen his companion so gay before; Vaughan has 
 been greatly affected by his uncle's death, and 
 during the first days did nothing but lament his 
 own dilatoriness in not coming before. Those 
 self-reproaches have placed him on a high pin- 
 nacle in the minds of the dignitaries of Myster- 
 ville. They do not believe them deserved ; but 
 have given him great credit therefor. Old Mr. 
 Vaughan was a reticent, moody man, who liked 
 to be alone ; even the nephew whom he loved 
 could not intrude upon him unasked. Darrell 
 has made this known too ; but he has reproached 
 himself all the same, and Moysterville admires 
 him, and will long talk of his behavior so fit- 
 ting, "so sweetly melancholy," the ladies at the 
 court end pronounce it, and other people say the 
 same. 
 
 Vaughan himself shows his visitor up-stairs ; 
 bids him not take pains to be quiet, because he 
 likes to know there is some living thing near be- 
 sides the rats, and is amusing and agreeable to 
 the last. He is in his own room at length; but, 
 instead of going to bed, he throws himself on a 
 sofa, and lies staring at the shaded light. His 
 lips move occasionally, and if there is anv spirit 
 listener bending over him unseen, these are the 
 words that ghostly visitant must catch "Ten 
 years ten years." 
 
 Sometimes there is the hard ring of triumph, 
 which for an instant surprised Mr. Carstoe in 
 his voice ; sometimes a weariness and unrest ; 
 but he says the words over and over. 
 
 Then he rises ; goes to a dressing-case, un- 
 locks it, and takes out a tiny box a box that 
 holds a quantity of greenish pills. He swallows 
 three of these, and, since sleep will not come, 
 sits down at his writing-table while waiting for 
 the hasheesh to do its work of bringing up a 
 pleasant vision. 
 
 He turns over certain papers, among them a 
 letter from his uncle to Robert Crauford a let- 
 ter in which are detailed the conditions of that 
 odd codicil. Whichever of his nephews wins
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 23 
 
 the hand of his old friend's daughter will claim 
 the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars ex- 
 empted from the rest of his fortune. 
 
 The letter to apprise Launce Cromlin of this 
 bequest is on its way to Kew York, but as 
 Launce is terribly careless in the matter of ad- 
 dresses, it is likely to lie a long time unclaimed. 
 
 Vaughan still sits at the table, but the po- 
 tion has begun its work. The walls expand; the 
 room stretches into space. Bright tints and 
 colors float about ; his physical frame seems to 
 lose its density, and to drift up up toward the 
 radiant gleams. Sounds of music are in his 
 ears. He knows what is coming that glorious 
 vision of an Eastern scene palm-trees desert 
 sands enchanted cities in the distance gold- 
 en rivers amber skies heavenly shapes. He 
 keeps full possession of his identity ; he has 
 learned so to graduate the dose that he can do 
 this knows what amount will serve to make his 
 speech eloquent, bring glowing visions or pass- 
 ing forgetfulness, as he lists. To-night he wants 
 the vision, and it is near ; the stately music al- 
 ways announces its approach. Suddenly there 
 is a jar, a break a discord in the grand diapa- 
 son. The vision floats slowly up, and fills the 
 immeasurable space ; but, horrible, it is only the 
 hot court-room, the eager crowd, the crouching 
 form of Milady, that present themselves. It is 
 the first time the spell has ever failed ; he is suf- 
 ficiently conscious to struggle, to separate reality 
 from the dream. 
 
 He thrusts the papers into the drawer, closes 
 the desk, flings off his coat, and lies down on the 
 bed. The music recommences slowly, stately 
 crash after crash of golden harmony. Great 
 ivory doors swing wide he is entering the 
 charmed realm. He can not move now can 
 not lift a finger ; he must drift on. But he sees 
 that dwarfish gnomes guard the portals instead 
 of the radiant forms he knows as well as the 
 faces of his most familiar friends. The Eastern 
 scene is there the palms, the desert, the en- 
 chanted city. But side by side, jumbled with 
 the vision in inextricable confusion, yet apart 
 from it a sort of shadow, though full of awful 
 reality the court-room, the crouching figure, 
 and the mighty orchestra, from organ tones to 
 voice of flute, only wails and echoes that dismal 
 cry "The child! oh, God, the child!" 
 
 Always bound hand and foot ; no more able 
 to stir than if his frame had been of marble. 
 Still the vision sweeps on, beauty and its dread- 
 ful shadow side by side. Out of the farther past 
 troop shapes and memories. Faces and voices 
 which perhaps he has not seen or heard for years 
 loves and hates so fierce that it would be hard 
 to tell which were the most cruel. 
 
 But whatever he sees or hears, always there 
 comes back at last the court-room, the crowd, 
 and Milady crouching there, while her white lips 
 repeat in mockery the pet name of other days 
 
 the name to which she has clung in her fall and 
 degradation, perhaps only in scorn and bitter- 
 ness of her own self, but clinging to it stilL 
 
 What else does he behold? Always the palm- 
 trees and the broad plains with their magic light, 
 but they serve merely as the theatre upon which 
 this drama of recollection plays itself out. 
 
 Does he see himself arrived in Moysterville ? 
 Does he listen again to the frightened sen-ants' 
 account of the paralysis which struck his uncle 
 only the day before, after receiving a visit from 
 a stranger a wornan ? The two incidents are 
 not, in the minds of the speakers, connected 
 with the illness ; but they relate them as people, 
 in such a season of alarm, laboriously go over 
 the slightest events that immediately precede 
 the disaster. Does he hear Mr. Carstoe's voice, 
 with its piteous croak like a constant lament 
 over life's disappointments relating, also on the 
 evening of his arrival, the affair of the codicil ; 
 telling him of the lawyer's death ; uncertain of 
 the contents of the will, but positive as to the 
 codicil? 
 
 Does he see himself, two nights later, in the 
 library, secretly searching among the papers:* 
 Does he read again the revelations which caused 
 so horrible a shock to the old man that his en- 
 feebled frame could not support the blow? Is 
 he back in the room on the night his uncle died, 
 seeking to destroy those terrible records ? 
 
 Does he see suddenly the haggard face of 
 Milady rise like a menacing ghost? Does he 
 despise her threats, and let her go? Does he 
 wait until a few more days have seen the old 
 man laid in his grave, to find the strong arm of 
 the law relieving him of this wretched woman 
 who has dared to threaten him in her madness ? 
 Does he see himself visiting her in prison, over- 
 whelming her by the one plea that could move 
 her? Does he hear her frantic appeal "The 
 child ! the child ?" Does he go over again the 
 bestowal upon her of the drug which, long ago, 
 she learned to crave the drag which keeps her 
 in a state of semi -idiocy up to the very hour of 
 the trial with a vague fear of him controlling 
 her always and sealing her lips, though her 
 stupefied mind can scarcely realize why, until 
 when all is over, and the dreadful sentence pro- 
 nounced, memory and consciousness break forth 
 anew in that passionate moan "The child! the 
 child!" 
 
 Yes, he sees it all, lives it all over, and suf- 
 fers he who, in his normal state, has so slight 
 capability of suffering. He writhes and moans, 
 but can not break the spell. Then a great dark- 
 ness gathers : he sinks down down. The 
 Eastern plain is a sea of blood. Towers and 
 palm-trees are fiery fountains afar off; he in 
 the dark ; and he falls, falls, slowly, slowly down 
 an awful height down a terrible eternity into a 
 dull, dead insensibility, which, holds no thought, 
 no perception.
 
 MR VAUGHAN'S HEIK. 
 
 But the morrow's sun has risen. Two days 
 come and go. Mr. Carstoe and Vanghan are 
 speeding toward h'an Francisco. Only a brief 
 waiting there, and he is on the great steamer 
 bound homeward, and, once arrived at the great 
 Atlantic sea -port, another steamer bears him 
 away to the Old World, end his face is full of life 
 and hope, and the past is as dead for him as if 
 it had never existed. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN THE GALLERY. 
 
 MONSIEUR LA TOUR had come to pay a 
 morning visit to his affianced : it was not his 
 habit to appear until the afternoon, but he was 
 obliged to go down to Geneva to-day, and 
 Nathalie, seized by one of her sudden caprices, 
 had ordered him, on the previous night, to bring 
 her a bouquet of flowers before his departure. 
 
 So Monsieur appeared at the chalet at ten 
 o'clock. Madame L'Estrange was not yet visi- 
 ble, but old Susanne played propriety during the 
 interview, Madame L'Estrange being fully alive 
 to the indecorum of a young lady's receiving 
 her affianced husband alone. The coachman 
 had begged permission to drive on to Clarens 
 while Monsieur paid his visit, promising faith- 
 fully to be back in time to meet the boat. 
 
 Nathalie proved so teazing and capricious 
 that the little elderly gentleman spent an un- 
 quiet half-hour. Old Susanne was cross this 
 morning, and with reason, for in the middle of 
 the night Madame had been attacked with one 
 of her nervous spasms, and insisted on Susanne's 
 saying a score of long prayers, and then, relaps- 
 ing from piety into worldliness, kept her till 
 near daylight discussing mundane matters. So 
 Susanne, feeling at war with the human race in 
 general, suddenly announced that it was almost 
 time for the boat, and informed Monsieur, with 
 malicious satisfaction, that the carriage had not 
 returned. 
 
 "Yon will have to walk to the landing," said 
 Nathalie, when a consultation of watches and 
 clocks proved that Susanne was correct, as well 
 as ill-natured, in her remark. 
 
 "But that faithless cocher where is he?" 
 moaned Monsieur, with the theatrical gestures 
 and appearance of utter despair which, like the 
 rest of his countrymen, he displayed on every 
 possible occasion. " He is a fiend the son of 
 a demon ! My business is most important ! I 
 desire to go by the boat the train invariably 
 causes my head to ache, and he knows it the 
 accursed wretch knows it well." 
 
 "That may be; but if Monsieur waits any 
 longer he will not get the boat, that is certain," 
 pronounced Susanne, with the easy familiarity 
 of a French domestic. 
 
 Nathalie clapped her hands and laughed, and 
 Monsieur La Tour looked at her over his spec- 
 tacles with mild reproach. 
 
 " Mademoiselle can be amused at my perplex- 
 ity !" quavered he. 
 
 "Oh, no, Monsieur; I was only remembering 
 that not to reach the boat would give me the 
 pleasure of your society," returned Nathalie, ut- 
 tering the polite falsehood with all a woman's 
 a Frenchwoman's glibness. 
 
 "I am touched; I am overwhelmed!" cried 
 Monsieur ; for Nathalie did not treat him often 
 enough to pretty speeches for them to lose their 
 effect. " But, mon amie, I am forced to go to 
 Geneva to-day. I have made certain business 
 arrangements ; I desire to purchase but it is 
 needless to weary you with explanations. " 
 
 "Then if Monsieur wishes to go by the eleven 
 o'clock boat, he must be off," chanted Susanne, 
 monotonously. Susanne was sleepy, and want- 
 ed him gone, that she might secure a little doze 
 before it was time to dress her mistress. 
 
 ' ' We shall walk a little way with you, " Na- 
 thalie said. " Come, Susanne. You like nn 
 early promenade, Susanne ; you know you do. " 
 
 Susanne made a dissatisfied grimace ; but, as 
 refusal was out of the question, she scorned to 
 offer any observation whatever. 
 
 The three set off, and were seen by Elizabeth 
 Crauford, who had left the house to enjoy the 
 delicious morning. Not far below the villa 
 grounds was a steep hill overhanging the road, 
 walled and terraced to the top, with vines grow- 
 ing on the terraces. The hill made part of a 
 private property ; but Elizabeth had walked up 
 a side road which gave admittance thereto, and 
 a courteous gardener had permitted her to en- 
 ter. She had strolled on to the brow of the 
 hill, and seated herself in a summer-house which 
 commanded a lovely view. 
 
 Along came her acquaintance of the previous 
 evening; of course the natty, carefully dressed 
 little man by her side was Monsieur La Tour. 
 Elizabeth regarded him with a natural womanly 
 interest. He had taken off his hat for an in- 
 stant, and she could see his wig distinctly. She 
 turned, with as natural a thrill of girlish sympa- 
 thy, to look at Nathalie walking by his side, 
 overtopping him somewhat, lithe and graceful, 
 her hair shining like gold in the sun, and her 
 face brightened by its most mischievous smile. 
 
 They were just under the hill now Elizabeth 
 had to lean forward to see them. Up scuttled 
 Susanne, her tall Breton cap wavering to and fro 
 in her haste, like a miniature tower shaking in 
 the wind. 
 
 " The boat !" she shrieked ; "the boat !" 
 
 "Just heaven, all is lost !" groaned Monsieur. 
 
 Then a tableau. Susanne a statue of re- 
 proach and self-satisfaction; Monsieur with one 
 hand clutching the wig which he did not dare to 
 pull, his spectacles raised to the heaven he had
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 25 
 
 invoked ; Nathalie with her head averted, but 
 her countenance brimful of mischief and enjoy- 
 ment, plainly visible to Elizabeth. A person un- 
 acquainted with French manners might have sup- 
 posed, from the melodramatic attitudes of Mon- 
 sieur and the old woman, that some terrible catas- 
 trophe had occurred, but Miss Crauford felt certain 
 the case deserved no very profound sympathy. 
 
 " If Monsieur runs, but runs very fast," sug- 
 gested Susanne, suddenly bursting into speech 
 " the boat is only at Clarens, I heard the whistle 
 Monsieur might catch it yet at the lower land- 
 ing." 
 
 "Ah, do try," cried Nathalie. "You know 
 the motion of the train always makes you ill, 
 mon ami." 
 
 "I shall try," sighed Monsieur. " Au revoir, 
 chere Nathalie; au revoir." 
 
 "Yes, yes, but do not stop to kiss my hand ; 
 vile, vite" pleaded Nathalie. 
 
 Monsieur still hesitated ; he had no fancy for 
 displaying his powers of rapid locomotion to that 
 audience. 
 
 "The whistle!" cried Susanne. 
 
 "And your head the train will make you 
 ill!" from Nathalie. 
 
 Away bounded poor Monsieur, as an elderly 
 gazelle might bound ; his coat-tails flew out like 
 twin banners of distress, his wig bobbed up and 
 down, and threatened to desert him utterly. 
 Elizabeth Crauford leaned back in her seat and 
 laughed silently ; Susanne watched with a face 
 divided between amusement and ill-temper; and 
 Nathalie clapped her hands and danced. 
 
 Monsieur's style of racing was peculiar ; those 
 elderly gazelle bounds seemed more like ineffect- 
 ual efforts to leap up an imaginary height than 
 well-directed attempts to reach a goal lying far 
 down the smooth, curving road. Full five min- 
 utes of that gazelle business ensued, yet Monsieur 
 was not a hundred yards away. Another scream 
 from Susanne 
 
 "The boat! the boat!" 
 
 A burst of laughter from Nathalie, echoed by 
 sounds of merriment from Miss Crauford's re- 
 treat, a groan from Monsieur, and a cessation of 
 the mad bounds. He stood for a few instants 
 watching the boat as she swept down the bay- 
 like curve, then walked slowly back, wiping his 
 forehead with his handkerchief, speechless be- 
 tween annoyance and exhaustion. 
 
 "You must wait till to-morrow," was Natha- 
 lie's first remark. 
 
 "I have business I shall go to-day," re- 
 turned Monsieur ; and though his voice sounded 
 like the expiring wheeze of a broken bellows, 
 the words expressed a firm resolve to do his 
 duty, though he perished in the attempt. 
 
 "There is a train at half-past eleven," chant- 
 ed Susanne, in her shrill tones. 
 
 "We will walk to the station with you," 
 Nathalie said. 
 
 "You are very good always," sighed Mon- 
 sieur, displaying a spirit of forgiveness which 
 ought to have overwhelmed the naughty sprite 
 with remorse, but produced no effect whatever. 
 
 "Madame will want me," put in Susanne 
 crossly, her last hope of getting a half-hour's 
 peaceful slumber destroyed by this cruel pro- 
 posal on Nathalie's part. 
 
 "Mamma will not rise till noon; she never 
 does," said the girl. " Susanne, I suspect you 
 of some dark design ! There must be a man in 
 the case, or you would not be so insane to get 
 back to the house. " 
 
 "For shame, Mademoiselle before Mon- 
 sieur !" grumbled Susanne, yet secretly pleased 
 at the idea that such notions could still be im- 
 puted to her. " What will Monsieur think ?" 
 
 "Monsieur will think whatever I bid him," 
 cried Nathalie. " Is it not so, mon ami? Poor 
 dear ! how warm he is ah ! it is too bad !" 
 
 She seized his handkerchief, and actually 
 wiped his forehead. Monsieur was so overcome 
 by her goodness that he could only gasp. 
 
 "Bah, it smells of snuff !" exclaimed Natha- 
 lie, suddenly thrusting the handkerchief into his 
 hand. "Allans! It is fortunate this train stops 
 at Burier." 
 
 Burier was a little station just back of the hill 
 where Elizabeth Crauford sat, only a few min- 
 utes' walk from the high-road. Nathalie danced 
 along by Monsieur's side, and Susanne followed 
 in grim silence ; but her faded lips moved, and 
 it was evident from the expression of her coun- 
 tenance that she was not calling down blessings 
 on the heads of her mistress and her mistress's 
 betrothed husband. 
 
 "I forgot" Monsieur stopped short as he 
 spoke, and once more despair darkened his heat- 
 ed countenance "I have not my paletot and 
 my sac de voyaye both in the carriage. Ah, 
 that fiendish man !" 
 
 "Well, there he comes now," called Susanne, 
 who seemed the goddess of discovery in person 
 this morning. 
 
 Sure enough, now that it was too late, the 
 carriage appeared up the road, and halted be- 
 fore the side gates which were close to the 
 chalet. 
 
 "Fiend with a donkey's head," shouted Su- 
 sanne, "can you not come on then? Are you 
 blind as well as an idiot that you do not see us 
 standing here ?" 
 
 Her shrill voice rang out like a cracked trum- 
 pet, and, as the coachman urged forward his 
 steed, her tones changed to withering sarcasm. 
 "Ah, yes, now that it is too late thou canst 
 come ; thou canst be in great haste ; thou canst 
 beat thy poor horse ! H&! Lout, fiend, sev- 
 enth son of seven times seven brigands, come on 
 then come!" 
 
 She danced up and down in the road, and 
 shook her fists and her cap, until a horse unac-
 
 MR. VAUG HAN'S HEIR. 
 
 customcd to living among people of her country 
 would have dashed off in a fright ; but neither 
 horse nor driver paid the slightest attention to 
 the dramatic burst whereby she somewhat re- 
 lieved her long pent-up ill-humor. As he near- 
 ed the group, the coachman lifted his hat, and 
 explained, in his slow, Swiss fashion, that the 
 delay hud not been owing to any fault of his. 
 Monsieur could see that he had another horse. 
 Would Monsieur just observe that ? 
 
 "Stolen, no doubt; thief! assassin!" shouted 
 !Susanne. 
 
 ' ' Susanne, I will have you drowned in the 
 lake if you do not remain quiet," observed her 
 young mistress, calmly. 
 
 "But she is right; the man's conduct is un- 
 pardonable, " cried Monsieur, glaring at the guilty- 
 wretch through his spectacles as ferociously as 
 his kindly eyes could manage. 
 
 "Let him explain," ordered Nathalie, ani- 
 mated by a not unusual spirit of contradiction. 
 " Tell us what detained you, my good man." 
 
 The coachman announced his conviction that 
 Mademoiselle was an angel. There was a fiend- 
 ish chuckle from Susanne; but whether intended 
 to express anger at the guilty wretch's presump- 
 tion, or scorn of the young lady's claims to the 
 title he had bestowed upon her, did not appear. 
 
 "Indeed, Mademoiselle, it was not my fault. 
 I set out in ample time. I had accomplished 
 half the distance, when my stupid brute of a 
 horse stumbled, and lamed himself. I had to 
 tie him to a gate, and go back to Clarens for 
 another. " 
 
 If ever a sound from human throat half a 
 snort, half a laugh expressed utter incredulity 
 and contempt, it was the sound wherewith 
 Susanne greeted this explanation. But she had 
 no time to speak ; Monsieur quickly interposed, 
 and, so weary that he only asked to get where 
 lie could sit down and rest, said, with touching 
 i equation 
 
 " Well, well ; give me the paletot and the sac 
 Je voyage. I go by train." 
 
 "I can take Monsieur and the lady to the sta- 
 tion." 
 
 " No, no it is only threa steps," interrupted 
 Nathalie. 
 
 "Hi! a step is a step, and my legs are fifty 
 years old. I shall be driven," cried Susanne, 
 indignant that the coachman had not included 
 her in his proffer. She mounted nimbly into 
 the carriage, and sat up as erect as if her spinal 
 column had been a steel bar. " Go on, then," 
 she exclaimed, in grim triumph; "and if my 
 neck is broken by your stupidity, it shall cost 
 you dear, if I have to bring the case before 
 every court in Switzerland, should there be such 
 a thing ns justice in this accursed land. Go 
 mi !" 
 
 The Swiss gave her one glare from under his 
 bushy eyebrows ; but she looked so warlike, so 
 
 bristling with a desire for battle, that he did 
 not venture upon a syllable in reply. Susanne 
 spared him neither taunt nor gibe as the horse 
 toiled up the steep little hill, and Nathalie and 
 Monsieur followed. 
 
 The carriage stopped at the station : Susanne 
 descended, paletot and sack in hand ; descended 
 in silence, for she was at the end of her breath, 
 if not of her eloquence. 
 
 " H!" called the coachman, suddenly taking 
 advantage of her condition. "Devil she-devil 
 daughter of the fiend ! A witch a wrinkled 
 witch Atf, A" 
 
 He lashed his horse into a gallop, and dashed 
 off. Susanne dropped the bag ; recovered from 
 her first stupor ; made a movement as if to 
 pursue the retreating wretch ; but the vehicle 
 disappeared, and she passed on into the station 
 with a face which would have caused a sphinx 
 to laugh. 
 
 The train steamed up, and cut short Mon- 
 sieur's pathetic little adieus. A frantic guard, 
 who looked as if he had been born in a hurry 
 and had been in a hurry ever since, bundled the 
 elderly gentleman into a compartment with ir- 
 reverent haste, and shouted the signal for de- 
 parture. Monsieur, gallant to the last, struggled 
 up from the recumbent posture into which the 
 guard's violence had forced him, tried to lean 
 out of the window to wave a last farewell, 
 knocked his head against the door, lost his hat, 
 nearly lost his wig, and fell back with a groan : 
 it was a morning of disasters. 
 
 As Nathalie and Susanne descended the steps 
 of the station, Miss Crauford was just coming 
 down the road. 
 
 "I am so glad to see you," cried Nathalie, 
 running toward her. "Are you tired? Would 
 you like a long walk ? I have the whole day to 
 myself. Monsieur has gone to Geneva. Oh, he 
 nearly lost his wig at the last ! If you had seen 
 it! But will you come? Please do! I have 
 been so lonely here so anxious for your arrival 1 
 Now do not be stiff and stony, like an English 
 girl let us be friends at once. " 
 
 "With all my heart," said Elizabeth, holding 
 out her hand. 
 
 "Oh, the pretty hand !" cried Nathalie, look- 
 ing at the ungloved fingers with naive admira- 
 tion. ' ' Nothing so pretty as an American hand. 
 Mine is well, because it is half American ; but 
 yours is perfect. Only look, Susanne." 
 
 Susanne was dropping courtesies, her face radi- 
 ant with smiles. She had heard that the new- 
 comers were very grand people, and Susanne 
 turned into a model of decorum and respect at 
 once. Still she retained possession of her senses. 
 Susanne hated long rambles, and had no mind 
 to be dragged off on one of her mistress's wild 
 expeditious, even in the society of the rich Amer- 
 ican. 
 
 "Dear Mademoiselle," she whispered, "I am
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 27 
 
 desolated ; but, Madame I must return to the 
 house. That sweet, suffering angel will require 
 me." 
 
 "How vexatious!" cried Nathalie. "Mam- 
 ma would be shocked at our going alone ; and 
 it is a shame to lose such a beautiful day." 
 
 " "We might go to the house and find my maid, 
 if some sort of protection is an absolute neces- 
 sity," suggested Elizabeth, good-naturedly. Na- 
 thalie looked so pretty and childish that she 
 could not bear to have her disappointed. 
 
 Susanne volubly pronounced this a most ad- 
 mirable suggestion. Mademoiselle was full of 
 goodness and resources ! It was a grief to her, 
 Susanne, not to be able to accompany the young 
 ladies ; but her duty, her duty ! 
 
 "Susanne," retorted Nathalie, "do you re- 
 member my explaining to you the other day 
 what an English word meant ?" 
 
 "Ah, yes; ze hoomboog!" cried Susanne, 
 proud to show her accomplishments before the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Just so," said Nathalie; "and that is what 
 you are, a humbug the hugest one in exist- 
 ence." 
 
 She took Elizabeth's arm, and walked on. 
 Susanne was crest-fallen for a few moments ; 
 but by the time they reached the gates she re- 
 covered her power of speech. 
 
 " Mademoiselle loves her joke," she said, 
 apparently addressing nobody in particular. 
 "Mademoiselle laughs at her Susanne; but she 
 knows her worth and her fidelity notwithstand- 
 ing." 
 
 All the while the old sycophant was wonder- 
 ing if some scheme could not be devised which 
 should oust the young American's maid from 
 her present enviable position, and transfer it to 
 that embodiment of worth and fidelity christened 
 Susanne. 
 
 "SVhile Nathalie ran into the chalet to obtain 
 her mother's consent, Miss Crauford entered the 
 villa. Her father was up and dressed ; but he 
 was still neuralgic and sentimental, and though 
 he talked a good deal of poetry about the scenery, 
 was quite willing that Elizabeth should begin 
 making its acquaintance without the necessity 
 of exertion on his part. 
 
 " Be sure you admire the view from the 
 Montreux church," he said; "it was your dear 
 mother's favorite spot. Ah, well ! I must not 
 try too much at first. I am not strong, and each 
 haunt here is so full of memories. And there's 
 a young lady at the chalet L'Estrange verv 
 good name is to marry a Monsieur La Tour. 
 Hum ! ha ! I once knew a La Tour. Yes ; go 
 by all means. In general I do not approve of 
 intimacies with strangers ; but it seems these 
 people are quite safe. Madame Bocher tells me 
 they are most respectable. Yes, exactly " 
 
 And his speech driveled into nothingness, aft- 
 er his habit. He seldom brought his halting 
 
 remarks to an end ; they just faded away in 
 ejaculations ; an irritating, indolent fashion, 
 which made one long to shake a little energy 
 into him. 
 
 Mr. Crauford had been a valetudinarian for 
 the last ten years a sore trial to himself and 
 every body about him. The worst of it was 
 that he could write verses, and this caused him 
 to believe himself a poet. He never had gone 
 beyond publishing a few stray rhymes in some 
 newspapers, but he believed himself a genius, 
 kept back from toil and fame by ill-health. His 
 genius served as an excuse for all sorts of ill-hu- 
 mors and selfishness. But he was not a bad 
 man at bottom, only a weak one, and fortunately 
 for his daughter's peace, her influence over him 
 was very great. 
 
 Elizabeth had expected demur on his part as 
 to allowing her to make acquaintance with the 
 French girl, until by some means every particu- 
 lar in regard to her and her mother had been 
 got at. Mr. Crauford was given to suspicion of 
 strangers a man very severe too in his judg- 
 ments of his acquaintances. Mr. Crauford could 
 tolerate neither slip nor stumble. He was as 
 unmerciful as certain elderly women ; so very 
 unmerciful that ill-natured people sometimes 
 wondered, as such persons do in regard to those 
 female censors, whether somewhere in his youth 
 there had not been peccadilloes or worse to 
 cover up. Naturally, Elizabeth thought nothing 
 of the kind. She did not even admit to herself, 
 what at the bottom her clear-judging rnind must 
 have known, that in the present instance her 
 father yielded just because it was a personal con- 
 venience. Elizabeth loved her father, and hid 
 his selfishness from her sight, concealing it un- 
 der pretty names and generous excuses ; and it 
 spoke well for her character that she did so. 
 
 Having given his consent cheerfully, his next 
 speech was to urge the propriety of her remain- 
 ing at home. But Elizabeth was too thoroughly 
 accustomed to such change and vacillation on 
 his part to feel surprise, and too determined to 
 preserve her illusions in regard to her father for 
 either amusement or contempt. It was just a 
 habit of papa's invalids always fell into certain 
 odd ways people possessing the poetic tempera- 
 ment especially. Elizabeth, with all her desire 
 to elevate her parent on a lofty pedestal, could 
 not persuade herself that he was a poet ; but to 
 attribute the poetic temperament to him made a 
 very satisfactory and well-sounding excuse for 
 his vagaries. 
 
 They had luncheon together in an upper room, 
 which Mr. Crauford decided to appropriate as a 
 study. Wherever he went he must have a study : 
 it served at least as a place in which to smoke 
 and doze comfortably. Madame Bocher won- 
 dered why they could not take all their meals in 
 the dining-room, and informed Gervais that "if 
 they went on this way they would find plenty of
 
 28 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 extra-service in the month's bill." Gervais had 
 the luncheon-tray in his own hands, and being a 
 humorist after his fashion, was so tickled by the 
 idea of Madame's expecting to be paid for serv- 
 ice rendered to Mr. Crauford by Mr. Crauford's 
 domestic, that he nearly dropped dishes and 
 plates in his silent laughter. 
 
 Three separate times during the repast Mr. 
 Cranford was of the opinion that he would send 
 for a carriage and accompany the young ladies ; 
 twice that Elizabeth had better remain at home. 
 But these were trifling changes. 
 
 "You see I want a walk, papa," Elizabeth 
 said, patiently. " You must have a carriage 
 come as usual each day ; you must not give up 
 your drive, and I shall go with you. But I must 
 have my walks too, and ride donkeys. Made- 
 moiselle L'Estrange says one can get such jolly, 
 obstinate little donkeys up at Montreux." 
 
 "The very tiling. Well, 1 would advise yon 
 to-day to get donkeys, and go to the chateau of 
 Rochelle." Exactly in the opposite direction to 
 that decided on by the girls. "What do you 
 say to going out on the lake in a boat ?" This 
 last suggestion, delivered with airy cheerfulness, 
 as if Elizabeth had been at a loss how to amuse 
 herself, and he had hit on this proposal in his 
 fatherly care. 
 
 "Certainly, papa, if you would like to go." 
 
 "My child!" in horror, "when you know I 
 hate a sail-boat ! Ah, me ! young people are so 
 heedless. Your dear mamma would never have 
 forgotten that I detest a sail-boat Indeed, I 
 wonder you can ever wish to get into one ; 
 they're never safe. Elizabeth, we might go 
 down in the train to Vevay, and see what we 
 find in the way of horses and carriages to take 
 by the month." 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 "On the whole, Elizabeth, I suppose I am 
 better off in the house ; my neuralgia is very 
 troublesome." 
 
 A tap at the door. Margot, Miss Cranford's 
 maid, to say that Mademoiselle L'Estrange was 
 waiting. 
 
 "Go, by all means, my love! Don't mind 
 me ; I shall get on very well," sighed Mr. Crau- 
 ford. 
 
 He was anxious to be left alone, in order that 
 he might indulge in more smoking and a longer 
 nap thnn was reasonable ; but the poetic tem- 
 perament led him to veil this desire even from 
 his own eyes under the pleasing shape of self- 
 abnegation. Elizabeth understood the truth as 
 well as he, but she blinded herself too, and really 
 felt pangs of reproach, as if she had been a hard- 
 ened oinner pursuing her own gratification at the 
 exjxMise of her father's comfort. 
 
 As she reached the porch in front of the villa 
 she saw Nathalie pacing up and down the gravel 
 walk which ran before the house nnd chalet. 
 
 "I thought you would never come," cried the 
 
 French girl, hurrying forward to meet her new 
 friend. "Mamma has been so tiresome; her 
 head aches, and that makes her horribly pious. 
 She says she wishes she had made a nun of me, 
 instead of bringing me out of the convent to be 
 married. I do think elderly people are dread- 
 ful ; do not you ?" 
 
 It was plain that Mademoiselle Nathalie made 
 slight attempt to keep up illusions where her 
 parent was concerned. Miss Crauford did not 
 approve of this speech, so she returned no an- 
 swer whatever. Nathalie gave her graceful head 
 a toss and walked on ; but as they reached the 
 gate she stopped short and confronted her com- 
 panion, looking rebellious and heated, though 
 her eyes danced with mischief in spite of her 
 evident irritation. 
 
 " If you mean to be English and awful, I shall 
 remain at home," said she. 
 
 "But I do not mean to be either." 
 
 "A la bonne heure!" cried Nathalie. "Then 
 have the goodness not to look shocked at my fool- 
 ish speeches. If I can not say whatever comes 
 into my head, I shall not talk with you." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed ; the girl was so arch and 
 childlike that one could neither take offense nor 
 think her rude. 
 
 "You look very handsome when you laugh," 
 observed Nathalie ; "you had better indulge in 
 the exercise whenever you can, for your mouth 
 is a little sad and stern." 
 
 "Never mind my mouth." 
 
 "Pardon, one ought always to mind pretty 
 things." 
 
 "In the mean time the morning is passing; 
 we shall have no walk," suggested Elizabeth. 
 " Where is Margot?" 
 
 That eminently respectable female appeared at 
 the door of the chalet, where she had been in- 
 dulging in a little gossip with Snsanne. They 
 had formed acquaintance already ; and as Su- 
 sanne was too old to receive the least notice 
 from Gervais, Margot felt in her heart a nascent 
 friendship for her countrywoman. Could she 
 have gained the slightest clew to the wild thought 
 which had this morning crossed Susanne's brain 
 as to the possibility of exchanging her present 
 service for that occupied by Mademoiselle Mar- 
 got, the fiery Burgundjan would have throttled 
 the wily Breton on the door-step. Fortunately 
 for the general harmony, no suspicion troubled 
 Margot's mind, and the two parted amicably, 
 and with as many mutual compliments as could 
 have been devised by their betters. 
 
 Snsanne watched the two take the road which 
 struck across the hills directly in front of the 
 gates, and wished rather enviously that she were 
 not elderly and stout and very lazy. Then she 
 went through the dark passage, with two bed- 
 rooms on one side, and a little salon at the end. 
 From here, the only means of admittance to the 
 rest of the habitable part of the chalet was by
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 29 
 
 the long outer gallery, the front portion of the 
 interior being occupied by great pressoirs and 
 casks, where later the wine would be made. 
 Two more bedrooms opened on the gallery ; 
 then came glass-doors which led into a large, 
 comfortable salon. Beyond was a dining-room, 
 a back passage connecting with all these cham- 
 bers, a kitchen opposite the salle a manyer, and 
 another covered gallery at the back, which over- 
 looked the Vevay road and the route among the 
 hills. 
 
 Susanne heard her mistress's voice from the 
 bedroom, and immediately burst into a cheerful 
 flood of song. Her notes were a little sharp 
 and cracked, but she sang with a will. 
 
 "Are you never coming? Am I never to be 
 dressed ?" called the peevish accents. 
 
 Susanne was traversing the salon by this time ; 
 she checked her music. lt l)ieu!" cried she; 
 "if I did not think Madame was having a little 
 repose after her chocolate." 
 
 "Come here this instant," ordered Madame. 
 " Moulin qui dort, qui dort," chanted Su- 
 sanne, as she reached the passage into which 
 her mistress's bedroom opened. "The young 
 ladies are off," she said, gayly. " Does Madame 
 desire to get up and be dressed ?" 
 
 "You are a wicked woman," cried the fretful 
 voice from the bed. 
 
 Susanne stood in the doorway and shrugged 
 her shoulders. " Madame has her nerves," she 
 murmured. 
 
 "I have nothing of the sort," contradicted 
 Madame. " I am thinking about my soul, and 
 yours, and every body's. No one ever tried so 
 hard to make their salvation as I do. I have 
 said twenty paternosters this morning, and have 
 gone through the Litany of St. Barbara without 
 missing a line." 
 
 "Then I am sure Madame ought to be com- 
 fortable : she has done enough for one day," re- 
 turned Susanne, soothingly. 
 
 "I have never done enough, and I am so 
 tired," moaned Madame. 
 
 "I shall give Madame her drops," said Su- 
 sanne. 
 
 She bustled about and prepared the potion ; it 
 was to be administered in curacoa, and Susanne 
 made the dose of liqueur very strong. It toll 
 favorably and immediately upon the weak, ema- 
 ciated woman. She sat up among her pillows, 
 twisted the curls of her still luxuriant hair abou 
 her lean fingers, and said more cheerfully 
 
 ' ' I think I will put on the new robe de cham- 
 bre with the pink trimmings, Susanne, and the 
 head-dress to match ; perhaps Monsieur le Cure 
 will kindly look in before night." 
 
 "Good," thought Susanne; "at least she is 
 
 away from her prayers and her salvation for a 
 
 - little! Of course one must think about such 
 
 things when one is as near one's end as Ma 
 
 dame, but that is no reason for wearying those 
 
 n health. It is my firm belief that Madame will 
 not more than last through the autumn," pur- 
 sued Susanne in her meditations, while getting 
 out the new gown with the pink trimmings. 
 "She might as well not tumble and spoil her 
 prettiest clothes by lying about in them. But, 
 jah, Madame was always selfishness incarnate 
 she never thinks of me, in spite of my devo- 
 tion. As for dying well, I thought the same 
 iast year that I do now, and here she is yet ; 
 that woman is made of iron." 
 
 Madame in bed, with a cap concealing her 
 hair and all the lines showing in her worn feat- 
 ures, was a very different-looking object from 
 Madame carefully dressed, with a little rouge 
 dropped into her sunken cheeks, and her spirits 
 elevated by the tonic and the cura9oa. She had 
 been a wonderfully handsome woman, and her 
 great flashing eyes were yet beautiful, though 
 unnaturally bright. She suffered a great deal 
 of pain, which she bore philosophically enough. 
 She was slowly dying of some internal disease, 
 but she had been so long about it, that, like Su- 
 sanne, she had her doubts whether she might 
 not live as long as other people after all. She 
 was horribly afraid of death ; she tried very 
 hard to make her salvation, as she expressed it, 
 but it was tiresome work. Madame had lived 
 a gay life, and she hankered still after her old 
 pleasures ; and sometimes the old fiery spirit 
 came up, and she fairly cursed in the midst of 
 her prayers, in a sort of desperate rage at hav- 
 ing lost her youth, her beauty, and the health 
 which had rendered both gifts enjoyable. She 
 liked to bemoan her past sins to her spiritual 
 director. She really thought she did it from 
 contrition and remorse, but in reality there was 
 a satisfaction in living over those memories, even 
 while she smote her breast and grew frightened 
 lest the errors should drag her down to hell in 
 spite of her prayers and her penances. 
 
 "I find myself wonderfully well to-day," she 
 observed to Susanne. "I wish Monsieur La 
 Tour had not gone to Geneva. But it is a com- 
 fort to be rid of Nathalie ; she is so full of spir- 
 its, so well and strong, that child ! " 
 
 Susanne smiled secretly. She was very shrewd, 
 this godless, hard-headed old woman. There 
 were days when Madame fairly hated Nathalie 
 for her beauty, and her youth, and her health, 
 though she loved her daughter in her own way 
 sometimes in a rather tigress sort of way. 
 Susanne understood every one of her mistress's 
 weaknesses, and amused her monotonous life by 
 studying them, quite unconscious that she was a 
 kind of heathen philosopher in her fashion. 
 
 " Susanne," said Madame, " I think if I were 
 well wrapped up I might sit in the gallery. I 
 can't walk about the grounds to-day ; I had a 
 little pain in the night, and it leaves my legs 
 weak." 
 
 Susanne moved out a low easy-chair, envel-
 
 30 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 oped her mistress in a great shawl, and estab- 
 lished the invalid comfortably. The sun was 
 warm and bright ; the birds sang in the walnut- 
 
 trees : the waters lapped musically against the of death came over her. 
 
 shore. Madame could look down the lake where 
 
 the light lay golden and beautiful. But Madame 
 
 had never cared ranch for Nature ; the dullest 
 
 street in 1'aris would have been more lovely in 
 
 her eyes than the grandest landscape. Only 
 
 the express commands of her physician kept her 
 
 in this quiet spot. Life had lost all interest; 
 
 she was fearfully bored ; she suffered martyrdom 
 
 from physical pain ; still Madame clung to the 
 
 existence she hated, and was even content to 
 
 bury herself in this stupid Swiss valley, since in 
 
 so doing lay her one hope of putting off that last 
 
 solitary journey she dreaded. 
 
 "I think I might read a little," she said, as 
 Susanne stood watching her with a cynical face, 
 amused to see how natural it was to Madame to 
 pose and put herself in a graceful attitude, al- 
 though there was no one to see no man, that 
 is ; women had never any importance in Ma- 
 dame's creed. "There is a new book under 
 my pillow, Susanne ; I hid it for fear Nathalie 
 should find it." 
 
 Susanne went in search of the volume, and re- 
 turned with it in her hand a novel an autobi- 
 ography of a Parisian gallant, whose revelations 
 were enough to make one's hair stand on end. 
 
 "I said the whole Litany of St. Barbara," 
 murmured Madame; "I might indulge myself, 
 I think. Remind me to go over the Offerings 
 of St. Joseph before dinner, Susanne." 
 
 Some sound from below roused Madame ; she 
 raised herself among her pillows and glanced 
 through the railings. Mr. Crauford had strolled 
 out of the villa and approached the chalet. He 
 was standing on the lawn now, speaking with the 
 fermier. Madame's eyes those sunken, fever- 
 ishly bright eyes were as sharp as an eagle's, 
 and Madame possessed a memory which neither 
 illness nor time had touched. 
 
 Mr. Crauford's face was turned full toward 
 her as he stood ; Madame looked curiously 
 down, looked more closely; a puzzled expres- 
 sion crossed her features, and was succeeded by 
 a great trouble. She caught hold of the balus- 
 trade with both hands to steady herself, for a 
 nervous trembling began to shake her whole 
 frame. 
 
 Presently Mr. Crauford walked elotfly on, and 
 was lost to sight among the trees. Madame fell 
 back in her chair ; her eyes closed ; her breath 
 came in quick, convulsive gasps. After a while 
 Susinne. luisy in the further room, heard her 
 mistress's voice in the sharp, broken tone which 
 denoted one of her attacks of pain. She hurried 
 out, and found Madame leaning weak and help- 
 less against her cushions, a ghastly gray pallor 
 overspreading her countenance a pallor ren- 
 dered the more dreadful from its contrast to the 
 
 painted spots in her hollow cheeks. Snsanne had 
 sometimes seen her look like this when awaken- 
 ing suddenly from a bad dream, or when a fear 
 
 ' ' Madame is suffering, "she said , kindly enough. 
 " Is it the old pain?" 
 
 The woman made a motion that she wished to 
 go iu-doors. Susanne wheeled her chair through 
 the open window into the salon. Madame was 
 no great weight nowadays. 
 
 Susanne went off in search of restorative med- 
 icines, moving rapidly, and speaking good-nat- 
 uredly, though she did think it selfish of the 
 invalid to cause her so much trouble. 
 
 "She looks very odd," was Susanne's secret 
 comment, as she worked over her. " Each at- 
 tack seems to get worse. Any body else would 
 soon go to bits; but there, Madame was born 
 with a constitution like a horse ; she is iron, no 
 less !" 
 
 Madame lay down on the sofa for some time ; 
 gradually the trembling ceased, the face lost its 
 drawn expression. Susanne knew the crise had 
 passed. 
 
 "It was only fatigue," Madame said, after 
 a while ; " I am better now." 
 
 "Shall I bring Madame a soup?" Susanne 
 asked, wondering, as she often did, at the forti- 
 tude with which the woman fought against these 
 attacks. 
 
 "No; I could not take it yet; I will have 
 some more drops presently. " She lay quiet again 
 for a little. Susanne thought she was dropping 
 into a doze, but she half opened her eyes, and 
 asked, "What did you say was the name of 
 the new people in the villa ? English people, I 
 think Nathalie told me they were." 
 
 Susanne was accustomed to such efforts on 
 Madame's part to distract her mind when suffer- 
 ing. 
 
 "They are Americans," the old woman an- 
 swered, quite ready to converse, if her mistress 
 was able to listen ; " though I can see no differ- 
 ence between the two ; they all talk the same 
 impossible jargon." 
 
 "Americans!" repeated Madame, in a low 
 tone. 
 
 ' ' Yes, Mademoiselle says America is very far 
 off oh, farther than Sicily, even. " 
 
 "I dare say," returned Madame, absently, 
 who, in her character of Frenchwoman, was 
 probably almost as ignorant of geography as 
 Susanne. 
 
 " When people live so far away, I wonder 
 they are not content to keep at home," pursued 
 Susanne. " Not that one has any thing to say 
 against them. The father is rather tiresome 
 with his fancies, Madame Bocher says ; but 
 the demoiselle is as sweet a lady as one could 
 wish to see. She is fond of our little Nathalie, 
 
 "Ah!" said Madame. She had her head
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 31 
 
 turned away ; there was a very peculiar expres- 
 sion in her face ; she looked as if trying to 
 make herself believe that she had been disturbed 
 by some accidental resemblance when she saw 
 the stranger standing below her balcony. Twice 
 her lips parted to ask a question ; twice she 
 checked the words, afraid that the answer would 
 only confirm the truth of what she was endeav- 
 oring to regard as a fancy of her own. 
 
 In the mean while Susanne ran on volubly 
 in her account of the strangers. She was inter- 
 ested even in the strength of their coffee, knew 
 exactly how many pairs of stockings the young 
 lady carried among her possessions Margot had 
 given the information and the number was al- 
 most incredible to Susanne. 
 
 "Ah," said Madame again, without having 
 heard a syllable of the monologue. "And their 
 name is Lisbet, is it not ?" 
 
 "No, no ; that is the name of the demoiselle, 
 or some outlandish name like it. How is it one 
 says the other le noin defainille? Wait I 
 have it Monsieur oh, those accursed English 
 names ! Ah. Monsieur Crau-ford," panted Su- 
 sanne, with great difficulty. 
 
 As Madame asked the question, she raised her 
 head from the pillow, awaiting the answer with 
 an eagerness which escaped her companion. 
 Once more a hollow groan startled the Breton. 
 Madame had fallen back on the sofa, and faint- 
 eJ completely away. . 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MONSIEUR'S RETURN. 
 
 MONSIEUR LA TOUR certainly deserved a wavm 
 welcome on his return from what he would have 
 called "son petit voyage," for not only had he 
 found leisure to purchase an exceedingly pretty 
 bracelet to clasp on his betrothed's arm, but 
 Madame L'Estrange and Susanne were both re- 
 membered. Monsieur displayed a happy tact, 
 too, where Madame was concerned. He brought 
 her some illuminated legends of a favorite saint, 
 which gratified her superstitious attempts to be 
 what she termed religious ; and he added a 
 quantity of carved boxes and other articles for 
 her toilet -table, lest her worldly mood should 
 chance to be uppermost on his arrival, and cause 
 her to regard the legends and their pictures with 
 secret disfavor. 
 
 Madame was charmed ; she examined the 
 fancifully shaped bottles of rare scent, the porce- 
 lain ornaments twisted into heathen gods, with 
 the glee of an old baby ; and Susanne was al- 
 most equally delighted. Then a pain seized 
 Madame in her back. She ordered the pretty 
 vanities to be put out of sight, and began hei 
 Jeremiades and frightened prayers ; but there 
 Susanne could not follow her she could stand 
 
 in no need of either herself while her health was 
 so perfect as at present. 
 
 ' Tell Nathalie to take Monsieur out on the 
 lawn, Susanne," said Madame, dolefully. "Oh, 
 my back ! Oh, my sins ! I am the most 
 wretched woman alive ! I have no peace here, 
 and I shall have none hereafter, and I try so 
 hard ! I wanted a taste of confitures yesterday, 
 and I would not touch them just by way of pen- 
 ance, and I save and save from my annuity in 
 order to leave something to the Convent of the 
 Sacre Coeur. The Superior is almost a saint ; 
 she promised to have prayers said for me, and 
 only to think, Susanne, she was once a sinner 
 like the worst of us. Yes, indeed, she was put 
 into that very convent by her family to quiet a 
 horrible esclandre, and now she is at the head, 
 and would rather than not live on pulse and 
 lentils the whole year. I do not think people 
 deserve half so much credit when they can make 
 their salvation so easily! Here she is a saint 
 nearly, and will^scape purgatory, and I oh, 
 Susanne ! dear Susanne ! send for the Cure ; I 
 am worse I die'; send for the Cure, I implore 
 thee!" % / .^ 
 
 "To the devil with the Cure'," was exactly 
 what Susanne thought. " The poor silly soul 
 is frightened enough now. She shall have a 
 draught, hot and strong, to steady her nerves, 
 and then she will forget about purgatory fur a 
 little while. Really, the best she can do is to 
 die as soon as Mademoiselle is married, for this 
 becomes of a toiium that is insupportable ; it is 
 too much to bjRortured here and scorched here- 
 after also." if 
 
 Down by the lake Nathalie and Monsieur 
 encountered Elizabeth Crauford; and Elizabeth 
 liked him for his quaint, old-fashioned manners, 
 ana long compliments which sounded like speech- 
 es out of a* last-century's romance. She felt 
 vexed with Nathalie for laughing at him, but 
 Monsieur did not seem greatly to mind, and 
 looked at her over his spectacles with beaming 
 admiration. He was so little, so dainty in his 
 dress, so marvelous in his bows, that it might 
 have been difficult for this irreverent youthful gen- 
 eration not to smile at his antiquated elegancies ; 
 but Elizabeth read goodness and probity in every 
 line of his face a certain strength of will and 
 determination, too and she conceived a respect 
 for him accordingly. 
 
 After a while Mr. Crauford came out to sun 
 himself for a space, and the four spent a very 
 pleasant afternoon, and Nathalie yawned less 
 than she was in the habit of doing during her 
 affianced's visits. 
 
 Mr. Crauford and Monsieur discovered that 
 they had been slightly acquainted some ten years 
 ago in Paris, and felt now as acquaintances 
 meeting in a very quiet spot are apt to as if 
 they had been old friends. 
 
 "They will play piquet and talk together,"
 
 32 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 thought Nathalie. "What a mercy! How droll 
 they both are ! I should like to tie their coat- 
 tails together, and hear them go crac when they 
 tried to get up ! It is very tiresome, to be sure. 
 I would rather be married ; then I should get to 
 Paris, at least ! I am sure I shall turn wrinkled 
 and gray if I do not soon find some excitement. 
 How can Elizabeth listen so patiently to their 
 prosing ? I am half afraid of her, but I do love 
 her already, and I wish she had not come." 
 
 Elizabeth was listening with more than pa- 
 tience she was interested in the conversation. 
 Her father talked very well when he forgot him- 
 selfhis fancied ailments and his poetical tem- 
 perament ; and if Monsieur was a little heavy 
 and stilted in his speech, every thing he said 
 displayed good sense and culture. Elizabeth 
 was more inclined than ever to think Nathalie 
 ungrateful. The girl needed exactly such a 
 guardian and protector as she would find in Mon- 
 sieur. He would keep her from follies, and per- 
 haps teach her the Latin grammar. One must 
 excuse Elizabeth, for as yet she had no percep- 
 tion of what love really meant not the very 
 slightest breath had stirred her heart in its maid- 
 en slumber. It was plain that Monsieur adored 
 the willful girl, and to Elizabeth it seemed only 
 fitting that she should love him in return, just 
 from gratitude. 
 
 Monsieur had lived to be fifty without falling 
 in love ; he had property enough not to need 
 any young woman's dot, nor would this usual 
 reason for marriage among his countrymen have 
 influenced him. His mother had lived until with- 
 in the last few years, and that gentle lady ruled 
 him all her life. He had vegetated calmly iu his 
 provincial town ; going occasionally to Paris for 
 a change ; had attended to his duties as propri- 
 etor ; had sometimes been mayor and once pre- 
 fet, and had grown elderly almost without per- 
 ceiving it. 
 
 Less than a twelvemonth ago he had gone one 
 day, while in Paris, to visit a distant relative, the 
 Superior of the convent in which Nathalie had 
 been a pupil from childhood. While Monsieur 
 sat conversing with the old lady, who liked an 
 occasional gossip about the outer world, Natha- 
 lie entered the room to ask some favor of the 
 worthy head of the establishment. Monsieur 
 was dazed by the radiant vision. Monsieur 
 turned into an antique Romeo at once, and no- 
 body could have been more astonished than he 
 at the transformation. 
 
 Monsieur was very attentive to his relative 
 during his stay in the capital, and contrived to 
 see Nathalie several times. Inquiries in regard 
 to her family were less favorable than could have 
 been wished. There were very odd stories con- 
 nected with the youth of Madame L'Estrange 
 nothing distinct to be got at so pass those 
 stories over as Monsieur did. Madame had 
 married an American, had lived with him in It- 
 
 aly, had held a certain position among a tolera- 
 bly respectable world. Soon after the birth of 
 her child her husband had separated from her. 
 There was gossip, but the actual reasons were 
 never known. Madame at this time had a small 
 property left her by a relative : she took that 
 and the relative's name. Only a few years later 
 she fell into ill-health. Long since she had re- 
 tired into complete seclusion and been forgotten. 
 Monsieur was alone ; Monsieur was in love ; 
 so, in spite of these discouraging circumstances, 
 lie sought Madame L'Estrange and told his story. 
 He did not do this without reflection. He would 
 have put Nathalie from his heart if he could, but 
 that being impossible, his obstinacy helped him 
 to disregard the scruples which prudence sug- 
 gested. The fact of Madame's change of name 
 must prevent the quiet people, among whom 
 Monsieur La Tour's wife would live, from con- 
 necting her in any way with the old scandals in 
 regard to her parent. Nathalie was sent for to 
 Dijon, where her mother was staying. She saw 
 Monsieur twice ; then she accompanied her 
 mother to Switzerland. Monsieur arranged his 
 affairs, and that done, came on to claim his bride, 
 for long engagements are never in favor among 
 his countrymen. The corbeille would arrive 
 next week, the marriage would take place very 
 soon after. In the mean time Monsieur sunned 
 himself in such smiles as Nathalie could be in- 
 duced to bestow, and was too loyal and honest 
 ever to admit in his soul the slightest suspicion 
 that he had been either hasty or unwise. 
 
 There the four sat and talked pleasantly in 
 the soft golden light, while the waves sang, and 
 the breeze whispered of the Italian plains across 
 which it had blown. Nathalie threw aside her 
 listlessness, because Elizabeth was attracting at- 
 tention, and set herself to the task of fascinating 
 the two elderly gentlemen a task in which she 
 succeeded without difficulty. 
 
 It did not occur to Elizabeth to be jealous of 
 her success ; she enjoyed the creature's gay 
 chatter as much as either of their companions, 
 and Nathalie saw that. 
 
 "How different she is from me," mused the 
 girl; "now I should have hated her if I had 
 not succeeded in attracting their attention from 
 her. Ah, well ; one's character is one's charac- 
 ter ; it is useless to struggle against it." 
 
 Mr. Crauford brought her away from her 
 doubtful philosophy by observing, " I trust we 
 shall soon have the pleasure of making your 
 mother's acquaintance, Mademoiselle." 
 
 The conversation was earned on wholly in 
 French, because Monsieur La Tour, Gaul-like, 
 was beautifully ignorant of any language except 
 his own. As soon as he attempted a labored 
 or complimerftary speech, Mr. Crauford's accent 
 was so very marked that Nathalie had much ado 
 not to mimic it. She was only deterred by the 
 fear of offending Elizabeth, and her momentary
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 33 
 
 struggle between her impulse and her dread kept 
 her silent till Monsieur La Tour, thinking that 
 he understood the cause of her hesitation, hast- 
 ened to add 
 
 "The poor Madame is so terrible a sufferer! 
 Nothing could gratify her more, I am convinced, 
 than to share in the enjoyment which is just now 
 permitted to Mademoiselle and myself." Here 
 he bowed, first to Elizabeth, then to her father, 
 by way of emphasizing his words. " But her 
 nerves are in a sad state. She would gladly 
 have come out to-day an attack of pain pre- 
 vented made it necessary even for us both to 
 leave her." 
 
 "I know how to sympathize with illness," 
 returned Mr. Crauford, in a martyr-like voice. 
 
 "Each is worse than the other," thought 
 Nathalie. "Oh, I certainly would tie their coat- 
 tails together if it were not for Elizabeth ! " Then 
 aloud, "Poor mamma; it is dreadful! And I 
 am such a selfish little monster. I get away al- 
 ways when she is suffering from her attacks." 
 
 "Dear Mademoiselle, only because you can 
 not aid. If there were any thing you could do, 
 you would remain," said Monsieur, fearful that 
 her careless speech might produce an unpleasant 
 effect on the strangers. 
 
 "Please, do not try to make me out good," 
 cried Nathalie, " else I shall disgrace myself and 
 horrify you all immediately." 
 
 Monsieur was shocked ; he never could accus- 
 tom himself to Nathalie's conversation. He was 
 relieved when Mr. Crauford and Elizabeth laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 "Ah," thought Monsieur, "it must be the 
 esprit Ame'ricain; they seem to comprehend her. 
 A wild, rebellious nation those Americans. I 
 am glad that little Nathalie is a.t least half 
 French." 
 
 At length Mr. Crauford proposed a game of 
 chess. A table was brought out under the wal- 
 nut-trees, and the two gentlemen soon became 
 so absorbed in their occupation that the girls 
 wandered away unnoticed to the edge of the 
 lake. 
 
 "Now, let us talk," said Nathalie, as they sat 
 clown beneath the great willow. "We've not 
 even Margot to bother us, so we need not con- 
 fine ourselves to English. When I feel wicked, 
 I prefer to speak French; and to-day I feel 
 wicked." 
 
 "Do you mean cross fractious?" 
 
 "No, no; wicked! Don't you understand? 
 As my countrywoman felt when she said she 
 could enjoy cold water if only it were a sin to 
 drink it. Now you look shocked are you ?" 
 
 "Puzzled rather, I think," replied Elizabeth. 
 
 "I fancy you could not comprehend the feel- 
 ing I want to express, " said Nathalie, complacent- 
 ly. "To be sure it is all theory with me yet, 
 but then my theories are immense." 
 
 " In regard to what ?" 
 C 
 
 "Every thing! Life marriage freedom!" 
 cried Nathalie, her eyes shining, and the beauti- 
 ful rose tints deepening in her cheeks. 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth austerely; "I do not 
 comprehend you." 
 
 "You look horrified again," exclaimed Na- 
 thalie gayly. " You disapprove of what I said. 
 I forget each instant that we are strangers ; but, 
 bah ! friendship does not count by time either 
 one is fond of a person or one is not. When I 
 fall in love, I mean it to be at a look a glance 
 how do you say ? first sight. " 
 
 ' ' Please to remember that you were just speak- 
 ing of your marriage," retorted Miss Crauford, 
 austerely. 
 
 " Qu'est-ce que fa fait ? Uun nempeche pas 
 rautre," cried Nathalie, with a merry laugh. 
 "As if a woman were expected to love her own 
 husband bah, how tame!" 
 
 Elizabeth was accustomed to such sentiments 
 in French novels, and certain English ones, but 
 a little startled at hearing them so calmly enun- 
 ciated by this childish-looking creature, yet some- 
 what curious, too, to hear how far she would go 
 in her borrowed theories. 
 
 "Are you more horrified than ever?" con- 
 tinued Nathalie, not trusting herself to the cold 
 Saxon accents again. 
 
 " I think you are talking great nonsense," re- 
 turned Elizabeth. 
 
 "Not nonsense at all!" exclaimed the other. 
 " It is a truth a solemn truth, if you will. Is 
 it our fault? We young girls are dragged out 
 like slaves in a market. Some wretched old 
 Mohammedan intimates to our parents that he 
 will take us with such and such a dot the mat- 
 ter is arranged. 'Mademoiselle,' says the par- 
 ent, 'behold your husband!' This is the first 
 the girl has heard of the business. What can 
 she do ? She is given to him disgusting !" 
 
 Her eyes flashed, her cheeks blazed. Eliza- 
 beth would have sympathized with her more 
 deeply only that she felt convinced the girl was 
 talking out of a novel, not expressing any deep 
 personal dread or conviction. 
 
 "Do I not know?" pursued Nathalie. "It 
 was thus with me. Monsieur La Tour was pre- 
 sented not on trial, not that I might try and 
 learn to like him, but as my affianced husband. 
 Do you not consider that awful ?" 
 
 "What did you do?" asked Elizabeth, rather 
 Jesuitically. 
 
 "Do ? I ? Ah, well, just for the time I 
 was so busy admiring a beautiful diamond ring 
 he gave me this is it that I did not think 
 much. I had always been insane to possess a dia- 
 mond ring Marie de Conrcelles had one in the 
 convent, and was so proud !" 
 
 She caught Elizabeth's somewhat cynical 
 smile, and stopped. 
 
 "I wept bitterly enough when he was gone," 
 she continued, after a pause; "but was I not
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 powerless? Then opposition made mamma so 
 ill that I dared not let her see my misery." 
 
 "Are you so very unhappy now ?" asked Eliz- 
 abeth. 
 
 " Oh, no ; I do not much mind," replied Na- 
 thalie, laughing. "One must marry as well 
 Monsieur La Tour as another. Only he thinks 
 to bury me alive in that dull provincial town. 
 I say nothing ; but he will see. Mamma says, 
 once married I can do what I please with him ; 
 on that account an elderly husband is much 
 more commode than a young one." 
 
 " You want to live in Paris, I suppose ?'' 
 
 " Of course ; could one exist elsewhere ? I 
 mean to have a salon be a power gather the 
 lights of the literary world about me. I do not 
 care much for women, but there are a few I will 
 have. I have arranged it all." 
 
 "If Monsieur La Tour consent!" 
 
 " If he do not " she began, in a hard voice, 
 which scarcely sounded like hers, then laughed, 
 and added carelessly "Alors, tant pis pour lui ! 
 But never mind him. Do you know the works 
 of" , 
 
 She ran glibly over certain names which I 
 will not set down names that were only such 
 to Elizabeth. 
 
 "It is not possiie you have read those books?" 
 she exclaimed. 
 
 "What a child you are ! I have read every 
 thing ! We had a club in the convent ; most 
 of our books came through Blanche de Savigny's 
 cousin an angel, a god! He and Blanche 
 adore one another ; but Blanche is to marry a 
 duke, an uglier man than Monsieur La Tour. 
 But she will not give up her cousin, she is quite 
 determined on that." 
 
 " You mean " 
 
 " I mean jnst what I said ! It is plain that 
 you know nothing. They tell me American girls 
 have odd ideas ; that once married, they settle 
 down patiently into a humdrum life si bete! 
 Blanche's aunt told her " 
 
 "I do not wish to hear such talk," interrupt- 
 ed Elizabeth. 
 
 "Ah, do not be prudish, else I shall hate you. 
 But it is no matter. I could not explain what 
 Blanche said, for I did not understand myself, 
 but she did. I never met a girl so wise as 
 Blanche," and Nathalie gave a sigh expressive 
 of admiration for Blanche's wisdom and regret 
 at her own ignorance. "But she is an impas- 
 sioned nature, and I am snow, Blanche says. She 
 says if I run away from my husband, or make 
 an etclandre, it will be just from pity for some 
 one " 
 
 "What a horrible creature she must be a 
 monster!" broke in Elizabeth,with indignant en- 
 ergy. " If she were still in the convent, I would 
 write to the Superior, and tell her to be careful 
 that girl did not teach others such things as 
 she has you." 
 
 Nathalie shrugged her shoulders, and hummed 
 a few bars of a gay song. 
 
 "Eh, if you go about setting trifles to rights," 
 said she, "you will lose all power of seeing and 
 fighting against great evils it makes one small ! 
 A grain more or less of wickedness is not of 
 much consequence." 
 
 "I don't think we should agree with or even 
 understand each other's ideas on these sub- 
 jects," returned Miss Crauford coldly. 
 
 "Possibly not," assented Nathalie, with com- 
 placency. "It requires a good deal of thought 
 and study to see clearly from my stand-point. 
 You may blame Blanche as much as you like, 
 but I owe her a great deal. She is not a genius 
 herself, but she makes others conscious of their 
 genius." 
 
 Elizabeth burst out laughing. Nathalie look- 
 ed first vexed, then scornful of her companion's 
 lack of comprehension, then suddenly joined in 
 the merriment. 
 
 "I forget you did not know I was a genius," 
 said she ; " but I am, all the same." 
 
 Elizabeth bowed mockingly. Nathalie turned 
 away her head and remained silent for an un- 
 precedented length of time, in her companion's 
 brief knowledge of her. When Miss Crauford 
 spoke, she started, and said reproachfully 
 
 "You brought me out of a dream such an 
 odd dream !" 
 
 "You dream altogether too much," eluded 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Would you know your destiny if you could ?'* 
 demanded Nathalie. "I have been thinking 
 such strange things seeing them, I mean. I 
 am sure it was a vision. Give me your hand, 
 Queenie." 
 
 "Only be quick about it, Sibyl," she said, 
 playfully. 
 
 Nathalie peered earnestly into the white palm 
 which Elizabeth extended. 
 
 "You will have great suffering," she said, 
 slowly. "I see the lines here and here ah, 
 poor Queenie ! Oh ! I had forgotten my pre- 
 sentiment ! I hope the trouble will not come 
 through me ! Go away go away do not ever 
 come near me again !" 
 
 She flung Elizabeth's hand from her and start- 
 ed to her feet. She had grown very pale, and 
 her sensitive features worked painfully. 
 
 " How childish you are !" Miss Crauford ex- 
 claimed, with a certain compassionate scorn in 
 her voice. 
 
 " It is not childish ! I dreamed about it last 
 night I remember now ! I wish I had never 
 seen you never !" 
 
 Elizabeth could not decide whether the girl 
 were fond of melodrama, or had read doubtful 
 novels until her brain was a little disturbed. 
 Still Nathalie's character presented a study so 
 new to her limited experience that she felt won- 
 derfully attracted even by her follies.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "Suppose we go in," she observed, in a mat- 
 ter-of-fact tone; "that will be more sensible 
 than trying to frighten ourselves with fanciful 
 ideas and superstitions." 
 
 "You reject my warning you refuse to be- 
 lieve!" cried Nathalie. "So much the worse 
 for both so much the worse !" 
 
 Her face darkened ; she stood staring straight 
 before her, trembling, shuddering, as if some 
 weird phantasmagoria unfolded itself to her gaze. 
 
 "Nathalie!" exclaimed Miss Crauford, a lit- 
 tle alarmed. 
 
 The girl sank back on the bench, and covered 
 her face with her hands, shivering and gasping 
 still. Presently she began to laugh in a rather 
 hysterical fashion. 
 
 "It is gone!" she said, looking up again. "I 
 do not know what I saw something dreadful 
 but it is gone. Blanche always vowed I was 
 a medium or a mesmerist : I am very odd, I 
 know. Do not mind let us talk of other 
 things." 
 
 "I do not mind in the least," retorted Eliza- 
 beth, determined to be severely practical, by way 
 of bringing the other out of these heroics. 
 
 "You laugh you jest!" cried Nathalie, in 
 an irritated voice. " But let the matter go. I 
 will do you no harm I am determined that I 
 will not." Then, after an instant, she added in 
 a complacent tone "But I suppose I shall be 
 a very wicked woman all the same oh, very 
 wicked. " 
 
 " I never heard a girl talk such nonsense in 
 my life," returned Miss Crauford, horrified in 
 earnest now. "You will end in a lunatic asy- 
 lum if you do not stop living dramatics and a 
 hash of sentiment and transcendentalism." 
 
 "Ah, I have read Kant," exclaimed Nathalie. 
 "I have read Comte too. I am a Socialist 
 oh, a Socialist acharne ! My first book will be 
 a Socialistic romance ; my second, Blanche's bi- 
 ography ; my third " 
 
 Elizabeth was laughing so heartily by this 
 time that Nathalie left hflfr third work unnamed, 
 and joined in the merriment with childish glee. 
 
 "It is true, though," she persisted. "You 
 think I am a goose ; but I shall write books 
 many of them." 
 
 "Oh, your being a goose would not prevent 
 that," interrupted Miss Crauford in sarcastic 
 parenthesis. 
 
 "But let me tell you about my third novel." 
 
 "No ; those two are quite enough. The idea 
 of Mademoiselle Blanche's biography is over- 
 powering. " 
 
 "You do not appreciate me, Elizabeth!" 
 sighed Nathalie, with a resignation that was 
 exceedingly comical. 
 
 "You must pity my inability," laughed Miss 
 Crauford. 
 
 But further words were checked by loud repe- 
 titions of Nathalie's name. 
 
 " It is Susanne," said the girl, starting up. 
 
 "And Monsieur La Tour," added Elizabeth. 
 " What can be the matter ?" 
 
 Both were frightened, and hurried toward the 
 chalet from whence the summons proceeded. 
 Nathalie flew on into the house ; Elizabeth found 
 her father rubbing his left arm, regarding the 
 chess-table which had been upset, and looking 
 at once alarmed and indignant. He could give 
 slight explanation. They had reached the most 
 exciting point of their game ; 'suddenly Mon- 
 sieur had observed that Madame L'Estrange was 
 coming out on the gallery. Mr. Crauford turned 
 to look heard a dreadful shriek saw a female 
 figure totter back. Monsieur had knocked the 
 table over, and hurt Mr. Crauford's neuralgic 
 arm. That crazy old servant had rushed out 
 screaming Monsieur had screamed, and that 
 was all Mr. Crauford could tell, only that he was 
 much offended by the whole performance. If 
 Madame L'Estrange wished to faint, she ought 
 to choose her seasons better, and not interrupt 
 his game of chess, and cause him to be deafened 
 by an insane noise, not to mention the serious 
 injury to his arm. It was very inconsiderate, to 
 say the least, and disgustingly French. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED DELAY^ 
 
 THE next days were pleasant ones at La Ma- 
 ladeyre. Such excursions as could be made in 
 carriages were not objected to either by Mr. 
 Crauford or Monsieur, and Nathalie was kept in 
 high spirits by the unusual excitement. 
 
 The Frenchman wished to present his old ac- 
 quaintance to Madame, but Madame put him 
 off each morning with new excuses, and he at 
 last settled down upon the conviction that it was 
 a pain to her to see strangers now she had lost 
 the beauty and gnyety which she never ceased 
 lamenting even in the midst of her loudest re- 
 nunciation of the vanities of this mundane sphere. 
 Neither Mr. Crauford nor Elizabeth perceived 
 any thing surprising in Madame's refusal ; in- 
 deed, it was only a delay always a pleasure de- 
 ferred. She was constantly hoping to be well 
 enough to receive Monsieur La Tour's friend, 
 and he and Nathalie were daily the bearers of 
 elaborately civil messages both to father and 
 daughter. In truth, poor Madame was almost 
 wholly confined to her rooms. The motion of 
 a carriage was insupportable a Bath - chair 
 her detestation. Once in a while she could 
 walk about the lawn supported by her future 
 son-in-law and Susanne; but delicacy kept the 
 Craufords from intruding at such times. 
 
 Elizabeth was at length permitted to see her. 
 Madame was feeling unusually strong one after- 
 noon, had caused herself to be arrayed in a be-
 
 SG 
 
 MB.VAUGHAJTS HEIR, 
 
 coming toilet, and hearing from Susanne that 
 Miss Crauford was in the salon with Nathalie, 
 she sent for them both to her own parlor at the 
 back of the chalet. 
 
 It was a spectacle Elizabeth did not soon for- 
 get. he wondered that Nathalie and Monsieur 
 could become enough accustomed to it not to 
 mind. Madame sat up among her bright dra- 
 peries to receive the young American, her griz- 
 zled hair carefully dressed, her attitude theatric- 
 ally graceful, pouring out a torrent of pretty 
 speeches, playing with the rings that decorated 
 her bony fingers, smiling, nodding, talking trivi- 
 alities one instant and quoting scraps from dole- 
 ful sermons the next. Altogether she was such 
 a bundle of awful contrasts and incongruities 
 that Elizabeth felt as if she were undergoing an 
 interview with a skeleton galvanized into a spas- 
 modic semblance of life, rendered more painful 
 by the effort to hide its ghastliness under paint 
 and fanciful decorations. 
 
 The curtains were drawn, and the room so 
 dark that, entering from the brightness of the 
 sunny gallery, Elizabeth could at first distinguish 
 nothing whatever. 
 
 "Why, mamma," called Nathalie impatiently, 
 "we shall break our necks it is a dungeon! 
 Why has that fo|fcsh Susanue shut you up like 
 this ? Where are yon, Susanne ?" 
 
 " Of course it is the fault of Susanne blame 
 her ; every thing is always the fault of Susanne, " 
 grumbled that worthy female from her corner, 
 for Snsanne had no idea of obeying the advice of 
 St. Peter, which urges us to suffer wrong in si- 
 lence. 
 
 "Chttt!" said Madame. "Our visitor will 
 think she has got into a mad-house instead of a 
 
 Come here, Nathalie, and 
 This is a great, great pleas- 
 
 dull invalid - room, 
 bring^ Mademoiselle, 
 are '' 
 
 "Now, mamma," interrupted Nathalie, "do 
 not talk about seeing her, because it is utterly 
 impossible to see any body in this gloom." 
 
 But as Elizabeth's eyes became accustomed to 
 the obscurity, she could perceive the emaciated 
 shape propped up among the pillows, and was 
 almost startled for an instant. Somehow in the 
 shadows, Madame, with her rouge, her scarlet 
 shawls, and her skeleton head, was more appall- 
 ing than she would have been in the broad light 
 of day. Nathalie, perhaps, noticed this too ; she 
 pushed back one of the curtains in spite of a 
 rapid expostulation from her mother. 
 
 "At least Mademoiselle will not think we 
 have designs on her life," she said. "Besides, 
 that was nn awful light, or darkness rather ; it 
 mode us all look ns if we had been dead a week." 
 
 "Be still, child, be still," cried Madame. 
 " Do not use such dreadful language." 
 
 By this time Elizabeth had reached the sofa. 
 Madame was extending that bony hand which it 
 required an effort to touch, and Madame's great 
 
 sunken eyes were looking curiously at her ; un- 
 comfortable eyes to have fixed upon one, their 
 fire seemed so out of keeping with the thin, ghast- 
 ly face. 
 
 "Dear Mademoiselle, it is so good of you to 
 come to me so very good, " Madame said over 
 and over, still retaining her hand, and glaring at 
 her with that attempt at a smile which was more 
 like a spasm than any thing else. "I love the 
 Americans they have always been a mania of 
 mine : is it not so, Nathalie, my child ?" 
 
 " I can not tell, mamma ; I have not known 
 you all your life," returned Nathalie, who was in 
 one of her impossible moods. 
 
 " She is half American, that bad girl," laughed 
 Madame, "though I am sure her naughtiness is 
 entirely French. But yon are standing, dear 
 Mademoiselle. I entreat you not to stand I 
 implore!" 
 
 Madame was as earnest and beseeching as if 
 she had been begging her visitor to step out of 
 the fire or away from a precipice, but Elizabeth 
 was accustomed to these little exaggerations of 
 tone and words among the Gallic race. 
 
 Susanne sat upright in her corner, knitting as 
 if her daily bread depended upon her industry, 
 for Susanne was in an ill-humor to-day, and at 
 such times always knitted violently. Nathalie 
 leaned on the window-sill, and peered out be- 
 tween the half-closed shutters, and wished the 
 world would come to an end for no particular 
 reason that she knew ; but Nathalie's spirits 
 went up and down as irregularly and irrationally 
 as a barometer that is out of order. Elizabeth 
 remained by the sofa, and endured as best she 
 might the feverish glare of Madame's eyes, and 
 followed as well as she could the rapid changes 
 of Madame's conversation. 
 
 "You can not think how you remind me of " 
 
 Madame uttered this beginning in the midst 
 of talk about Nathalie's marriage, and checked 
 herself as abruptly as she had commenced. 
 
 "Of whom does she remind you, mamma?" 
 asked Nathalie, who %ad looked back just in 
 time to catch the broken sentence. 
 
 "I can not tell yon know it always tires me 
 to think," returned Madame, peevishly. She 
 resumed the explanation of Nathalie's prospects, 
 and Nathalie took refuge in the window again. 
 
 " It is bad enough to be married," she thought, 
 "without living it all over forty times each day 
 in advance." 
 
 Madame asked Elizabeth a great many ques- 
 tions about her age, her life, her father; but 
 Madame's tact caused them to sound like inqui- 
 ries dictated by profound interest and budding 
 affection instead of vulgar curiosity. 
 
 "You have been so kind to my spoiled infant 
 yonder, and she has talked of you so much, that 
 I seem to know you well already, "said Madame. 
 " You see I find I have grown fond of you ill 
 advance."
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 37 
 
 Elizabeth turned her eyes away to avoid the 
 spasmodic smile, and thanked Madame for her 
 graciousness. 
 
 "Finding Mademoiselle Nathalie here has 
 been a great pleasure to me," she said. 
 
 "You are good to say so, adorable!" cried 
 Madame. "Nathalie is a dear creature, but so 
 spoiled a child a baby! She has lived all her 
 life in a convent, and knows no more of the real 
 world than an infant." 
 
 From the corner where Susanne sat knitting, 
 like a grim representation of Industry, came a 
 low, sardonic chuckle. 
 
 "Are you coughing have you taken cold, 
 Susanne ?" demanded Madame, in a voice of aw- 
 ful politeness and interest. 
 
 "I choked I think I swallowed a bit of 
 yarn," replied Susanne, unhesitatingly and very 
 crossly. 
 
 " Susanne is laughing at the idea of my inno- 
 cence and ignorance I don't wonder," observed 
 Nathalie, putting her head into the room again. 
 
 "Fie, for shame, beloved!" exclaimed Ma- 
 dame anxiously. "AVhat will Mees Crauford 
 think ?" Madame spoke in French, but she 
 thought that "Mees" was a neat bit of English 
 it was her only one. 
 
 "She knows me pretty well by this time," 
 laughed Nathalie. "Besides, Susanne can not 
 deny that was what she laughed at. " 
 
 "I said I choked, Mademoiselle," retorted 
 Susanne stoutly. 
 
 " I know you said so !" 
 
 "And I never tell lies," added Susanne. " I 
 beg that Mademoiselle will not quarrel with me ; 
 I am busy." 
 
 "Very well," said Nathalie; "I only wanted 
 to settle the question of my babyish innocence." 
 
 "A mere baby!" repeated Madame. 
 
 Once more a bit of yarn got in Susanne's 
 throat, else she chuckled. 
 
 "Susanne," said her mistress, "you have a 
 cold assuredly ; I shall give you some of those 
 drops." 
 
 Susanne rose, made a neat roll of her knitting, 
 and laid it on a table. 
 
 " Farewell, Madame and Mademoiselles," said 
 she. 
 
 " Where go you?" demanded Madame. 
 
 "To drown myself," quoth Susanne, calmly. 
 " I told Madame that if she ever again insisted 
 on my taking those drops I should drown my- 
 self the time has come." 
 
 " Go get some of mamma's cura9oa instead," 
 said Nathalie. " You like cura9oa, Elizabeth ? 
 I am a baby, but I would intoxicate myself with 
 it every day if mamma gave me the opportu- 
 nity." 
 
 First Madame laughed at all the nonsense ; 
 then a pain seized her, and she grew grave. 
 
 "I am a dying woman, Mees Crauford!" she 
 exclaimed, so suddenly, and with such despairing 
 
 emphasis, that Elizabeth's first thought was some 
 vague one of rushing for the doctor. "I have 
 done with the world I ought not even to laugh ! 
 I try to make my salvation ; I said at least fif- 
 teen Hail Marys last night each time I awoke. 
 Ah, it is dreary work making one's salvation ; 
 but you know nothing about that yet you are 
 young and strong." 
 
 She looked at Elizabeth with an envious glare 
 in her eyes she often looked at Nathalie like 
 that. There were moments when it was not 
 easy for Madame to avoid hating any body who 
 still retained those blessings she had lost health 
 and youth. 
 
 "They ought not to be severe on me, they 
 ought not," she muttered. "I try so hard 
 Monsieur le Cure' says I try." 
 
 "Taste of the cura9oa, mamma," urged Na- 
 thalie, bringing her a tiny glass of the grateful 
 cordial. " Is it not good, Elizabeth ? Monsieur 
 La Tour gets it for mamma ; he is useful in his 
 way, is Monsieur. " 
 
 "He is an angel!" exclaimed Madame, with 
 as much energy as if no thought of purgatorial 
 pains had ever tormented her. "Mees Crau- 
 ford, is not this child a fortunate one?" 
 
 " I like Monsieur La Tour exceedingly," Eliz- 
 abeth replied. "He is so kind and gentle, it 
 would be impossible not to like him." 
 
 "You hear, little difficult?" cried Madame. 
 
 "Yes, mamma, I hear," returned Nathalie, 
 sipping her curacoa contentedly. " But just ask 
 Mademoiselle how she would like to many this 
 epitome of all the virtues." 
 
 "Mademoiselle could have no thought of the 
 kind in regard to a man who is affianced," said 
 Madame with dignity. 
 
 "That comes of my being a baby you see I 
 know no better," observed Nathalie. 
 
 "You are incorrigible!" laughed her mother. 
 "Where is Susanne?" 
 
 "Drinking cura9oa behind the dining-rooin 
 door," replied Nathalie, promptly. 
 
 Susanne put in her head with an indignant 
 squeak. 
 
 "I never so much as smelled of the cork," 
 cried she, wiping her lips as she spoke. " I know 
 I shall drown myself one day. I can not bear 
 such constant injustice from Mademoiselle." 
 
 ' ' I shall never try that mode when my time for 
 suicide arrives," said Nathalie. " Which way 
 should you choose, Elizabeth? Now, Blanche 
 always declared " 
 
 "Do not talk of such horrid things, "moaned 
 Madame. "I do not know what possesses you 
 and Susanne to-day ! The doctor says I am to 
 have cheerful conversation." 
 
 It seemed to both her daughter and sen-ant 
 that Miss Crauford's visit made Madame tin- 
 usually nervous and excitable ; still she would 
 not let the young lady go. . 
 
 "It is so great a pleasure to me to see you,"
 
 38 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 she said several times, and always Elizabeth 
 fancied that Madame looked as if she would 
 have liked to bite her. "One evening, perhaps, 
 I shall be well enough to receive you all Mon- 
 sieur Crauford likewise. I think I am stronger 
 than last week. Do you not think I am stronger, 
 Susanne ?" 
 
 "Not a doubt of it," Susanne replied to the 
 inquiry uttered with piteous eagerness. "Ma- 
 dame is very much stronger ; I said so only yes- 
 terday." 
 
 Nathalie sat down by the sofa, and passed her 
 arm about her mother. There was more tender- 
 ness in face and gesture than Elizabeth had yet 
 seen her exhibit. 
 
 "I have not been a bad parent to you ; I have 
 not," cried Madame. 
 
 "No, no ; a dear little mamma there, there !" 
 replied Nathalie, stroking her hair, as one might 
 endeavor to quiet a child. 
 
 The little scene touched Elizabeth, but it only 
 lasted a moment. Madame gave one or two dry 
 sobs ; an expression made up of terror and re- 
 morse crossed her face ; then she was first to get 
 away from the softened mood. 
 
 "We are wearying Mademoiselle," she said. 
 "You can not think that," Elizabeth replied 
 earnestly, and Madame couid see that the sym- 
 pathetic tears had gathered in her eyes. 
 
 Madame looked touched, then irritated ; but 
 she was altogether so odd and changeable that 
 Elizabeth would not have been surprised at any 
 vagary. 
 
 " Mademoiselle has a tender heart," she sneer- 
 ed. Nathalie raised her head at the altered tone. 
 Madame added, with sudden sweetness, " Love 
 our new friend well, Nathalie ; hers is a rare 
 nature." 
 
 Nathalie turned and gave Elizabeth a laugh- 
 ing embrace, glad to escape from the seriousnesi 
 which had oppressed her for a little. There was 
 a strange light in Madame's eyes as she watched 
 the two ; then as quickly she made a sign of the 
 cross. Madame knew she had been thinking 
 wicked things, and she was too near death to 
 allow herself that privilege. 
 
 "Monsieur le Curd is coming up the road," 
 called Susanne from the dining-room. 
 
 "Ah, put away the cura9oa, and give me the 
 Offerings of St. Joseph," cried Madame to her 
 daughter. 
 
 "But the Cure' likes cnra9oa," said Nathalie ; 
 "and he admitted the last time he was here 
 that he thought St. Joseph's meditations very 
 gloomy ones." 
 
 "So he did," assented Madame, relieved; 
 then in a changed voice "But no matter! It 
 ia the Cure's business to console me ; I need con- 
 solation ! -Give me St. Joseph ! He shall have 
 no cura9oa unless he console me not a drop." 
 
 " I am going out to walk with Miss Crauford," 
 aid Nathalie. 
 
 "Yes go," said Madame. "Adieu, dear 
 Mees, thanks a thousand times for this visit ! 
 Ah, you are like " 
 
 She had taken Elizabeth's hand ; she dropped 
 it suddenly with a glance of aversion. 
 
 " Like whom, mamma?" persisted Nathalie. 
 "I can not remember I forget every thing," 
 replied Madame, querulously. "Do not tease 
 me, child ! Adieu, dear Mees ; you are an angel 
 of goodness, I am sure. Ah, I am a miserable 
 woman ; broken down, old, dying ! Where is 
 Monsieur le Cure' ? Why does he not come to 
 console me? That is his business. I gave a 
 hundred francs to his new church, and I am 
 poor ; if he does not do his duty, it is he who 
 will go to purgatory. Susanne, Susanne, take 
 away this red shawl, and bring me the blue one. 
 Monsieur le Cure likes blue. Quick ! how slow 
 you are !" 
 
 The two girls passed out through the dining- 
 room, and went down the flight of stairs which 
 was the usual mode of egress from this part of 
 the chalet. They met the Cure panting up the 
 steep staircase a jolly, fat man, who ought to 
 have made a very comfortable and indulgent con- 
 fessor. He stopped to pay them both a quantity 
 of florid compliments, and to inquire after Mr. 
 Crauford and Monsieur La Tour, who were hav- 
 ing a quiet game of chess in the villa. 
 
 "A pair of rosebuds!" cried the Cure, before 
 his question could be answered. 
 
 "Elizabeth's papa and Monsieur La Tour?" 
 asked Nathalie, saucily. 
 
 " You are a little witch," said the Cure, beam- 
 ing. "I go to see the dear mamma; is she 
 tolerably comfortable to-day ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes; but please persuade her not to be 
 doleful," sighed Nathalie. "She does nothing 
 but repent, and I am sure she is very good. If 
 you console her a great deal she will give you 
 some cura9oa I am certain she will ; and it is 
 very nice too. " 
 
 The Cure laughed heartily, and went his way. 
 "Well, well," he thought, "it would be pleas- 
 anter if one's duty lay more among the young 
 and happy than the dying ; but I hope they set 
 it all right for us somewhere : I trust they do. " 
 The Cure stopped on the balcony, took a pinch 
 of snuff, and glanced up at the sky. He was a 
 large-hearted, easy-going man, and liked to keep 
 his theology as mild as his conscience would per- 
 mit. I am afraid the Cure would have abolished 
 purgatory altogether, if it had been in his power, 
 and made every body happy in this world and the 
 next. He was careful, however, to guard such 
 unorthodox fancies in the secrecy of his soul, 
 and was sometimes shocked at his own wicked- 
 ness in indulging in wishes of that nature. 
 
 His visit cheered Madame, but in spite of it 
 she awoke in the middle of the night from a bad 
 dream, and was very ill. She wanted the Cure' 
 and doctor sent for at once, convinced that both
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 body ar.d soul were in a bad way ; but Susanne 
 paid no attention, aware that neither authority 
 could be of the least use. She was prepared 
 with the necessary remedies for those crises, and 
 did not even disturb Nathalie, certain that the 
 girl would only terrify her mother by her fright. 
 
 Frictions with liniment, and repeated doses 
 of the drops and cura9oa, at last produced their 
 effect. 
 
 "It is over for this time," Madame said wea- 
 rily. " I do not seem to get any weaker. I 
 should think I may last a long time yet." 
 
 "There is no doubt of it, I believe," returned 
 Susanne, rather grimly. It was this power of en- 
 durance, this inability on the part of Madame's 
 physical frame to wear out, which aggravated 
 the old woman : she thought people ought to die 
 or get well. 
 
 "Eh Lien," thought the Breton, when her mis- 
 tress at last fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, 
 "if all this does not count in my favor in this 
 world and the next, Monsieur La Tour is a 
 brute, and the blessed saints are no better!" 
 
 It was only three or four days later that Ma- 
 dame and her proposed son-in-law received a se- 
 vere shock. Monsieur appeared one morning 
 at the chalet earlier than his wont. Elizabeth 
 chanced to be in the grounds as he drove up, and 
 perceived that he looked sorely disturbed and 
 annoyed, though he tripped down from the car- 
 riage with his usual alertness, and treated her to 
 his customary eloquent and elaborate greetings. 
 Monsieur always reminded Elizabeth of a cross 
 between a legal gentleman and an old beau of 
 the ancien regime, with a plain wig in place of 
 a powdered one. But though one might smile 
 at his quaint courtesies, Monsieur was never ri- 
 diculous, and Elizabeth respected him highly. 
 
 It was not very long before Nathalie came fly- 
 ing out of the chalet, and joined Elizabeth as she 
 walked down the path toward the lake. Natha- 
 lie's eyes were dancing, and her face lighted up 
 with animation and excitement. 
 
 "I saw you from the window," said she. " I 
 am out of breath. I ran away fast, fast, for fear 
 mamma should stop me. "What do you think 
 has happened ?'' 
 
 "I have not the slightest idea. Get back 
 your breath and tell me," replied Elizabeth, tran- 
 quilly. 
 
 "Figure to yourself, my dear it will not be 
 son it is put off unavoidably put off!" 
 
 "It? What?" 
 
 "I am to have a whole month, perhaps six 
 weeks," continued Nathalie in triumph. "Do 
 you not understand ? The marriage, of course. 
 Fancy only fancy it!" 
 
 They had reached the poplar-tree by this time. 
 Elizabeth sat down on the bench which encircled 
 it, and looked grave and reproachful. 
 
 "Monsieur is obliged to go into Belgium," 
 pursued Nathalie, on whom the glance was ut- 
 
 j terly wasted. "A relative of his is dying a 
 I horrible old maid, who hated every body and 
 ' whom every body hated. I am sure if she had 
 lived she would have made us a visit, and I nev- 
 ' er could have borne that." 
 
 "Your sympathy must be a sweet and sooth- 
 ing thing to Monsieur La Tour," observed Eliza- 
 beth, sarcastically. 
 
 " Oh, I do not think he wants sympathy on 
 account of that dreadful old woman ; but he has 
 to go away. She wants him, and she has mon- 
 ey; it is his by right, but she has harpies of 
 relations on her mother's side who might steal 
 it." 
 
 "I think he would go in any case if she 
 wished it," Elizabeth said. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say; but it would be silly. She 
 lives near Brussels. He must go at once, so 
 there is no time for the marriage ; indeed, it 
 would not be decent under the circumstances, 
 and so I said; neither he nor mamma could 
 deny it." 
 
 "Oh no ! Your regard for the proprieties is 
 most edifying!" 
 
 "You are vexed; you sneer! But I shall 
 have at least a month more, probably. Only 
 think of it, my beautiful !" 
 
 " Suppose he saw you at this moment, and 
 heard you!'' 
 
 "I can not help it! I said several decorous 
 things ; then I ran away for fear I should laugh. 
 It was so funny to see mamma's face and his, 
 and they both wept a little. I had my handker- 
 chief at my eyes. I was supposed to weep also." 
 
 "I think you are very ungrateful to be glad," 
 returned Elizabeth. "I saw Monsieur when he 
 drove up ; he looked distressed and troubled." 
 
 "No doubt it was his duty; he could do no 
 less, " pronounced Nathalie, complacently. ' ' But 
 do not scold. What walks we will have! what 
 donkey rides! Oh, my dear, remember I shall 
 have the bliss of Monsieur's society all my life 
 all his life, I mean while I shall only have you 
 for a few weeks ! Kiss me this instant, and look 
 pleased ; at least you need not kiss me, there is 
 always something so tame about one girl em- 
 bracing another ; but say you are glad." 
 
 "Personally, yes; but that is selfish, and I 
 am sorry for poor Monsieur," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Well, I do not know, ;l observed Nathalie, 
 meditatively. "I have an idea that he is to be 
 congratulated, if he could only think so ; it is a 
 reprieve. My dear, Monsieur La Tour does not 
 seem to me eminently fitted for a wild-beast tam- 
 er; and I do assure you, in confidence, that I 
 fear he is undertaking a whole menagerie. " 
 
 "And I think all this talk about yourself is 
 nonsense," said Elizabeth. " But if it were not, 
 I fancy you will find Monsieur La Tour a much 
 more determined man than you suppose him." 
 
 "Then we shall quarrel horribly. At least 
 that will afford a little variety," returned Natha-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 lie, yawning. " Well, I must go back now. I 
 only ran out to tell you while he and mamma 
 wore off the first edge of their despair. See, I 
 shall look decorously grieved. Will not this 
 answer ?" 
 
 She drew her face down in such a caricatured 
 assumption of melancholy that Elizabeth could 
 not help laughing, though, when Nathalie danced 
 off, she was obliged to think, as she had so often 
 done since their first meeting, that there was 
 much to disprove of in the girl. But severe 
 as Elizabeth was inclined to be in her judgments, 
 somehow she pitied Nathalie more than she 
 blamed her. What could be expected of any 
 creature with a mother like Madame? And 
 Elizabeth shuddered with abhorrence and dis- 
 gust. Then she felt heartily contrite ; but be as 
 sorry as she would for the physical sufferings, 
 there was something loathsome to her in the re- 
 membrance of that skeleton face, with its rouged 
 spots and the frizzed curls adding to its ghast- 
 liness. 
 
 There was not much time for Madame and 
 Monsieur to yield to their anguish, for it was 
 necessary that he should set out the next morn- 
 ing on his journey. Indeed, after her first par- 
 oxysm of distress, Madame remembered that 
 the death of this relative would give a sensible 
 increase to Monsieur's fortune, and she was not 
 sufficiently weaned from this world and its vani- 
 ties to despise that. She sighed to think that it 
 was not likely that she could live long enough to 
 have much enjoyment of the money, and she felt 
 a fierce resentment rise in her soul as she glanced 
 at Monsieur so upright, so strong, with such 
 hues of health on his cheery face, lie was older 
 than she ; what business had he to look so well, 
 and seem likely to live for the next twenty years 
 to enjoy his fortune ? Then she waxed penitent, 
 and tried to think that Paradise must be a pleas- 
 ant place perhaps even pleasanter than Paris ! 
 But then Madame knew Paris, and she was not 
 acquainted with the other blessed abode. Ah! 
 why could she not be allowed to seek the one 
 she liked ! It was all very well for people to go 
 to Heaven who were not contented here; but, 
 for Madame's part, give her decent health and 
 enough money, and she would not grumble at 
 being forgotten by death, even though her youth, 
 her beloved youth, was gone forever. 
 
 Of course Monsieur spent the afternoon and 
 evening with his betrothed, and Nathalie encour- 
 aged herself to win Elizabeth's admiration for 
 her discreet behavior, by remembering that she 
 would have the next day and many next days 
 free from Monsieur's society. As Madame's in- 
 valid state did not permit of late dinners, Mon- 
 sieur and Nathalie dined at the villa, by Mr. 
 Crauford's invitation. They had a very pleasant 
 meal ; Monsieur tried his best to be cheerful, 
 though it touched Elizabeth to see how his 
 mouth would quiver and his eyes turn pathet- 
 
 ically upon Nathalie, ns the girl laughed and 
 chattered, champagne-glass in hand ; for Natha- 
 lie had a gre.it appreciation of good things in 
 the way of table enjoyments. 
 
 Then Nathalie and Monsieur had to return to 
 Madame, and Elizabeth spent the evening play- 
 ing chess which she hated with her father, 
 and wondering how Nathalie could prove so ut- 
 terly regardless of the great love lavished upon 
 her. 
 
 " It is so beautiful to be loved," thought Eliz- 
 abeth. "A woman ought to be proud of a good 
 man's affection ; and the contentment and rest 
 would be so much sweeter than all that excite- 
 ment and passion novels are so full of." 
 
 Which wisdom showed the complete igno- 
 rance wherein Miss Crauford had lived, so far 
 as emotions of that nature were concerned. 
 
 Madame dreaded greatly this delay. She was 
 morbidly anxious for the marriage to take place ; 
 but to dwell upon the money Monsieur was go- 
 ing to claim did soothe her somewhat at the 
 parting, and afterward even more. 
 
 Still it was a miserable business, viewed in its 
 best light, and Madame and Monsieur were very 
 wretched. Nathalie remained as lachrymose as 
 she could, though her gravity was often sorely 
 tried to see how odd her mother looked as her 
 tears spotted her paint, and what grimaces Mon- 
 sieur made in his efforts not to weep also. Be- 
 sides, Susanne, not to be deceived by any shal- 
 low pretense, passed in and out of the room dh 
 frequent errands, and upon each occasion favored 
 Nathalie with such glances of stern reproof, such 
 scornful consciousness of the girl's hypocrisy, 
 that Nathalie would have given the world for 
 somebody to enjoy the whole comedy with her. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 "LA CHAUDERON." 
 
 ALMOST four weeks went by, and very pleas- 
 ant ones they were to Elizabeth. Mr. Crauford 
 was in an uncommonly placid mood, the dura- 
 tion of which was of such length that it aston- 
 ished his daughter, though she did not put the 
 matter in this brutal fashion. It was a better- 
 ing of papa's health, longer freedom than usual 
 from nervous pains, and similar reasons, or well- 
 sounding names rather, such as Elizabeth al- 
 ways insisted on finding for her parent's ca- 
 prices. He even worried himself and her less 
 than ordinary by his indecision upon affairs in 
 general, great or small, from the important doubt 
 if coffee or chocolate would best agree with his 
 "system" of a morning, up to debates whether 
 the newly invested funds should be drawn out 
 and established in some other quarter. 
 
 He discovered two or three acquaintances 
 staying at Vevay, several more up at the hotel
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 41 
 
 "Lord Byron," between the Castle of Chillon 
 and Villeneuve. He could give occasional din- 
 ners, and indulge now and then in a game of 
 whist in the evening. He had a poem in his 
 mind not that he was writing one, nor ever 
 would or could but he believed each night that 
 he should commence so doing the next day. He 
 not infrequently stumbled on a few rhymes, 
 which he repeated to Elizabeth or his guests as 
 "extracts from the work that would be the la- 
 bor of his life," with an emphasis on the article 
 as if he had been from early youth busy with 
 grand mental tasks whereof this was to prove 
 the crowning glory. 
 
 The weather was gorgeous. The beautiful re- 
 gion grew more and more into Elizabeth's heart. 
 She had admired it at first, but she had learned 
 to love it. 
 
 Mr. Crauford sometimes recited little poetical 
 quotations about scenery. He offered these with 
 such a conscious manner, such an air of conde- 
 scension and proprietorship, that few people were 
 bold enough to suppose them not original, even, 
 
 if an effort of memory could have traced them <lay and night alas for romance ! 
 
 to their source. But in spite of these proofs or 
 genius and taste for the beautiful, Mr. Crauford 
 had slight fancy for going in search of it, espe- 
 cially when the road led up steep hills. In con- 
 sequence, Elizabeth and Nathalie made a great 
 many excursions together, guarded by Gervais 
 or Margot, sometimes, to the latter's content- 
 ment, by the pair in company. And there were 
 such quantities of lovely places to visit, it is a 
 shame that the attempt to describe them would 
 only sound like a page torn out of a guide-book. 
 The old chateau of Blonay was within walking 
 distance, so were numerous picturesque hamlets 
 perched on the hill-sides. Then there were jaunts 
 in a stout char ; climbs up the rocks of Naze, 
 which command a wonderful view of the Savoy- 
 ard and Bernese Alps and a glimpse of Mont 
 Blanc ; a journey to the Col de Jamin, a wild, 
 frowning pass, with the needle-like cliff towering 
 above : every where one turned new routes de- 
 lightful to follow, new scenes more charming 
 than those discovered hitherto. 
 
 There was a little boat at the villa landing 
 which Elizabeth could row, and, though Nathalie 
 was at first given to slight fears, she overcame 
 them, and the two were very fond of drifting 
 about the lake on the warm afternoons, when 
 Mr. Crauford did not see fit to grow nervous 
 and keep them at home. 
 
 Then, too, Madame was capricious, and not 
 unseldom prohibited Nathalie's seeking her new 
 favorite. Madame had her dnys of liking Miss 
 Crauford also, and would 'even sometimes beg 
 the favor of a visit ; but she generally turned 
 sulky or fretful before Elizabeth had been five 
 minutes in the room, and almost forgot her thin 
 varnish of French politeness under the force of 
 some secret irritation. Of course, Miss Crau- 
 
 ford bore her moods patiently ; she knew how 
 terribly the poor woman suffered. She could 
 not so easily pass over the capriciousness with 
 which Nathalie was treated ; she could see that 
 it had a bad effect upon the girl, who certainly 
 possessed faults enough already. 
 
 The days flew by. The vintage came and 
 passed. This was a disappointment to both 
 girls. They had looked forward to witnessing 
 a scene at once poetical, picturesque, and bucolic, 
 and had talked in advance of the pretty sight it 
 would be to watch the stalwart youths and sun- 
 browned maidens gather the amber clusters of 
 grapes, poising the rustic baskets on their heads, 
 singing quaint songs in their free, musical young 
 voices. 
 
 The reality of which picture was that dirty 
 old men and ancient crones, hideous of aspect, 
 collected the grapes in ugly wooden buckets, 
 crushed the fruit with heavy sticks to make the 
 buckets hold the more, and after that the masses 
 were put under a huge black pressoir to be 
 squeezed, and both men and women were drunk 
 
 Between that cruel disillusion and her moth- 
 er's increasing fretfulness, Nathalie began to lose 
 patience. 
 
 "I wish Monsieur would come back," she 
 said often. " He is little and he is ugly, and 
 he wears a wig, but at least he is always good- 
 natured, and mamma is so tiresome with her 
 temper." 
 
 " Remember how long she has been ill," Eliz- 
 abeth said one day when Nathalie had come in 
 to see her, indignant and annoyed. 
 
 " My dear, I never attempt to blind myself 
 to facts," returned Nathalie, with a cynicism 
 that was painful. ' ' Illness has nothing to do 
 with the matter. Mamma was always the most 
 tyrannical and capricious woman in the world, 
 and her temper was always fiendish. I recol- 
 lect that as a child, though I was not much 
 with her I was in the way." 
 
 "Nathalie !" 
 
 " I was in the way, I assure you. Did I not 
 just say I never made to myself illusions ? She 
 put me in a convent for her own convenience 
 she kept me there for the same reason till I was 
 grown up she took me out because it suits her 
 that I should marry. " 
 
 " Do you not suppose what seemed best for 
 you had something to do with her resolves ?" 
 asked Elizabeth. 
 
 "I will suppose so if you like. I should have 
 been sent just the same in any case. Now, do 
 not make me out worse than I am. I bear 
 tolerably well with her caprices, you must ad- 
 mit." 
 
 " Yes, in general." 
 
 " Ah, well, one is not perfect even mamma, 
 though she is trying to make her salvation." 
 
 Nathalie was so accustomed to regard her
 
 42 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 mother as an invalid, and knew so little of ill- 
 ness, that she was not anxious about her no 
 proof of hard-heaitedness in her case. Indeed, 
 it seemed an even chance whether Madame's 
 strength might not hold out till she had ex- 
 hausted the patience and health of all surround- 
 ing her. 
 
 "I do bear with her," pursued Nathalie, "be- 
 cause she is ailing. If she were well, we should 
 have one battle royal that would prove to her I 
 meant to be mistress, and I should probably be 
 forced to box her ears." 
 
 " Nathalie !" in a tone of horror. 
 
 "I should infallibly and without doubt box 
 her ears," amended Nathalie, as usual goaded 
 on to fresh extravagances of language by this 
 note of disapproval. " I boxed Susanne's ears 
 the other day ; she thought I was mad, and has 
 been very docile ever since." 
 
 "Nathalie!" disapprobation that was almost 
 disgust now mingling with the horror. 
 
 " What will you ? I told you long since I was 
 a whole menagerie," returned Nathalie, shrugging 
 
 her shoulders. She rose and looked at he 
 in the glass they were in the salon of the 
 and continued pensively, "I look so sweet 
 and amiable, too it is odd ! After all, I am 
 not ill-tempered; I mean that I neither scold 
 nor fret all I want is my own way ! I must 
 have that ; I was born to have it, I suppose, 
 else the instinct would not be so strong in me. " 
 
 Elizabeth had learned the uselessness of ex- 
 postulation or other attempt to set right Natha- 
 lie's peculiar ideas. 
 
 "Have you had a letter from Monsieur this 
 week ?" she asked, by way of changing the con- 
 
 versation. 
 
 "Yes, this morning. 
 
 But, bah ! his letters 
 
 always vex me half to mamma, directed to 
 her, read by her first ; it is odious ! Such a 
 marriage as mine has little enough romance ; 
 they would be wise to leave me at liberty to 
 weave a few shreds about it. But no, they are 
 blind, blind !" 
 
 She walked up and down the room, stamped 
 her feet, inveighed against French customs and 
 the peculiar idiocy displayed by her betrothed 
 and her mother ; and Elizabeth let her alone, 
 aware by experience that she would soon rave 
 herself into calmness. Presently she sat down 
 again and began to laugh : Elizabeth looked so 
 perfectly unmoved that she could not avoid com- 
 ing out of her heroics. 
 
 " I really believe if you did not act like a wet 
 blanket on me they would drive me into some- 
 thing desperate by their folly," she said. 
 
 "Folly which exists in your imagination," 
 returned Elizabeth. " You would like to get 
 up a grief for yourself, and you have no materi- 
 als. You have told me twenty times you had 
 no objection to marry Monsieur La Tour." 
 
 "Just so," said Nathalie; "but sometimes 
 
 the prosaic look of the whole thing drives me 
 wild." 
 
 "Bah! you always want an excitement of 
 some sort." 
 
 "So I do. You know me very well ; but 
 you like me ?" 
 
 " Oh yes, I like you ; shall we go out ? Papa 
 is busy in his room with letters he did not want 
 my help, he said ; odd, too, now I come to think 
 of it, for I am usually his amanuensis. " 
 
 "I never mean to be useful," said Nathalie: 
 "it is a mistake ! Monsieur La Tour will find 
 that all the sacrifices must come from him." 
 
 " What a selfish, petty life you will lead !" 
 
 "You think it? Ah, well, at least I shall be 
 helping Monsieur to win the way to Heaven 
 you know it is sacrifice does it," laughed the in- 
 corrigible girl. 
 
 Elizabeth went up-stairs to see her father be- 
 fore going out, and found him still occupied. He 
 looked flurried and worried, but, as he declared 
 there was nothing the matter, she concluded that 
 he was only oppressed by a sudden afflatus of his 
 
 nius. Sometimes, when waiting to be deliv- 
 ered of a few verses, the agonies of labor were 
 extreme. If he had not possessed a dictionary 
 of rhymes to serve as a sort of mental midwife, 
 there is no knowing what misfortune might have 
 happened ; even with that aid, the struggles more 
 frequently ended in doleful abortions than any 
 completed effort. 
 
 Down by the fountain between the villa and 
 chalet the girls met Margot, of whom they were 
 in search. They met Susanne too, and Susanne 
 and the Burgundian were both in a towering pas- 
 sion. Susanne had threatened to drown her op- 
 ponent in the basin, and the two were displaying 
 an invention in the matter of bad names which 
 only French tongues could have shown. A sev- 
 en-headed monster, and each head that of a don- 
 key, was tho mildest term of opprobrium Susanne 
 lavished upon her foe, and the Burgundian re- 
 plied by cruel taunts in regard to her enemy's 
 age. It seemed difficult for either to tell what 
 the quarrel had arisen about; but Gervais was 
 standing at a discreet distance, wearing an ex- 
 pression of such modest merit that the young 
 ladies felt certain his fascinations were at the 
 bottom of the disturbance. 
 
 Fortunately, both women stood sufficiently in 
 awe of Miss Crauford for her presence to bring 
 the dispute to a close and postpone the proposed 
 drowning of Margot. 
 
 "I wish you had stayed in the house," whis- 
 pered Nathalie ; " they would not stop just for 
 me, and I dare say the noise might have amused 
 me. Proof of a vulgar taste, is it not ? but true 
 all the same." 
 
 Miss Crauford requested Margot to follow with- 
 out delay, and to have the goodness to check her 
 sobs, which had burst forth with appalling vehe- 
 mence at sight of her mistress.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 43 
 
 "It was no fault of mine," she began. 
 
 "I have not said that it was,"replied Elizabeth. 
 
 " She goaded me ; she maddened me with her 
 vile language. Mademoiselle must not blame 
 me," cried Susanne. 
 
 " I have not told you that I did," returned Miss 
 Crauford. "I have only to say that I would 
 advise you both to end the quarrel at once, and 
 to be careful that I hear of no future one." 
 
 They could neither of them have told why 
 they stood in awe of her, since she never scolded ; 
 yet they both did. Perhaps it was her very com- 
 posure which caused them to feel that some aw- 
 ful threat lurked under her cold reproof. Su- 
 snnne passed meekly into the chalet ; Margot 
 dried her eyes in haste, and followed the young 
 ladies without as much as a gurgle in her throat. 
 
 "I can not think how you manage it," sighed 
 Nathalie; "I am so fond of making people do 
 as I say, yet I never succeed half so well as you, 
 who seem to care nothing about it." 
 
 They took the hill-road to Clarens, and walked 
 on past the pretty cemetery which overlooks the 
 village and lake. No more tranquil place of rest, 
 could be imagined. Weeping willows drooped 
 over the grassy graves, melancholy cypresses 
 stood up like funeral urns. Strangers from all 
 lands slept there under the blue sky. Beneath 
 them stretched the long, narrow valley, the lake 
 spread out, a sea of molten amber, in the far 
 distance, where sky and water seemed to meet, 
 ii golden-pink haze floated like. a curtain, fairly 
 dazzling the eyes with its splendor. Vineyards 
 dotted the hill-sides ; picturesque villages were 
 scattered here and there, some close to the lake, 
 others clinging to the mountain ; beyond was 
 the mighty sweep of snow -crowned cliffs that 
 guard the road toward the Simplon. 
 
 The two girls went their way at length, talk- 
 ing more gravely for a while than they had be- 
 fore done. But Nathalie soon recovered her gay 
 spirits. She gave reminiscences of her convent 
 life, possessing the enviable faculty of making 
 the events and people she described stand out 
 living and real ; and her mixture of fun and 
 cynicism was very droll. The pair had few 
 tastes or ideas in common, still they enjoyed 
 each other's society. Both were enthusiastic in 
 their way, eacli secretly contemptuous of her 
 companion's subjects of enthusiasm, but eager 
 ..to hear about them all the same. Elizabeth 
 Crauford had not lived much with girls of her 
 own age. By nature and habit she was reticent, 
 yet she always found herself talking to Nathalie 
 with a freedom at which she wondered. Per- 
 haps some feeling that the creature needed a 
 missionary to point out the beautiful and true 
 animated Miss Crauford to a certain extent ; 
 but, independent of that, there was a charm 
 about Nathalie which she could not resist; she 
 might disapprove, still she loved her. 
 
 They went on through Montreux, and turned 
 
 down the precipitous hill toward Terretet and the 
 lake, to where the Castle of Chillon rose close to 
 the water's edge. They were fond of going there, 
 though the castle was always a disappointment, 
 in spite of romance and Lord Byron. The exte- 
 rior looked more like a great whitish-gray farm- 
 house than a chateau, and the dungeon Nathalie 
 pronounced too dry, and light, and comfortable. 
 But, though Elizabeth did not care about Lord 
 Byron, she liked to dream of Bonnivard and his 
 struggles for freedom ; while Nathalie called that 
 view prosaic, and preferred Byron's imaginary 
 hero and the poet's name cut by his own hand 
 in one of the columns. 
 
 At least the chateau boasted a drawbridge, a 
 turret, some high-walled courts ; and there was 
 a dismal den which had been the chamber of an 
 ancient Duke of Savoy, and next it a room, with 
 a single window, giving a lovely view over the 
 lake, where his duchess, perhaps, used to sit cent- 
 uries ago and look across the waters, and think 
 what a doleful thing was a ducal existence, while 
 her lord snored in the outer apartment after the 
 labors of the chase. 
 
 " " A duchess who only had one window to her 
 bedroom I" cried Nathalie. "Marrying Mon- 
 sieur La Tour is not so bad as that." 
 
 " You so often find states of life which might 
 be worse, that I wonder you complain so much," 
 said Elizabeth. "Admit once for all that sup- 
 posing such a thing possible and you would be 
 very sorry if your engagement were broken off." 
 
 "So I should," said Nathalie. "But, then, 
 I am not satisfied. Ah ! if one could only be a 
 duchess now !" 
 
 " With a bedroom like this ?" 
 
 "Nonsense !" 
 
 "My dear, we are neither of us very old nor 
 very wise, but we do know, or we ought, that 
 the woman who has a heart offered her like that 
 of Monsieur La Tour's has won a prize." 
 
 " No doubt ; but what I want is twenty prizes, 
 not one." 
 
 "Well," said Elizabeth, "I only hope Mon- 
 sieur will make you live in some quiet place 
 where you can not get into mischief." 
 
 " I would get into mischief if he shut me 
 up in a box!" cried Nathalie. "At least one 
 conld put an advertisement in the newspapers 
 ' Wanted, by a handsome young woman, whom 
 an old husband guards like an ogre, a speedy 
 and amusing chance to disgrace herself.' Some- 
 thing of that sort would bring answers." 
 
 They left the chateau, mounted the hill again, 
 and reached the gray stone church the last 
 building on the mountain road. It hangs sus- 
 pended midway along a mighty cliff a frowning 
 mass of rocks towers above just space for the 
 highway, the church, and a terrace ; then the 
 hill sweeps down almost in a precipice toward 
 the lake. A man-elous spot that terrace for 
 watching sunsets and dreaming dreams !
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 Thev seated themselves on one of the rustic 
 benches arranged under the low, sturdy trees ; 
 and even Nathalie was silent for a time. The 
 bell up in the gray tower was ringing slowly ; 
 the rooks circled about, and answered its chime 
 with their hoarse ejaculations. A bird, perched 
 on a window-sill of the church, sang as if he 
 would sing his very soul out; the breeze stole 
 softly past ; the magical view brightened, and 
 grew glorious each instant as the colors of the 
 approaching sunset began to gain strength and 
 brightness. The mountain range that shut in 
 the lake miles and miles below was a long line 
 of rose-colored flame ; the nearer cliffs had their 
 summits bathed in gorgeous tints, while awful 
 shadows began to wrap their sides, and spread 
 far out over the waters, till in the centre of the 
 lake the sunset hues struck broad and full, daz- 
 zling the eye with their radiance. 
 
 "I like to come here," said that provoking 
 Nathalie, suddenly, " because there is occasionally 
 a man to look at me." 
 
 There were plenty of people scattered among 
 the different villages, but few whom Nathalie 
 called interesting. There were flocks of heavy 
 Germans who came for the cure, and were to be 
 met on all the roads with cabas of grapes, busy 
 devouring their ten pounds per diem. There 
 were quiet English families who could not afford 
 to go any where else, and seemed occupied in 
 wearing out their old clothes ; one woman in 
 particular appeared in a succession of faded ball- 
 dresses, whose colors made Nathalie sea- sick; 
 quantities of bustling Americans, who came be- 
 cause they must rush into every nook and cor- 
 ner ; but genuine young men handsome, stylish 
 fellows were so scarce that Nathalie often de- 
 clared she feared the race must be nearly extinct. 
 She followed up her first remark by a speech of 
 this nature. 
 
 " Luckily, the race is nothing to you any long- 
 er," said Elizabeth, inclined to be severe at this 
 disturbing of her reverie. 
 
 "Is it not?" demanded Nathalie. " Let me 
 get within reach of a dozen or two, and you shall 
 see, and Monsieur La Tour also." 
 
 "You might prove less irresistible to them 
 than you fancy," returned Elizabeth; "your 
 vanity is excessive." 
 
 Nathalie laughed, not in the least nettled. 
 
 " You really do me good, in spite of myself," 
 she said. " I believe I should turn out a very 
 decent woman if I could always have you near 
 me." 
 
 Presently along came a troop of Germans, all 
 with noses like sausages, all eating grapes, and 
 making a terrific noise about it. Nathalie vowed 
 that she could not endure their society. 
 
 "I should hate a view into heaven in such 
 company," she said with her usual vehemence. 
 4 ' We might go on to the village, and back to the 
 Chauderon ; we have never been there but once. 
 
 In trifles it was easier to yield to Nathalie for 
 the sake of peace, so Miss Crauford complied 
 with her whim. 
 
 Back of Montreux is a great culdron-shaped 
 gap in the mountains, torn out ages ago by some 
 mighty convulsion of Nature. In the centre a 
 white cascade leaps and foams down the rocks 
 a mad torrent when swollen by spring rains 
 and melting snows, but diminished in volume, 
 lovely rather than grand, at that time of year. 
 
 The path by which one descended the cliff 
 was precipitous enough. Margot begged pite- 
 ously to be left at the top. 
 
 " I am afraid," she whimpered ; " I dreamed 
 twice last week of breaking my neck by a fall in 
 just such a place." 
 
 "Did it hurt?" asked Nathalie. 
 
 "Ah! do not laugh, Mademoiselle. I can 
 not go I can not." 
 
 ' ' Wait for us here, " returned Elizabeth. ' ' No 
 one wishes you to do what frightens you." 
 
 As soon as she found herself safe from the ex- 
 pedition, of course the Burgundian proceeded to 
 find a lie wherewith to cover up her cowardice. 
 
 "It is not that I have fear, Mesdemoiselles," 
 she said with dignity, "but I possess an aged 
 mother dependent upon my exertions. I have 
 no right to risk a valuable life." 
 
 " Only a mother ?" asked Nathalie. 
 
 "Four little brothers and sisters, one a lame 
 boy, and a brother-in-law who is paralytic," said 
 the Burgundian glibly, putting her handkerchief 
 to her eyes. 
 
 "The lame boy and the paralytic have ap- 
 peared since the last time she told the story," 
 whispered Nathalie to her friend. " I always 
 thought our Breton the hugest story-teller in the 
 world till I saw your Burgundian." 
 
 They left her seated on a- flat rock, tranquilly 
 munching a cake, and forgetful already of her 
 suffering family in the pages of a cheap feuillc- 
 ton, fuller of wonderful incidents than any imag- 
 ination save that of a Frenchman could have 
 conceived. 
 
 At the bottom of the immense ravine a rustic 
 bridge spanned the stream, just below the cas- 
 cade. On the other side a path as arduous and 
 difficult as that by which the two girls had de- 
 scended led up among higher cliffs, where dark 
 pine trees cast gloomy shadows about. 
 
 The cascade talked so loudly that Nathalie's 
 voice was drowned, and she relinquished in de- 
 spair any effort to converse, feeling that she rather 
 hated the noisy thing, as she had just been ready 
 to propound some wonderful theory which had 
 struck her, and which she believed startlingly 
 original. 
 
 Elizabeth stood on the bridge and enjoyed the 
 lovely scene to her full content for a time. Sud- 
 denly it occurred to her strange that Nathalie 
 had left her so long in peace. She looked 
 about ; her companion had disappeared. Eliza-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 45 
 
 beth crossed the bridge and gained the opposite 
 bank, caught the flutter of a dress, and heard 
 Nathalie's voice, half in merriment, half in ter- 
 ror. That creature could no more keep out of 
 mischief than could a kitten. She had gone 
 down to dip her hands in the water, had slipped 
 on the spray-wet turf, and entangled her skirts 
 about the branch of a fallen tree so that she 
 could not extricate herself. 
 
 Elizabeth hastened to her rescue. How it 
 came about neither could ever tell; but after 
 getting Nathalie free, and helping her part way 
 up the bank, Elizabeth slipped and fell, knocking 
 her head with such force that she lay senseless. 
 Nathalie shrieked, and became utterly helpless 
 and insane at once. Fortunately a gentleman, 
 who had been higher up among the hills, heard 
 and saw what had happened as he came down 
 toward the bridge. 
 
 It was the work of only a few minutes for him 
 to raise the prostrate girl, cany her to the 
 bridge, and assure the frightened Nathalie that 
 her friend was not hurt. In spite of Nathalie's 
 alarm, she had eyes to see that he was a tall, 
 fine- looking man, and young aoi artist, too, 
 judging from the sketch -box slung over his 
 shoulder. But the stranger did not notice her 
 he was studying the face of the girl he held in 
 his arms. Launce Cromlin was a painter, and 
 this face like the ideal he had been searching for 
 for years. But he had no leisure for such 
 thoughts every moment was precious. He had 
 only reached Montreux a few hours before ; the 
 long-delayed letters, informing him of old Mr. 
 Vaughan's illness and desire for his immediate 
 return, were awaiting his arrival. There would 
 be no train until toward evening. He had gone 
 up the mountain with his sketch-box to pass the 
 time, had lingered longer than he ought, and 
 was hurrying toward the village, afraid of miss- 
 ing the train, when stopped by Nathalie's frantic 
 cries. 
 
 The fainting girl was not hurt, he was sure of 
 that. He had no time to waste in absurd, ro- 
 mantic fancies. 
 
 " She is coming to herself," he said. " Made- 
 moiselle, you will think me a brute ; I can not 
 stop I must catch the train ; I am going to a 
 dying relative. Stay here, and I will send you 
 help ; no, better, I'll carry your friend up the 
 hill." 
 
 It was not an easy task to carry a well-grown 
 young woman up that ascent, but Cromlin did it. 
 Elizabeth was conscious now, though she dared 
 not stir, for a very prosaic reason she had turned 
 horribly sick. She could not open her eyes ; she 
 knew she was placed on a bench ; heard Natha- 
 lie's voice and that of the stranger, but could 
 only cover her face, and whisper to Nathalie to 
 send the man away. 
 
 "She is better," Nathalie said. "Thanks, a 
 thousand times. Ah! here is Margot, Made- 
 
 moiselle Crauford's maid. We shall do very 
 well now. Don't wait, please ; you need not 
 send any body. If you see a carriage, you 
 might order it to wait for us at the turn. We 
 must drive back to the Maladeyre. Thanks, 
 again. Good-bye." 
 
 Cromlin would have given a great deal for one 
 more look at that pale, beautiful countenance, 
 but it was carefully hidden. He comprehended 
 that for some reason the ladies were anxious he 
 should take himself off. Indeed, he had not a 
 moment to lose ; his best exertions would barely 
 bring him to the station away down near the 
 lake in time. A few more hurried words, -and 
 off he dashed. 
 
 That night as Nathalie sat in her own room, 
 thinking over the incident, she said many times 
 to herself 
 
 "That is not the man; there will no harm 
 come to her through me where he is concerned. 
 Yet he is to be something to her; such things 
 do not happen for nothing. " 
 
 The mishap was to be kept a profound secret 
 from Mr. Crauford, lest he should prohibit any 
 future excursions. The girls hired a carriage 
 and drove home, and Elizabeth was quit of her 
 accident with only a headache. 
 
 Launce Cromlin had found time to ask ques- 
 tions at the station in regard to the inhabitants 
 of La Maladeyre. 
 
 He knew that Robert Crauford was an old 
 friend of his uncle's. Mr. Vaughan had former- 
 ly talked much to Launce of Mrs. Crauford, of 
 this very young lady he had just aided a child 
 in those days, never seen by Mr. Vaughan since 
 her babyhood. 
 
 And Launce, borne swiftly away through the 
 dusk of evening, was thinking it odd that he 
 should have been thrown momentarily into the 
 presence of this girl, for he had known from his 
 own mother of Mr. Vaughan's youthful love and 
 disappointment. 
 
 That face haunted him like the realization of 
 a long-cherished dream ; and often during his 
 rapid journey, and the sea -voyage which suc- 
 ceeded, he marveled when and where he should 
 meet it again. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FACE TO FACE. 
 
 MR. CKACFORD had not passed an agreeable 
 night. Having taken very little exercise during 
 the day on account of a fancied bise, which he 
 was certain would give him neuralgia, he natur- 
 ally did not sleep soundly, and was beset by bad 
 dreams. He had no idea that he could blame 
 himself for the restlessness : he regarded it as 
 entirely the result of his delicate health and 
 nervous organization.
 
 46 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 Daylight came, and he was disturbed by the 
 groans and expostulations of an unfortunate 
 swine that the farmer and his man were drag- 
 ging away to sacrifice. The Mosaic outcast did 
 not go forth to martyrdom with any attempt at 
 calmness or dignity. His yells were actually 
 heart-rending. This tumult startled Mr. Crau- 
 ford from the only peaceful doze he had encoun- 
 tered since going to bed. When the voice of 
 the victim died in the distance, he fell asleep 
 again, and dreamed of seeing a pig with a night- 
 cap on, who addressed him in the words of the 
 elder Hamlet, " I am thy father's ghost !" Mr. 
 Crauford awoke in disgust. Nothing so thor- 
 oughly vexed him as to have unromantic dreams. 
 It hurt his vanity to think that even in slumber 
 his poetic nature could be visited by common- 
 place fancies. 
 
 So he rose in a mood to suffer, and to make 
 life uncomfortable to those about, as is the priv- 
 ilege of poets. Elizabeth paid him a visit, and 
 was full of sympathy for his complaints, to 
 which she would have been obliged to listen all 
 day, instead of going out on that ramble with 
 Nathalie, had not a fortunate occurrence 
 whereof she was in ignorance made her father 
 anxious to be left alone. 
 
 The postman brought a letter for Mr. Crau- 
 ford an American letter. On opening the 
 envelope, he found the closely written sheet 
 marked private. 
 
 The mystery was quite delightful to him ; he 
 fairly forgot the neuralgic pain at the back of 
 his left ear, and the second line he had been 
 vainly seeking as a continuation to what he be- 
 lieved a poem. 
 
 The letter, which he read with great interest 
 for any tiling approaching romance was agree- 
 able to Mr. Crauford, as it is to most people, 
 however stoutly they may deny the charge 
 came from Darrell Vaughan. It detailed the 
 facts of his uncle's illness and death, the fortune 
 which had devolved upon himself, and the odd, 
 unbusiness-like couicil appended to the will : I 
 should sny, the story of the codicil with a differ- 
 ence. Darrell Vanghan made no mention of 
 Lnunce Cromlin. The dead man had decreed 
 that his nephew should inherit the additional 
 two hundred and fifty thousand dollars on con- 
 dition that he succeeded in obtaining Elizabeth 
 Crauford's hand. 
 
 "You will see," wrote Darrell, "from the 
 foregoing, why I have asked you to keep this 
 letter a secret for the present. If your daughter 
 knew of this strange codicil, it might either 
 prejudice her against me or cause a certain em- 
 barrassment between us. You will perhaps 
 smile at my romantic folly when I tell you that 
 my heart has gone out toward a woman I have 
 never seen. Yet it is true, liefore my uncle's 
 death Miad been shown by a mutual friend your 
 daughter's portrait and several letters from her. 
 
 I had contemplated a journey to Europe with 
 but one object that of seeing her. 
 
 "Among my uncle's papers I have found a 
 letter for you, and one also for your daughter. 
 I do not inclose these, because I shall soon hope 
 to hand them to you personally ; and I can not 
 bear to risk their possible loss by post. Every 
 line penned by that dear hand seems sacred to 
 me. 
 
 " There are other trifling details which his 
 letter will explain, and which can wait until I 
 place it in your keeping. I have stated the one 
 fact of importance, that he desires his nephew 
 to have the great happiness, if possible, of w in- 
 ning your daughter. 
 
 "Although we have never met, I believe you 
 may know something in regard to me and my 
 brief past, such as it is. I have tried not to 
 waste my youth, have endeavored to make such 
 talents as I possess useful to my kind. That 
 you could for an instant suppose me unduly in- 
 fluenced by this money part of the question, I 
 feel, from what I know of your character, to be 
 impossible. I am a richer man now than is 
 necessary for the gratification of such quiet 
 tastes as mine. That the romance and uncom- 
 monness of the codicil appeal to me, I shall not 
 deny, nor do I believe you will smile at the folly 
 which leads me to fancy my previously seeing 
 the portrait and those letters an omen that my 
 uncle's wish was to be my fate. " 
 
 There was a good deal more, written in a 
 manner which appealed powerfully to Mr. Crau- 
 ford, as the writer of the epistle had been cer- 
 tain it would do. Mr. Crauford was much ex- 
 cited by this news, and in a state of delightful 
 misery. I can think of nothing except this 
 paradox which will exactly express what his 
 feelings were. It was difficult for him to avoid 
 calling his daughter at once and telling her the 
 whole story ; yet he enjoyed so thoroughly the 
 importance of his secret that he would not have 
 done this for the world. There mingled, too, 
 other emotions, which touched upon old jealous- 
 ies and pains. Mr. Vaughan had loved the 
 woman who became Robert Crauford's wife. 
 Mr. Crauford had always been haunted by the 
 idea that pique influenced Laura Marlow in her 
 acceptance of his hand. Still she proved a 
 faithful wife. The one storm which arose and 
 threatened their peace grew out of his faults. 
 That was a period upon which Mr. Crauford did 
 not like to look back. His conscience had 
 grown tender since he became a victim to 
 dyspepsia, and there were certain episodes, be- 
 fore and after his marriage, whereon he never 
 dwelt if he could avoid it. He was never so 
 severe upon the frailties of others as when some- 
 thing chanced to rouse those troublesome recol- 
 lections. Perhaps he thought repentance and 
 remorse left him at liberty to judge his neigh- 
 bors with unsparing rigor. 1'erhnps in some
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 way it was a relief to inveigh against folly or 
 vice a proof to his own mind that he abhorred 
 it. I do not mean to say that Mr. Crauford 
 had ever been a very bad man, that is, led a 
 reckless, disreputable life. In the height and 
 heyday of his youth he had not been guilty of 
 any beyond what society terms venial sins, and 
 readily pardons in youths possessing money and 
 position. In fact, his record was quite as clean 
 as that of nine men out of ten yours, my vir- 
 tuous clergyman ! yours, my decorous judge! It 
 spoke in his favor that he could still feel re- 
 morse when old memories came up. I wish he 
 had not been so severe on other people ; but I 
 notice that peculiarity in most persons whose 
 consciences are somewhat uneasy over their own 
 past. 
 
 Mr. Crauford was thinking, too, of his wife 
 this morning, and that outbreak on her part, so 
 different from her ordinary cold, quiet manner 
 the one cause for an outbreak he had given. 
 He was thinking, also, how he used to be 
 haunted by a fear that she had been fonder of 
 Edgar Vaughan than of him. Their married 
 lives had not brought them into contact with 
 the man, but the idea was ever a sore place in 
 Mr. Crauford's mind. He had fretted and 
 scolded a good deal over trifles all his days ; 
 and whenever he worried his wife by so doing, 
 and she grew silent and proud, he used to fancy 
 she was contrasting him in her thoughts with 
 the man whose love she had rejected. This 
 fear did not induce him to cure his faults. He 
 was weak, so he only pitied himself, and felt it 
 hard indeed that any foolish fancy, any girlish 
 predilection, should stand between him and the 
 woman he loved. After a while the sight of the 
 letter on his table brought him out of his un- 
 comfortable reverie. He wrote to Darrell a 
 pleasant, friendly answer he was rather good 
 at epistolary efforts. He should be happy to 
 see Mr. Vaughan and make his acquaintance. 
 In the mean time he agreed with Darrell it was 
 better no communication should prepare Eliza- 
 beth for the purpose contained in his coming. 
 Should Mr. Vaughan's business detain him in 
 London as long as he expected, he would over- 
 take them in Pisa. If he could leave sooner, he 
 would find them in Clarens, where they might 
 still remain for several weeks. Darrell's com- 
 munication came from America ; but he was to 
 sail soon, and had given an address in London, 
 to which he begged Mr. Crauford to write, so 
 that he might have the reply on his arrival. 
 
 The answer finished, the hypochondriac de- 
 cided to go out, feeling quite upset by the un- 
 usual excitement of the morning. It occurred 
 to him that, perhaps, the young ladies had not 
 yet departed on their ramble ; he would propose 
 joining them in a drive instead. Before this 
 thought struck him, he had sent Gervais to post 
 his letter. Of course, now he forgot that, and 
 
 summoned Gervais with his customary impa- 
 tience a stranger would have supposed him in 
 danger of a fit, or the house on fire, at least. 
 But Madame Bocher, who replied to the bell and 
 his frantic voice, was too thoroughly Swiss to be 
 hurried or flurried. She reminded him that Ger- 
 vais was absent. He proceeded to fret a little, 
 in a feeble way. He might fret, for any thing 
 Madame cared. Did she know if Miss Crauford 
 and the other young lady had gone yet ? Ma- 
 dame knew nothing about the matter, but she 
 wanted to get back to her kitchen ; and, as Mr. 
 Crauford said he thought of driving out if they 
 had not departed, she promptly answered that 
 she believed they were still in the chalet, in the 
 little salon where Mademoiselle and Elizabeth 
 often sat. 
 
 Mr. Crauford tied up his neck he could not 
 move from one room to another without this 
 precaution, bronchitis being one of his pet bug- 
 bears, though he never had a sore throat in his 
 life and proceeded in search of the pair. The 
 entrance to this salon was on the opposite side 
 of the chalet from Madame's apartments, sepa- 
 rated from them, as I have said, by a long gal- 
 lery. Mr. Crauford had been in here on several 
 occasions with Elizabeth. He did not waste time 
 knocking at the outer door of the house, for a 
 vestibule and a dark passage stretched between 
 it and Nathalie's salon, and the girls could not 
 have heard him if he had pounded till doomsday. 
 There was a bell, to be sure, but to ring that was 
 useless too. It rang down in the wine-cellar 
 what for, nobody save the Swiss architect or a 
 madman could have imagined ; but there it was. 
 Susanne had decided it must be to frighten the 
 rats ; and when they made too much noise at 
 their revels under the floor, she used to rush out 
 and pull the bell vigorously. Then one could 
 hear the rats scamper in all directions, like ladies 
 caught unprepared to receive visitors, and warned 
 by the tinkle to make their escape. 
 
 Mr. Crauford moved forward, stumbled through 
 the dark passage, and reached the salon. He 
 rapped, and fancied that he heard somebody bid 
 him enter. He pushed open the door, and as he 
 did so a voice said 
 
 "Why did you knock there, Susanne? You 
 startled me." 
 
 Mr. Crauford stopped short in considerable 
 embarrassment. The window looking toward 
 the villa had its shutters closed, the other win- 
 dow looked onto the gallery, so that the room 
 was very shadowy indeed. Mr. Crauford de- 
 scried a figure extended on a sofa ; neither his 
 daughter nor Nathalie was visible. He was not 
 quick in thought in general, but he perceived 
 that he must have intruded on Madame L'Es- 
 trange. He had not dreamed of disturbing her. 
 Nathalie had often remarked in his presence that 
 her mother detested this room, and never set foot 
 in it. No man's brain was less fertile in expedi-
 
 48 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 ents than Mr. Crauford's. Whether to stay and 
 apologize or slip silently out he could not decide. 
 But he had little space for meditation ; the voice 
 spoke again 
 
 " What are you doing, Susanne ? Help me 
 up I shall not stay here I hate this room 
 why did I come?" 
 
 The demon of change, or some other imp 
 equally ill-natured, had prompted Madame's 
 visit this day of all the days in the year. She 
 was especially restless and suffering, had fasted 
 and repeated choice bits from St. Joseph's Of- 
 ferings until she was utterly miserable. Susanne 
 persuaded her to try the fresh air of the gal- 
 lery for a while ; and at last she wandered into 
 Nathalie's salon, and lay down there for the first 
 time during all these weeks she had lived in the 
 chalet. 
 
 \ Mr. Crauford was exceedingly confused and 
 annoyed at his own blunder. There he stood, 
 helplessly holding the door-knob in his hand. 
 Madame L'Estrange turned her head, and per- 
 ceived him. She started up in astonishment 
 and nervous terror. The sofa was close to the 
 window ; the dim light fell full upon her face ; 
 MX. Crauford saw it distinctly, recognized it too 
 in spite of the alteration and ravages years and 
 illness had worked on its beauty. 
 
 He remained speechless, staring at her, and 
 Madame stared at him, with her presence of 
 mind as utterly astray as his own. She was 
 dressed in a loose gown of some sombre material 
 made with a capuchin, which she had drawn 
 partially over her head ; her hair uncurled, her 
 cheeks without paint, her wasted countenance 
 more ghastly than ever from excitement. 
 
 'Nina Madame Tracy!" exclaimed Mr. 
 Orauford at last, looking like a man who has 
 seen a ghost. 
 
 " Yes ; Nina," she answered, shivering. "Do 
 not speak that other name." 
 
 Then Mr. Crauford's face darkened with sud- 
 den anger, and his voice changed to a querulous 
 accent as he tried 
 
 "What are you doing here ?" 
 Madame sat erect; the fire flashed into her 
 great eyes ; the old spirit roused itself, and gave 
 her a momentary strength. 
 
 " I suppose I may sit in my own house, Rob- 
 ert Crauford," retorted she. "I think it is for 
 me to ask what yon are doing here. I did not 
 send for you, I believe." 
 
 "Could I dream of meeting you? Could I 
 suppose they kept you here? No one told me 
 you lived with these people how dared they 
 keep it a secret?" pursued he, wrathfully and in 
 stammering haste. 
 
 " Where else should I live?" demanded she. 
 " What arc they to you? what " 
 "He was always dull, this Robert Crauford," 
 interrupted she, with a scornful laugh. "Can you 
 not understand?! am Madame L'Estrange." 
 
 "It is not your name! What do yon mean 
 by going about under an assumed name ?" he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "It is my name, and has been for years," re- 
 plied Madame, growing suddenly composed be- 
 fore his agitation. "If you wish to know how I 
 came by it, I can tell you. Long ago a relative 
 left me some money, and I took his name ; I had 
 a right. Left me money ; do you hear, Robert 
 Crauford ? You never knew nor cared whether 
 I had starved to death or not. " 
 
 "And you have been living here you have 
 dared to receive my daughter, to let her know 
 your girl to " 
 
 He was so angry that he could not continue. 
 He grasped the door for support, and his words 
 died in a gasp. 
 
 "Not too fast," cried Madame, in the same 
 sullen, defiant way. "Your daughter sought 
 me, forced herself on me, as you have done, 
 Robert Crauford. As for my girl, she is an 
 angel ; say one word against her if you dare !" 
 
 She looked such a fury that he was reminded 
 of days and scenes which lay half a life back. 
 He had been afraid of her temper then ; he was 
 frightened now in spite of his anger. 
 
 "Could I dream of its being you?" said he. 
 "To think of my daughter having set foot in 
 vour house!" 
 
 "I should not hurt her; I am trying to be 
 good ; I have tried so long and so hard, " whined 
 Madame. Then her voice changed from its lach- 
 rymose tone to one of bitter irony. " Oh, these 
 men ! They may be as wicked as they please, 
 and set up for saints when they will; but we, 
 poor women, that they fool and ruin we must 
 not venture to lift our heads from the mud where 
 they have flung us. Bah ! you are all alike. I 
 never knew a man who was not a coward Gerald 
 Tracy was ; but you you are the greatest coward 
 I ever met." 
 
 A sharp spasm of pain seized her ; she pressed 
 her hand to her side ; a hollow cough choked 
 her passionate speech ; her strength forsook her, 
 and she leaned back panting for breath. Mr. 
 Crauford was a bad-tempered, unforgiving man, 
 Imt not inhuman. He saw how ill she was 
 dying perhaps ; his anger yielded a little. This 
 Nina de Favolles had done him a great deal of 
 harm. When he was in Paris, a very young 
 man, she had just reached the acme of her in- 
 famous career. She would have ruined him had 
 he not discovered in time that her love was a 
 feint that as soon as his money failed he would 
 be flung aside and laughed at for his idiocy. He 
 saw no more of her until several years after, when 
 he was in Italy with his Wife. Before then, the 
 woman had fascinated the young American, 
 Tracy, and he had actually married her, knowing 
 nothing of her antecedents. Nathalie was a year 
 old when the truth came out. The unfortunate 
 husband lost his life in a duel with a man as
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 49 
 
 worthless as the woman on whose account he 
 fought. Previous to that, Madame had tried to 
 regain her old ascendency over Robert Crauford, 
 and failed. By way of having revenge, she wrote 
 him letters, and managed that they should fall 
 into the hands of his wife letters which revealed 
 the old intimacy, and implied that it had been 
 begun anew. 
 
 This was the cause of the outbreak of which 
 I spoke. Crauford had been at length able to 
 convince Laura that, in the present instance, he 
 was blameless, and a peace was patched up, but 
 he knew that, t her dying day, his wife never 
 forgot the knowledge of his past which she had 
 thus gained. 
 
 It was not surprising that, of all human be- 
 ings, he believed this Nina_ the worst that the 
 bare recollection of her after these years could 
 make him shudder. Aojl now actually to be 
 face to face with her again to know that his 
 daughter had been in her company, held her 
 hand, was friendly with her child ! this woman, 
 who had akuost wrecked his youth, who had 
 nearly lost him the wife he loved. Certainly one 
 would require to get nearer perfection than hu- 
 manity often does to support such a catastrophe 
 with any show of patience. 
 
 " How can you be so hard on me ?" cried Ma- 
 dame. " See what a wreck I am ! I have been a 
 changed woman for years. Ask my Cure here 
 ask my Cure at Dijon. I am dying slowly ; I 
 suffer horribly ; I am trying to make my salva- 
 tion. Oh,, it is cruel to force yourself on me, 
 and to say wicked things, and to look at me like 
 that !" 
 
 "I do not wish to be hard on you ; it is not 
 for me to judge," Mr. Crauford said, falteringly. 
 Then he remembered Elizabeth, and his voice 
 grew more stern. "You ought not to have let 
 my daughter come here. I blame you for that. " 
 "It was not for me; I have only seen her a 
 few times. Nathalie is so fond of her," pleaded 
 Madame. " Nathalie is good ; she has lived 
 always in a convent. She knows nothing, 
 changed my name to L'Estrange while she was 
 a little thing. She is to marry Monsieur La 
 Tour." 
 
 "Good Lord!" cried Mr. Crauford, struck by 
 a sudden thought. " Does he know does " 
 
 "Oh, he is a kind man," broke in Madame 
 "He is not like you, ready to crush my pooi 
 child for her mother's faults. And I was not so 
 bad ; there were many worse. I often repented 
 and once I gave a diamond bracelet on hearing 
 a charity sermon. Let my child alone. I am 
 dying. She will be Madame La Tour, and livi 
 a quiet, respected life." 
 
 "I have no wish to interfere. I will not hav 
 my daughter meet her, that is all," said Mr 
 Cranford. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" cried Madam 
 in terror. 
 
 D 
 
 "I shall go away " 
 
 "Ah! I wish you would," interrupted Ma- 
 lame, with a sigh of relief. "I have never felt 
 easy since I heard you were here. I tell you I 
 ;m trying to make my salvation. I do not like 
 o meet people that remind me of the past. I 
 ast and pray. I try so hard, and I am afraid 
 afraid!" 
 
 She flung up her arms, and her voice rose al- 
 most to a shriek. Mr. Crauford only asked to 
 ;et out of the room ; his nerves would not stand 
 any further shocks. 
 
 "We can none of us do more than repent," 
 said he, rather clumsily, after searching in vain 
 "or some consolatory words. 
 
 "No, the Cure says that, and I repent I do. 
 Look at me ; could I wish to be wicked ? My 
 youth is gone, my beauty is gone. Oh, I was so 
 Beautiful! And now I am dying. Why could 
 [ not have been left to get very old, and grow ac- 
 customed to the idea of the next world ? I have 
 money enough to live on, and I could have been 
 quite comfortable. To be sure it is tiresome 
 leading a good life, but one would get used to it. 
 Oh me, oh me!" 
 
 "I I must go," stammered Mr. Crauford. 
 
 " Go, then," returned Madame, violently. " I 
 hate all men. I despise you. I wish I had 
 ruined you outright. What busiaess have you 
 to look well and strong when I am dying?" 
 
 Her sudden fury rendered him more nervous, 
 but he could not even then endure hearing that 
 he looked vigorous. 
 
 " My health is wretched," he said ; " I am a 
 great sufferer." 
 
 "You are a hypochondriac. Monsieur La 
 Tour told me," retorted Madame. "You are 
 rich and lazy ; so yon indulge in little illnesses 
 by way of occupation." 
 
 Mr. Crauford felt more convinced than ever 
 that the woman was a fiend. He doubted wheth- 
 er any amount of penitence could help her. 
 
 "Are you going?" asked Madame, as he 
 moved toward the door. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, peevishly. "The idea 
 of my having strayed here ! " 
 
 "Come back. I'll tell you something first! 
 You are rich, and prosperous, and well. Why 
 should you not bear part of the burden that op- 
 presses me ? Come back, I say !" 
 
 She was so fierce in voice and aspect that he 
 involuntarily yielded to the potent will which had 
 once ruled him so entirely. Madame clutched 
 his arm with her bony fingers, bent toward him 
 till her hot, feverish breath made him shudder. 
 She whispered a few words in his ear, then pushed 
 him roughly away. 
 
 "Now go and try your hand at repenting!" 
 she exclaimed. " There is something for you to 
 bear as well as me." 
 
 Mr: Crauford looked pale and alarmed. Some 
 broken words fell from his lips. First Madame
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 laughed, then a new spasm of physical pain and 
 mental trouble seized her. 
 
 4 ' I try to repent I do try ! " she moaned. ' ' I 
 am haunted by ghosts, and all my prayers will 
 not quiet them. But others are more to blame 
 than I. Nobody taught me, nobody told me ! 
 My own mother made me what I am what I 
 was for I am changed, I am. Oh, go away ; 
 let me alone. I want the Cure' the doctor; 
 perhaps I am dying already. Oh, my soul! Oh, 
 my poor soul ! Oh, I can not " 
 
 Mr. Crauford heard Susanne's voice and step 
 on the gallery, and fled. 
 
 When Elizabeth came home she found her fa- 
 ther in a state of great agitation, and learned 
 that they were to start for Italy the next day. 
 lie was obliged at length to tell her that he had 
 seen Madame L'Estrange, and recognized her as 
 a woman whom it was not proper for her to ap- 
 proach. 
 
 44 You are unjust to visit her faults, whatever 
 they may have been, on Nathalie ; she is not to 
 blame," Elizabeth said. 
 
 " That woman once came near killing your 
 mother. I can not tell you thd story*. The 
 daughter will do you some harm too. I'll not 
 have you near her. " 
 
 This was all the explanation she could gain. 
 It brought Nathalie's superstitious fancy to Eliza- 
 beth's mind : but she was not given to yielding 
 to such follies. 
 
 44 1 am ill I need change I insist on starting 
 at once." 
 
 Her father took refuge in this plaint, and there 
 was no more to be said. 
 
 "It is so sudden, so sudden," sobbed Nathalie, 
 when Elizabeth carried her the news. "And 
 mamma is ill. Ah, me ! these have been such 
 happy weeks! Good-bye, darling good-bye! 
 And I shall never see you again ; I am not even 
 to write to you. There is something wrong, I 
 know, by the way your father behaves, and mam- 
 ma will tell me nothing only shiver and moan, 
 and rave against you both." 
 
 Happy weeks, but they were over. 
 
 44 At least," thought Nathalie, when she had 
 cried herself ill and blind " at least I can do her 
 no harm. She is gone, and I shall never see her 
 any more ; and I loved her so my Qneenie, my 
 beautiful Elizabeth !" 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 NATHALIE'S HERO. 
 
 N ITIIALIE spent several very lonely, miserable 
 :cr Elizabeth Cranford's hasty departure; 
 mid when Nathalie set about being wretched she 
 threw her whole soul into the business, just ns 
 she did when pleasure, or any other excitement, 
 actuated her. 
 
 She used to sit by the lake and moan that she 
 could not endure this dull existence, and watch 
 the waves and think about suicide, and wonder 
 if Monsieur La Tour would never come and take 
 her away. His image looked absolutely agreea- 
 ble to her during this dead season ; and she wrote 
 him letters two days in succession, which made 
 his elderly heart thrill with delight. But Mon- 
 sieur could not leave his post his relative still 
 lingered and would not hear of his going. Mon- 
 sieur was in love, but then he was nearly sixty, 
 and at that age Romeo does not willfully throw 
 away the chance of inheriting a hundred thou- 
 sand francs. But I do Monsieur a little injus- 
 tice : he would have stayed if there had been no 
 money in the question. The old maid begged 
 so piteously for his presence that he could not 
 have found the heart to leave her. 
 
 Madame L'Estrange suffered terribly, and her 
 mental anxieties added to her pain. She was 
 haunted by the dread that something would pre- 
 vent the marriage, and she scolded Nathalie and 
 raved at Susanne, and prayed and begged their 
 pardons, and rushed from one scene to another 
 so rapidly that even a very good person could 
 not much have blamed the young girl for getting 
 away from her whenever she could, or Susanne 
 for thinking it would be far better if Madame 
 were safe in the next world, and they repeating 
 masses for the repose of her soul. 
 
 At least Nathalie had a great deal of time to 
 herself, though it was a sorry business to go 
 wandering about among the haunts where she 
 and Elizabeth had spent so many happy hours. 
 There was an old woman, some relation of the 
 fermier, who was glad to earn a few sous by 
 playing sheep-dog for Nathalie's benefit. But 
 Nathalie usually found her some commodious 
 resting-place, and gave her chestnuts and bon- 
 bons to eat, while she strolled on alone. The 
 old woman's chatter and slow steps annoyed her, 
 though she hated solitude too. It was Novem- 
 ber, the nuts were all gathered, many of the 
 trees had lost their leaves even the poplars 
 wore a golden crown, which showed that they 
 must soon suffer like their companions only 
 the weeping willows were as fresh and luxuriant 
 as ever, and would remain so until the ensuing 
 month. But late in the season as it was, the 
 days were balmy and bright ; one could still sit 
 for hours in the open air. The little valley was 
 so sheltered that a nook in the south of Italy 
 would not have been wanner or more sunny. 
 Roses still bloomed in the gardens, and the 
 autumn flowers were out in full beauty. Each 
 day the grand old mountains grew more stately 
 and seemed to increase in height. Often the 
 snow fell at night, and the morning woidd find 
 them wrapped half-way down their sides in a 
 white mantle that looked as if studded with jew- 
 els. Just across the lake, in the Savoy country, 
 the snow sometimes swept to the water's edge,
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 51 
 
 but not a flake fell in the Montreux valley, and 
 fires, except of an evening, were not to be 
 thought of. 
 
 The glory of the landscape increased ; the 
 sunset tints and changes waxed more gorgeous 
 and wonderful ; the soft haze that lay over the 
 scene of an afternoon, and the morning halo on 
 the mountains, were enough to drive one wild 
 from sheer excess of beauty. But it was a sad 
 time to Nathalie, nor did she love Nature enough 
 to study and admire it alone. She could weave 
 romances, and dream exciting visions, and her 
 fancy and imagination were quick and creative ; 
 but she did not like solitude, and wo"uld rather 
 have looked out on the Boulevards than down 
 from the heights of the Rhigi. 
 
 One day, straight into the midst of her rest- 
 lessness, her desire for change and excitement, 
 her longing for adventure, her hash of tran- 
 scendental and socialistic theories, came Darrell 
 Vaughan, and the danger which any one who 
 had studied Nathalie's character must have 
 dreaded rushed upon her without the slightest 
 warning. 
 
 This was the way it befell. It chanced that 
 Darrell's banker in Paris was the man who had 
 charge of Madame L'Estrange's matters, and 
 managed for her the bonds and shares which 
 made up her competency. Vaughan had known 
 this banker formerly in America, and he chose 
 to be very civil during the time Darrell was in 
 Paris a period which the young gentleman 
 lengthened beyond his original intention, as 
 young gentlemen will a stay in the fascinating 
 city. 
 
 Vaughan never told his private affairs to any 
 body ; but mentioning to the banker that he was 
 going to Clarens, that personage ventured to 
 burden him with some documents for Madame 
 L'Estrange, aware that the lady, Frenchwoman 
 like, would be grateful to him for sparing her 
 the expense of the postage on the heavy papers. 
 The banker's daughter had been a companion of 
 Nathalie's at the convent, and showed Vaughan 
 a marvelous photograph of the girl, a picture 
 which brought out her peculiar beauty in its 
 highest perfection. Of Madame L'Estrange the 
 banker only knew that she was the relative and 
 inheritor of an old acquaintance of his; he had 
 assumed the care of her business on that ac- 
 count, never connecting her in any way with 
 the woman whose celebrity had once been some- 
 thing to make sober people shudder. 
 
 Before Darrell left Paris he learned that he 
 must go on to Pisa to find the Craufords, but 
 he did not alter his intention of passing by 
 Geneva and Clarens, informing himself that it 
 would not be too late to cross comfortably over 
 the Simplon into Italy, and having no mind to 
 lose a glimpse of the beautiful lake because the 
 people he meant to join had seen fit to change 
 their plans. This was his second visit to 
 
 Europe, and portions of Switzerland he knew 
 well, though not the Lake of Geneva region. 
 
 So it happened that one bright afternoon 
 Nathalie, sitting to rest on the steps of the 
 chalet after a walk, suddenly became conscious 
 that a very handsome man was standing at a 
 little distance contemplating her. Look and 
 manner were both a compliment, in spite of the 
 rudeness : he seemed to have stopped short to 
 stare literally because he could not help it. He 
 came on now, and Nathalie rose ; and he said, in 
 very fair French 
 
 "I beg a thousand pardons ; it is Mademoiselle 
 L'Estrange, I am sure. I am Darrell Vaughan." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Nathalie, with one of her 
 quick, beautiful blushes, that came from excite- 
 ment, not shyness. "Monsieur Guyou wrote 
 mamma you had been good enough to take 
 charge of a package. She will be so much 
 obliged ! Please come in. I shall see if mam- 
 ma is well enough to thank you. I fear " 
 
 She led him through the dark passage into 
 the little salon, and sped off down the gallery to 
 her mother's apartments. Madame would have 
 been glad of the opportunity to see a stranger, 
 but she really was not able. She tried to sit up 
 and think she might be dressed and rouged, but 
 a whole night of pain had left her so weak and 
 nervous that the bare effort to raise herself was 
 such misery that she began to cry. 
 
 " It is always so," she moaned. " I am not 
 allowed the least pleasure it is hard ! I shall 
 not pray to St. Joseph any more ; he is no use 
 whatever. I shall tell the Cure to choose me 
 somebody else ! won Dleu ! mon Dieu /" 
 
 But she sent Nathalie to the guest. Of course 
 Susanne must go to play propriety ; and Madame 
 lay back among her pillows and wept, and up- 
 braided St. Joseph for his cruelty in not finding 
 her a brief strength sufficient to receive a male 
 visitor. 
 
 " Mamma is so sorry ; she is suffering dread- 
 fully to-day. She hopes that you will come 
 soon again," Nathalie said, as she appeared 
 anew at the door of the salon, with Susanne 
 peeping over her shoulder that worthy creature 
 as much excited as her betters over the arrival 
 of a handsome gentleman. 
 
 Nathalie spoke in English ; she did not ex- 
 pect to say nor hear any thing to which Susanne 
 might not listen still it was a pleasure to speak 
 a language unintelligible to the inquisitive old 
 creature. 
 
 " How beautifully you speak English," 
 Vanghan said. 
 
 "I ought I one half your country woman," 
 returned she, proudly. 
 
 Darrell knew this as well as she. Perhaps 
 there were not three persons in all Switzerland 
 acquainted with the old life and former name of 
 Madame L'Estrange. But Darrell had met at 
 Vevay on the previous night a man who told
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR 
 
 him enough to make him feel that he could 
 adopt toward the daughter a manner different 
 from what he would have ventured on under 
 other circumstances ; and to Nathalie, with her 
 head full of novels, the most exaggerated lan- 
 guage, even to an avowal of love during their 
 first interview, would have appeared perfectly 
 natural. 
 
 "I am sorry Madame can not see me," he 
 went on. " Must I go away at once ?" 
 
 His face grew so eager his voice so pleading ! 
 
 "No, no," laughed Nathalie. " One does not 
 have visitors often enough in this dull place to 
 be willing to lose them." 
 
 "And I have looked fonvard for days to this 
 pleasure," he said. "Do you think one must 
 take weeks and weeks to grow acquainted ? 
 Mademoiselle, I met your old friend, Marie 
 Guy on ; she showed me your picture. I ought 
 not to say so, but it was that picture brought me 
 to Clarens. Are you angry ?" 
 
 Nathalie was a good deal fluttered, but she 
 enjoyed the scene, and was quite ready to take 
 her part. She answered gayly ; she could treat 
 his words as idle badinage, but they moved her 
 nevertheless, and he, watching the sensitive face, 
 could see that. 
 
 Susanne sat upright in her chair under the 
 shadow of her cap-tower, and stared at the two. 
 She would have given her ears to know what 
 they were talking about, and had three minds 
 to risk a hint to her young lady that she ought 
 to speak French. 
 
 They talked of her school-life, of Marie Guyon ; 
 they strayed away to other topics ; and Vaughan, 
 with his usual quickness to read and understand 
 others, was soon as well able to tell what subjects 
 would interest her, what an impossible hash of 
 sentiment, romance, and false theories there was 
 in her mind, as if he had known her for months. 
 
 Nathalie spoke of her newly acquired friend 
 who had recently gone from her. Did Mr. 
 Vaughan know the Craufords ? No, Mr. Vangh- 
 an did not. He wondered if the two young 
 women were in correspondence he must dis- 
 cover. It did not require much artful question- 
 ing to draw Nathalie out, for her heart was full 
 of this subject. Mr. Vaughan had been sitting 
 there some time ; they had talked themselves 
 far past the beginning of an acquaintance con- 
 versation that was new to Nathalie, which pos- 
 sessed a keen fascination, because it was like the 
 talk in the books Blanche de Savigny's cousin 
 used to procure for them to read. 
 
 That dragon and guard of the proprieties and 
 youthful virtue, tightly-laced Susanne, had gone 
 fast asleep in her chair after the fatigues of her 
 mi-tress's bad night. She sat upright as ever, 
 but her cap-tower had tilted a little to one side, 
 her hands were crossed in her lap, and faint 
 murmurs, like the distant hum of bees, proceeded 
 from her parted lips. Darrell called Nathalie's 
 
 attention to this. They both laughed, then went 
 out on the gallery, and sat down, perhaps good- 
 naturedly desirous not to disturb the woman's 
 slumbers ; for Nathalie mentioned the tiresome 
 watch, and was in a mood to do justice to Su- 
 sanne's merits in general. 
 
 "But you were telling me about this friend 
 of yours," Vaughan said. 
 
 "Ah, yes I loved her so she is very beau- 
 tiful, and so wise and good ! I tried to hate her 
 for that, but I could not. And I shall not see 
 her any more ve do not even write letters. Is 
 it not sad ?" 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Indeed I do not know I think Elizabeth 
 does not either. Only just at the last, Mr. Crau- 
 ford such a stupid old man, with a horrid nose 
 found out well, mamma did not explain, so 
 I could hardly understand. But it seems he 
 and my papa were enemies, and mamma and 
 Mr. Crauford were both shocked to find they 
 had been living near one another, and that their 
 daughters were intimate. " 
 
 "A little hard for you and Miss Cranford, 
 is it not? to visit old quarrels on you," said 
 Darrell. 
 
 " Yes ; but we shall not see each other any 
 more," sighed Nathalie. "It was best; I know 
 it was," she added, rather to herself than him ; 
 for she was thinking of her superstitious pre- 
 sentiment. "It was all so hurried. I scarcely 
 cried till she was gone she did not, so I kept 
 my tears back. Perhaps her father prejudiced 
 her against us. She was fond of me, but I am 
 sure she always disapproved. Ah, well, she is 
 gone : let us talk of other things, this saddens 
 me." 
 
 "I should fancy she must be a rather disa- 
 greeable girl a kind' of Minerva and Mentor, 
 and that sort of thing," said Vaughan. 
 
 "Ah, you do not know what you are talking 
 about," cried Nathalie, impatiently. ( "I could 
 tell you so many charming things but I sup- 
 pose you do not remain here long?" 
 
 "That will depend on you," he replied. 
 "Would you like me to stay ?" 
 
 "Oh, mamma will be charmed to make your 
 acquaintance." 
 
 "Please don'* treat me to a propriety an- 
 swer," he exclaimed. "Shall I stay?" 
 
 She gave him a merry, coquettish glance, but 
 her color rose under his prolonged gaze. There 
 was a little vase of flowers on the rustic table by 
 her side. She took out a Marguerite, and began 
 picking off leaf after leaf, looking at him from 
 under her downcast lashes, as she said 
 
 " He shall stay he shall not he shall stay 
 he oh, Mr. Vaughan, the Marguerite says No!" 
 There was real disappointment in her voice; one 
 of her chief weaknesses was a strange faith in 
 omens and superstitions fancies and practices of 
 all sorts.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 53 
 
 "You did not do it fairly," said Darrell. 
 "Once you picked off two leaves at the same 
 time." 
 
 "Are you sure?" she asked, anxiously. 
 
 "Quite sure. I shall stay it is destiny." 
 
 He laughed, hut he spoke seriously neverthe- 
 less. Nathalie's head was in a whirl As she 
 had often said to Elizabeth, her theories were 
 immense ; but practically she was very ignorant 
 of matters concerning which she thought and 
 talked much. This handsome man, with his soft 
 voice and fascinations of speech, coming so un- 
 expectedly upon her, and finding the way to stir 
 at once her fancy, dazed and bewildered her. 
 Now, for the first time, she remembered Mon- 
 sieur La Tonr. It seemed as if a cold wind blew, 
 without warning, straight over her naked soul. 
 She looked pale, and absolutely frightened. 
 
 ' ' Oh, I forgot ! " she sighed. 
 
 " What is that ?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' Monsieur La Tour will be back. Did not 
 Marie tell you?" 
 
 " She told me nothing about any such person 
 who is he ?'' 
 
 "I I am to marry Monsieur La Tour," she 
 replied. 
 
 Vaughan rose quickly. As he turned away, 
 she caught one passionate exclamation from his 
 lips. Presently he came back, and held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Farewell, Mademoiselle L'Estrange," he said, 
 in an odd, choked voice. "You are right I 
 can not stay." 
 
 Without another word of adieu, he was gone. 
 
 "I think," observed Vaughan to his familiar, 
 as he took the road back to Vevay, "that I 
 made as neat an ending to the scene as one 
 could wish. What a fascinating creature she 
 is ! Hum ! Well, coute qui coute, I shall not go 
 away yet, in spite of Monsieur La Tour and the 
 philosophic Miss Crauford." 
 
 Susanne, roused from her slumbers by the 
 hurried passing of her guest through the salon, 
 came out on the gallery in search of Nathalie. 
 She began a voluble dissertation upon the gen- 
 tleman's charms. Nathalie recovered herself 
 enough -to rise and go away. She could not 
 endure the sight of a human face or the sound 
 of a human voice. She hurried to her bedroom, 
 locked the door, and there she moaned and wept 
 like a crazy thing. She should never see him 
 any more ; he had come and gone like a dream. 
 Was it that he loved her ? Ah, he had come 
 because of this ; he had loved her from seeing 
 her picture. Now he was gone ! She had had 
 one glimpse into heaven, and been cast back 
 upon the bleak rocks ! Life had just roused it- 
 self, a real life, and been snatched away ! Noth- 
 ing lay before her but misery and anguish, and 
 Monsieur La Tour how she hated him ! The 
 old idea of running off and going on the stage 
 beset her ; the morbid whim for suicide ; a j 
 
 score of impossible and absurd ideas flashed up. 
 But it was all reality to her. She suffered ; she 
 was half mad with pain. This was the man Fate 
 meant her to love, and he was gone forever. 
 
 Vevay promised to make a pleasant resting- 
 place for a time. Vaughan had met several 
 young Englishmen with card -playing propen- 
 sities, and passed a jolly evening. That night 
 he ventured on a dose of hasheesh for the first 
 time for weeks, having discovered, from the ef- 
 fect of his later indulgences, that he must be- 
 ware how he played with the drug. He had 
 missed the poison terribly ; for a while he was 
 much oppressed and upset ; no other stimulant 
 took its place. But Vaughan had no intention 
 of becoming a slave to the habit ; he meant to 
 keep it, a useful servant when brilliant efforts 
 were needed. So he tried the hasheesh before 
 going to bed, just to be certain that leaving it 
 off for a season was the only thing necessary. 
 His attempt proved perfectly successful Not 
 only was he treated to a gorgeous vision, but, 
 before his faculties escaped control, he found 
 himself able to finish a bit of writing which he 
 had hitherto failed in completing to his satisfac- 
 tion a passage in a political article for a review. 
 Vaughan had no mind to be forgotten by the 
 public, and his speeches and papers similar to 
 the present were not unfrequent. 
 
 For reasons which it is not necessary to dwell 
 upon here he had deferred trying for a renom- 
 ination to Congress. The Administration was 
 one opposed to his politics, yet the causes seized 
 on for opposition by his party in the House and 
 Senate chanced to be matters which he could 
 see would hereafter render those men personally 
 unpopular. If he accepted a nomination and 
 won his seat, it would be impossible to separate 
 himself from their interests. Better to wait. 
 Two years from this autumn there would be a 
 Presidential election. The party to which he 
 belonged was sure to bring in its nominee. 
 Then he would go to Congress. During the 
 two closing years of that Presidency he might 
 take a diplomatic appointment, if questions giv- 
 ing promise of an opportunity to distinguish 
 himself should arise with any foreign govern- 
 ment. In the mean time he wrote, as I say, 
 occasional brilliant articles, made effective 
 speeches, and managed to keep himself before 
 the world as a rising man of whom great things 
 were to be expected. 
 
 While in London he had been called on to 
 deliver an address at a meeting of some inter- 
 national society, and contrived to perform that 
 most difficult oratorical feat the satisfying of 
 people both in England and America. The 
 London newspapers openly said it was a pity 
 the Washington Cabinet did not send a man 
 like him, young as he was, to represent his 
 country at the Court of St. James, instead of 
 the dull old " fogies " usually chosen ; and of
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 course the New York journals sneered at the 
 British impertinence, but praised Vaughan im- 
 mensely. 
 
 What Darrell proposed to himself by dawdling 
 in Switzerland he did not take the trouble to 
 think. He knew that Cromlin had gone to 
 California, so he was not pressed for time 
 where his interests in the codicil were con- 
 cerned. In truth, Vaughan was a more vision- 
 ary person than he himself realized ; capable of 
 very reckless actions, clear-headed, as he could 
 show on occasion. But his bold schemes had 
 hitherto succeeded ; he had unbounded faith in 
 his own powers and his luck the only god he 
 recognized. 
 
 I do not mean that he was an atheist. Dar- 
 rell Vaughan was simply a heathen, and his 
 deity an odd cross between fatality and chance. 
 
 He had an ardent craving for great wealth 
 for acquiring lands upon lands for the power 
 that wealth gives. He had not dope ill for 
 himself in certain transactions with a set of men 
 at that time all-powerful in the municipal af- 
 fairs of New York. But Vaughan had been 
 very careful, and kept his record clean : what- 
 ever disclosures might in the future menace the 
 clique, he was safe. 
 
 He meant now to gain the heritage for which 
 his uncle had given him a chance. Elizabeth 
 Crauford's fortune, added to that and the riches 
 lie already possessed, would render him almost 
 a millionaire. The pleasure of thwarting Launce 
 Cromlin counted for something in his plan, too. 
 Darrell nurtured no melodramatic and mediaeval 
 enmity toward his relative ; in fact, he rather 
 liked the young fellow personally. But he did 
 hate Launce's honesty and purity of life. Neither 
 quality could be sneered at. for he had to admit 
 that Launce was brave and manly. To surpass 
 his cousin leave Cromlin's career a poor thing 
 in comparison with his own had always been 
 one of his strongest determinations. He would 
 have hesitated at no wrong to accomplish this, 
 from trying to make Launce show as a villain 
 to shutting him up in a mad-house, if that had 
 been possible. Best of all would be to see 
 Launce struggle unsuccessfully, obliged to turn 
 to him for help. He would fling him bounty 
 with great satisfaction. If he ever came to 
 need that, he might really hope for Vaughan's 
 regard. 
 
 A lover of pleasure, passionate, sensual an 
 ugly word to write, but I can not cure myself 
 of the habit of giving things their true names 
 Darrell Vaughan had inward enemies to 
 fight against much more potent than he knew. 
 Indeed, lie did not make any fight. All he 
 wanted was to preserve a fair exterior in the 
 world's eyes. He trusted to his own self-con- 
 trol for keeping within bounds, as lie trusted to 
 his magnificent physique standing the wear and 
 tear to which he exposed it. 
 
 The next morning Nathalie set out for a 
 walk, up over the hills toward Chaillet, followed 
 by her old woman. Vaughan joined her : he 
 had been keeping watch over the house, and 
 saw her leave it. 
 
 Her smile of recognition, the glad light in 
 her eyes, would have caused him to linger had 
 he been on his way to the church to join the 
 woman he meant to marry, trusting always to his 
 luck that the delay should work no harm to his 
 prospects. The possibility of carrying Nathalie 
 L'Estrange off, yet not allowing the gratification 
 of his passion to interfere with the marriage he 
 had sworn to make, occurred to him as he hur- 
 ried forward to meet the girl. 
 
 " I had a hope of seeingyou," he said, eagerly. 
 "I meant to have gone away this morning, but 
 I could not. Did you think me very rude yes- 
 terday ?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered; "very rude! In 
 France people do not end a visit so abruptly." 
 
 Her smile would have made much harsher 
 words sound pleasant. 
 
 " You knew why I went away ?" returned he. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, but face auu eyes 
 belied that affectation of carelessness. 
 
 " Listen," he said they were speaking 
 French. "You admitted yesterday that ac- 
 quaintance, friendship, love even, were not mat- 
 ters of time. I went away so abruptly because 
 the news of your engagement struck my heart 
 like a blow from a sharp knife. I have no right 
 to say this ; it is rude, unheard of, what you 
 will but it is the truth. "Will you answer me 
 one question ?" 
 
 She had turned away her head. She signed 
 him to go on. 
 
 "Do you love this Monsieur La Tour?" he 
 asked. 
 
 " Mamma chose him for my husband," she 
 replied, after an instant's hesitation. "You 
 know how such matters are arranged in my 
 country." 
 
 "Oh yes," he cried, bitterly ; " a bargain, nn 
 affair of buying and selling. And you are sold 
 to him like a slave in a market to this old 
 man ! I asked about him last night. You, 
 with your beauty and your genius, are to be 
 bound to him ! It is horrible, horrible !" 
 
 "I hate it!" ejaculated Nathalie, setting her 
 little white teeth hard together. "Every day 
 I have wished myself dead ! There, are you 
 answered ? I care nothing for forms ! It mat- 
 ters not to me that we are what the world would- 
 call strangers. I am glad to speak out to some 
 human being." 
 
 "Nor are we actually strangers," he said. 
 " Our mutual friend's letter to your mother has 
 told you all about me. But that is of no con- 
 sequence. In any case we should have felt at 
 the first glance we knew one another it was 
 destinv."
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 He talked and she listened. It was rubbish, 
 but clothed in such beautiful language that it 
 appealed eloquently to her mind, excited by 
 romances, and ready to grasp at any brilliant 
 sophistry as the real and true. 
 
 Soon after she returned to the house. He 
 followed, and made his call upon Madame 
 L'Estrange. She felt able to receive him to- 
 day, and was charmed with his manners and 
 conversation. 
 
 Four days passed, and on each of them 
 Vaughan managed to see Nathalie out of her 
 mother's presence. He was wild about her 
 ready to believe he had never loved any woman 
 till now ; but the idea of sacrificing his future for 
 her, of taking to wife a penniless girl, the daugh- 
 ter of Nina de Favolles Tracy L'Estrange 
 whatever she called herself never once occurred 
 to him. 
 
 Any excitement was always pleasant; any 
 adventure out of the common appealed to his 
 fancy. At least, these days were a new sensa- 
 tion ; these tete monUe conversations with Natha- 
 lie were like reading a chapter in an original 
 novel. But the mad idea which had at the first 
 crossed his mind started up as a possibility, and 
 was strong within him when he went out to 
 meet her on this fourth day. 
 
 Nathalie's old woman knew that she met 
 Vaughan, and walked with him, but she held 
 her peace. Nathalie paid her well for her si- 
 lence ; and as there was no one who tried to 
 buy disclosures, she was not tempted to sell her 
 knowledge. 
 
 And this day Vaughan told his love not that 
 he had hesitated to talk of it before, but now he 
 forced confessions from her lips, and Nathalie 
 felt that she was ready to trust him, stranger as 
 he was. Stranger ! she would have laughed at 
 the word. She seemed to have known him for 
 years all her life. The realization of her wild- 
 est dream had come her visionary hero had 
 taken earthly shape, and stood before her. 
 
 They were standing on the hill, back from 
 the road by which the old woman sat as usual, 
 munching chestnuts and calculating what her 
 gains would be at the end of a month. 
 
 "Hark!" exclaimed Nathalie. "That was 
 Susanne surely it was the voice of Susanne." 
 
 Vaughan drew her hastily back among the 
 trees, and they stood listening, 
 
 " Where is Mademoiselle, I say, you silly old 
 thing?" demanded Susanne's piercing tones. 
 
 " I am telling you, or I would if I got a 
 chance, "returned the other, raising her cracked 
 voice too. -"Mademoiselle has just stepped up 
 the hill for the view. ' Rosine,' she said to me, 
 ' sit you here ; the hill is too steep for your old 
 bones.' Always thoughtful is Mademoiselle." 
 
 "You are a chattering magpie, " interrupted 
 Susanne. " Which hill, when there is one on 
 every side cabbage ?" 
 
 "La, la! Just call; she will hear. Why 
 climb when there is no need?" 
 
 Then both voices shouted 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! Mademoiselle !" 
 
 " What is it, Susanne?" called Nathalie. 
 
 "Quick come home, quick! Monsieur La 
 Tour has arrived, and Madame is in hysterics 
 with joy ! Come quick, I say !" 
 
 Susanne had commenced the ascent there 
 was no time to lose. Nathalie cast one despair- 
 ing glance at Vaughan, and fled. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 MILADY'S CELL. 
 
 LAUNCE CROMLIN'S voyage was a short one. 
 He reached New York in less than eleven days 
 from the date of his leaving Liverpool. 
 
 Those bright, golden days were not unpleas- 
 ant to that dreaming Launce. The ocean was 
 calm as a lake ; there were fine sunsets to watch, 
 agreeable people on board, and Launce was soon 
 a favorite, as he rapidly became with most per- 
 sons. 
 
 He was sorely disturbed by the news of his 
 uncle's failing health, and the long delay of his 
 letters. He had expected to arrive at Montreux 
 weeks before, and so had ordered all his corre- 
 spondence to be forwarded there from London. 
 
 The summons home had been a great happi- 
 ness. He regretted deeply now that he had al- 
 lowed pride to prevent his seeking his relative 
 long before. Even yet he was ignorant what 
 had caused the old man's anger or brought about 
 this new change of feeling. Mr. Vaughan only 
 wrote 
 
 "I find that I have done you a great wrong 
 may you and God forgive me! I am ill 
 breaking fast, though I may still last a long 
 time. But I want to see you. Will you pardon 
 your hot-headed uncle and come ? Explanations 
 I can not give in a letter. I will not trust my 
 shameful suspicions to paper. Come to me, my 
 dear boy, that I may hear from your own lips 
 that I am pardoned." 
 
 Further lines breathing love and tenderness, 
 but not a syllable to throw any light upon the 
 cause of his estrangement. 
 
 Lnunce Cromlin was six-and-twenty an en- 
 thusiast, an artist who was beginning to win a 
 name in both Europe and America. He had 
 proved that he possessed, not only genius, but the 
 ability to work patiently and hard, to submit to 
 apprenticeship and routine, as even genius must 
 do if really great results are to be gained. Sir 
 Galahad, his artist associates used to call him ; 
 yet among the most reckless there was not one 
 but thoroughly respected and honored him. A 
 brave, straightforward, noble fellow manly in 
 every sense of the word ; a man whom other
 
 r>6 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 men liked too, though he did keep his youth free 
 from the vices with which, under a score of 
 pretty names, so many of his compeers laid up 
 for themselves a bitter harvest of regret in the 
 future. 
 
 Many times during those sunny autumn days, 
 as Launce sat on deck watching the glorious 
 sweep of the mid-ocean waves, and trying with 
 colors and brush to obtain hasty studies which 
 should hereafter be useful for tints and forms, 
 he dreamed of the romantic incident which had 
 marked his day at Montreux. He smiled often 
 at his own folly, and told himself he was as silly 
 as a fellow in a romance, yet the beautiful face 
 of the insensible girl whom he had held in his 
 aims still haunted him. After all it was not 
 surprising, Launce thought. Hers was a coun- 
 tenance to strike any artist. He made a study 
 of the face from memory ; it would serve admir- 
 ably some time. He could imagine a picture 
 that might be very effective. Say a long sweep 
 of sea-beach with the surf tumbling in great 
 masses of rock like those on the Cornish coast, 
 or at home upon the shore of Maine ; a stretch 
 of ocean in the distance, with just those reflec- 
 tions across the waves which he was trying now 
 to catch ; upon the sands a woman's figure ly- 
 ing, the face upraised the face he had paint- 
 ed from recollection. But not a dead face 
 Launce never could think of depicting it as 
 such. The picture should suggest a tragedy, 
 but not death. 
 
 So he dreamed and read novels, and made ac- 
 quaintance with his fellow-voyagers, happier and 
 more light-hearted than ever at the thought of 
 the clearing up of the cloud between himself and 
 his uncle, and the quiet days took their course. 
 Land at last! The great steamer passed up 
 the Narrows, through the beautiful bay, and the 
 mighty city was reached. 
 
 It was still early in the morning when Crom- 
 lin found himself once more among the busy 
 streets of his native city. His first business was 
 to rush off to his hankers, in the hope that he 
 might find letters from his uncle. There were 
 none. Then he went to an old friend of his rel- 
 ative, who might have news. The man one 
 wants is never in the way; lie whom Launce 
 i-ought had strayed somewhere into the country. 
 After this there was no step Launce could take 
 to gain any information. He knew that Mr. 
 Vaughan had gone to California years before, 
 and could think of no person with whom the ret- 
 icent old bachelor would be likely to keep up 
 communication. Who his bankers or lawyers 
 in New York might be, Launce had no idea. 
 
 Darrell was undoubtedly in California his 
 uncle had spoken of expecting him ; once there, 
 lie would of course remain several months. 
 Still he sought for him a little ; very uselessly, 
 for he neither knew Darrell's friends nor place 
 of abode. Launce had been absent for five 
 
 years, and even before that he and his consin 
 had not been intimate. There was no quarrel 
 between them, but their ways of life were differ- 
 ent. Launce, too, knew Darrell better than 
 most people. Yet after the renunciation of 
 Launce by their uncle, Darrell had behaved well. 
 He had hunted his cousin up in Europe, pro- 
 fessed himself in ignorance of the cause of their 
 uncle's anger, volunteered to do what he could 
 to set matters right ; and altogether acted in so 
 frank and sympathetic a manner that Launce 
 reproached himself for sundry hard thoughts he 
 had indulged toward his relative. 
 
 But no tidings had since reached him from 
 Darrell, though Launce had given him a gener- 
 al address at a London banker's. Darrell also 
 knew who his bankers were in New York, which 
 had made Launce hope he might find news from 
 him there. 
 
 There was no use in wasting time. He must 
 send a telegram to San Francisco, announcing 
 his arrival, and must recommence his journey 
 with the least possible delay. Inquiries brought 
 the information that a steamer was to sail for 
 Panama on the following day. Launce drove 
 down to Bowling Green and secured his pas- 
 sage, principally occupied in execrating the im- 
 pudent hackman, who proved, like his brethren 
 in general, a disgrace to New York, and in la- 
 menting that the wonderful rail which was to 
 connect the Atlantic and the Pacific coasts was 
 still a hope of the future. 
 
 He reached the Everett House again. As he 
 was descending from the carriage he saw a hack 
 laden with luggage pass, and at the window he 
 beheld his cousin's face. 
 
 "Darrell! "he called. 
 
 The carriage whirled on. He could have 
 sworn that Darrell's eyes met his ; it must be 
 that he had not recognized him. Launce offer- 
 ed a preposterous reward to his hackman if he 
 overtook the carriage, sprang back to his seat, 
 and off they dashed. All he gained was a rapid 
 drive down Broadway, a half hour spent in a 
 press of vehicles at Fulton Street, a quarrel with 
 the hackman, and a narrow escape of arrest by 
 the police as a criminal or madman, from his 
 excitement at the delay. 
 
 While eating his dinner that night, Launce 
 glanced idly over the columns of an evening pa- 
 per, and read Darrell Vaughan's name among 
 the list of the passengers on a steamer which 
 had sailed that day for Liverpool. 
 
 Launce's brain was in a whirl. Had Darrell 
 gone in search of him ? The possibility of de- 
 ceit or treachery did not suggest itself to his 
 mind. Such thoughts do not come readily to a 
 man like Cromlin. Could he at that moment have 
 looked into the state-room of the steamer, where 
 his cousin lay very sea-sick and miserable, he 
 would have seen a triumphant smile on his pal- 
 lid face ; and if Vaughan's thoughts could have
 
 MK. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 57 
 
 been made audible to him, they would have run 
 something like this : 
 
 "A narrow thing indeed, by Jove ! Ugh ! this 
 cursed sickness ! He will go straight on to Cal- 
 ifornia. A month to go, a month to get back 
 more at that season and a hunt for the Crau- 
 fords, should he push over to Europe. Bah ! 
 you are ' played ' every way, Master Launce, as 
 usual! Steward, are you never coming with 
 that brandy ? Bring a bottle of champagne too." 
 
 Long weeks after that night Mr. Carstoe was 
 sitting one evening in the library of the villa 
 at Moysterville where he and Darrell Vaughan 
 had held so many friendly chats. The house had 
 not been rented, and, according to an agree- 
 ment with Vaughan, he made it his head-quar- 
 ters, as the housekeeper refused to stay and take 
 charge of the lonely place with no better guard 
 for her mature charms than Jack, the lame gar- 
 dener. 
 
 He was awaiting the arrival of his old employ- 
 er's other nephew. Launce, on his arrival at 
 San Francisco, learned that his uncle had been 
 dead for months, and that his former agent, Mr. 
 Carstoe, was then at Moysterville. Particulars 
 Launce could not gain : he would go on. He 
 telegraphed to Mr. Carstoe that he might be ex- 
 pected. He was broken-hearted at these tidings. 
 It seemed so hard that his uncle should have 
 gone before he could once more hear words of 
 kindness from the lips of the man he had loved 
 so well. At least he must have left letters 
 some explanation of the mystery which had so 
 long separated them. No one so likely to know 
 as this Mr. Carstoe : he would go in search of 
 him. Of the fortune of his own share therein 
 he had no time to think ; his mind was full 
 of his sad loss, and the bitter disappointment of 
 having arrived too late. 
 
 He was worn, tired ; another man might have 
 fancied himself menaced by illness ; but Launce, 
 never having been ill in his life, set all his odd 
 sensations down to the score of fatigue and 
 trouble, and hastened to reach his journey's end. 
 
 So this dark autumnal evening Mr. Carstoe sat 
 awaiting" the arrival of his visitor, wondering in 
 his slow way why on earth the young man 
 should have come to California. He must have 
 seen his cousin in New York, or, if they missed 
 each other, must have received the letters which 
 would make all matters clear. It was useless 
 for Mr. Carstoe to go to the station in the dark, 
 for he and the young gentleman were utter stran- 
 gers. Mr. Cromlin knew where to come ; all 
 Mr. Carstoe could do was to wait for him in the 
 villa, and be certain that the housekeeper had a 
 good dinner prepared in the guest's honor. 
 
 And Launce arrived. Late that night he and 
 Mr. Carstoe still sat in earnest conversation. 
 There were no letters for Launce ; Mr. Carstoe 
 had himself gone over the papers of the deceased 
 at Darrell's request. 
 
 " The whole thing was terribly sudden, though 
 he had so long been in poor health," Mr. Car- 
 stoe said. " I am convinced that matters would 
 have been different had he not put off too long. 
 I said so to Mr. Darrell Vaughan I repeat it to 
 you." 
 
 Launce already knew that his cousin inherit- 
 ed the fortune let him have it. He did not 
 care for the money, but to have come too late 
 that was what hurt. The manner of the bequest 
 to himself would prevent his ever touching it ; 
 he could receive nothing from Darrell's bounty 
 or condescension. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe told things in a slow fashion ; but 
 the facts of the will, as most important in his 
 eyes, came out first, and he finally got to the af- 
 fair of the codicil. Launce was struck dumb. 
 Even in the dull misery of his mood there rose 
 a vision of that beautiful face which had so often 
 of late haunted him. Had it been Fate which 
 showed her to him that day ? Time enough for 
 such dreams ; there was more prosaic business 
 on hand now. 
 
 "A full account of these matters," Mr. Car- 
 stoe was saying, " your cousin and I wrote to you 
 at your address in New York, to be forwarded." 
 
 ' ' What address ?" asked Cromlin. 
 
 "Noble & Brothers, Exchange Place." 
 
 " I never even heard their names that I re- 
 member," said Launce. 
 
 "Very odd," replied Mr. Carstoe. "Your 
 cousin thought the letters would be sure to reach 
 you there." 
 
 "The letter written me by my uncle how 
 was that sent ?" 
 
 "To a Mr. Sandford, in New York. By the 
 way, he is dead too I saw a notice in an East- 
 ern paper. An answer came from him after 
 your uncle's death : he had forwarded the letter 
 for you to a London banker, but did not men- 
 tion the name, so your cousin thought we had 
 better send ours to Noble & Brothers." 
 
 "A strange insanity on Darrell's part," said 
 Launce, dryly. 
 
 "A series of lamentable errors on every body's," 
 observed Carstoe. " Sir, I am heartily grieved. 
 Mr. Vaughan was a peculiar man a difficult 
 man ; but the most honorable and straightfor- 
 ward one I ever knew. Sir, he was a good friend 
 to me." 
 
 There had been neither wine nor punch to 
 quicken Mr. Carstoe's halting speech to-night. 
 He spoke stiffly, with hesitation, but what he said 
 had at least the merit of clearness. 
 
 " You are a good man, Mr. Carstoe," returned 
 Launce, seizing his companion's hand, and caus- 
 ing Carstoe to look embarrassed and miserable 
 by this impulsiveness. "See here, sir, I have a 
 sad weight on my mind ; I want to know if you 
 can help to clear it up." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe waited ; he knew what was com- 
 ing. Launce briefly related the story of his un-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIK. 
 
 cle's having suddenly refused to hold any com- 
 munication with him in that letter in which he 
 had disowned and cast him off. 
 
 " Now, did he ever talk to you about it, Mr. 
 Carstoe ? Do you know what he fancied I had 
 done? He was a stern man, but never unjust." 
 
 Hesitation would only have been as foolish as 
 it would be unkind. 
 
 " He did tell me, after finding out his error 
 through Mr. Sandford's investigations," Mr. Car- 
 stoe said. 
 
 "What did he think?" 
 
 " That you had falsified a check he sent you," 
 replied Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 Launce uttered a cry. Mr. Carstoe thought 
 he was fainting, but he soon recovered himself. 
 
 " Tell me all you can," he said. 
 
 The agent gave the details. He could even 
 recall the time at which the check had been sent 
 Launce's twenty-first birthday. After a while 
 Launce spoke. 
 
 "I never saw the check," he said, slowly. 
 "My uncle had arranged for my first year's ex- 
 penses in Europe while I was with him in Ver- 
 mont ; that was the last money I ever received. 
 I only wrote him once before sailing. I had 
 wanted to keep my broken arm a secret for fear 
 he should defer my journey. I never saw that 
 check, Mr. Carstoe !" 
 
 "That agrees with Mr. Sandford's idea that 
 the bank teller must have been in the plot. But 
 who could have got the check, and how ?" 
 
 "Heaven knows," groaned Launce. " There 
 is no way to find out now no step to take. 
 Why, it's like an awful dream!" 
 
 He stopped and passed his hand across his 
 forehead. 
 
 "Remember that at least your uncle lived to 
 believe in your innocence," Mr. Carstoe said, 
 greatly moved. 
 
 "Thank God! Did he talk about me did 
 he seem to care for me?" Launce's voice broke. 
 
 "He talked about you constantly during that 
 last fortnight mostly of the time when you were 
 a boy. Ah! he had loved you dearly all the 
 while. I was with him more than any body. 
 Well, sir, I know he meant to change his will. 
 I supposed that Smith had drawn up a new one 
 at the time the codicil was written. I expected 
 to find that you and your cousin shared equally. 
 I told Mr. Darrell so the night he arrived here. 
 I am bound to say he expressed a hope that I 
 might be right ; he was greatly attached to you 
 and your uncle very happy that your innocence 
 had been established. But when the will was 
 opened I found the change hnd not been made." 
 
 "I don't care for the money," cried Launce. 
 *' At least he knew I was not a villain. Good 
 God ! how could it have come about ? And he's 
 dead, and there is no clew ?" 
 
 " None," said Mr. Carstoe. " I know what I 
 have told you, and I know nothing more." 
 
 He went over the details of the last days- 
 Milady's two visits ; Mr.Vaughan's seizure dur- 
 ing his conversation with her, Carstoe himself 
 being absent. On the previous night Smith the 
 lawyer had been at the house. Mrs. Simpson 
 and Anthony Turner had witnessed papers ; but 
 that was an occurrence too frequent to be im- 
 portant. Mr. Carstoe only mentioned it casually 
 to show that up to the very hour of the paralytic 
 stroke Mr.Vaughan's mind remained clear. 
 
 "I got back that evening," he went on, husk- 
 ily. " He knew me once tried to tell me some- 
 thing." 
 
 "But you could not understand?" 
 
 " No. There were only broken words. I 
 caught, ' My boy my bov set right time 
 I 
 
 Mr. Carstoe's voice faltered. Launce remained 
 silent. After a while, the lawyer continued 
 
 " I understood when we opened the will. He 
 had not made the change I supposed completed 
 when the codicil was drawn up. That was what 
 troubled him. But even if I had understood, it 
 would have been too late then too late, poor 
 man!" 
 
 Mr. Carstoe paused, spread out his hands, and 
 turned away. 
 
 " God bless you!" cried Launce, wringing his 
 hand. "You have given me great comfort." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe put his head straight on his shoul- 
 ders, and looked into the fire, more wooden than 
 ever of aspect, to atone for his late weakness. 
 
 "Your cousin arrived the next day," he con- 
 tinued. "The old gentleman never knew him, 
 nor any body, though he lingered for more than 
 a week. As I mentioned to you, poor Smith 
 was killed only the day of Mr.Vaughan's attack. 
 It was a week to be remembered in Moysterville 
 two citizens so prominent " 
 
 "Did you ever see that woman again?" de- 
 manded Launce, ruthlessly interrupting this bit 
 of eloquence. 
 
 "Ah! she could only have come to beg, or 
 worse ; probably her visit was a blind." 
 
 Then Mr. Carstoe told the story of the stolen 
 jewels, and the lucky chance by which Darrell 
 Vaughan had discovered her guilt. Launce list- 
 ened attentively to the tale, the interest and ex- 
 citement of the whole conversation since his ar- 
 rival causing him to forget the peculiar physical 
 sensations which had troubled him for days. 
 
 "And the woman saw my uncle twice?" he 
 said at last. 
 
 "Yes; she came two days in succession. 
 After her first visit, Mr. Vaughan told Mrs. 
 Simpson to be sure and admit her when she re- 
 turned." 
 
 "And she is now in the penitentiary?" 
 
 "She has not been taken there yet; she is 
 still in the jail here. About the time she was 
 to be sent, a great fire broke out in the women's 
 ward of the penitentiary. The damages were
 
 MR. VAUG 
 
 so great that they had none too much room for 
 the prisoners already there." 
 
 "I remember now," Launce replied; "they 
 mentioned it in San Francisco. It is supposed 
 that it was set on fire a plot for the escape of 
 the convicts." 
 
 " Yes ; and several did get away, but were re- 
 taken." 
 
 " So the woman is still here in the jail ?" 
 Launce said, after a few moments' thought. 
 4 'Mr. Carstoe, I shall go to see her." 
 
 Carstoe looked surprised and puzzled. 
 
 "You don't suppose she could throw any light 
 on the matter which troubles you ? Mr. Vaughan 
 got his information from Sandford." 
 
 " I don't know that I expect any thing. All 
 the same, I shall go to see Milady, if I can get 
 the permission." 
 
 The next morning Mr. Carstoe occupied him- 
 self in procuring the necessary permit not diffi- 
 cult to obtain, since it is he who asks it for a 
 nephew of the late Mr. Vaughan. 
 
 The two go to the jail together ; Mr. Carstoe 
 even accompanies Launce into the women's 
 ward, and with him follows the keeper down 
 the corridor into which Milady's cell opens. Mr. 
 Carstoe has no intention of sharing the inter- 
 view he did not mean to come so far; but 
 somehow a painful, irresistible fascination has 
 led him on. 
 
 The doors of all the cells have a square win- 
 dow secured by iron gratings. The shutters are 
 open at this hour ; at almost every loophole some 
 haggard or evil face peers out at the passers. 
 
 " There's Milady taking a peep too," the turn- 
 key says in a low voice, when they have nearly 
 reached the end of the passage. "It's unusual 
 for her to stand there." 
 
 Both gentlemen see her distinctly. Mr. Car- 
 stoe hesitates, then stops ; at the same instant 
 Milady disappears. 
 
 "I'll go back and wait in the matron's parlor," 
 Mr. Carstoe says to Launce. "I didn't mean to 
 ccme I wouldn't have seen her for the world." 
 
 Launce nods, and passes on with the keeper. 
 
 "I've brought you a visitor," the man says, 
 looking through the bars. ' ' I hope you- will be 
 a little more civil to Mr. Cromlin than you gen- 
 erally are to people." 
 
 He unlocks the door, stands back for Launce 
 to enter, and closes it behind him. 
 
 Milady is seated in the farthest comer of the 
 cell, her head resting on her hands. She still 
 wears the rusty black-silk dress, and the faded 
 shawl of Indian cashmere is gathered over her 
 shoulders. 
 
 Launce stands silent for a few seconds, but as 
 she neither stirs nor looks up, he says gentlv 
 
 "I want to talk with you a little, if you will 
 let me." 
 
 Milady raises her head quickly, and flashes 
 her stormy eyes upon him. 
 
 HAN 
 
 'S HEIR. 59 
 
 Launce's first thought is that an insane asylum 
 would be the proper place of captivity for her 
 those eyes can only belong to a mad woman. 
 Then, artist like, he is struck by the picturesque 
 shadow of beauty which hangs about her still a 
 mere shadow, which some way in connection with 
 that wasted face is more appalling than any ugli- 
 ness could have been. 
 
 " What did he call you ?'' she asks in her hol- 
 low voice. 
 
 "My name is Cromlin," Launce replies. 
 
 She is half out of her seat. He has the same 
 feeling which strikes any beholder each time she 
 moves that she is about to spring at him like a 
 panther. But she sinks back on the bench. A 
 strange light, which for an instant altered the ex- 
 pression of her eyes, dies out. Singular changes 
 pass over her face, but Launce can not interpret 
 them. They are like a wild mingling of hope, 
 resolve, doubt, and then a quick, insane cunning 
 and suspicion. 
 
 "Carstoe was with him," she mutters. 
 
 " What did you say ?" Launce asks, still 
 speaking in that kindly voice. He has not time 
 to reflect that such is the case, but his mind is 
 full of pity and sympathy for the creature. "I 
 did not hear. " 
 
 "I said you must catch a bird before you can 
 put salt on its tail," returns Milady, with one of 
 her dreadful laughs. Her countenance has re- 
 sumed its usual sullen, defiant look, yet there is 
 a certain eagerness in her eyes, and she watches 
 him narrowly. 
 
 "When you first came to Moystcrville, you 
 went twice to see old Mr. Vaughan," says Launce. 
 "He was my uncle." 
 
 "'Oh, my prophetic soul,' dear Hamlet!" 
 sneers Milady. "Hadn't you better send for 
 the marines if you want to spin a yarn ? I say, 
 Buffer, a drink would be a blessing." 
 
 Yet Launce noticed the eagerness in her eyes 
 the suspicion in her face. He knows they 
 have a meaning ; that if he could only find out 
 the significance of both she might be induced to 
 talk earnestly. 
 
 "I think," Launce says, "that you put a 
 wrong construction on my visit you do not 
 really believe that I am Mr.Vaughan's nephew." 
 
 She starts again at the name, but once more 
 the suspicion masters the eagerness in her eyes. 
 As if it were a reminder to herself to keep im- 
 passible, untouched, she mutters anew 
 
 " Carstoe was with him!" 
 
 Launce would give much to catch the words. 
 It seems to him that if he could do so he should 
 have the clew he wants whereby to interest the 
 woman and give her faith in him. But he 
 strains his ears vainly ; only a hoarse murmur 
 is audible. 
 
 " I am sure my uncle was kind to you," Lannce 
 goes on, not studying his speech, trusting to his 
 intuitions to say what will be most likely to in-
 
 CO 
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIE. 
 
 fluence her. "I loved him very dearly; we 
 were separated for years ; he thought ill of me 
 believed that I had committed a great crime." 
 Does Milady give a gasping breath almost a 
 groan ? He can not be sure. He had turned 
 away his eyes for an instant, and when he looks 
 up at the sound, she is leaning back, her face as 
 blank as the wall behind her. 
 
 He goes steadily on in his explanation. 
 
 "Before his death lie sent for me. He had 
 discovered that I was innocent, but there is noth- 
 ing among his papers to tell me how. I thought 
 if you knew the least thing, if it were about that 
 you went to him, you would be kind and generous 
 enough to tell me. It could do you no hurt, and 
 would take a great weight off my mind." 
 
 Under the cover of her shawl Milady twists 
 her hands hard together. She will not look at 
 him ; she bows her head ; she fights against her 
 willingness to believe, and fortifies herself anew 
 by that whisper. In his earnestness, too, Launce 
 has overdone his work. She can not fancy any 
 human creature speaking softly to her, unless 
 from a desire to cheat and deceive. He waits, 
 encouraged by her silence to hope that he has 
 found the way to her confidence. But she is 
 quiet so long that he adds 
 
 "If you would tell me! Perhaps never in 
 your whole life will you have an opportunity to 
 do any person so great a favor. I think you 
 would always be glad of having done it." 
 
 " He reels it off well," exclaims Milady. " I 
 say, you're a preacher, and you must be worse 
 than the most of 'em, because you're so much 
 more glib." 
 
 " I have told you who I am," replies Launce. 
 " The keeper mentioned my name. "Why Mr. 
 Carstoe is here, and could tell you." 
 
 " No ; he's only a fool, after all," mutters 
 Milady. "Why, you can't be a preacher it's 
 too bad. I was just going to swear at you. It 
 wouldn't be half the fun if you're not a parson." 
 
 But Launce will not yet relinquish his pur- 
 pose. He feels that he has committed an error 
 in mentioning Mr. Carstoe, so he tries to set it 
 right. 
 
 "You think he is your enemy. Why Mr. 
 Carstoe pities you from the bottom of his heart. 
 He would be the first to head a petition for par- 
 don if you would even now give information that 
 could put justice on the track of those bad men 
 who led you on. He would do it even if he 
 never recovered the jewels." 
 
 " Ah," says Milady, " we've got to that ! It's 
 the way lie interests Carstoc in keeping up the 
 game. Sail ahead, young man !" 
 
 " He whom do you mean?" asks Launce. 
 
 "Your friend the Devil," retorts Milady. 
 " Handsome Devil isn't he oh, we women !" 
 
 Km-!i word has its meaning, Launce feels sure, 
 aimless and coarse as her answers sound, if he 
 could only catch the right clew. 
 
 "You were with my uncle when that attack 
 came on," pursues he. That first appeal had 
 seemed to affect her he will follow it up. "I 
 can not help believing you had some strong mo- 
 tive for those visits ; at least tell me if they in 
 any way bear upon this mystery which has dark- 
 ened my life for years." 
 
 " Ten years," mutters Milady ; "he said so ! 
 And after that, ten years ! Didn't you hear the 
 judge repeat it? He'd been taught his lesson 
 
 A sense of discouragement comes over Launce. 
 The pain and lassitude of the last few days make 
 themselves felt again, and it is an effort to con- 
 centrate his thoughts. 
 
 "You'll not help me?" he says, wearily. 
 
 " How much was your share to be ?" asks Mi- 
 lady, with that look of half -insane cunning. 
 " Are you to be paid any way? I thought that 
 Devil was satisfied, now he has me safe. ' Ten 
 years, and then again ten!'" Her voice be- 
 comes a groan, but she quickly bursts into a 
 laugh, and adds, in her hardest, most defiant 
 fashion, "111 go you a pile of Mexican dollars 
 against a cent that I live through and come out. 
 I will live I will!" she fairly shrieks, shaking 
 her clenched fists. "Live and come out Devil ! 
 Devil!" 
 
 "Think just by giving these men up to jus- 
 tice you could be free very soon," urges Launce. 
 "They could not harm you; you would have 
 friends be kept safe " 
 
 " 'Come into my parlor, said the spider to the 
 fly,'" sang Milady in a hoarse contralto, laugh- 
 ing still, always that crazy cunning in her eyes. 
 
 "If I could only tell what it is you suspect 
 whom you fear," says Launce, his tired faculties 
 growing confused under this feeling that her 
 reticence concealed a mystery. 
 
 "Devil! handscme Devil!" croaks Milady. 
 
 "Let the rest go," says Launce; "at least 
 you would cheat the Devil a little by this favor I 
 ask. Only tell me if your visit to my uncle 
 threw any light on the crime he suspected me 
 of." 
 
 "Do the dead ever get out of their graves?" 
 whispers Milady. "I thought I saw Jem last 
 night." But in an instant she is laughing, and 
 screams out, " Lord, if Jem could come back, 
 what a kettle of fish ! But he's safe six foot un- 
 der ground, and I'm as good as buried Devil ! 
 Devil !" 
 
 She is becoming greatly excited. The keeper 
 has warned Launce that she is subject to moods 
 so like insanity that he believes she will end soon 
 a hopeless maniac. Cromlin is himself growing 
 more conscious of fatigue and weakness each 
 moment, now that he has lost the hope which 
 brought him here. But a new thought strikes 
 him he will try one further plea. 
 
 "If you will not help me, or even tell me 
 whether it is in your power," he says, "I will
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 61 
 
 not be so hard and unkind as you are. They 
 tell me you have a child ; let me know where it 
 is and I will find it, and send you word of its 
 welfare." 
 
 Milady is out of her seat ; she has sprung at 
 him lithe and dangerous as a panther. He has 
 only time to avoid her clutching hands by a 
 quick movement. She totters against the wall, 
 weak, half-fainting, her features convulsed, her 
 eyes like nothing human ; but he hears broken 
 words as she gnashes her teeth till the blood- 
 specked foam flies from her lips. 
 
 ''That was it Devil! Devil! to get the 
 child a hold if I came out the child!" 
 
 Then with a shriek she falls prostrate upon 
 the floor, writhing in awful spasms. 
 
 The turnkey comes, the matron and doctor 
 are sent for. Launce is obliged to go away. 
 He joins Mr. Carstoe, and they wait until news 
 is brought that Milady is better, though still 
 wandering in her mind. 
 
 Launce Cromlin has had no intention of mak- 
 ing any stay in California. This night he goes 
 to bed early, so oppressed by distracting thoughts 
 that conversation or connected meditation is an 
 impossibility. 
 
 He sleeps brokenly, and lives through dismal 
 experiences in his slumber. Sometimes Darrell 
 is trying to drag him over a. precipice. Some- 
 times Elizabeth Crauford is on trial for the theft 
 of the jewels, and he endeavoring to save her ; 
 while his uncle stands by in his shroud, making 
 signs that he wishes to speak words he is power- 
 less to utter, and Elizabeth's face changes to 
 that of Milady, and Darrell is laughing hideously 
 at both. 
 
 Then he wakes, sleeps again, and a worse con- 
 fusion follows. Now he is imprisoned among 
 red-hot iron bars, now freezing to death in a 
 snow-pass of the Sierras always seeing Darrell 
 and scores of other familiar countenances, and 
 hearing his uncle's voice. 
 
 The morning comes, and when Mr. Carstoe 
 ventures to call his dilatory guest to breakfast, 
 he finds him raving in the delirium of the terri- 
 ble Chagres fever, and the next three months 
 are little better than a blank to Launce Cromlin. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 OUTWITTED. 
 
 GOOD, prim, ceremonious Monsieur La Tour ! 
 It was fortunate that he entertained the strictest 
 and most ancient ideas in regard to the panoply 
 of reserve and timidity in which demoiselles 
 ought to be wrapped, otherwise the reception he 
 got from Nathalie must have struck an ominous 
 chill to his heart. But his notion of the greeting 
 proper under the circumstances was to bow low 
 over her hand, to imprint a decorous kiss there- 
 
 on, to offer a long-winded compliment on her 
 appearance, and express his overwhelming de- 
 light at seeing her in elegantly correct French, 
 which sounded like a jumble of quotations from 
 Boileau and Telemachus. 
 
 Madame L'Estrange leaned back among her 
 pillows and watched the scene, with her haggard 
 features and eager eyes softened into content- 
 ment. The scene was so precise, so proper, so 
 dull, that she liked it ; her one desire for Natha- 
 lie's future was quiet and respectability. Su- 
 sanne stood behind Madame's sofa, ostensibly ar- 
 ranging her cushions, in reality watching Natha- 
 lie, with an odd expression, which might have dis- 
 turbed the girl had she noticed it. But Natha- 
 lie was too busy with the rush of rebellious 
 thoughts which oppressed her to observe Su- 
 sanne. She did perceive that Monsieur had 
 bought a new wig in honor of his return, and 
 she longed to knock it off" and step on it. She 
 had hurried into the house with some mad idea 
 of crying out at once that she would never mar- 
 ry him never ; of defying her mother, and dar- 
 ing the full brunt of her wrath. But once in the 
 room, her courage failed. The light clasp of 
 Monsieur's fingers seemed a hold that she could 
 not break. If, indeed, any wild words she 
 might utter were to free her from him, she knew 
 that confinement or a convent would be her por- 
 tion. Excitable as she was, her natural artful- 
 ness came to her aid and restored her reason. 
 Her one hope lay in cajoling and wheedling both 
 mother and betrothed gaining time if she 
 could only do that ! 
 
 Susanne, watching her always, saw the sudden 
 change in her face. Nathalie grew smiling, 
 talked gayly, said courteous things, indulged 
 even in fun, in raillery which would have called 
 down disapproval from her mother had not 
 Monsieur appeared in a state of high delight 
 with her conversation. Susanne gave a long sniff 
 of suspicion. 
 
 " She means mischief," thought that shrewd 
 personage. "Eh, well, it is lucky that I have 
 eyes in my head. Once married, Monsieur 
 must look after her himself, and I do not envy 
 him his task ; but until then no, no, Mademoi- 
 selle ! You are very crafty, but you are no 
 match for Susanne yet, and I shall see that you 
 do not go straight to the devil, as you are in- 
 clined." 
 
 Monsieur displayed the presents he had 
 brought. It would have been impossible for 
 Nathalie not to derive satisfaction from the sight 
 of ornaments, even at her last gasp. She tried 
 on the bracelet and necklace, and fluttered the 
 pretty fan, and was happy for five minutes. 
 Then she remembered Vaughan, and longed to 
 dash the baubles on the floor, and give way to 
 her rebellious impulses, but had sense to per- 
 ceive that by so doing she would ruin her one 
 faint hope of escape. The hope was wild, mad,
 
 C2 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 and she knew it, but she clung thereto notwith- 
 standing. 
 
 Monsieur remained all the afternoon and even- 
 ing. Nathalie found no opportunity to slip out 
 of the house, though she was half crazy from her 
 belief that Vaughan would return, and be linger- 
 ing somewhere near toward sunset. At that 
 very hour she was obliged to walk with Monsieur 
 on the lawn Madame actually permitted it 
 obliged to sit with him under the poplar-tree 
 and listen to his talk, which grew more lover- 
 like than ever before. 
 
 If she could tell him he seemed kind-hearted 
 but tell him what ? That she could not mar- 
 ry him because she loved a stranger, a man 
 whom she had only seen a few times in all? 
 Nathalie could not do 'this ; the utter insanity 
 of such an avowal struck even her. No, she 
 must wait. If she could only see Vaughan! 
 He loved her surely he loved her ! Now that 
 the time was shortening so terribly Monsieur 
 returned Vaughan would break through all or- 
 dinary rules, and find means to save her. 
 
 While Nathalie tried to listen to Monsieur's 
 conversation, and to quiet herself with the be- 
 lief that she should yet escape her bonds, Su- 
 sanne was warning her mistress. 
 
 "He!" cried that astute individual, with ab- 
 rupt disregard of Madame's shattered nerves. 
 "We have held together many years, and I am 
 not going to desert Madame now. I may have 
 my faults time enough for perfection when one 
 gets to heaven but I shall not do that." 
 
 "What are you talking about, Susanne ?" de- 
 manded the sick woman, irritably. 
 
 "Use your eyes, Madame use your eyes!" 
 cried Susanne, shaking herself up and down with 
 great energy. 
 
 " What does the creature mean ?" asked Ma- 
 dame more peevishly, yet in a good deal of trep- 
 idation. 
 
 "Do you want a wedding do you want to 
 be sure she is safe out of harm's way ?" contin- 
 ued Susanne. "Do you trust that quiet and 
 submission, and you knowing women ?" 
 
 "Man Dieu .' what is it? Tell me, Susanne ; 
 you will make me ill you will upset my night." 
 
 "That is just what must not happen; you 
 must keep all your wits about you, and be able 
 to act," returned Susanne. " Look here. I en- 
 gage to watch her for three days and nights ; if 
 she. is not married then, I wasli my hands of the 
 consequences." 
 
 "Mon Dieu! mon Lieu!" moaned Madame. 
 "What is it what has happened?" 
 
 ' ' Nothing yet ; but marry her at once, or she 
 will refuse. I saw it in her face to-day. The 
 devil is in it that Madame can not understand !" 
 cried Susanne, fiercely, as poor Madame shook 
 and gasped and stared at her in nervous dread. 
 "This is it, then! That young American has 
 been hanging about. She has met him twice. 
 
 I got it out of that old idiot of a Rosine. I saw 
 him plainly enough when I went to call her, but 
 I made no sign." 
 
 It required immense self-control on the part 
 of Madame to restrain the hysterics and spasms, 
 which would have left her powerless. For a 
 few seconds she wrung her hands and uttered a 
 jumble of prayers and imprecations. Susanne 
 delivered a brief lecture on the propriety of show- 
 ing common-sense in a case like this. 
 
 "If you lose any time you will lose her," said 
 Susanne. "Swallow your medicine quick, and 
 be strong." 
 
 The cold drops of perspiration stood on Ma- 
 dame's forehead ; her teeth chattered as if they 
 would break the wine-glass Susanne held to her 
 lips ; but something of the old, resolute will was 
 yet left in the enfeebled frame, and she would 
 not give way. It required very slight explana- 
 tion to make her understand the case thorough- 
 ly. Feminine weaknesses or insanities could nev- 
 er take Madame much by surprise, after her 
 varied experience of life. 
 
 " There is no harm done," said Susanne. " It 
 struck me Mademoiselle had grown very fond 
 of her promenader, and yesterday it all came 
 over me in a flash I can not tell how, but it 
 did ! That old Rosine had an important air, and 
 Mademoiselle was odd. Eh, well, it is no mat- 
 ter I saw him!" 
 
 "I can not think easily, I am so dull now," 
 moaned Madame. 
 
 "The marriage must take place at once, of 
 course. Monsieur will want it. Every thing was 
 ready, even to the license, before he went away. 
 Does not Madame see ?" 
 
 ' ' Ah, yes ! I shall tell him I am worse ; there 
 must be no delay. Oh, that wretched girl !" 
 cried Madame, with sudden anger in her voice. 
 
 "Bah! one is not a woman for nothing," re- 
 turned Susanne. "Take good care, Madame ; 
 be very sweet to her give her no chance to re- 
 bel ; there is no telling what she might do. Come 
 now ; you are better you can manage ?" 
 
 "Yes; but, Holy Virgin, I shall die after I 
 know I shall ; this agitation will be too much for 
 me." 
 
 "And so you ought," was Susanne's mental 
 comment ; but she spoke some comforting words, 
 and was altogether very helpful and amiable. 
 Indeed, Susanne quite enjoyed the excitement 
 and the plotting, after the decorous dullness into 
 which their lives had so long ago slipped wiih- 
 out break or variety. ' ' Let Madame trust me ; 
 all she need do is to give Monsieur a hint that 
 he may have his wife any day he will be eager 
 enough I shall manage the rest ! I am equal 
 to the occasion yes, indeed ! I know my own 
 talents, the saints be praised, and I am not wick- 
 ed enough to undervalue them." 
 
 "Susanne, if you never lose sight of her if 
 we succeed I will not wait for what I have put
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 C3 
 
 you down in my will. I shall give you five hun- 
 dred francs the morning of the marriage," said 
 Madame, catching her attendant's hand between 
 her bony fingers. 
 
 "That is only fair! I am proud in the right 
 way, thank God, and am willing always to ac- 
 cept my due," said Susanne. "Let Madame be 
 perfectly tranquil ; I have a scheme. Ta, ta ! 
 how quick one's invention is at times. Hark! 
 they are coming back. Do not lose a moment 
 in speaking to Monsieur." 
 
 Madame raised herself on her elbow as the be- 
 trothed pair entered, and gazed anxiously at her 
 daughter. She could read the impatience all 
 the varied feelings which showed in the girl's 
 face under its assumed calmness. That very ef- 
 fort at composure frightened Madame more than 
 ever ; it was unlike Nathalie ; she must mean 
 mischief indeed. 
 
 "Dear child," said Madame, "go with Su- 
 sanne for a little ; I have to talk with our good 
 friend here." 
 
 Nathalie hurried along the gallery to her sa- 
 lon, and made for the outer door. It was scarce- 
 ly yet twilight ; she might still find Vaughan. 
 But on the threshold she met Susanne, and Su- 
 sanne said in a tone of cheerful interest 
 
 " I just saw that handsome American go past. 
 He was walking ; but a carriage stopped, and 
 he drove off in it with the two gentlemen." 
 
 Nath.ilie would have liked to scream to go 
 into a fury any thing as a vent to her disap- 
 pointment. But, after all, Susanne was not to 
 blame. She turned back into her salon, and sat 
 down among the shadows until she was again 
 summoned into the presence of her mother and 
 future husband. 
 
 Monsieur spent the evening the evening which 
 Nathalie thought would never end. There was 
 a change in Monsieur's manner : somethin 
 even more tender and gallant than usual, but 
 which betrayed a certain air of proprietorship. 
 He was in wonderful spirits, too ; he reminded 
 Nathalie again of an elderly sheep trying to frisk 
 himself into the belief that he was a lamb. The 
 carriage came for him at last ; he had made his 
 adieu to Madame. As he approached Nathalie, 
 she shrunk back from the smile that rendered 
 his face eager, kind and gentle as the smile was. 
 He did not content himself with kissing her 
 hands he leaned forward and pressed his lips 
 npon her forehead. 
 
 "I have Madame's pel-mission?" he asked, 
 laughing. 
 
 "I shall so soon lose all claim to direct," re- 
 turned Madame, laughing too, "that I may as 
 well resign my authority at once." 
 
 Nathalie smothered a little cry of fear and dis- 
 gust. A few more pleasant words passed be- 
 tween her mother and Monsieur, then he left the 
 room. 
 
 "I shall go to bed," said Madame. "My 
 
 dear, on the day after to-morrow we must part 
 for a time ; you will be Madame La Tour." 
 
 "So soon? No I can not I will not!" 
 gasped Nathalie. 
 
 "So soon? Odd words to apply to a mar- 
 riage that has already been delayed five whole 
 weeks beyond the original time," said Madame 
 in an icy voice. "Can not will not ? Stran- 
 ger words still from a daughter to her mother, 
 especially when she speaks of marrying a man to 
 whom she has been betrothed for months." 
 
 Madame's stony calmness rendered Nathalie 
 more hopeless. 
 
 " He came back so suddenly I can not oh ! 
 he might give me a week," faltered the girl. 
 
 " Mademoiselle is dramatic," sneered Madame, 
 preserving her composure by a powerful effort, 
 conscious that it was her greatest stronghold. 
 " I am willing, if it amuses you ! One thing is 
 certain : of course, at this late day, you contem- 
 plate no real opposition ? You accepted Mon- 
 sieur La Tour ; you wished to marry him ; you 
 will do so on Thursday." 
 
 " I did not know I was a child I " 
 
 " Pray do not force me to go further, and say 
 that you are an idiot," interrupted Madame. 
 "Bah ! what is this ? I am told that American 
 girls do such disgraceful things break off their 
 engagements at the last moment. You have a 
 mother who does not understand such savage 
 customs. Silence ! go to bed ! I know you are 
 not in earnest ; you just want a little romance, 
 but it is not proper ; besides, I am too feeble and 
 ill to enjoy it with you." 
 
 "My mother ! oh, my mother !" cried Natha- 
 lie. 
 
 She thought she could make an eloquent 
 speech, hut no words came. The rigid laws 
 which surround an unmarried woman in France 
 were full in her mind. The utter futility of soft- 
 ening or changing her mother struck her too. 
 The recklessness that stood her in place of force 
 of character was gone for the time ; her temper 
 gave no aid. Frightened and miserable, she 
 burst into passionate tears. 
 
 "Good!" thought Susanne, watching the in- 
 terview from behind the dining-room door. ' ' \Ve 
 shall not have much trouble, after all." 
 
 She began to carol a pleasant ditty, as if she 
 had just entered, and wished to announce her 
 approach. 
 
 "Is Madame ready for me ?" she called, in her 
 most respectful voice. 
 
 "Yes; come in, Susanne," replied her mis- 
 tress. 
 
 " Wait," pleaded Nathalie ; "let me speak 
 let me tell you ! Susanne, go away for a while." 
 
 "What did Mademoiselle say?" asked Su- 
 sanne, entering. " Yes, she is quite right ; Ma- 
 dame ought to be in bed. Ah, Mademoiselle is 
 always thoughtful, and we are to lose her so 
 soon so soon!"
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "You dreadful old woman you wicked old 
 woman!" sobbed Nathalie. 
 
 It was not in the least as she would have ex- 
 pected to behave, but she felt so powerless such 
 a child. 
 
 "Joseph, Marie, and Saint Genevieve!" ejac- 
 ulated Susanne in a shrill staccato. "Eh, eh, 
 what we all need is sleep ! Mademoiselle is nerv- 
 ous she shall have some of Madame's drops. " 
 
 " Mademoiselle is inclined to prefer a convent 
 to marriage, but I fancy the night will bring 
 wisdom," observed Madame in her icy voice. 
 
 "Ta, ta! girls always feel like that when the 
 wedding-day gets so near. It is nothing a 
 mere nothing," pronounced Susanne, cheerfully. 
 "She does not really mind, we do not mind; 
 and Monsieur knows that tears are quite en reyle, 
 so he will not mind." 
 
 ' "Susanne, I would like to murder you!" ex- 
 claimed Nathalie. 
 
 "Dear heart, only listen!" returned Susanne, 
 affecting still to consider the whole matter a joke. 
 " But we must not play any longer. Madame 
 needs to go to bed ; she will be ill otherwise." 
 
 "I am ill! I suffer! oh, oh!" It struck 
 Madame that she might as well now yield to her 
 real agitation. If Nathalie received a thorough 
 fright, that would finish the work her mother's 
 firmness had begun. 
 
 Usually the girl was ordered away when these 
 attacks came on ; but she was detained to-night, 
 made to help, and Susanne pretended to be hor- 
 ribly alarmed, though in reality the seizure was 
 nothing compared to many she had witnessed. 
 
 Not a word of upbraiding did Madame utter. 
 When she could speak again, she fixed her great 
 eyes on Nathalie, and said faintly 
 
 " It is possible there may be no wedding after 
 all on Thursday ; there may be a funeral though." 
 Nathalie was sent off to her room, and her 
 terror was so great that she thought less of her 
 own misery than her mother's words, and no 
 mode of escape would suggest itself to her weary 
 brain. 
 
 The next morning Nathalie found Madame 
 sweet and amiable ; anxious for her society too, 
 but showing symptoms of spasms if Nathalie so 
 much as moved quickly. 
 
 Susanne faithfully fulfilled her promise of 
 watching. Rosine came np-stairs on some pre- 
 tense, and managed to convey a letter to Natha- 
 lie. This Susanne could not prevent, so she 
 appeared blind. A little later, Nathalie went 
 out on the gallery. She dropped a folded paper, 
 apparently by accident. Rosine was picking up 
 twigs and sticks about the lawn, conveniently 
 placed to seize the note. As she entered the 
 passage on the ground-floor where the fermiei 
 lived, Susanne loomed before her. 
 
 " -Mademoiselle desired me to take the billet,' 
 she said ; " it. was not for you to pick it up." 
 Rosine demurred. 
 
 "Give me that note, or I will break every bone 
 n thy accursed body and suck thy black blood ! 
 dolt ! fish ! cabbage !" cried Susanne, so fierce 
 of aspect that Rosine yielded the prize without 
 a struggle. ' ' You to be trusted with such deli- 
 ate matters set you up, indeed ! You are to 
 go by train to Lausanne, and see if that vile em- 
 aroidery-woman has finished the work we gave 
 her. Be off at once, laziest and ugliest ! Fly 
 to catch the train ; here is money. Make any 
 blunder, and I will eat you without salt at pre- 
 cisely seven o'clock to-night, tough and black as 
 you are, vile Swiss !" 
 
 And Susanne snapped her teeth together with 
 a noise which froze Rosine's blood. 
 
 So the old woman was disposed of for the day. 
 
 Monsieur appeared : Monsieur, in a state cf 
 gallantry and pleasant agitation, full of old-fash- 
 ioned compliments for Nathalie, which nearly 
 drove her out of her senses. But Madame had 
 prepared him to find her odd, capricious, in tears 
 perhaps. 
 
 " It is always the way," she said ; "girls in- 
 variably get frightened when the time comes. 
 Ten to one, she will beg for a few days or say 
 she hates you. It is nothing, trust me ; I know 
 my sex ; a mere affair of nerves, no more." 
 
 Monsieur, in his goodness, was prepared to be 
 patient and considerate to any extent, but Na- 
 thalie did not alarm him by tears or other pas- 
 sionate outbreak. Indeed, she was upheld by a 
 vague hope of what she did not think at all 
 clearly. Vaughan had written and begged her 
 to meet him. What she expected she could not 
 have told ; certainly even in her romance not 
 that he should ask her to fly with him, and that 
 she should consent to go. She had sufficient 
 practical sense in spite of the extravagance of 
 her ideas to remember he was a stranger, well as 
 it seemed to her that she knew him. 
 
 Susanne left the house on a little affair of her 
 own, leaving Nathalie safe for the time between 
 her mother and Monsieur. Susanne strayed 
 about until she met Darrell Vaughan. She in- 
 formed the American that she came from Natha- 
 lie ; the young lady had not been able to write. 
 She begged him to be very careful not to 
 come near the house, nor even send her a note, 
 for a day or two. Susanne promised to meet 
 him for a moment on the following day, and was 
 profuse in her wishes to serve them both. She 
 never pocketed money with more satisfaction in 
 her life than she felt in storing away the gold 
 piece Vaughan put in her hand. Having to plot 
 and plan, lie and cheat the two young people, 
 made Susanne feel at least ten years younger. 
 Be it said for her, too, that she was fond of both 
 Madame and Nathalie in her way, and had no 
 mind to see the girl ruin her future by any act 
 of mad folly, and Susanne's ideas of the lengths 
 to which her sex would go under sufficient in- 
 ducement or provocation were wide indeed.
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 The next day Nathalie found no opportunity 
 even to speak with Kosine ; wherever she moved, 
 Susanne was beside her, amiable, and in her 
 most conversational mood. She tried to vex the 
 woman ; Susanne was not to be irritated. She 
 had suddenly developed a patience that was lit- 
 tle short of angelic. Nathalie was completely 
 hemmed in powerless. She broke down at 
 last, enraged her mother, and alarmed Monsieur 
 by an hysterical outburst. Susanne pounced 
 upon her immediately ; this was what she had 
 been waiting for. She put her to bed, dosed her 
 with tisanes that had several drops of Madame's 
 morphine mingled with their nastiness. 
 
 "Ah," thought Susanne, quite touched by her 
 own talent and virtue, ' ' I shall never get a fit- 
 ting reward in this world for all my sacrifices ; 
 but they ought to count in the next." 
 
 Susanne thought of several little sins she could 
 commit on the strength of these present efforts 
 for good, which she regarded as a sort of absolu- 
 tion taken out in advance. She saw Vaughan 
 again, and set a time for him to come to the 
 house Thursday, at two o'clock. 
 
 " I can not stop to answer questions. Be 
 in the chalet grounds at that hour," said she, 
 and was gone, chuckling over this last stroke, 
 which would give a dramatic finish to the busi- 
 ness. 
 
 There was no escape. Nathalie comprehend- 
 ed that Susanne had outwitted her, but was ig- 
 norant of the means. One other attempt at a 
 scene was put down by her mother with a high 
 hand. 
 
 " I give you a choice," she said ; " the wed- 
 ding or to start for the convent as a novice too. 
 Do you prefer marriage or taking the veil ? One 
 or the other I will not be disgraced I am a 
 dying woman." 
 
 It was Thursday afternoon. Darrell Vaughan 
 approached the chalet gates ; he saw a carriage 
 drive past and take the road which led up to the 
 station. Susnnne was standing on the door-step, 
 her handkerchief at her eyes. 
 
 "We have lost her," said that worthy wom- 
 an; "Mademoiselle was married half an hour 
 ago." 
 
 She extended her hand. It might have been 
 to point toward the station ; it might have been 
 to receive any little reward which the American 
 should feel disposed to bestow upon her. 
 
 So Vaughan set out on his journey that night, 
 going as far as Brieg by the rail, that he might 
 have daylight for crossing the Simplon. He was 
 furious. He knew that he had been saved from 
 an insanity which might have endangered his 
 whole future, but he was furious nevertheless. 
 He had never before failed in any scheme upon 
 which his fancy his heart he would have said 
 fixed itself. Brief as the dream was, it had 
 taken a powerful hold of his mind ; he felt al- 
 most readv to throw up his entire plan, let even- 
 E 
 
 thing go, and follow Nathalie. But he could 
 not be crazy enough for this. He must set out 
 on his journey ; the rage and mad desire would 
 pass. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A NEW EXPERIENCE. 
 
 Pis.v is a stupid old place, that is to people 
 who crave society. But Mr. Cranford found a 
 few acquaintances to make up his whist-table, 
 and was content. This satisfied Elizabeth. She 
 dreaded nothing so much as the seasons when 
 her father was seized with a whim of thought- 
 fulness on her account, and insisted on a sojourn 
 in some resort where balls and gayeties could be 
 found. Not that she was too lofty and vision- 
 ary to enjoy these pleasures, but a dread always 
 haunted her that such things were a waste of 
 time. 
 
 She was given to reading authors who are 
 eager for reforms, and tell us eloquently about 
 the misery there is in the world, and Elizabeth 
 wanted to be " up and doing " instead of cast- 
 ing in her lot among the butterflies, agreeable 
 as their holiday existence might be in certain 
 ways. 
 
 She was happy in the dear old town. She en- 
 joyed straying about the Campo Santo or mar- 
 veling over the beautiful Cathedral, the Bap- 
 tistery, the Leaning Tower that most pict- 
 uresque of all groups of buildings, standing in 
 the grass -grown square where every thing is 
 so still, where the bells sound dreamy and in- 
 dolent, and the very beggars are too lazy to rise 
 and persecute any unfortunate stranger who may 
 approach. The place carries one back centuries. 
 One would not be surprised to see Galileo saun- 
 ter past, nor be startled if a troop of Crusaders 
 halted to say a prayer in the church before set- 
 ting out for the Holy Land. 
 
 The Craufords found a charming apartment 
 in a faded old palace which had once been the 
 home of some almost royal family. Elizabeth 
 delighted in the vast salons, that still contained 
 many articles of the ancient furniture, curiously 
 carved chairs, wonderful inlaid cabinets, and the 
 like. There was a balcony, too, from whence 
 she could look out over the distant hills, and 
 watch sunsets and the moonlight, and lose 
 herself in those dreams which were a source 
 of reproach to her, much as she enjoyed them. 
 She feared that they too were a sad waste of 
 time. 
 
 She told herself that she had been very idle 
 of late, and prepared to make amends. She 
 brought out her wisest, heaviest books, and 
 pored diligently over musty tomes, afraid that 
 she found them slightly dull, wishing for some 
 real occupation, fearful that her life was a very 
 useless one, and wondering vaguely about the
 
 CG 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 illimitable future, which must ever be so attract- 
 ive to the young. 
 
 Elizabeth Crauford was an enthusiast and a 
 worshiper of idols. Of that latter necessity in 
 her nature, no better proof could have been af- 
 forded than the ardor with which she struggled 
 to throw a halo about her father. In his case, 
 if ever she failed, a tender pity might still keep 
 her heart soft ; but in other instances of disap- 
 pointment, a father hard contempt would be the 
 feeling left in Elizabeth's mind toward the ob- 
 ject which proved unworthy her worship. Most 
 of her ideas were extreme, as was natural at her 
 age. Duty and self-sacrifice were somewhat 
 confused in her thoughts. It was to be feared 
 that she would often mistake the latter for the 
 former, and bring much pain upon herself. She 
 was singularly clear in her reflections and anal- 
 yses, in spite of this. She might have become 
 that usually to be dreaded character, "well-reg- 
 ulated," had not her impulsiveness and imagina- 
 tive tendencies stood in the way. Warm-hearted 
 and affectionate, but a very proud woman too. 
 I was wrong to employ that word. She was 
 thoroughly a girl. It would not have been easy 
 to predicate her future character so much, 
 with her peculiar organization, would depend on 
 whether she found happiness or the reverse. 
 
 She was a beautiful girl too. Not tall, but 
 somehow her figure gave the effect of height ; a 
 free, graceful carriage ; a face full of promise, 
 possessing a beauty beyond mere girlish loveli- 
 ness ; a mouth which, in repose, looked, as Natha- 
 lie had said, a little sad, almost stern sometimes, 
 but which had a world of delicious smiles, when 
 she would permit them their freedom ; a com- 
 plexion exquisitely fair, too pale perhaps ordina- 
 rily ; a low, broad forehead, and rippling masses 
 of hair that had the tints of bronze in its waves. 
 The eyes were gray or hazel according to the 
 light eyes which softened easily or grew black 
 with excitement. A peculiarly sweet, rich 
 voice ; an earnest, truthful mode of speech, 
 which gave one a feeling of respect and confi- 
 dence. A carefully educated young person, with 
 a love for languages that extended even to the 
 grand old tongues which have no echoes left 
 save in the depth and strength they have here 
 and there given to the weak, musical dialects 
 which have sprung out of their dead grandeur. 
 Elizabeth was a little ashamed of her ability to 
 read the Latin poets and to understand Plato. 
 Nothing less like the awful creature conjured up 
 by the term " blue " could be imagined. I may 
 as well confess the extremity of her sins at once: 
 she could even make her way among the crabbed 
 Hebrew characters. When about fifteen, she 
 had spent a year in the society of an old relative 
 who was a clergyman, with failing sight, and 
 Elizabeth had plunged into the study that she 
 might be able to aid his purblind eyes. She 
 guarded her secret as carefully as if it were some- 
 
 thing disgraceful, and her father would undoubt- 
 edly have been shocked. He believed in pretty 
 accomplishments for young ladies decorous 
 piano-forte playing, feeble drawing, a good ac- 
 cent in French and Italian but Hebrew ! No 
 scented dandy of Piccadilly or Murray Hill, with 
 an inability to pronounce the letter r, could have 
 been more horrified than Mr. Crauford had he 
 known the truth. Fortunately he lived and died 
 without ever suspecting it. 
 
 To do something with her life not be some- 
 thing was Elizabeth's pet dream. If her fa- 
 ther had been a learned man, or ambitious, she 
 could have aided him. She was very useful, 
 and attentive a daughter as if she had never 
 dreamed dreams ; but while alive to the prac- 
 tical side of existence, Elizabeth thirsted to 
 gratify her visionary and enthusiastic propensi- 
 ties. Some one to look up to and worship ; 
 some one who out of his greatness might stoop 
 to make her poor gifts and studies of service in 
 his cause. Failing this, to be a sort of sister of 
 charity ; employ her money to found some won- 
 derful institution for good, wherein she should 
 toil humbly, no human being ever knowing that 
 her efforts and wealth had been the foundation 
 of these results. 
 
 All her thoughts and plans were vague enough 
 this was excusable at her age. Indeed, I am 
 free to admit that she was probably much more 
 lovable for this very reason. She had too 
 slight faith in her own abilities to render her 
 either bold or forward in her hopes. I suppose 
 she thought occasionally of loving and being loved 
 a youthful soul without such fancies would be 
 as unnatural as is a flower without perfume yet 
 she was oddly shy, perhaps foolishly so, even with 
 her own thoughts, where these matters were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 I think she had more than once dreamed of 
 wedding a missionary. Not that the pictures 
 drawn of those unrecognized saints often inter- 
 ested her, even when done by admiring hands 
 who put their hearts into their work ; but the 
 idea of such self-sacrifice appealed to her strong- 
 ly. She doubted if love or marriage would 
 come to her. Certainly there was little pros- 
 pect that any man of her own cge would be at- 
 tracted toward her. Elizabeth feared that she 
 was dull and proud ; and she had no opinion 
 whatever of her own beauty. She often com- 
 plained to herself, when she caught sight of her 
 image in a mirror, that she looked like a statue 
 or something cut out of a picture one of those 
 straight-nosed, broad-browed, serious-eyed wom- 
 en, who might serve as a model for a pre- 
 Raphaelite artist, but possessing nothing that 
 one could call loveliness, or that would please a 
 man, young like herself. It was very grand, no 
 doubt, to think of being loved by some elderly 
 sage, some philosopher, who had long since left 
 his youth on the steep road of fame up which
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 C7 
 
 he had so gallantly traveled; still Elizabeth 
 smiled and blushed, too, in recognition of her 
 own folly that life would appear brighter, fuller 
 of color, if the love of a hero, possessed of youth- 
 ful aspirations like her own, might be granted. 
 It never would. Indeed, she could not be said 
 to dwell upon such fancies. Having no direct 
 aim, her visions were all impassible ; but, dream- 
 er as she was, the apprenticeship she served in hu- 
 moring and waiting on her father might have 
 qualified her to share even the destiny of her 
 fancied missionary. 
 
 The soft Italian days floated by. Elizabeth, 
 when not absorbed by her parent's caprices, was 
 busy with her books, or her music or drawing ; 
 but to what end became a question that haunted 
 her more and more. " They also serve who only 
 stand and wait!" She had often to repeat that 
 glorious sermon in a line to herself during this 
 season, afraid she was growing impatient and 
 discontented. But you are not to get the idea 
 that she was either morbid or restless. She 
 only wanted to be sure that she was doing the 
 best with duties as existence offered. Elizabeth's 
 conscience was a rather uneasy one. Not unsel- 
 dom you may see that in consciences which are 
 devoid of spot or stain. Perhaps they flutter rest- 
 lessly just because they have no weight to steady 
 them, for I observe that the heavily laden ones 
 usually seem to bear their burden blithely enough. 
 
 One day Elizabeth was sitting in her favorite 
 nook, near a window of the inner salon, a win- 
 dow which opened upon the balcony. She was 
 at work on an illumination a quaint old-fash- 
 ioned task which seemed just meant for her. 
 She was dressed in a white robe of some soft, 
 yielding material, that fell about her in broad 
 folds, and swept away over the floor in a train 
 which she had the art of managing as few wom- 
 en can do. There were bits of vivid blue at 
 her throat and waist, a knot of blue flowers in 
 her hair. The wide sleeves were open almost 
 from the shoulder, and displayed the rounded 
 beauty of her arms, as they rested on the crim- 
 son covering of the table. A ray of sunlight 
 stole in through the open casement, and cast 
 golden reflections about her head not like a 
 crown, she seemed too spiritual for that thought 
 like a halo. Had one been fanciful, one might 
 have gone further, and likened it to a virgin mar- 
 tyr's symbol. Behind her, through the window, 
 showed a background of towers, a castellated 
 sweep of buildings, the river ; still beyond, the 
 glory of the mountains and the amber radiance 
 of the sky. 
 
 Her father entered suddenly with a guest ; so 
 quietly, too, that Elizabeth, absorbed in her task, 
 was unconscious of their approach till they had 
 nearly reached her. Then she sat quite still, 
 for her rather short sight had not made out the 
 second figure, but she supposed it a gossip of 
 Mr. Crauford's who often visited them. 
 
 " My daughter, Mr. Vaughan," said her fa- 
 ther, just as Elizabeth had discovered that the 
 guest was a stranger. ' ' Elizabeth, Mr. Vaughan 
 is the nephew of a very old friend of mine ; you 
 have often heard of his uncle. We must make 
 Mr. Darrell welcome for his own and his uncle's 
 sake." 
 
 So Elizabeth rose in her slow, queenly fashion, 
 looking like some vestal that had been called 
 down from a noble dream like some vision of 
 ancient romance like any thing rather than an 
 ordinary creature belonging to this prosaic cent- 
 ury, and stood face to face with Darrell Vaughan. 
 She regarded this claimant presented for her fa- 
 vor with a serious gaze, finding it difficult to get 
 quickly enough back from her abstraction. 
 
 "You are very welcome, Mr. Vaughan," she 
 said, and the words, which otherwise might have 
 sounded a little stiff and studied, took a pleasing 
 depth and earnestness when uttered in that mar- 
 velous voice, rendered sweeter by the look of 
 pleasure which softened her lips into an almost 
 childlike smile. 
 
 Vaughan was quite able to appreciate the 
 picture which had met his eyes as lie walked up 
 the room. Now the living figure stepped from 
 its frame, and he was able to recognize, also 
 to admire, the grace and spiritual beauty that 
 showed in face and form and brightened the 
 grave eyes which met his with an odd mingling 
 of sovereignty and maiden reserve. 
 
 Vaughan perceived that he had arrived at a 
 new experience, and the new and strange were 
 always attractive to him. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE STONE-FIGHT. 
 
 MANY hundred years ago a to^rably lofty 
 stone wall surrounded Pisa, over against which 
 the Florentines often sat down, armed with bat- 
 tering-rams and all the heavy implements of an 
 ancient siege. Within these walls a broad road 
 circled the city, and in those days the inhabitants 
 at one gate considered those dwelling outside the 
 others almost as great strangers as they did the 
 Florentines. In those times, too, Pisa was cele- 
 brated for stone-fights, waged between boys of 
 the different quarters, either brought about by 
 deliberate challenge or the reckless incursion of 
 a troop beyond the limits of their own territory. 
 
 The battles with the Florentines have long 
 since degenerated into mere wordy contests ; but 
 the moss-grown walls remain, the white road en- 
 circling the town remains too, and here still may 
 be witnessed every now and then a relic of me- 
 diaeval barbarism a repetition of the famous 
 stone contests. 
 
 The morning after his arrival in the quaint, 
 dull town, Darrell Vaughan went out for a walk.
 
 cs 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 He crossed the Anio by the bridge of the old 
 fortress, and, passing through one of the few 
 sunny streets, took the broad highway which 
 follows the walls. He had scarcely met a hu- 
 man being or heard a sound. Suddenly the 
 rush of feet along the paved road roused him, 
 the shrill tones of scores of young voices, the 
 whiz and whir of stones. He turned an angle 
 and found himself in the midst of a retreating 
 army. He could not have believed there were 
 so many children to be seen in the dead old 
 place. Boys of all ages and sizes, from six years 
 up to sixteen, were fleeing, hotly pursued by a 
 larger crowd of similar age and size. 
 
 Shrieks and imprecations made a hideous din. 
 It was wonderful also to see the childish faces, 
 usually so careless and good-natured, roused into 
 a fury or set in rigid passion, which gave them 
 the look of the old Tuscan portraits one finds 
 in mouldy picture-galleries. The retreating foe 
 wheeled about wheeled so quickly that they 
 took their pursuers by surprise. Again a volley 
 of stones darkened the air. Down went more 
 than one combatant on either side. Yells of 
 rage and triumph rose more deafening than ever. 
 
 Vaughan found his position by no means agree- 
 able or safe. The missiles were flying about his 
 ears like hail, and the struggling hosts paid as 
 little attention to him as two armies of ants do 
 to a philosophical human being marveling over 
 their battles. So Vaughan ensconced himself 
 in a niche where a very deformed figure of the 
 Virgin resided in a diminutive chamber which 
 sadly needed scouring, and stood still to watch 
 the fight, so exactly similar, save in the modern 
 costumes, to the famous encounters of old, out 
 of which so often grew fierce disputes and quar- 
 rels that disturbed the whole city for weeks, and 
 were the means of one half the town frequently 
 being ambuscaded by the other. 
 
 A stone did invade the Virgin's sanctuary, 
 and somewhat injured her nose ; but Vaughan 
 was not a nervous man, and kept his stand. 
 Suddenly from a side street came a tall, rather 
 bowed male figure, and Vaughan laughed heart- 
 ily at the surprise and horror in the face as the 
 new-comer discovered himself unexpectedly in 
 the midst of this hail-storm with retreat cut off, 
 for a frenzied onslaught of the besieged brought 
 a party between him and the entrance to the 
 street up which he had passed. 
 
 The unfortunate man tried to run first one 
 way, then another, and only turned helplessly 
 round and round like some mammoth Trench 
 toy wound up by machinery. The combatants 
 lid not seem in the least aware ofhis presence: 
 the stones whizzed over his head ; he ducked 
 here, skipped there ; the boys ran against him ; 
 twice he was actually carried along in a rush of 
 a small party skirmishing on the flanks. 
 
 I. ' Hiking closer, Vaughan perceived that he 
 knew the face; it was the dignified Robert 
 
 Crauford, made so unwilling and alarmed a 
 participator in this Pisan relic of Middle-Age 
 amusements. Vaughan enjoyed his absurd pre- 
 dicament ; but it really was fraught with a great 
 deal of danger, and it occurred to Darrell that 
 here he had an opportunity to ingratiate himself 
 in the elderly gentleman's favor. He had seen 
 enough of Mr. Crauford in a single visit to know 
 that any personal matter must always appear of 
 vast importance to him. This fight, in which he 
 was forced to take at least a passive share, would 
 be the most formidable danger any human creat- 
 ure had ever run since the days of Thermopylae. 
 
 So out dashed Vaughan scattered the foes 
 right and left brought them, by good round 
 execrations in fair Italian, enough to their senses 
 to perceive that they had cornered two strangers. 
 The stones ceased to fly the leaders on either 
 side condescended to explain. Mr. Crauford rec- 
 ognized Vaughan, and clung to him desperately. 
 His forehead was bleeding from a little cut. Al- 
 together he considered the affair of such magni- 
 tude that as soon as he could find voice he an- 
 nounced his intention of bringing the matter 
 before consuls, embassadors, the King of Italy 
 himself, on the ground that the majesty and free- 
 dom of Columbia's happy land had been menaced 
 in his (Robert Craufbrd's) august person. 
 
 While he talked, on swept the two armies 
 along the highway, and left Vaughan to soothe 
 the frightened man indignant he called him- 
 self, but frightened was the adjective which more 
 correctly expressed his appearance. He had lost 
 his hat it lay trampled out of all shape at the 
 side of the road ; he was covered with white 
 dust raised by the armies ; hoarse with shouting ; 
 his hands were stained with the blood which 
 trickled from his scratch a wound he styled 
 it ; altogether, he was in very pitiable case. 
 
 Vaughan helped him down the street till they 
 found a carriage ; once seated therein, and a 
 kerchief bound carefully about his bumpy fore- 
 head, Mr. Crauford could rush into ejaculations 
 of gratitude, mingled with expressions which 
 showed that he regarded Vaughan as a very 
 fortunate person to have been able to succor 
 Robert Crauford, Esq., in a moment of peril. 
 
 " You did a gallant thing, sir," he said. ' ; My 
 life would not have been worth the purchase an 
 instant later." 
 
 By the time they reached his house the affair 
 had assumed gigantic proportions, and as he had 
 managed to smear the blood over his face, hands, 
 and shirt-front, his appearance at first alarmed 
 Elizabeth. Even when she discovered there was 
 no real hurt, she felt inclined also to regard 
 Vaughan as a hero and a friend. Dan-ell per- 
 ceived that his morning's stroll had been a lucky 
 business, and admired the Pisan youths for per- 
 severing in the barbaric sports of their ancestors. 
 
 So in the very beginning Mr. Crauford con- 
 ceived an enthusiastic admiration for Darrell
 
 MR. VAUGHAX'S HEIR. 
 
 Vaughan, and speedily elevated him into a 
 prophet and the hope of the future. It was not 
 often that Mr. Crauford bestowed more than 
 grudging praise, or yielded other than a doubtful 
 belief in men's motives ; but in this case all was 
 different. Mr. Crauford seemed to have devel- 
 oped a need of idol worship, and he put Vaughan 
 on the pedestal vacant in his soul. 
 
 During the first few days of his sojourn, Dar- 
 rell devoted himself almost entirely to her father, 
 and he could have chosen no course which would 
 so rapidly have ingratiated him in Elizabeth's 
 favor. He appeared different in every way from 
 young men with whom she had hitherto been 
 thrown in contact. He neither talked frivolity 
 nor was interested in the racing calendar, as, in 
 her somewhat contemptuous opinion, Elizabeth 
 had supposed must be the case with masculines 
 under forty. Fiery denunciations of wrong and 
 injustice eloquent diatribes against youth 
 wasted in idleness and elegant vice words 
 vague, but energetic and golden, which betrayed 
 some deep purpose within, some lofty aim for 
 the future, which, if necessary, he looked ready 
 to follow out to martyrdom : such themes were 
 often on his lips, and proved additional aids to- 
 ward gaining her sympathy. She listened to 
 this talk, never stilted nor sententious, and her 
 cheeks glowed and her heart warmed. These 
 were the desires and motives she had hoped to 
 find in his age and sex, but had only met with 
 disappointment until now. 
 
 The speeches he had delivered in Congress, 
 the articles he had contributed to solid reviews, 
 the addresses which created an excitement in the 
 two great capitals Mr. Crauford showed Eliza- 
 beth all these ; it was she who read them aloud, 
 sharing fully in her father's admiration. 
 
 "I did not think they would fall under your 
 eyes," Vaughan said, when he came to know the 
 facts. " How very considerate you are in every 
 thing that concerns your father; for I suppose 
 you do not care about such matters." 
 
 ' ' Why should I not ?" she asked. 
 
 " Indeed well, I have no reason but I fancy 
 young ladies do not usually. I was thinking 
 last night you must have found me awfully dry 
 and dull. Ever since I came here I have been 
 riding my hobbies unconscionably ; somehow Mr. 
 Crauford's sympathy led me into it. " 
 
 "I hope it may still lead you on," she an- 
 swered; "and I wish you would believe in my 
 sympathy too." 
 
 Just her pet dreams and aspirations were those 
 which showed themselves to be his favorite rules 
 and plans of life : a man who meant to devote his 
 existence to political philanthropy that is, one 
 who entered politics for the express hope of do- 
 ing the most good for the greatest number of 
 his kind it sounded wonderfully well. Then 
 he loved books, poetry, art ; he worshiped the 
 beautiful and true in their highest forms. Eliza- 
 
 beth was ready to believe in her father's proph- 
 et, and bow in reverent esteem before his idol. 
 That idol had a marvelous faculty of making 
 Mr. Crauford see with his eyes, and yet flatter- 
 ing the worthy gentleman into the belief that it 
 was by his own eagle sight both were guided. 
 
 It was impossible, of course, to avoid giving 
 Mr. Crauford the letter which had been found 
 among Edgar Vaughan's papers, and that letter 
 left Elizabeth's choice unfettered between his two 
 nephews. 
 
 "Dear me!" said Mr. Crauford, perplexed. 
 "This is very awkward ; I did not understand 
 this." 
 
 "Because it was a delicate and painful sub- 
 ject, which I did not like to touch upon in my 
 letter to you," Vaughan replied. " You will per- 
 ceive that this was written only a few weeks be- 
 fore my uncle's illness." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " He made a will dividing his fortune between 
 us, his two nephews. New circumstances came 
 to light, which showed him that unfortunately 
 his first judgment of Launce Cromlin was cor- 
 rect ; he made complete changes on that account. 
 His whole property was left to me ; if I chose, I 
 was at liberty to pay my relative ten thousand 
 dollars. You can judge for yourself whether he 
 would have wished the codicil in regard to this 
 other property to hold ; only sudden illness pre- 
 vented its alteration." 
 
 "Dear me!" again ejaculated Mr. Crauford. 
 
 " There is, too, another way of looking at it," 
 pursued Darrell. "My uncle was a gentle- 
 hearted man; he may have thought Launce 
 should still have this chance for retrieving his 
 past ; whether you and your daughter would be 
 willing to give it to him is a question for you to 
 decide." 
 
 " Impossible ! I blame your uncle ; he might 
 have why, there is no telling what trouble be 
 might have caused ! A man who had committed 
 a forgery a " 
 
 "That is a secret between us," Darrell said, 
 softly. 
 
 "And where is he now? Does he know ot 
 this matter of the will ?" 
 
 "I suppose he does by this time. Carstoe 
 and I wrote ; it was our duty." 
 
 Mr. Crauford bounced about in a state of 
 wretched excitement. " Suppose he were to hunt 
 us up ?" he asked. 
 
 "Then you would be at liberty to close your 
 doors against him if you saw fit." 
 
 " I should think so. Why' 
 
 " A very winning fellow is Launce ; I never 
 could resist him ! Where women are concerned, 
 I believe if they had seen him commit a murder he 
 could manage to make it appear a heroic act." 
 
 "Good Lord!" quavered Mr. Crauford. 
 "GWLord!" 
 
 "Miss Crauford is a girl of remarkable sense
 
 70 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 and judgment," Darrell continued ; " but once 
 interest that keen sympathy of hers, and it would 
 blind her judgment. Launce would be able to 
 show that his uncle had come to believe in his 
 innocence. It would not then be difficult to 
 convince her that he had died in the belief; that 
 the fact of the will, which in our eyes proves the 
 contrary, went for nothing ; that he would have 
 altered it given Launce a share of his property 
 had there been time." 
 
 "Good Lord !" exclaimed Mr. Crauford, quer- 
 ulously. 
 
 "I learned to love your daughter before I 
 ever saw her ! I love her well enough I think 
 I know to be unselfish. If I believed it were 
 for her happiness, I could yes, I would bring 
 Launce to her myself, and go my way " 
 
 "Nobody wants you to go away," interrupted 
 Mr. Crauford. "Now don't complicate things 
 by talking like that ! Oh, my head ! What a 
 neuralgia I shall have!" . 
 
 " Of course the bare possibility of your daugh- 
 ter's becoming interested in such a man is pain- 
 ful," Vaughan said ; " but the plan you suggest 
 settles all difficulty yonr decisions are so won- 
 derfully clear and rapid !" 
 
 Mr. Crauford looked elated and embarrassed, 
 as a man might who had never arrived at a de- 
 cision in his life ; but he believed that he had 
 here, only he was not quite certain what the re- 
 solve might have been, luminous as it appeared 
 to his companion, so he said "Well?" 
 
 " Launce, I have reason to believe, is in Cali- 
 fornia ; once the ten thousand dollars in his 
 hands, he will think of nothing else till he has 
 gambled it away so that rids you of him." 
 
 "Elizabeth would not know him; she would 
 despise the rascal." 
 
 "If there were not several things in his favor. 
 Let him convince her that he had suffered un- 
 just suspicion " 
 "Then what are we to do?" 
 "Persist in our original resolve. Say noth- 
 ing whatever to Miss Crauford about my cousin. 
 As you said, that will be the wisest course." 
 
 It was a comfort to hear a positive plan of 
 action clearly and definitely announced ; a keen 
 pleasure, in spite of the worthy gentleman's agi- 
 tation, to pounce on it as his own. 
 
 "I think we have arranged it for the best, in- 
 deed," said he. 
 
 " The letter for your daughter which my uncle 
 left is not written in a wny to rouse any ques- 
 tion ; it simply speaks of the happiness it would 
 have been to call her his niece pleasant, gen- 
 eral phrases, you know. The letter was sealed 
 like yours, but Mr. Carstoe wrote at his dictation 
 Mr. Carstoe told me." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe had never rend a syllable of either 
 letter was ignorant of their contents. 
 
 " It is all very odd, very troublesome," sighed 
 Mr. Crauford. 
 
 "Yes; as yon suggested, the best thing now 
 is to put the codicil out of our heads," returned 
 Vaughan. " You are good enough to like me, 
 to be willing to accept me as your son-in-law if I 
 can succeed in winning your daughter's regard." 
 
 " That with all my heart," said Mr. Crauford, 
 more energetically than he often spoke. It was 
 a memorable speech from this one fact that he 
 never contradicted it, he who lived in an atmos- 
 phere of self-contradiction and retraction, and 
 mental uncertainties of all sorts. 
 
 Mr. Crauford's imagination displayed just now 
 a brilliancy which it had never done in his count- 
 less unfinished poetic efforts. He pictured to 
 himself a being who was a cross between Meph- 
 istopheles and the Duke de Richelieu a man 
 brought into the world for the express ruin and 
 destruction of female peace in one wny or anoth- 
 er a creature with delightful, devilish fascina- 
 tions, and great talents perverted a mass of in- 
 congruities, which could never have held together 
 and he called this figment of his fancy Launce 
 Cromlin. 
 
 The desire that his daughter should marry 
 Vaughan would have caused him to rush into 
 open, unadvised partisanship, had not the astute 
 young gentleman held him back. An odd per- 
 sonal motive also aided Mr. Crauford to keep si- 
 lence concerning the will and provisional bequest. 
 He had, as I have said, always been jealous of 
 Edgar Vaughan jealous, that is, of the memory 
 he believed left in his wife's mind of her earliest 
 suitor. If Elizabeth wedded Darrell, he wished 
 to feel that his former rival's plans and wishes 
 had nothing to do with her decision. It would 
 be a constant source of irritation to think that 
 after death the man gained an influence over the 
 daughter as he had retained while living a place 
 in the mother's recollection. 
 
 Then, too, Mr. Crauford greatly enjoyed the 
 possession of a secret ; the sense of importance, 
 and the absurd feeling that he was in a certain 
 way thwarting his dead rival by excluding his 
 expressed desires from participation in the affair, 
 kept Mr. Crauford's little soul puffed out like the 
 plumage of a pouter pigeon, and rendered him 
 very happy. 
 
 The days and weeks went on. 
 
 At length a letter from Mr. Carstoe reached 
 Darrell it had been sent to London, and for- 
 warded from thence by his bankers. Darrell 
 knew that Launce Cromlin was very, very ill, and 
 his recovery far remote, though the physicians 
 believed that his strong constitution would ulti- 
 mately conquer. So Vaughan could even rid 
 himself of the idea that haste was necessary in 
 the carrying out of his projects, and his content- 
 ment nearly equaled Mr. Crauford's own. 
 
 To peripatetic Americans and English in gen- 
 eral, Pisa is a place to visit in the interval be- 
 tween two trains ; but to people who have sat 
 down there in the quiet, Pisa and its environs
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 71 
 
 make a delightful memory. There is a pleasant 
 drive to the sea and the bay in which poor Shel- 
 ley was drowned, with a pine-wood casting long 
 shadows over the waters, and a glorious view of 
 Spezzia in the distance. There is a famous old 
 Pilgrim church near where the ancient harbor 
 of Pisa is supposed to have been an old church, 
 with broken marble columns and faded frescos, 
 erected upon the spot where Popish legends de- 
 clare St. Peter first set foot on the Italian shore. 
 
 Like a thorough, understanding church-wom- 
 an, Elizabeth was prepared to refute this tale, 
 and prove by tbe most credible of the primitive 
 historians that the great disciple never left the 
 East, but met with martyrdom upon the banks 
 of the Euphrates, thereby destroying the very 
 claim on which the Romish power asserts its 
 right to sovereignty over all branches of the Cath- 
 olic faith. There is a fine Carthusian monastery 
 some six miles back among the blue Pisan hills ; 
 from thence an excursion up a steep mountain, 
 on whose summit are noticeable ruins a mount- 
 ain called La Verucca, a name suggestive of 
 something so odious and unsightly that one nev- 
 er cares to translate it into English. 
 
 So the days passed pleasantly indeed, and 
 brought about a closer companionship between 
 Elizabeth and this man who had so unexpected- 
 ly crossed the monotonous course of her life, 
 brightening its sameness by the charm of his 
 presence. 
 
 Vaughan was almost constantly with them, 
 and never had she found society so suited to her 
 taste. His marvelous faculty of adapting him- 
 self to the habits and fancies of others served ad- 
 mirably here. He quickly comprehended enough 
 of Elizabeth's enthusiastic nature to enable him 
 to take the lead in the expression of ideas and 
 dreams which filled her mind doing it so well 
 that often it seemed to her she owed their clear- 
 ness and even their dawn to his suggestions. 
 Altogether, two months passed in daily inter- 
 course between Elizabeth Crauford and this young 
 man. From the first she had been led to sup- 
 pose his visit to Europe ordered after great and 
 prolonged mental exertion, otherwise she would 
 have objected to ease and repose. There was 
 so much work to be done in the world its 
 needs were so vast that she must see a neces- 
 sity for any body's resting in order to excuse the 
 delay. 
 
 The time came at length when she could not 
 fail to perceive that Vaughan had some special 
 motive in lingering with them when it became 
 equally plain that her father saw and approved 
 this motive. 
 
 So a new and unknown restlessness entered 
 Elizabeth's life, but it was a very pleasant one. 
 
 If any spirit guide could have made plain to 
 her the fact that in this man she saw only the 
 shadow of her lofty ideal without consistence, 
 she would have been astounded to discover how 
 
 this thought had lain at her heart and she been 
 still ignorant of it. 
 
 She grew to believe thoroughly in Darrell 
 Vaughan to accept him as the embodiment of 
 her hero who was to struggle for right, and win 
 tangible results in the form of general good. A 
 hero who toiled neither for fame nor ambition ; 
 who chose deliberately the hardest path put by 
 the dreams which would have induced him to be- 
 come either poet or artist accepted the world's 
 dusty high-road the hardships and wearinesses 
 of a politician's course simply because the age 
 needed a man capable of doing this for philan- 
 thropy's sake. 
 
 That she could be thought worthy to have 
 part or lot in this grand destiny grand, wheth- 
 er success or disappointment crowned its efforts, 
 since the aim was there, and some portion of 
 good must be wrought filled her with pride and 
 gratitude. 
 
 She believed in him she would have shrunk 
 from no sacrifice which might aid in his work. 
 There was no task so humble, no drudgery so 
 severe, that she would not have gloried in it for 
 the work's sake. 
 
 Sometimes, even when not soaring off on the 
 wings of hobbies and noble endeavor, there was 
 a rare charm in his presence. At other mo- 
 ments the man who sat by her seemed suddenly 
 to change. A veil lifted, as it were, or a haxe 
 came between her consciousness and him. It was 
 all vague ; something she did not understand 
 enough to dwell upon with any clearness. There 
 were lights in those eyes sometimes smiles on 
 that handsome mouth variations in his manner 
 twice, almost a confusion and incoherency in 
 his talk (passing quickly, to leave a strange lu- 
 minousness behind) glances, tones, things so 
 different from his usual seeming, that she shrank 
 almost affrighted. 
 
 These intuitions seldom really affect us ; we 
 look back and recognize them later, but the soul 
 is as powerless to make its own prescience pal- 
 pably felt by our mortal consciousness as it is 
 to put before us clear gleams of that soul's expe- 
 rience in lives antecedent to this experiences 
 which can no more have had a beginning than 
 they can find an end, if eternity be that soul's 
 portion. 
 
 The day came when Vaughan put his hopes 
 into words, and then, indeed, the romance and 
 poetry assumed their proper place, and Eliza- 
 beth the enthusiast dreamed that she was stray- 
 ing away into Eden, and felt no fear only a 
 beautiful joy at knowing her hand clasped in this 
 man's, ready to believe her heart within reach of 
 his forever. Did he love her ? He would have 
 said so, and credited his own words. Vaughan 
 could no more help longing for the possession of 
 a beautiful woman than he could for wine, hash- 
 eesh any excitement ; and Elizabeth was a new 
 experience. To put humanity into the statue
 
 MR. VAUGIIAN'S HEIR. 
 
 fire passion the idea was pleasant. That she 
 would only turn into an ordinary woman if he 
 succeeded, did not trouble him ; he did not even 
 stop to think that then she would become n 
 weariness, and fare as others had done. 
 
 Great wealth great reputation boundless 
 power Vaughan meant to have all these. Hon- 
 or and virtue were lovely abstractions to him, 
 like the mythological fables which clad them in 
 glorious shapes and called them gods. Sin, as 
 i-in, was just as much au abstraction, however 
 agreeable indulgence might be. He was as in- 
 capable of feeling shame in the gratification of 
 his appetites as he was of remorse at flinging out 
 of his path, by any means, an object which in- 
 terfered with his course. Tut spiders in a bot- 
 tle : the smallest will be devoured by the next 
 in size, and so on until there is only one bloated 
 monster to be seen. Vaughan would not have 
 called the conqueror a monster he would have 
 admired him as a visible expression of strength. 
 He carried the same creed through all spheres 
 of life and action. - He would have told you, too 
 if he had chosen to let you get at his secret 
 thoughts that any fresh sensation which the 
 soul craved, whether upward or downward, pure 
 or vile, was an experience offered that soul, and 
 a part of its development. To reject the tempta- 
 tion because it interfered with what men term 
 right or decency would he an act of consummate 
 folly and a relic of priestcraft. 
 
 When Vaughan had told the story of his love 
 had dwelt on the bright future which her 
 companionship was to render still better worth 
 the living Elizabeth asked for a week's reflec- 
 tion. It was all beautiful. The thought of hav- 
 ing won such affection filled her with a sweet 
 trouble. It was herself only that she doubted 
 was she worthy ? Her own unfitness for mar- 
 riage had been a rather firmly settled creed in 
 her mind, but the old theories faded and lost their 
 force now. 
 
 " I will wait any time that you set," Vaughan 
 answered to her request. "A week it seems 
 a long while ! Perhaps I have been too bold 
 it did not come from arrogance or vanity though, 
 I am sure. Let me try to tell you how it was. 
 My own heart was so moved, I think it seemed 
 to me impossible that yours could remain un- 
 touched. I might have known you were too no- 
 ble too " 
 
 Elizabeth stopped him by a little sign. A viv- 
 id color tinted her cheeks, and her eyes looked 
 at once earnest and disturbed. It was an effort 
 to speak, but she struggled bravely. 
 
 ''It is not that please do not misunderstand 
 me it was of myself the doubt of my own fit- 
 
 " Elizabeth, Elizabeth !" he cried, uttering her 
 name for the first time as her broken sentence 
 died unfinished ; "you do care you do !'' He 
 was bending over her ; she felt his kisses on her 
 
 hands ; yet this first show of passion startled 
 and troubled her, though she could not put the 
 feeling into words. "I beg your pardon," he 
 said, drawing back. "Ah, can you not under- 
 stand I love you I love you ! I am only hu- 
 man you have been a sort of beautiful abstrac- 
 tion all your life my whole heart and soul have 
 gone out to you, and I could not call them back. " 
 
 But it was not any exhibition of passion or 
 eagerness which touched her. He saw this. 
 Such outbursts only troubled, almost terrified 
 her. Tenderness calm aftection those vast 
 plans for the future, that hope of sharing in his 
 work these were spells which had drawn her to- 
 ward him : to their potency he mnst still trust. 
 
 He told her of having seen her miniature and 
 those letters of the dream which sprang up in 
 his heart before their first meeting. 
 
 "I have another secret, too," he added; "you 
 must hear that now." 
 
 Then followed the story of his uncle's project 
 of the condition which in his will he had at- 
 tached to the fulfillment of that desire. 
 
 He placed the dead man's letter in her hands, 
 and left her to read it. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BACK TO LIFE. 
 
 THE glorious sunlight of a spring morning 
 shines into the room ; the window is open ; the 
 breeze enters too, whispering sofily, bringing the 
 voices of the birds and the scent of the early 
 flowers on its wings a room in the California!! 
 villa where old Mr. Vaughan died, the large, 
 cheerful library which he had fitted up with the 
 care one naturally bestows upon an apartment 
 that is to be the favorite shrine in the sanctuary 
 of home. 
 
 Lnnnce Cromlin sits here this morning, lean- 
 ing back in his easy-chair, a little weary from 
 the effort of having been helped out of his cham- 
 ber for the first time since that terrible illness 
 struck him down. Launce has been away oiF 
 close to the gates of Death since then, so close 
 that often in moments of semi-consciousness he 
 seemed to hear familiar voices call to him from, 
 the other side, and wondered dreamily that those 
 friends did not open the great portals and let 
 him through. Before his reviving faculties reach- 
 ed even such vague, disconnected attempts at 
 thought, there were long weeks of wild delirium, 
 followed by still longer weeks whose record must 
 always remain a blank when the soul made no 
 sign to denote its presence in the earthly taber- 
 nacle when for days and nights, and nights and 
 days, it needed the skill of physicians or sage 
 nurses to be certain that a faint ray of the mys- 
 terious power we call vitality still lingered in the 
 dull, senseless frame.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 73 
 
 He has been well cared for that seemed to 
 Mr. Carstoe a plain duty ; but the quiet, reti- 
 cent man has gone beyond the exactions of this 
 chill word. Were Launce his son that dream- 
 son who sometimes finds a place in the solitary 
 old bachelor's musings, practical as he is more 
 earnestness and devotion could not have been 
 displayed. So to-day they have moved the con- 
 valescent into the library. Strength and its ac- 
 companying restlessness have begun to return, 
 and life is to go on once more, and slip gradually 
 . back into its ordinary channels. Launce is al- 
 ways hungry or sleepy, or reversing the order of 
 those requirements, and Mr. Carstoe and the 
 stiff housekeeper are delighted with his prodigies 
 in both lines. Launce begins to wonder in his 
 quaint way whether his proper soul did not make 
 its exit during that long blank, and the soul of a 
 cormorant or some antediluvian creature with 
 huge appetite take advantage of the rightful own- 
 er's absence to assume possession of his corporeal 
 frame. 
 
 "Mercy sakes! he aint flighty again, is he?" 
 asks the housekeeper, in an audible whisper, 
 when she hears Launce expressing his absurd 
 fancy to Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 "No, no, Mrs. Simpson; I am all right," 
 Launce replies, laughing. 
 
 "Then the best thing you can do is to stay 
 so," observes Simpson, erect and rigid. She 
 has come in a sort to regard Launce as her prop- 
 erty after all the care she has bestowed, and is 
 inclined to show her interest by scolding him 
 now and then a liberty which he finds rather 
 pleasant than otherwise. "So please don't let 
 us hear any talk about your being any of those 
 creeturs that aint to be found any more than 
 Jonah's whale. We had enough of that when 
 you was stretched on your back and knowed no 
 better," adds Simpson. 
 
 " I suppose I talked an awful lot of rubbish ?" 
 Launce says. 
 
 "I suppose you did," retorted Simpson, ar- 
 ranging the sofa cushions, just to have the satis- 
 faction of doing something for this patient who 
 will soon pass from under her charge. She does 
 her work so deftly, and looks so preternatural- 
 ly grim when most solicitous, that she affords 
 Launce a great deal of amusement. 
 
 It is Sunday, so Mr. Carstoe has leisure to 
 spend the whole day with the young man, and 
 Launce makes him talk till Simpson several times 
 bustles in and scolds them both. Simpson has an 
 idea that men are only gigantic children, and need 
 to be grumbled at on every possible occasion. 
 
 The doctor pays his visit, and pronounces the 
 convalescent doing as nicely as possible ; and 
 Simpson, ready to cry with delight, fairly scolds 
 the doctor too, and remarks generally that she 
 doesn't like "to hear folks shout till they're out 
 of the woods" that's her way, and she's never 
 yet seen any reason to change it. 
 
 But it does not appear that in this case the 
 physician has shouted too soon. Launce, as the 
 days go by, gets gradually stronger, and the 
 youthful face, that looked so like a mask during 
 those awful weeks, has begun, worn and emaciat- 
 ed as it is, to catch the tints and expression of 
 i returning health. The mental lassitude, the dif- 
 ficulty to grasp and hold thought steadily, pass- 
 es too, and once more life looks warm and hope- 
 ful, and Launce longs to be busy with its interests 
 and labors. Mr. Carstoe comes in one morning 
 while Launce is trying his strength in walking 
 about, and wondering how long it will be before 
 he can again use pencil and brush. Mr. Car- 
 stoe has letters in his hand the letters he and 
 Dan-ell Vaughan wrote to apprise Launce of 
 his uncle's death. The agent has had them re- 
 turned. 
 
 "I wanted you to see," he says, finding Launce 
 able to talk and occupy himself a little, "that 
 there ws no delay on your cousin's part or 
 mine." 
 
 Launce looks at the address upon the envel- 
 opes, and looks at the wrinkled, kindly face be- 
 fore him. If there.were some reason for man- 
 aging to delay these letters, Mr. Carstoe knows 
 nothing about it of that Launce is certain. He 
 reads the pages, and smiles rather scornfully at 
 the possibility of his accepting a legacy left him 
 on such terms. He is too just to feel angry with 
 his cousin on that score at least Dan-ell had 
 nothing to do with the bequest or its restrictions. 
 His letter, too, is kind, affectionate even just 
 a little patronizing perhaps, but at this Launce 
 can afford to be amused. 
 
 " Have you heard lately from Vanghan?" he 
 asks. 
 
 " Xot very lately ; one letter in answer to mine 
 about your illness. He was extremely glad you 
 were here with me." 
 
 "It has been a lucky thing for me that I did 
 reach you before that fever came on," Launce 
 replies, stretching out his hand. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe grows shy and awkward at once. 
 He does not like to be thanked, and seems fairly 
 ashamed of himself. 
 
 "Well, well, you are going on famously now," 
 he says. 
 
 "Yes ; I shall soon be able to get away." 
 
 "Dear me; yes, of course," observed Mr. 
 Carstoe in a regretful tone, rubbing his nose the 
 while. "Naturally; but you must not hurry too 
 much. Let things work awhile ; we don't want 
 any risk of getting that fever back." 
 
 "Upon my word, although I have been such a 
 bother, I believe you and that good Mrs. Simp- 
 son will be rather sorry to have me go," says 
 Launce, laughing, though he chokes ; for he is 
 still weak enough to be easily touched and made 
 childish. 
 
 " Sir," says Mr. Carstoe, scowling as portent- 
 ouslv as if he were about to utter some awful
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 threat, " the Lord forbid that I should speak for 
 any female,, especially one as capable of speaking 
 for herself as Mrs. Simpson. But / shall be sor- 
 ry, and so will she I can take it on myself to 
 say so much for her." 
 
 "It was falling among good Samaritans in- 
 deed," Launce answers. ''I shall be sorry to 
 leave you both, Mr. Carstoe. I have wasted a 
 great deal of time though. I want to be up and 
 doing. You see I have not stumbled over sev- 
 eral hundred thousand dollars, and must make 
 my way in the world." 
 
 "Just so, just so," observes Mr. Carstoe, mus- 
 ingly. "It would have been different if there 
 had been time, I am sure of that." 
 
 ' ' Perhaps so ; but indeed I am not caring 
 about the money. Of course every body would 
 like to be rich ; but I have my profession, and I 
 may say, without vanitv, that I have not done 
 ill." 
 
 " I am glad of that ; very glad. " 
 
 Mr. Carstoe is remembering the impression 
 Darrell had produced on his mind in regard to 
 this young man, and decides that Vaughan was 
 mistaken ntterly in his estimate of Cromlin, al- 
 though usually so clear and correct in his judg- 
 ments. 
 
 "I don't know much about your business I 
 suppose that is not the proper word ; but I have 
 enjoyed looking over those sketch-books of yours, 
 and and so has Mrs. Simpson." Mr. Carstoe 
 finishes his sentence with this jerking mention of 
 Simpson simply because he is shy about express- 
 ing his feelings. " Now I should think I don't 
 mean to offer suggestions but being here among 
 new scenery as it were mightn't you, for exam- 
 ple, do something among our mountains, and so 
 on, a little?" 
 
 " I should be glad of the chance ; but you see 
 I am anxious to go back to Europe I left very 
 suddenly." Lnunce feels himself coloring, and 
 hastens to add "Some time I shall hope to 
 come again to California and see it thoroughly." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe is thinking of the codicil, and, 
 slow man though he is, has a perception that 
 Miss Crauford is in the young man's mind ; it 
 is Miss Crauford, not the money somehow Mr. 
 Carstoe is certain of that. 
 
 "Just so, just so," he observes, running his 
 hands through his short hair till it stands up 
 like a gray iron netting all over his head. 
 
 "Now if you are at leisure I want to have a 
 little talk,'' Launce says. " Would it bore you 
 to go over the conversation we had the night of 
 my arrival? I get it confused when I try to 
 think. I believe I must have been ill even then, 
 though I recollect our visit to the prison." 
 
 It is all made clear to Launce again all ex- 
 cept that impenetrable mystery which shrouds- 
 the evil deed his uncle so long believed him to 
 have committed : there is no light to be thrown 
 on that. 
 
 "Thank God, at least he lived to know I was 
 innocent!" Launce says. " But Mr. Sandford's 
 letter does not in the least clear up the matter." 
 
 "All the papers your uncle left are in that 
 cabinet," Mr. Carstoe observes, pointing to a 
 massive, ancient piece of furniture at the end of 
 the room. "You may like to look over them 
 some time ; I will get the keys and leave them 
 with yon. I know your cousin would like to 
 have you he and I searched them together. 
 When you see Mr. Dan-ell you will find him pre- 
 pared to be friendly and considerate." 
 
 Launce glances at the patronizing letter, and 
 smiles again. Catching that smile, Mr. Carstoe 
 wonders if Cromlin feels a certain bitterness to- 
 ward Vaughan on account of his good-fortune. 
 It would be natural, he thinks, if it were so, but 
 not in keeping with the idea he has gained of 
 the young man's character. He thinks, too, 
 what a pity it would be if enmity should grow 
 up between the two, and would gladly do or say 
 something to remove any angry feelings from 
 Launce's mind. 
 
 "Very kindly in all ways your cousin spoke 
 of you," he continues after a pause. "It seems 
 hard, it really does, that your uncle did not live 
 to make those changes in his will which I feel 
 confident he intended." 
 
 "That he wanted to do it is enough for me," 
 interrupts Launce, his face clearing. " I am not 
 grudging Darrell his luck, Mr. Carstoe ; don't 
 think that." 
 
 "I am sure you are not !" 
 
 " You remain agent of all the property, I be- 
 lieve you told me," Launce says. 
 
 "Yes; your cousin's conduct has been most 
 generous to me. I thought when I met with the 
 last loss the jewels, you remember that there 
 was nothing before me but worse drudgery than 
 that of the past. His liberal offers not only 
 make me comfortable, but will enable me to lay 
 by a fair competency for my old age something 
 more, if property in this region continues to in- 
 crease in value as it has done for the last ten 
 years." 
 
 " I am glad of it ; very glad. I am sure you 
 deserve success." 
 
 "You are very good to say so, Mr. Cromlin. 
 At least I have worked and tried honestly ; I 
 can affirm so much in my own behalf. I could 
 not, however, have hoped for such advantages as 
 Mr. Vaughan has given me." 
 
 " A good salary " 
 
 "More than that percentages upon lands 
 that I sell or rent, and other means of saving. 
 Had I been a relative instead of his uncle's man 
 of business he could not have dealt more gener- 
 ously." 
 
 It is new in Launce's experience of his cousin 
 to find him thinking of any body besides him- 
 self. But he does not say this : his conscience 
 suggests that perhaps he wrongs Darrell has>
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR, 
 
 without knowing it, cherished harsh thoughts 
 and suspicions in regard to him. Launce has 
 no mind to be on bad terms even in thought 
 with his relative. Probably the course of their 
 lives will not often run parallel, but Darrell is 
 almost the only relation he has in the world, and 
 there shall be no ill-feeling on his side. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe disturbs his meditations by utter- 
 ing aloud and abruptly those to which his own 
 thoughts have wandered. 
 
 "There is another matter, Mr. Cromlin, that 
 we may as well arrange now." 
 
 " What is that ?" 
 
 "About the ten thousand dollars." 
 
 "Well, what about it?" Launce speaks 
 quickly, and sits up with sudden erectness, and 
 a, brighter light in his eyes. 
 
 "It can be paid you at any time. Your 
 cousin mentions in his letter to you that you 
 have only to apply to me he had made all the 
 necessary arrangements for me to " 
 
 " Excuse me," interrupts Launce, " we need 
 not go into that matter, Mr. Carstoe. I have no 
 intention of touching the money." 
 
 "Now really, on reflection, is it wise? Par- 
 don my seeming to " 
 
 " I understand ; you are very kind, and I 
 thank you. But there is nothing to be said, 
 Mr. Carstoe. I do not want Vaughan's money, 
 and I shall not take it. " 
 
 "But it would be a gift from your late uncle." 
 
 "No ; it would be DarreH's bounty that gave 
 it. I could not take it, and there is an end. If 
 my uncle had lived to change matters, that would 
 have been different. I can not accept any thing 
 left me in that way. The business does not 
 even admit of discussion." 
 
 "Well, you must be the judge, I suppose," 
 sighs Carstoe. 
 
 " Yes ; it is an affair of feeling, perhaps. Do 
 believe that I meant what I said when I told you 
 I did not grudge Darrell his fortune. If it were 
 mine, I would give the whole just to clear up 
 that dark business. I mean to find out by what 
 means my uncle was so grossly deceived in re- 
 gard to me." 
 
 ' ' But that is of no consequence now. Your 
 uncle was convinced. His letter to you what 
 he said to me proves it." 
 
 " Yes ; and it is a great comfort. Let the 
 money go ; I shall be able to earn all I need. 
 But it is horrible to think that some wicked plot 
 separated me so long from him ; that is what 
 hurts ! I loved him better than I ever loved any 
 body ; and to remember all these years, when he 
 was in failing health, that I could not be with 
 him that " 
 
 Launce breaks off, and turns his head. Mr. 
 Carstoe is afraid that agitation may do him harm, 
 and wants to get his thoughts away from such 
 painful meditations. He thinks what a fine thing 
 it would be for Launce if he could only win Miss 
 
 Crauford and the two hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand dollars, for Mr. Carstoe has struggled hard 
 enough to know what money is worth. 
 
 "I you well, as you do me the honor to talk 
 about your affairs, would it be a liberty if " 
 
 " No liberty, whatever it may be ; go on, 
 Carstoe," says Launce, thinking how little one 
 would expect to find so much delicacy and kind 
 feeling as he has learned exists under that awk- 
 ward, grim exterior. 
 
 " Only that I am sure your uncle's wishes 
 would have weight now it seems from the codi- 
 cil that he desired you to try your chance in 
 short, did you ever happen to meet the young 
 lady, Mr. Cromlin ?" 
 
 Launce's thoughts have gone back to that 
 brief meeting. He seems to see the beautiful 
 face lying pale and helpless on his shoulder. His 
 cheeks wear a tinge of color, and his eyes soften 
 as he answers "I saw Miss Crauford once; I 
 am not acquainted with her." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe looks the other way, and rubs his 
 hands softly together. He does not know much 
 about romances, but it seems to him that he has 
 stumbled on a sort of idyl or poem, and he de- 
 lights in it, little accustomed as he is to exercise 
 his imagination. Launce perceives this ; smiles, 
 but not scornfully, at so odd a corner in this cold, 
 legal mind, and, partly to please Mr. Carstoe, 
 partly to gratify himself, he relates the incidents 
 of that one meeting with Miss Crauford. He 
 does not mention those after-dreams which have 
 haunted him so persistently. Launce is not 
 given to confidences. Mr. Carstoe listens at- 
 tentively, and enjoys the story, and, in his silent 
 fashion, reads Launce's face, and, middle-aged 
 and toil-worn as he is, can construe its language 
 as plainly as if the young man had put his pretty 
 fancies into words. 
 
 " I gathered from what your cousin said, 
 though I could not tell how," observes Mr. Car- 
 stoe, "that he had no mind to occupy himself 
 with the possible results of the codicil ; that, in 
 fact, he had interests of a a tender nature else- 
 where." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe is almost as shy about pronounc- 
 ing such words as an old maid would have been, 
 in spite of his beard and his years. 
 
 " I know nothing about DarreH's affairs," 
 Launce replies ; and Mr. Carstoe feels that the 
 subject is done with. But he would like exceed- 
 ingly to know how Miss Crauford looks, for the 
 life of him he could not tell why. Mr. Carstoe 
 has not read a novel in thirty years probably 
 not more than three before that, say " The Chil- 
 dren of the Abbey" and "Charlotte Temple" 
 among them but he certainly has a latent taste 
 for romance all the same. 
 
 "A bachelor's life is a lonely one," he says, 
 making an attack on that unfortunate nos&of his. 
 " I think Mr. Vaughan found it so. I gathered, 
 too, from what be told me Just before his last ill-
 
 7G 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 ness, that at one time he had been attached to 
 this young lady's mother." 
 
 Launee is interested, but Mr. Carstoe has not 
 much to tell, though Launce's youthful fancy 
 has no difficulty in clothing the bare skeleton in 
 glowing colors. 
 
 "There is a miniature in the cabinet, too," 
 says Mr. Carstoe. " I have an idea it was the 
 portrait of Mrs. Crauford. " 
 
 Launee is eager to see it ; so Mr. Carstoe gets 
 the keys and opens the cabinet. Launee sits 
 still in his chair; somehow he can not find cour- 
 age yet to look in the receptacle filled with me- 
 mentos of his dead uncle. Mr. Carstoe returns 
 with a small velvet case in his hand, and gives 
 it to Launee. 
 
 A painting on ivory of a beautiful girl-face 
 the very face he had once, for a few moments, 
 studied so eagerly ; only then the eyes were 
 closed, and now they regard him with a sweet 
 gravity. A name is written in pencil on the satin 
 lining Laura Marlow. Launee can not remem- 
 ber how he knows, but he does, that this was the 
 maiden name of Mr. Crauford's wife. He gazes 
 at the portrait for some minutes in silence, and 
 Mr. Carstoe gazes silently at him. As Launee 
 looks up, he meets the other's glance, and both 
 are slightly confused. Mr. Carstoe fears that he 
 has been indiscreet, and Launee wonders if the 
 vague, sweet fancies in his heart are visible upon 
 his countenance. 
 
 "It would make a fine study for a picture," 
 Launee says, carelessly laying the miniature on 
 the table. " I should really like to keep it, but 
 I suppose it is my cousin's property now. " 
 
 "You could give it to him when you meet; 
 there could be no impropriety certainly in your 
 taking it," replies the other. 
 
 Launee suggests no further scruples ; he puts 
 the case quickly into his pocket, with a keen 
 pleasure in the possession of that treasure, which 
 he half feels to be folly, yet would not check if 
 he were able. 
 
 Now Mr. Carstoe is obliged to go into the 
 town, and leave Launee \to his own devices for 
 the day. The hours do not drag : Lannce can 
 read a little, sleep a little ; partake of the savory 
 messes Simpson the rigid serves up to tempt his 
 palate, and dream a great deal, though in a vague 
 fashion, of the possible future which may meet 
 him beyond the seas. He shall soon be able 
 now to undertake the voyage very soon. It is 
 odd, but among those delicious dreams, wherein 
 Kliznheth Crauford's face makes the brightest 
 radiance, slight thoughts of Darrell or his possi- 
 ble plans intrude. 
 
 The day has gone on to afternoon. Launee, 
 in walking about the room, stops for an instant 
 near the cabinet. He perceives that Mr.Carstoe 
 has left the key in the lock probably that, if 
 so inclined, Launee may have an opportunity to 
 look over his uncle's papers. 
 
 The young man sits down before the cabinet, 
 opens the portion arranged as a desk, pulls out 
 drawer after drawer, and examines the papers 
 tied up in orderly packages. There is nothing 
 of much importance, nothing of mystery or ro- 
 mance ; yet he touches every thing tenderly, and 
 is moved and softened as memory after memory 
 comes back of that dead man whom he so fond- 
 ly loved. In one compartment he finds letters 
 written by himself letters labeled in his uncle's 
 hand, "From my boy." These have been pre- 
 served, even through those dark years of suspi- 
 cion and anger. Launee is young enough to 
 feel his eyelids grow moist, and man enough to 
 be proud of the weakness. He looks over the 
 letters several written when he was a mere boy, 
 others not long before the break between him 
 and his relative. There are not many of them ; 
 just a few retained, as if, even in the height of 
 his anger, the old man had not been able to de- 
 prive himself of reminiscences of what he once 
 believed the youth actually to be. 
 
 Nothing to bear upon the strongest thought 
 in his mind, however. Mr. Carstoe was right. 
 Neither in pocket - books, notes, nor papers is 
 there the slightest allusion to that dark mystery. 
 Probably in this life no light will ever be thrown 
 upon it. What good could disclosure serve now? 
 If he might know the exact means by which he 
 had suffered that injury, the very hand which 
 wrought it, what purpose could it further ? There 
 is no desire or idea of retribution or vengeance 
 in Launce's mind ; for the world he would not 
 burden his soul with such a weight. 
 
 He lingers for a long time over the relics in 
 the cabinet; commonplace ones enough, but sa- 
 cred to him from the affection he bore the dead 
 man. He begins at length slowly to lay the pa- 
 pers back in their place, and to close the drawers 
 and compartments. 
 
 One of the inner drawers does not shut en- 
 tirely. Launee struggles with it somewhat not 
 that it is of any consequence, as it does not in- 
 terfere with the closing of the portion arranged 
 as a writing-desk, inside which it is situated. 
 At another time he would not have noticed he 
 might have examined the cabinet often without 
 doing so but in his softened mood he regarded 
 with almost morbid tenderness every thing his 
 uncle's hand had touched so near the last con- 
 scious hours of his life. 
 
 The drawer will not shut, so he tries to pull it 
 out, that he may discover the reason. But the 
 drawer is no more inclined to come out than 
 to go in an obstinate, pig-headed drawer as 
 ever an old carved cabinet owned in its interior. 
 Launee tugs with such strength as he possesses, 
 and the drawer squeaks in querulous resentment, 
 but is at length obliged to yield. It flics out 
 with such force that Launee in his still weak 
 state is fairly thrown backward in his chair. 
 
 lie sees now what held the drawer the cover
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 77 
 
 of a book, the leaves hanging down behind out 
 of sight. Launce pulls the volume forth and 
 looks at it. A thin blank -book, with pages of 
 writing here and there a journal, broken and 
 disconnected, kept by his uncle during the last 
 months of his life one little entry on the very 
 day of his fatal seizure. 
 
 Launce does not clearly understand, he re- 
 treats in horror from the suspicions which strike 
 his mind. He does not want them cleared up ! 
 If Milady were here before him, ready to an- 
 swer any questions he could ask, Launce feels 
 that he should fly from her presence. Oh, let 
 the secret rest ! 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 PLATO'S DISCIPLE. 
 
 MR.CRACFOKD fell ill. For years he had con- 
 sidered himself an invalid, constantly prophesy- 
 ing untold suffering and speedy death as his por- 
 tion ; but hitherto the former had refused to have 
 much to do with him, and the latter showed no 
 inclination to shorten his mortal span. Now 
 among the soft Italian spring days Mr. Crauford 
 caught a low fever. At first the malady prom- 
 ised to be of little consequence, not grave enough 
 to alarm even his daughter, accustomed to see 
 him take to his bed on the slightest provocation. 
 Hut the days went on grew into a fortnight. 
 Elizabeth became very anxious, and the doctors 
 were forced to acknowledge that the disease 
 proved more deeply seated and obstinate than 
 they had anticipated. 
 
 One never can predicate, from previous knowl- 
 edge of any human being, how he will support 
 an illness serious enough to suggest to his mind 
 the possibility of a not distant departure from 
 this mundane sphere. Mr. Crauford had always 
 been the most nervous and captious patient that 
 ever tried a physician's good temper, but from 
 the beginning of this attack he exhibited a for- 
 titude which caused the doctors, previously un- 
 acquainted with him, to regard his character as 
 one of unusual force and self-control. The truth 
 was, Mr. Crauford had seized the occasion to be- 
 come a hero in his own eyes. I suppose at the 
 bottom he did not really believe himself about to 
 die, but he thought he believed it, and his inor- 
 dinate vanity and craving for admiration, added 
 to a feeling that this critical state rendered him 
 an object of interest and importance, caused him 
 to enact a kind of ancient stoicism quite wonder- 
 ful to witness. 
 
 Vaughan had been absent on one of the little 
 excursions wherewith he diversified the quiet of 
 his present life ; but he returned as soon as he 
 heard of Mr. Crauford 's illness. He trusted that 
 chance, or the lucky star which had thus far ruled 
 his destiny, would bring to a fortunate conclusion 
 
 this period of suspense fraught with such danger- 
 ous possibilities. He proved the kindest of friends 
 to Elizabeth in her trouble, and the most patient 
 of nurses to the sick man. Mr. Crauford was 
 more submissive to him than he had ever been 
 to any living creature, and Elizabeth quickly ac- 
 quired the habit of leaning upon his advice and 
 consolations, reproaching herself for not having 
 hitherto esteemed the gentleness of his nature as 
 it deserved. 
 
 Mr. Crauford's illness, and above all the state 
 of high mental grandeur into which he saw fit 
 to soar, afforded Vaughan the opportunity that 
 neither his craft nor good-fortune had been able 
 to bring near. 
 
 He strengthened the physicians in their view 
 of the sick man's temperament; and when they 
 admitted that the disease proved more serious 
 than they had expected, though still perfectly 
 hopeful as to its ultimate results, Vaughan at 
 once opened his batteries. They were grave 
 interests affecting the whole fortune of this gen- 
 tleman's daughter, which ought to be definitely 
 arranged. Mr. Crauford was, as they saw, a 
 person of unusual coolness and fortitude, but if 
 later he became enfeebled in mind and nerves, 
 his anxiety would go far toward preventing his 
 recovery. The physicians acknowledged this, 
 and advised Vaughan to encourage Mr. Crau- 
 ford in setting straight any matter important 
 enough to cause him uneasiness. There cer- 
 tainly was a great lack of vitality. While an- 
 ticipating his recovery from this attack, they 
 could not deny that a future illness might be 
 less successfully combated, and at his age it 
 was best that all business connected with his 
 daughter's well-being should be arranged. Of 
 course he must not be agitated ; but from what 
 they could judge of the patient's character, Mr. 
 Vaughan's certainty that such a course would 
 be the surest means of preserving the tranquillity 
 of spirit so necessary seemed to them correct. 
 
 After the physicians had gone, Darrell sat 
 meditating until disturbed by the entrance of 
 Gervais : the sick man desired his presence. 
 
 Mr. Crauford was very Roman indeed this 
 morning. He had a copy of Plato lying on the 
 bed-cover ; he could see his face in the mirror, 
 and he fancied that he must look very much as 
 Cato or Cicero did when stricken by disease, and 
 was determined to render these closing scenes 
 of his earthly pilgrimage as impressive as possi- 
 ble An under-current of thought which went 
 on in his mind concerning the feasibility of a 
 vovage to Greece the following autumn, might 
 have suggested to an unprejudiced person a 
 doubt as to the depth of his belief in that speedy 
 departure of which, for days past, he had talked 
 in grand phrases ; but Mr. Crauford's admiration 
 of his own mental strength was disturbed by no 
 such humiliating consciousness. 
 
 He would have liked to rise, wrap his dressing-
 
 78 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 gown about him in toga-like folds, and so appear 
 more Ciceronian, and he regretted the years had 
 not left him bald, that after his decease a correct 
 cast might be taken of his wonderful head. But 
 he was too weak to sit up, and he could not bring 
 himself to sacrifice the still luxuriant locks of 
 which he was exceedingly vain. So he stretched 
 one hand out upon the copy of Plato, and ex- 
 tended the other toward Vaughan as he entered, 
 and did his best to offer the appearance of an 
 ancient Consul reposing in the curule chair. 
 
 "What I want," said Mr. Crauford, as the 
 visitor seated himself by the bed, "is frankness. 
 That the medical men have come to a decision 
 in regard to my state I know it is only fitting 
 that I should be made acquainted with it." 
 
 ' ' I think so myself, " Vaughan replied. ' ' With 
 ordinary invalids the less they know about them- 
 selves the better ; but with your marvelous firm- 
 ness and clear-sightedness, it would be simply 
 an insult to your great mental powers to treat 
 you in this way. " 
 
 These words were as honey and manna to the 
 listener's soul. Kobody had ever flattered him 
 so outrageously, and in consequence he believed 
 that next to himself Vaughan was "the most re- 
 markable personage of the century falling a 
 long way behind his own rank of course, but still 
 coming next. 
 
 "I am a dying man, my young friend," said 
 he; "you and I know it to minds like ours 
 the thought is free from those terrors which 
 cause weaker souls to shrink." 
 
 "At least I fear that you are very, very ill," 
 Vaughan replied, gently. 
 
 Mr. Crauford had elevated Plato in his hand 
 while uttering that fine sentiment, but at Dar- 
 rell's response he let the heathen philosopher fall 
 with a crash. 
 
 " Kh what ! Have the doctors they don't 
 think " he began more eagerly than was in 
 keeping with his assumption of the Ciceronian 
 style. 
 
 "They are hopeful confident of the favor- 
 able result finally," Vaughan hastened to add. 
 
 Mr. Crauford recovered his dignified composure, 
 and signed Vaughan to pick up the heathen. 
 
 "Plato grows too heavy for my frail hands," 
 he said, with a self-compassionate smile. "My 
 young friend, the doctors deceive themselves, or 
 they deem it wise to deceive me not easy, not 
 easy to do." 
 
 Vaughan paid a neat tribute of admiration to 
 his perspicacity, and noble powers in general, 
 then continued 
 
 'While differing from your opinion of your 
 state, I hold with our great man yonder" 
 pointing to Plato, as if he made a third in the 
 interview " that it is always a proof of wisdom 
 to have one's worldly affairs as carefully ar- 
 ranged as if one expected to set out immediate- 
 ly upon that journey into the unknown." 
 
 " The very thing of which I wished to speak," 
 Mr. Crauford said. He had not thought of 
 speaking of any thing of that nature, but he now 
 believed it was with some such purpose he had 
 sent for the young man. He tried to think of 
 any affair of importance which ought to be ai'- 
 ranged, but his money matters were all in perfect 
 order ; so the only thing which suggested itself 
 was in regard to those masses of fragments he 
 fondly believed poems. He seized with avidity 
 upon this new idea. 
 
 "I leave my work unfinished," he pursued ; 
 " but there is much which in careful hands 
 might be given to the world. That must be 
 your duty, Vaughan." 
 
 Darrell laughed internally at the idea of his 
 ever meddling with those chaotic heaps of weak 
 rhymes and stolen fancies, as he replied 
 
 " If it were to prove necessary, of course the 
 task would be my delight ; but, my dear sir, you 
 will live to do it yourself." 
 
 Mr. Crauford shook his head at the possi- 
 bility, looking rather puzzled to discover what 
 important business could still remain, as it 
 was evidently not of the manuscripts he had 
 been thinking. Something urgent had been 
 in his mind since he had sent for Vaughan to 
 speak of it; but what? Darrell saw his per- 
 plexity, and was prepared to clear atfay the 
 mists. 
 
 "That part in any case we may consider set- 
 tled," he said ; "but I know what from the first 
 has disturbed you the thought of your daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 "Yes, yes," Mr. Crauford answered, im- 
 mensely relieved to find out what care had op- 
 pressed him. Of course it was about Elizabeth 
 he had intended to speak ; but what had he 
 meant to say ? " A father's heart, Vanghan ; a 
 father's heart!'' 
 
 "I can judge a little from my own a lover's 
 feelings," Vaughan said, laying his hand on the 
 sick man's, while his face softened with that smile 
 which made it seem so earnest and noble. "At 
 least she would have always one faithful affec- 
 tion in which to trust. I know you were think- 
 ing that too." 
 
 Of course. Still Mr. Crauford was no nearer 
 the light. 
 
 "I think I have read clearly what has been 
 in your mind," continued Vaughan ; "my love 
 for Elizabeth, my veneration for you, make me 
 clear-sighted. But why should you leave your- 
 self room for anxiety ? I myself believe that, ill 
 as you nre, you will recover " 
 
 "No!" interrupted Mr. Crauford; "no!" And 
 he held up Plato again, as if the Grecian's spirit 
 had revealed the future to his eyes. 
 
 "Then, believing that, why, as I said, leave 
 room for care?" said Darrell. "I know you 
 have been asking yourself that question also. 
 Will you let me try to answer?''
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 70 
 
 "Try; I will listen," replied Mr. Cranford, 
 glad so easily to find out what interrogatory he 
 had been putting to his soul. 
 
 "You both believe in my earnest affection," 
 Vaughan went on. " Elizabeth's answer to my 
 plea was virtually a consent she only asked for 
 time. In urging her to marry me at once as I 
 think has suggested itself to you in viewing this 
 matter from every side, after your habit you 
 leave your mind completely at rest " 
 
 Mr. Crauford broke in with some hasty excla- 
 mation. He seized on this new excitement as 
 joyfully as he had accepted his role of Stoic. 
 There was no doubt whatever in his mind that 
 he had been pondering the very thing Vaughan 
 put into words. Mr. Crauford's inner vision 
 contemplated a hurried picture of a marriage by 
 a death-bed, himself, Ciceronian to the last, be- 
 stowing his farewell blessing on his child and her 
 new-made husband something white and grand 
 floating off over their heads directly after his 
 departing soul probably. He was charmed with 
 the tableau ; it was very real, and yet perfectly 
 destitute of painful reality. It is not easy to ex- 
 plain the jumble his faculties made of the bus- 
 iness. He contemplated doing a fine death- 
 scene, but for all that, he did not see himself 
 actually dead and cold. He could consider a 
 voyage to Athens in the same breath ; but he 
 was dying, he knew he believed that. Let him 
 bless his daughter and her husband before he 
 soared off to join Plato and other kindred nat- 
 ures in a higher sphere. 
 
 The two conversed for a long time. When 
 Vaughan ceased talking there was no mistiness 
 nor uncertainty in Mr. Crauford's mind. He 
 was perfectly satisfied that since the beginning 
 of his illness he had been brooding these weighty 
 matters ; that he had sent for Darrell to unfold 
 his wishes ; that every suggestion had come from 
 himself; that the young man's share consisted 
 simply in agreeing to his decision. 
 
 He wanted Elizabeth summoned ; he was wild 
 to have his project carried into effect. Vaughan 
 liimself hurried in search of her. 
 
 "I have been waiting for you ever since the 
 doctors went away," she began. " Gervais said 
 you were with my father. I know it annoys 
 him sometimes if one interrupts a conversation, 
 so I stayed here. Tell me what the physicians 
 say this morning." 
 
 She was very anxious, very beautiful in her 
 anxiety ; it was a great comfort to his aesthetic 
 sense that she did not make her nose red, nor sniff, 
 nor display trouble in a disagreeable manner. 
 
 He did not spare her. He seemed to be break- 
 ing the verdict gently; but he let her believe 
 that the doctors were very doubtful how the ill- 
 ness might end. He liked to console her in her 
 grief; she was picturesque and stately still, 
 troubled and shocked as she was, so he enjoyed 
 the interview. He proved so tender, so kind, 
 
 how could she help trusting him help believing 
 that he was noble, and earnest, and true as some 
 chivalrous Paladin of old ? 
 
 But her father wanted her; she must wipe 
 away her tears, and be composed and brave. 
 Vaughan warned her that, above all things, per- 
 fect tranquillity must be preserved in his pres- 
 ence no wish or idea thwarted. She should hear 
 the truth ! It would be useless to question the 
 doctors even if the sick man grew worse, they 
 would consider it a duty to deceive her ; but from 
 her friend she might rest assured she would 
 meet entire frankness, however painful the effort. 
 
 She was so utterly alone in the world, this 
 visionary, enthusiastic creature; under all her 
 dignity and pride she had such a tender, loving 
 heart she so craved affection, some superior 
 strength upon which she could repose in com- 
 plete confidence. She had never in her life been 
 thrown into such intimate companionship with 
 any man never seen one who comprehended her 
 dreams and aspirations one whose own plan of 
 life was so marked and broad, so replete with no- 
 ble aims and determinations. 
 
 He was gentle and tender too ; the softest 
 woman could not have been more kind and sym- 
 pathetic than he proved in her affliction. No 
 wonder she clung to him believed in him whol- 
 ly felt humiliated in her own esteem that at 
 first she had not rated his goodness so highly as 
 it deserved. 
 
 She went away to her father, and that mod- 
 ern version of the antique was at once so pathet- 
 ic and sublime over the speedy cessation of his 
 mortal sufferings, that, unnerved by sleepless 
 nights and watchings, more than ever alarmed 
 by Vaughan's apparent fears, Elizabeth lost the 
 last trace of courage, or even ability to reason, 
 and almost believed that her father was positive- 
 ly dying before her eyes. 
 
 He managed to make his whole meaning clear 
 the plan which he was convinced he had un- 
 folded to Vaughan. Elizabeth was too weak and 
 shaken for any exhibition of the control and de- 
 cision natural to her ; she could only cry out, as 
 the weakest girl might have done 
 
 "I can not! I can not! It is too sudden! 
 I can not!" 
 
 Then Mr. Crauford rushed into a violent ex- 
 citement, and Elizabeth remembered Vaughan's 
 warning the consequence might prove fatal. 
 She could only tiy to soothe him by loving 
 words ; but he was as obstinate as ever in his 
 weak, inconsequent way, and got speedily back 
 to the idea which had thoroughly taken posses- 
 sion of his mind. 
 
 Elizabeth could not deny -that this man was 
 more to her than any other had ever been ; in- 
 deed, these last days had almost convinced her 
 that she loved him ; but the haste was abhor- 
 rent to her the idea of a marriage under such 
 circumstances in every way distasteful.
 
 80 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S EEIE. 
 
 "I could not (lie in peace remembering that 
 I left my child helpless, alone in the world," 
 Mr. Crauford said over and over, as if he were 
 about to leave a small orphan of ten years pen- 
 niless on the earth. 
 
 Indeed, Elizabeth felt desolate enough, but she 
 could combat this. 
 
 " If it were to happen but it will not oh, 
 it will not I should not be alone ; there is my 
 Aunt Janet I could go to her." 
 
 "Think of the journey ; and Janet is an old 
 woman an impossible old woman," moaned 
 
 utterance which she comprehends ; it asks the 
 question she had been vainly trying to answer 
 during her troubled meditation. She looks up 
 with a start, trembling at the light in his eyes, 
 the eagerness in his voice. 
 
 "Do not be afraid," he says sadly. "Think 
 of me only as your best, your truest friend." 
 
 " I will I do," she answers. 
 
 "Will you listen to me? Will you let me 
 tell you what seems to me right, Elizabeth ?" 
 
 She knows that his wise counsels and tender 
 words are to be added to her father's persist- 
 
 Mr. Crauford. 
 nobody could! 
 
 " You could not live with her I ence. She knows too unable to decide wheth- 
 
 I tell you, Elizabeth, I could 
 
 not rest in my grave to leave you so ; and you 
 care for Vaughan you would have married 
 him in a few months ; why not a little sooner, 
 if it will please your father ? I shall not have 
 many more favors to ask at your hands." 
 
 "Ah, papa, dear papa, don't speak like that!" 
 
 She knelt by the bed and tried to comfort 
 him, but Mr. Crauford would not be comforted ; 
 lie would moan and shake, and forget his Roman 
 firmness, and terrify her half out of her senses 
 by his looks and conduct. 
 
 That night Mr. Crauford was worse. Vaughan 
 had stayed at the house, and as Elizabeth was 
 completely exhausted, he persuaded her to go to 
 rest. In the middle of the night the sick man 
 was seized with a kind of nervous spasm, and 
 . wanted his daughter. Barrel! had no objection 
 to her being alarmed by his appearance, though 
 perfectly certain the ciisis was not a dangerous 
 one. 
 
 Poor Elizabeth could only feel that she was 
 to blame. Had she gratified her father instead 
 of opposing him, the attack would not have 
 taken place. She felt terribly guilty and wick- 
 ed, but she retained composure enough to go on 
 f'doing whatever she could, so white and ghastly 
 that a heart of stone might have pitied her de- 
 spair ; but Vaughan never offered a word of 
 hope : he was tender, kind, but he allowed her 
 to see that he was sorely alarmed. 
 
 Toward morning the crise yielded to the phy- 
 sician's remedies. Mr. Crauford slept, and was 
 perhaps no worse on the following day, though 
 certainly somewhat weakened. At all events, 
 his desire to urge forward the marriage was as 
 strong as ever ; Vaughan took care there should 
 l>e no falling off in that respect ; and having all 
 his life been the most changeable and capricious 
 of men on every subject, great or small, submit- 
 ted to his decision, it was wonderful to see how 
 DarreH's influence held him firm here. 
 
 Later in the day Vaughan comes into the 
 great room where Elizabeth sits alone in the 
 shadow comes so softly that she does not hear 
 . his step is only roused from her confused rev- 
 erie by his voice calling softly 
 "Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" 
 There is a tone of inquiry in the passionate 
 
 er the tumult in . her soul is fear or some softer 
 emotion that circumstances, or fate, are too po- 
 tent for her will. Indeed, her power of judging 
 seems gone now that a dread of clouding her fa- 
 ther's last earthly days is added to the balance 
 against her unreasoning hesitation. He must 
 judge for her this hero, this brave, earnest man, 
 who has shown himself as gentle and loving as 
 he is strong. 
 
 So it comes about that one evening, weeks 
 after we last saw Launce Cromlin, Mr. Carstoe 
 returns home, and brings the latest New York 
 papers to amuse his guest ; for, in spite of his 
 desire to be gone, Launce is still a prisoner. 
 Some slight imprudence or exposure perhaps 
 some mental agitation, which the doctor has not 
 taken into account caused a relapse, from which 
 he is only now recovered. 
 
 But this time he is radically better quite 
 strong, in fact ; and the day of his departure is 
 set, sorely to the chagrin of Mr. Carstoe and 
 Simpson. Indeed, the fiery-haired is utterly 
 disconsolate at losing her occupation of the last 
 months, and visits her grief so heavily on the 
 heads of all about that Launce laughingly tells 
 Mr. Carstoe he will be obliged to advertise for a 
 troublesome invalid, whom Mrs. Simpson can 
 spoil and tyrannize over to her heart's content. 
 
 While the agent has gone away to consult 
 that despotic female sovereign in regard to some 
 household arrangement, Launce opens the news- 
 papers, and idly turns the pages. 
 
 He comes upon a gossiping letter from an 
 Italian correspondent ; and as any thing con- 
 cerning Italy always possesses a charm, he reads 
 on and on, and at last reads an account of a 
 marriage which took place in Pisa the very day 
 this epistle was penned. The bride mentioned is 
 Elizabeth Crauford, and she has wedded Launce's 
 cousin, Barrell Vanghan. 
 
 One thing and another detain Mr. Carstoe, so 
 that it is deep in the twilight when he re-enters 
 the library. Launce sits there in the gloom, his 
 head resting on his hand, his eyes gazing ab- 
 stractedly toward the western sky, along which 
 a single line of yellow light still lingers. 
 
 Twice Mr. Carstoe speaks before the young 
 man hears ; then he rouses himself, and is com- 
 posed and cheerful. Before they part for the
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 81 
 
 night he gives his companion a pleasurable sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "You will think me a very capricious fellow," 
 he says, "but I have changed my mind. I shall 
 not go East this year. I have decided to fol- 
 low your advice. I may never get to Califor- 
 nia again, so I shall visit the wonderful mount- 
 ain scenery before I return, and perhaps paint 
 a picture or two. I have been idle too long. " 
 
 Darrell Vaughan has won in every -way. He 
 has won whether honestly or not matters little 
 to Launce. What does matter, is the loss of 
 the beautiful dream which has been with him 
 during many weary months. He marvels some- 
 what at his own weakness, at the hold which so 
 baseless a vision has taken upon his soul, but 
 neither astonishment nor indignation at his own 
 boyishness changes the fact. 
 
 The truth remains Launce has lost a hope 
 so precious and fair, that life looks dull indeed 
 deprived of its radiance. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AFTER TWO TEARS. 
 
 PAGES of pretty poetry have been written upon 
 the misery women suffer from seeing their idols 
 turn into common clay. The poetry is nice to 
 read, but no fate can be more galling, more re- 
 plete with daily and hourly suffering, than that 
 of the woman who has such an experience forced 
 upon her, if said idol chance to be her husband. 
 The worst feature in the case is that there re- 
 mains no tinge of romance, no aesthetic glow 
 which would at least fling a certain dignity about 
 the trouble. Most women could pardon a great 
 crime free from selfish meanness, or have the 
 consolation of regarding the perpetrator as a kind 
 of fallen angel, still glorious in a Lucifer-like way 
 at least ; but what flings the oracle off his pedes- 
 tal is to find him full of small vices, heartless, re- 
 gardless of others all his brilliant theories mere 
 words, his whole life a sham. 
 
 Elizabeth Crauford had been two years a wife 
 years over whose details I must pass almost 
 in silence, since, slight as many of them would 
 seem, I should need my whole volume to chron- 
 icle their course. 
 
 The autumn after their return to America 
 Vaughan received a nomination for Congress. 
 The contest was very sharp, and he encountered 
 defeat his first failure. Just after that he was 
 preparing to address some great meeting. The 
 speech would require much care, must be in even- 
 way a brilliant effort. Elizabeth had gone one 
 night to a party ; Darrell was too busy to spare 
 the time, but had insisted on her accepting the 
 invitation. 
 
 It was very late when she returned ; Vaughan 
 had not yet come up-stairs. She dismissed her 
 
 maid, and sat for a while waiting his appearance. 
 Three o'clock struck at length ; it seemed wrong 
 for him thus to spend the whole night in labor, 
 as he had not been well for several days. She 
 was afraid of annoying him by intruding into 
 his study, still she could not make up her mind 
 to go to bed without warning him of the hour. 
 She stole down-stairs in her dressing-gown, and 
 knocked at his door. There was no answer. 
 Thrice she knocked ; then, growing almost alarm- 
 ed, turned the knob. The door was locked. 
 
 He might have fallen asleep. She tried to 
 think that ; all the same, she could not subdue 
 the anxiety which troubled her. She remem- 
 bered a staircase leading from his dressing-room 
 to the study a staircase reserved entirely for 
 his own use possibly she might gain admittance 
 in that way. She hurried back up-stairs, through 
 a sleeping-chamber, into this apartment, and on 
 down the stairs. 
 
 The fear of vexing him she had already 
 learned that it was always well to avoid the pos- 
 sibility caused her to pause even when she 
 reached the lower door. She knocked several 
 times ; there was no answer no sound. She 
 opened the door, and entered. The fire had 
 died out in the grate ; the room felt cold and 
 chill. She saw Darrell lying back in his easy- 
 chair, the table strewn with pages of manuscript. 
 
 She called his name. No response followed. 
 
 "Poor fellow," was her thought, "he is com- 
 pletely worn out ! I must awake him ; I am 
 sure he will not be vexed." 
 
 She went up to him, and laid her hand on his 
 shoulder. He did not stir. She shook his arm, 
 calling again. He might have been dead for 
 any show of life he evinced. Now she looked 
 closely at him : the eyes were partially open, 
 blank, unseeing ; the muscles of the face drawn 
 and rigid. She lifted his hand it was cold ; as 
 she released it in terror the arm fell back supine 
 and nerveless. She was thoroughly frightened ; 
 she turned to ring the bell ; she must awaken 
 somebody must have assistance. As she moved, 
 the loose sleeve of her robe swept the papers upon 
 the floor ; some heavier object fell too with a dull, 
 metallic ring. She stooped and picked up a little 
 silver box, opened it, and saw a mass of greenish 
 substance, which she recognized. 
 
 Her husband's secret was clear now. She had 
 known for months that he had a secret. She 
 understood the odd manner which had several 
 times puzzled her the incoherent conversation, 
 the strangeness of voice and look. Vaughan 
 sought his inspiration in hasheesh. 
 
 Elizabeth gathered the papers together, glano 
 ing over them as she did so. A few pages of a 
 speech a brilliant opening after that, para- 
 graphs more hastily written, but full of force ; 
 then sentences unfinished ; then mere broken 
 words. There lay the pen on his knee : it 
 had fallen from his hand as he sank back com-
 
 82 
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 jiletely overcome by the effects of the poisonous 
 drug. 
 
 Elizabeth was familiar with the workings of 
 the potion : she comprehended that he had taken 
 an overdose, and that, after quickening his fac- 
 ulties for a brief space, this death-like lethargy 
 had come upon him. She could not tell if he 
 were conscious of her presence, but she fancied 
 not. It was useless to attempt to rouse him ; 
 indeed, it might be unsafe. 
 
 She stood there, white as a ghost, and looked 
 down at him. Across the pain and trouble which 
 disturbed her features swept an expression that 
 was almost loathing and contempt. In these 
 brief instants she decided upon her line of con- 
 duct. Expostulation would be useless worse ; 
 it would form an element of actual discord and 
 disunion. 
 
 The day which had witnessed Vatighan's po- 
 litical defeat showed his wife a new phase of 
 that complex character she was studying too 
 rapidly for her own peace. He had, for the first 
 time, given free rein to his temper ; twice be- 
 fore she had been shocked by a perception of 
 the fierce capabilities hidden under that polished 
 exterior ; but this time there was no attempt at 
 self-restraint, and the brunt of his fury fell upon 
 her. Some word intended to be kind and con- 
 solatory some suggestion which piqued his self- 
 love or obstinacy out burst the storm, and a mad 
 one it was. 
 
 Without a word Elizabeth had turned and 
 left the room, but the one look of haughty scorn 
 which flashed on him was a reproof Darrell 
 Vaughan would never forget nor forgive. When 
 he came to his senses he was able to put by for 
 a space the recollection of that glance ; but it 
 would return. As yet the spell of her beauty 
 still possessed its influence. He cared for her 
 in his material, passionate fashion, so he made 
 his peace. Elizabeth would have shrunk from 
 excuses put into language, would have disliked 
 that he should thus humiliate himself, so she ac- 
 cepted his tacit repentance at once. 
 
 She thought of all this now as she stood look- 
 ing at his pale, distorted face, from which the 
 fire and energy had gone out. The mask had 
 lifted ; the real man was there coarse, brutal, 
 sensual all his glorious theories, the pretenses 
 which had hitherto ennobled his countenance in 
 her eyes as they had done his life in her esteem, 
 gone utterly. 
 
 She crept away to her chamber, and left him 
 there alone. She would keep his secret; no per- 
 ception that she had penetrated it should come 
 up to anger or disturb him. 
 
 Day broke ; the chill, gray dawn stole in 
 through the curtains and startled her like some 
 importunate watcher of her misery. It had been 
 .1 terrible vigil : a communing with her own soul, 
 a study of the future, full of import to a charac- 
 ter like Elizabeth's. 
 
 At last she heard her husband's step on the 
 stairs. She closed the door into his dressing- 
 room, put out the lights, and got into bed. He 
 had the habit when he worked or came home 
 late of sleeping in a chamber the other side of 
 the hall. She heard him enter that now. 
 
 They met at luncheon. He was listless, weak, 
 and miserable. Labor was an impossibility, yet 
 the speech must be finished ; on the evening cf 
 the following day it was to be delivered. He 
 had sent for her to his study to ask some ques- 
 tion in regard to a matter he had intrusted to 
 her care. His petulance and nervousness he 
 was quite unable to conceal, and he told her 
 frankly that he found himself completely upset 
 and his work not half done. 
 
 "Perhaps I can help you," she said. "I see 
 you have copious notes there ; at least I might 
 arrange them for you to elaborate." 
 
 He hated the idea of receiving such assistance, 
 but the position was a critical one. Elizabeth 
 sat down at the table, and toiled over the frag- 
 ments of the address. She not only put them 
 in order, but she elaborated them herself, spend- 
 ing the whole day and almost the whole night 
 over the address. He took it then, and' roused 
 himself to read and alter. In truth, he delivered 
 the speech as she wrote it, but he did not admit 
 this, and he almost hated her that he was com- 
 pelled not only thus to recognize her powers, but 
 to use them in his own behalf. 
 
 "When they had been married a year, Mr. Crau- 
 ford returned from Europe, and very soon after 
 his arrival died quite suddenly. To the last the 
 old faith in his son-in-law remained undisturbed. 
 His fortune he left entirely at Vaughan's disposal. 
 Darrell was now a very -wealthy man. Only an 
 inconsiderable portion of Elizabeth's own prop- 
 erty had been secured to her ; the wedding was 
 too hurried and Mr. Crauford too indolent to 
 think of such matters. A part of her mother's 
 fortune descended to her in a way which kept it 
 independent of the man she married. She found 
 herself fettered and hampered. Her schemes for 
 doing good met with no sympathy from Vaughan 
 save when they could serve to cast a lustre about 
 him and redound to his credit. During the early 
 days, while he still maintained a show of sympa- 
 thy, excuses and reasons were offered. At length 
 she heard plainly that she was going out of her 
 province ; meddling with affairs which did not 
 belong to her ; trying for notoriety as a philan- 
 thropist in a manner he deemed unbecoming. 
 
 This taunt was a hard blow, but she bore it. 
 I do not mean that she was a model of patience 
 she often rebelled, flamed into anger but she 
 shrank from contention ; harsh words hurt her 
 like blows, and the idea of quarreling with her 
 husband tilled her with horror any submission 
 ' was better than that. 
 
 Up in one of the northern counties was a small 
 estate, which had been a part of Mrs. Crauford's
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 83 
 
 marriage-portion, but not among the property 
 she owned independent of her husband. It was 
 a place both father and daughter held in love and 
 reverence. It had been Mrs. Crau ford's favorite 
 residence. She had beautified the house, embel- 
 lished the grounds, spent years in the task. She 
 was an admirable artist ; the walls of several of 
 the rooms were wainscoted with wood, and the 
 panels painted by her own hands in landscape and 
 figures. On a hill at the back of the grounds 
 Mrs. Crauford was buried : they made the hus- 
 band's grave beside her. 
 
 Twelve months after Mr. Crauford's death a 
 new railway was projected which would pass near 
 this country-seat. The company offered Vaugh- 
 an an exorbitant price for the place. A cutting 
 through the hill where the graves were would 
 lessen almost by millions the expense of building 
 the road, and the other lands were admirably 
 situated for the site of certain factories they pro- 
 posed to erect. 
 
 Darrell had gradually acquired the habit of 
 accepting his wife's services in his literary labors 
 and the immense correspondence which his po- 
 litical life forced upon him. Elizabeth was glad 
 to be of use ; she never shirked her tasks nor 
 complained of fatigue, and he did not spare her. 
 To himself he would not have admitted that she 
 did any work beyond the skill of an ordinary 
 amanuensis, but in all ways she was like a quick- 
 er, more comprehensive portion of his own intel- 
 lect able sometimes to seize and make palpable 
 thoughts which only vexed him by their vague- 
 ness. He refused to acknowledge this truth to 
 his own consciousness, but he felt it, and the 
 knowledge kept up a constant gourde irritation 
 in his mind. 
 
 So it happened that the first news of the com- 
 pany's proposition reached Elizabeth herself. 
 She was opening and reading aloud letters ; she 
 came upon this ; glanced at the commencement, 
 and flung the sheet down with an expression of 
 horror. 
 
 "What is the matter?" Vaughan asked. 
 
 "It is too dreadful I can not read it!" she 
 exclaimed, putting the letter into his hands. 
 
 While he read she turned away to a window, 
 trying to subdue the thrill of indignation and 
 grief which shook her. It was an actual insult 
 and desecration offered to her dead, this vile 
 proposal. 
 
 Vaughan read the letter through, folded it up, 
 and laid it on his table. Surprised by his silence, 
 she looked back, her features still quivering, her 
 eyes bright with tears. 
 
 " Let me answer it at once," she said. 
 
 "Don't think any more about it," Vaughan 
 replied ; "I will attend to it." 
 
 "But did you ever hear of a proposal so ab- 
 solutely base and revolting?" she demanded. 
 
 "My dear Queenie," he said, calling her by 
 that pet name, after a habit he had when wishing 
 
 to be particularly kind or tender, " business men 
 have not leisure for sentiment." 
 
 "At least they might be human," returned 
 she. ' ' To propose carrying their road through 
 a burial-place it has been consecrated " 
 
 " Very likely they knew nothing about the 
 graves bsing there," he observed, as she stopped, 
 half suffocated by emotion. " Don't think about 
 it there is no use." 
 
 " You will answer at once, Darrell?" 
 
 ' ' Of course ! Come, you are upset by this ; 
 dress yourself and go out. I can't have you 
 worried by those beasts' stupidity." 
 
 He came up to her, passed his arm about her 
 waist, kissed her forehead with a gentleness 
 which was growing rare of late. She felt grate - 
 ftil for his sympathy, and, with her usual con- 
 sideration, forebore to trouble him by any further 
 display of emotion. 
 
 She went out to drive, paid -several visits, and 
 all the morning was thinking that during the 
 past weeks a change for the better had come 
 over their lives. Only once since her father's 
 death had she discovered any trace of Vaughan's 
 having yielded to the fatal fascinations of the 
 poison. No hint of her knowledge had passed 
 her lips : she could not be certain whether he 
 suspected that she had gained the clew to his 
 secret. 
 
 To-day she felt more hopeful than she had 
 done for months. It was much to her that Dar- 
 rell accepted her assistance ; she was utterly in- 
 capable of such self-gratulation and complacency 
 as he 'imputed to her in his thoughts. She did 
 not in the least realize what his growing literary 
 success, his efforts as an orator, owed to her pa- 
 tient toil and her clear, luminous intellect. She 
 labored without selfish feeling, and would have 
 been more astonished than the world had she 
 perceived the full extent of her part. If she. 
 thought at all, it was only that Vaughan, like 
 many men, was too impatient and excitable to 
 work out and elaborate his own brilliant fancies 
 or clear reasonings ; she was blessed with a kind 
 of faculty (she did not dream of calling it talent) 
 to understand these, and an ability under his 
 directions to put them in the shape requisite for 
 others' comprehension. 
 
 She had been trying of late to lay by her fore- 
 bodings in regard to their future; her perception 
 of her husband's faults ; her consciousness that, 
 glitter as it might, his course was animated by 
 motives very different from those noble aims of 
 which he had talked so glowingly during the 
 days of their acquaintance in Italy. 
 
 She reproached herself with having been guil- 
 ty of too harsh judgments, when she perceived 
 that this hero whom she had mounted upon so 
 lofty a pedestal was only human after all. That 
 he had grave faults, inexplicable contradictions 
 of character, even startling weaknesses, was no 
 reason why she should dare to rise up in con-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR, 
 
 demnation, without waiting to discover wheth- 
 er he meant to struggle against these tempta- 
 tions. She told herself that she had thus armed 
 her son) in the first shock of disappointment, 
 and now she was obliged to admit that he did 
 strive against his inner foes ; his conduct of 
 late enabled her to believe this. She exulted 
 at this proof of his strength, and blamed her- 
 self more severely than another could have 
 done. 
 
 Gradually he would outgrow his faults ; am- 
 bition would limit itself to rightful bounds ; this 
 love of wealth be kept from warping and blight- 
 ing his character ; his temper fought down and 
 conquered. 
 
 lie could not be a sham a pretense. He 
 must believe in his own aims, and he would 
 press on toward their realization. 
 
 More than ever she was thinking these things 
 to-day. Life loqked brighter to her than it had 
 done for a long time. Not content with doing 
 her husband full justice in her esteem, she would 
 have him reinstated in her heart that proud 
 heart which required the object of its affection 
 to be lofty and pure, or risk awakening an es- 
 trangement, a terrible shrinking at once physical 
 and mental, which would turn her very soul to 
 stone, or wear out body and spirit rapidly in the 
 contest. 
 
 Days passed. Vaughan was in the most sun- 
 ny of his moods careful, tender fairly like 
 the worshiper who had wooed her under Italian 
 skies, and been at once lover and fiiend. Suc- 
 cess had come to every undertaking during the 
 past weeks. His name was to be brought up 
 again as a Congressional candidate, and this 
 time triumph was certain, for he had resumed 
 his relations with the municipal party, at once 
 the most powerful and corrupt that the annals 
 of our history could furnish. lie concealed the 
 fact of this coalition from his wife as carefully 
 as he did from the world at large, and managed 
 so well that not a suspicion was roused in the 
 minds of honorable men who were among his 
 supporters. The municipal leaders were as anx- 
 ious as he that no inkling of the truth should 
 escape. Sundry schemes, which they hoped by 
 his assistance to carry through Congress, would 
 be much surer of success if entire secrecy were 
 preserved as to their electioneering efforts in his 
 behalf. 
 
 A fortnight elapsed. Vaughan left home sud- 
 denly ; he told Elizabeth that business called 
 liitn to Albany he might be absent three or 
 four days. 
 
 The second morning after his departure Eliza- 
 beth was seized with a desire to visit Northcots, 
 the place where her parents were buried. She 
 had only been there a few times since her return 
 from Europe. Vaughan owned a country-seat 
 in another county, and one excuse or another on 
 lii-j part had kept her awny from Northcots, the 
 
 real reason being that he had conceived a strong 
 dislike to the pretty spot. 
 
 She would take Margot and go up there for the 
 day and night. An old servant of her mother's 
 had always lived at the house and kept it in or- 
 der. It would be a sad pleasure to have a day 
 of quiet memories in the haunt where so much 
 of her childhood was spent. She had been dream- 
 ing, too, all night of her mother odd, perplexing 
 dreams ; pleasant at first, changing suddenly to 
 dark, painful visions. She awoke depressed and 
 absurdly anxious ; it would do her good to visit 
 the place. 
 
 It was still very early when she summoned Mar- 
 got and announced her determination. They 
 were in ample time for the morning boat, and it 
 was a pleasant sail of a few hours up the beau- 
 tiful river, with the landscape on either hand 
 brightening into the glory of spring. 
 
 They left the boat and drove -off among the 
 hills for another hour, to the quiet hamlet near 
 which Northcots lay. 
 
 The carriage reached the entrance to the 
 grounds. The gates stood open ; they passed 
 through. Elizabeth was leaning back in her 
 seat, forgetful of her dismal fancies of the night, 
 when Margot,. with her head out of the window, 
 muttered a surprised exclamation. 
 
 " What is the matter?" her mistress inquired. 
 
 The Frenchwoman turned upon her a face 
 utterly blank with astonishment. There was no 
 time for further words ; the carriage had halted 
 on the lawn. 
 
 "Why do you stop here?" Elizabeth asked, 
 as the coachman appeai-ed at the door. "And 
 you are driving over the grass. What do you 
 mean ?" 
 
 "I couldn't get along the road, ma'am," he 
 answered; "and 'taint much matter about the 
 grass now." 
 
 He stepped back, and she descended from the 
 vehicle, looked up, and stood transfixed with 
 horror. The sward was littered with furniture, 
 men were bringing out of the house great panels 
 of wood, and putting them in boxes which were 
 placed on the veranda. The grass had been ruth- 
 lessly trampled, the early flowers trodden down. 
 
 Elizabeth grew so white that Margot, who had 
 reached her side, called out in terror. Her voice 
 roused Mrs. Vaughan ; she moved forward across 
 the lawn, and entered the house. 
 
 "What are you doing what does this mean?" 
 she asked one of the men busy over the boxes. 
 
 As she spoke she saw that they were packing 
 the painted panels. The man she addressed was 
 a mechanic from the village, who knew her by 
 sight. 
 
 "It's just the masther's orders, av ye plaze, 
 ma'am," he answered. 
 
 Elizabeth felt dizzy and faint. There was a 
 sense of unreality about the whole thing too ; 
 it was like the continuation of her evil dreams.
 
 MR, VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 She could scarcely persuade herself but that in 
 another moment she should awake and find her- 
 self leagues away from the spot. 
 
 " Where is Mrs. Anderson ?" she inquired. 
 
 "Faith, ma'am, it's me belafe she's keenin' in 
 the kitchen," returned the Irishman, staring at 
 her in open-mouthed surprise. 
 
 Elizabeth hurried past him, down the corri- 
 dors, catching glimpses of dismantled rooms as 
 she hastened on still feeling that it must all 
 be a hideous dream ; another moment and she 
 should awake. 
 
 On through a back passage without meeting 
 any one into the kitchen, usually a model of 
 neatness ; but the same disorder reigned here as 
 in the other parts of the house. 
 
 "Mrs. Anderson!" called Elizabeth. 
 
 "Who is it? what do you want?" returned 
 a voice from a porch off the kitchen. 
 
 Elizabeth passed o.ut ; at the farther end of the 
 veranda stood Mrs. Anderson, with her sleeves 
 rolled up, her cap awry. She was packing all 
 sorts of kitchen utensils, and crying heartily as 
 she worked. At sight of her young mistress 
 she uttered one scream, half pain, half wrath, 
 dropped a pile of plates with an awful crash, 
 and sat flat down on the floor, covering her face 
 with her apron, and sobbipg as if her heart would 
 break. 
 
 "Are you all crazy!" exclaimed Mrs.Vaugh- 
 an. "Get up this minute, Prudence, and tell 
 me what it means. " 
 
 Mrs. Anderson only held her apron more 
 closely over her head, rocked herself to and fro, 
 and moaned 
 
 " I'd never ha' believed it of you, Miss Eliza- 
 beth oh, Miss Elizabeth ! The place she loved 
 so and never even to give me any warning 
 oh, it has broke my heart broke my heart!" 
 
 "Prudence!" called Elizabeth again, going 
 toward the old woman, her voice grown sudden- 
 ly tremulous and weak "Get up, for Heaven's 
 sake get up, and tell me what has happened." 
 
 The housekeeper quickly drew the apron from 
 her face, stared for one instant in wonder at 
 the pale countenance which met her gaze, and 
 gasped 
 
 "I don't believe she did it I don't believe 
 she knowed a word !" 
 
 "Knew what?" repeated Elizabeth. "Get up 
 tell me tell me. " 
 
 "Don't you know it's sold?" demanded the 
 old woman, rising. 
 
 "Sold what is sold?" 
 
 "The hull place the very graves out on the 
 hill-side !" cried Prudence. " Oh, Miss Eliza- 
 beth, say you didn't do it say you didn't!" 
 
 A mist gathered before Elizabeth's eyes ; the 
 woman seemed suddenly retreating to a great dis- 
 tance ; the veranda heaved under her feet, and 
 a roaring like a sea deafened her then every- 
 thing was a blank. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 NOETHCOTS. 
 
 WHEK Elizabeth came to her senses she was 
 seated in a chair, her bonnet oft' ; Mrs. Anderson 
 and Margot were bathing her forehead, holding 
 hartshorn to her nose, and talking incoherently 
 in their respective languages. 
 
 " Miss Elizabeth, Miss Elizabeth !" moaned 
 Prudence. " Laud's sake, she's jist like dead !" 
 
 Margot's voice rose shriller still. The noise 
 was insupportable to Mrs.Vaughan. 
 
 "Don't!" she said feebly, holding up her 
 hand. " Give me some water." 
 
 Prudence put a glass to her lips ; Elizabeth 
 managed to drink. 
 
 "Madame is better !" cried Margot. 
 
 " Yes, yes," Elizabeth answered slowly. " Go 
 away for a few minutes, Margot I want to speak 
 with Mrs. Anderson." 
 
 " Oh, deary me ! oh, deary me !" groaned Pru- 
 dence. "She didn't know she didn't know; 
 I said at first she didn't." 
 
 " Did you say the place was sold ?" Elizabeth 
 asked. "I could not have heard that you did 
 not say so, Prudence !" 
 
 " Oh, Laud's sake! oh, mercy on us !" sobbed 
 the old woman, breaking into a fresh torrent of 
 tears. 
 
 Again Elizabeth checked her. 
 
 " Please don't," she said ; "I think I am not 
 well every noise sounds so loud. Try and tell 
 me what it all means." 
 
 "Mr. Vaughan haint told you!" Prudence 
 fairly shrieked, regardless of the caution she had 
 just received. "I never beerd the like your 
 own property too your own dear mother's afore 
 you and she pulled out of her grave actilly 
 oh Lord ! oh Lord !" 
 
 Elizabeth caught at the arms of her chair 
 every thing began anew to totter and reel. 
 
 "If you don't tell me, I shall die," she whis- 
 pered. ' ' Prudence, Prudence I " 
 
 "It's sold, I tell you; and they wanted me 
 to believe it was your work, " cried Prudence. 
 " Sold, every acre and foot house and all even 
 to the graves. Oh, that was what cut me worst ! 
 I said to Mr. Vaughan I'd lived " 
 
 "Has Mi\ Vaughan been here?" broke in 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 "Why, he's here somewheres now, else down 
 to the village. Didn't you even know that ?" 
 
 "Go and find him, Prudence," said Elizabeth. 
 
 A hot indignation sprang up under her pain 
 the outrage was so flagrant, so atrocious. She 
 could hardly realize it yet ; even now that she 
 knew he was here, she could scarcely force 
 herself to believe he had not only sold her old 
 home, but allowed the graves of her parents to 
 be desecrated. Then her indignation inspired 
 her with a sudden resolve ; she called Prudence 
 back.
 
 8G 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "Tell those men to stop their work," she ex- 
 claimed. " I will not have another thing touch- 
 ed not a thing." 
 
 The old woman shook her head sadly. 
 
 "'Taint no use now," she replied; "it's too 
 late, Miss Elizabeth ; the place is gone, unless 
 why, law, you must ha' signed the deed if it's 
 reg'lavly sold." 
 
 Elizabeth remembered that two days before- 
 her husband's departure she had been ill with a 
 torturing nervous headache a headache caused 
 by several hours of unremitting toil for him 
 when already sorely fatigued. Darrell had come 
 into the room where she lay half asleep, apolo- 
 gizing for disturbing her, but it was necessary 
 she should sign her name to two deeds ; he was 
 about to sell some wild bands he owned, and, of 
 course, required her signature. She was too ill 
 to ak questions or to think, and after that she 
 forgot the matter. She recollected now how gen- 
 tle he had been bathing her forehead, holding 
 the papers so that she could write without lift- 
 ing her head ! All the while he had been base- 
 ly deceiving her ! Oh ! it was impossible ; he 
 could not be so vile ! She would doubt even the 
 evidence of her own senses rather than credit 
 this! 
 
 " Say nothing to the men," she said, as these 
 thoughts whirled through her brain. " Go and 
 find Mr.Vaughan." 
 
 She remained there for what seemed a very 
 long time. Once Margot came and addressed 
 some question to her, but she motioned the girl 
 away ; speech was too painful to be attempted 
 during this suspense. Twice she rose with the 
 idea of going herself to seek Darrell sat down 
 again, deterred by the recollection that their 
 meeting ought to be without witnesses. 
 
 Mrs. Anderson came back at last ; she had 
 walked rapidly, and was in a pitiable condition 
 between weeping and fatigue. 
 ' " lie haint around, my dean- dear," she said ; 
 "he's driv off with some o' them men; but I 
 left word with every body to send him on to the 
 Louse as soon as he got back." 
 
 She must wait ; until she had seen Vaughan 
 she could not even command the workmen to 
 stop : they might answer that they were obey- 
 ing her husband's orders ! The sound of ham- 
 mers, the tread of feet, the murmur of voices, 
 came up every now and then, and shook anew 
 the composure she was struggling so hard to at- 
 tain. She rose at length, determined to get be- 
 yond the reach of these noises, which struck like 
 blows upon her heart. 
 
 " I will be back presently," she said to Pru- 
 dence, who was not yet sufficiently restored for 
 conversation. 
 
 "But you haint had nothing to eat," she ex- 
 postulated, roused into thoughtfulness at once. 
 "It's all upset, but I could manage sumpthing." 
 "I'm not hungry I can't eat, thank yon," 
 
 Elizabeth replied. "Give Margot some lunch- 
 eon if you can." 
 
 She passed down the steps, and hurried through 
 the shrubberies which extended toward the hill. 
 At first Prudence did not comprehend whither 
 she was bound ; but when she saw her take the 
 path that led to the gates dividing the grounds 
 from the ascent, she exclaimed 
 
 ' ' Good Lord ! she mustn't go there ! Win- 
 that would be worse'n all the rest to her!". 
 
 She dashed off in pursuit, calling on Mrs. 
 Vaughan to stop. Elizabeth was so engrossed 
 by the terrible thoughts which agitated her mind 
 and the awful pain at her heart that she did not 
 hear. Suddenly the old woman stood still, mut- 
 tering 
 
 "Mebby she hears and means to keep on. 
 Wai, going won't make it really no worse, arter 
 all. What it all means is more'n I can make 
 out, only that husband of hern has been at some 
 villainy, smooth as he looks. I know more about 
 him'n she does. La ! if I'd a chose to speak 
 but there, she was married to him, and what 
 was the good ?" 
 
 She walked back to the house, where sl:c was 
 joined by Margot. While Prudence did her best 
 to prepare something for the Frenchwoman to 
 eat, the pair held an animated conversation, 
 though neither could understand a fourth part 
 of the other's talk a fact which seemed to ren- 
 der both more emphatic and voluble. 
 
 Elizabeth pushed the gates ajar, and entered 
 the grove which extended along the side of the 
 hill. It was a pretty place. The afternoon sun 
 streamed in through the branches of the maple- 
 trees ; a tiny rivulet ran singing along ; the 
 voices of the early birds sounded joyous and clear. 
 As she mounted, glimpses of the valley below 
 opened to her gaze, with the distant mountain 
 peaks standing up purple and soft beyond. 
 
 This wood had been a favorite haunt of her 
 mother's ; there was not a path, not a nook, but 
 was replete to Elizabeth's mind with some asso- 
 ciation of heV childhood that childhood which 
 her mother's love had rendered so happy. At 
 the top of the hill a smooth, level sweep of green- 
 sward spread out, carpeted with violets and dai- 
 sies, groups of stately elms and solemn pine- 
 trees guarding the spot. In the centre, under 
 the shade of n magnificent willow, rose the tomb 
 in which less than a year since she. had seen her 
 father laid to rest by the side of the mother whose 
 memory was the most sacred treasure of her 
 heart. She reached the summit, and looked to- 
 ward the grave. She had scarcely noticed Pru- 
 dence's words certainly had not taken in their 
 import. The marble monument had disappear- 
 ed ; the gigantic willow lay prostrate on the 
 ground ; all about were signs of awful havoc 
 and desolation. 
 
 Elizabeth felt her senses giving way again ; 
 she sat blindly down on a bench, and hid her
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 87 
 
 face in her Lauds, trying to lift her mind enough 
 out of its confusion and the physical weakness 
 which unnerved her. 
 
 There was no possibility of further self-decep- 
 tion where her husband was concerned ; he had 
 sold the property actually torn her parents' re- 
 mains out of their consecrated resting-place in 
 liis greed. She could only meet him once more ; 
 could only remain long enough to hear him ad- 
 mit his guilt ; beyond that her endurance would 
 not go. She was too shocked for tears too 
 much horrified even for anger. She could only 
 sit there and shiver, while the spring wind drift- 
 ed through the branches of the fallen willow, 
 and roused a low complaint which sounded in 
 her ears like the moan of grieving spirits. 
 
 At length the dull echo of footsteps on the 
 turf roused her ; she looked up, and saw her hus- 
 band upon the other extremity of the hill in 
 company with two men. She rose, and with all 
 the force she could muster, called aloud 
 
 "Mr.Vaughan!" 
 
 He heard ; stopped for an instant irresolute, 
 then turned, dismissed the men, and walked to- 
 ward her. She sat down again, and waited ; 
 wrath and sorrow seemed alike to leave her 
 heart. She felt cold and stiff as if an icy wind 
 had blown over her. A strange longing to fly 
 crossed her mind as he approached a shudder 
 disturbed her whole frame ; she was like a per- 
 son watching some noxious thing which she had 
 no power to escape. 
 
 He came on, wearing his usual calm, pleasant 
 expression ; there was neither confusion nor re- 
 morse in his countenance. When quite near, he 
 exclaimed 
 
 "Why, Queenie, I could scarcely believe my 
 eyes ! Where on earth did you spring from so 
 suddenly ?" 
 
 He had passed by the house ; Mrs. Anderson 
 had told him of his wife's arrival, so he was pre- 
 pared for the interview. 
 
 "What put it into your head to come up to- 
 day, of all others ?" he continued, as he reached 
 the bench. He held out his hand stooped to 
 kiss her. She shrank from his caress, and kept 
 her arms folded across her bosom ; but he was 
 resolutely blind. 
 
 "Will you explain to me the meaning of all 
 this this " She had got so far quietly, but 
 now her voice broke. She waited in silence, nev- 
 er moving her eyes from his face eyes which, 
 unconsciously to herself, regarded him with a 
 horror and repulsion he was quick enough to per- 
 ceive. Still he appeared to notice nothing un- 
 common in tone or manner not a shade of sur- 
 prise crossed his features. 
 
 "I am sony you happened to come to-day," | 
 he said, gently. " I meant to have had every j 
 thing arranged before I told you, so that there ! 
 might be nothing painful to you in the matter." 
 
 "It is true, then?" she asked, slowly. Her 
 
 voice sounded unnaturally composed now. "You 
 have sold my mother's home you have not 
 even left my parents quiet in their graves !" 
 
 " Let me explain to you " 
 
 "I could not believe it I doubted the evi- 
 dence of my own senses," she continued, in the 
 same low tone, which, still rang out with a strange 
 power. "I thought I was mad I wish I had 
 been ! I wish Heaven had been merciful enough 
 to let me die yesterday. " 
 
 "My dearest Queenie!" 
 
 She shivered anew at this utterance of the fa- 
 miliar pet name he had caught from her father, 
 but neither face nor voice lost their stern rigid- 
 ity. She went on unheeding 
 
 "At least I might have died honoring you 
 believing in your truth, your manhood ! Dar- 
 rell Vaughan, you have not only desecrated my 
 parents' graves not only trampled my heart 
 down under your iron will, but you have de- 
 stroyed my faith left me alone in the night, al- 
 most without hope in my God!" 
 
 "Don't say any more," returned he, still 
 speaking kindly, though a frown darkened his 
 forehead. " You will be sorry afterward you 
 always are, you know, when your temper leads 
 you to judge me hastily and say harsh things." 
 
 "I think I shall never be able to feel sorry 
 again," she answered, and a quiver shook the 
 sternness of her voice ; " I think I shall never 
 have the ability to feel grieved or repentant any 
 more." 
 
 He was astonished at the horror, at the un- 
 utterable despair, which had seized her. He had 
 expected tears, anger, sorrow of a certain sort, 
 but nothing like this. Positively he could com- 
 prehend no reason for such excessive feeling. 
 He had meant to keep his secret as long as pos- 
 sible, never doubting that after the first outburst 
 he should be able to soothe and bring her to ac- 
 knowledge the reasonableness and common-sense 
 of his procedure. 
 
 " Now, Queenie, let us talk it quietly out," he 
 said, sitting down beside her, and speaking with 
 resolute patience. 
 
 "Did you not promise me that nothing should 
 be done ? Did you not profess as much horror 
 as I when that infamous offer came ?" she asked. 
 
 " I had not considered the case I did not un- 
 derstand it fully, any more than you do now,'' 
 he replied. 
 
 ' ' Did you or did you not promise ?" demanded 
 she. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but " 
 
 " And you broke your word." 
 
 " Elizabeth !" 
 
 "You went away on a journey; in regard to 
 that you spoke falsely. Can you deny it ?" 
 
 "I have no intention of denying any thing," 
 he answered, in the same self- restrained, com- 
 passionate way. "I did it all from affection 
 and a wish to spare you pain."
 
 88 
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIE. 
 
 "To spare me!" she repeated, pointing to- 
 ward the open grave, while her eyes seemed to 
 pierce his very soul with their steely light. 
 
 "I must insist now on your hearing me," he 
 said more firmly, but still with the forbearance 
 one would exercise toward a rebellions child that 
 needed to be brought back to reason. " I meant 
 to write, rejecting the proposal." 
 
 She motioned him to go on, touching the palm 
 of her left hand with the fingers of her right, and 
 continuing to do it at each new statement, as if 
 jotting them down to compare the aggregate 
 never once releasing him from the thraldom of 
 her eyes. 
 
 " The president of the railway came himself 
 to see me. Now you know, Elizabeth, that one 
 can not binder a road being carried along a cer- 
 tain route if it is considered absolutely indispen- 
 sable. There must either have been a long d- 
 tour or this cutting. I could not help yielding." 
 
 "The detour would have been one-half mile," 
 she said, when he paused ; "it was discussed in 
 your presence and mine a year ago. The cost 
 of that dtlour we could have paid if necessary." 
 
 This seemed to Darrell a proposal so insane 
 that he involuntarily shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Since this must be done," he continued, "it 
 seemed better to sell the house and land. You 
 would no longer have cared to come here, and 
 the company were willing to pay largely for it. " 
 
 " The company of which you have become one 
 of the chief directors," she replied. "I suppose 
 you count on at least another fortune from your 
 share in the factories that are to be erected over 
 my mother's home fresh millions from the pro- 
 ceeds of the road which runs across my father's 
 grave?" 
 
 "Of course you can't reason no woman can," 
 exclaimed Vaughan impatiently, yet with a cer- 
 tain aggrieved inflection in his voice. "I have 
 done every thing that a human creature could to 
 soften matters stayed up here myself, superin- 
 tended every thing, even to the taking down of 
 those old painted panels and the thanks I get 
 are reproaches and insolent looks, as if I had 
 been guilty of some fiendish outrage." 
 
 " Oh," she cried, with a sudden bitter passion, 
 " there are enormities even fiends would shrink 
 from; there are acts so dastardly that only a 
 man could perpetrate them." 
 
 "I see you are determined to quarrel, Eliza- 
 beth ; if you insist upon it, we must. I have 
 borne your taunts patiently, but I warn you there 
 arc limits to my self-control." 
 
 "I think I was wrong to sny that, though I 
 can not be sorry," she answered, more quietly. 
 
 "That's right! Now do be a dear, reason- 
 able girl!" 
 
 She struggled for a moment with her pride 
 and anger, then a sudden eagerness came into 
 her face. She stretched out her hands with a 
 pleading gesture. 
 
 " It is not too late!" she exclaimed. " Go to 
 these men buy back this place give all my 
 fortune it would be enough, Darrell. Darrell, 
 I have no one but you in the world ; leave me 
 my love, my faith ! Do this oh my husband 
 for our future peace for our souls' safety do 
 it!" 
 
 " I would do any thing for you, Elizabeth," he 
 replied ; " but this is impossible! I am power- 
 less ! I was forced to sell " 
 
 She interrupted him by a groan. 
 
 " Spare me any more falsehoods ; at least you 
 can do that." 
 
 "You call tenderness and thoughtfulness false- 
 hoods ! " retorted he. 
 
 ' ' If my prayers have no effect, if my suffer- 
 ing do not move you, then think how this action 
 will appear to the world ! What excuse can you 
 offer? how right yourself in men's esteem ? 
 and you prize that." 
 
 " Good heavens !" cried he, "men are not ba- 
 bies ! Why every body thinks it so wise and sen- 
 sible on our part. The clergyman here, your 
 friend, said it was just what ought to be done. 
 He admired your common -sense. I gave you 
 the whole credit! I said, what was the truth, 
 that if we were both to die we could not be sure 
 this place would be preserved it was not a reg- 
 ular burial-ground it was much better to have 
 the bodies removed to the new cemetery near, a 
 very pretty place. I have purchased a lot ' 
 
 She threw up her hands again, this time with 
 a gesture that pleaded for silence. 
 
 "I must explain," he said. "You must be 
 brought to see the thing in its proper light. You 
 accuse me of thinking about money, you talk so 
 much about doing good you are full of grand 
 schemes can you make no sacrifice to accom- 
 plish them ? The new resources which the road 
 and the factories will afford us make such designs 
 more practicable " 
 
 She interrupted him again. She knew too 
 well the hollowness of such promises. No phil- 
 anthropic scheme would ever appeal to this man, 
 except it flattered his vanity or added to his ag- 
 grandizement. 
 
 " I think we must end here, "she said. " Oh, 
 go away ; leave me my life to myself!" 
 
 He stared at her in bewilderment. 
 
 " You had better talk intelligibly," he sneered. 
 
 "I want to live alone can you understand 
 that? I want to escape an atmosphere of de- 
 ception and treachery." 
 
 "Oh yes; now I understand! To gratify 
 your vindictive disposition you want to pose as a 
 martyr before the world you want to ruin my 
 whole career! This is your idea of wifely duty 
 that you used to talk so much about before our 
 marriage ! this is the conduct your loudly 
 vaunted religion teaches you ! If your church- 
 going, your prayers, your Lenten observances, 
 and all the rest of it, have taught you no more
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 89 
 
 than this, you had better turn schismatic or her- 
 etic, and see if some sensible modern faith can 
 not appeal to your reason a little, since the old 
 creeds and apostolic benedictions have failed to 
 touch your heart !" 
 
 "I want my life free!" she repeated. "At 
 least leave me the ability to pray, to trust in my 
 God. I think even that would have to go." 
 
 "Now see here," he exclaimed; "we will 
 end the matter once for all ! I have done noth- 
 ing which could afford you a pretext for leaving 
 me in the eyes of the law. According to your 
 doctrine and your Bible, there is only one sin on 
 my part that could liberate you; you can not 
 accuse me of that ! I have been a faithful hus- 
 band, loving and kind! I am ready to be so 
 still ; to forget your unjustifiable language. At 
 all events, we shall not separate ! If you prefer 
 war to peace, take it." 
 
 "Any thing for quiet," she moaned; "any 
 thing." 
 
 " However you may judge my conduct, you 
 are bound to believe I meant to act for the best, 
 since I assert it solemnly. So to leave me would 
 be only to gratify your temper ; you would ruin 
 me socially, politically, just to do this ! Think 
 a little ; could any sin be greater than that ? Try 
 to cover up your purpose under what fine names 
 you might, the truth would remain ; you would 
 live to feel and to upbraid yourself more bitterly 
 than you have me." 
 
 He had triumphed by making others believe 
 that this sale of the property, this removal of the 
 graves, was with her consent and participation. 
 He triumphed anew by appealing to her sense of 
 duty, her dread of doing any thing wrong, her 
 fear that her motives might be actuated by pas- 
 sion or evil temper. She was conquered in every 
 way. Had she gone, that mocking appeal of his 
 to her Bible would have brought her back. She 
 had no right to leave him ; she must stay, must 
 endure. 
 
 She sat silent for a time. He studied her face 
 furtively, reading her thoughts as completely as 
 if she had put them into words. He could have 
 smiled at the ease of his victory. But from the 
 first he had known he should succeed ; final de- 
 feat never menaced his will. 
 
 At last she turned her eyes toward him again. 
 The fire had died out of them ; the hardness 
 out of her face ; she looked utterly helpless and 
 crushed. It was no mere submission to his edict 
 which broke her resolution ; no hesitation in re- 
 gard to expediency or the world's opinion. His 
 words had reminded her that she had no right to 
 shrink from the duties she had accepted, the vows 
 she had made. Life might become henceforth a 
 martyrdom, but she must bear it. Straightway 
 that active, living faith which animated her soul 
 whispered the dear words wherewith the Holy 
 Spirit encouraged His disciple her weakness 
 would be made perfect in His strength. It was 
 
 hard to believe ; difficult in this, the most fear- 
 ful trial she had known, to keep any hold of the 
 old faith. But she clung to it, torn, broken as 
 she was ; clung to it as she might have done to 
 an actual representation of the holy cross ; and 
 once more in the life of a human being was re- 
 newed God's precious promise that no creature 
 shall be tempted beyond his powers of endur- 
 ance, since with the temptation comes always 
 the means of escape faith in the Father. 
 
 "I want to go home," she said, faintly; "let 
 me go home." 
 
 " Yes, dear, yes !" Never had his voice been 
 sweeter, his face more kind. "You will just 
 have time to reach the station comfortably. I 
 would go to town with you but I want to be cer- 
 tain every thing in the house is properly at- 
 tended to. I shall be down the day after to- 
 morrow. " 
 
 At least a season to herself was granted a 
 space to garner up her strength iu solitude ; it 
 was much in this hour of need. 
 
 She rose to go. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said. 
 
 He had conquered. He liked peace. He was 
 still enough under the spell of her beauty to be 
 greatly influenced thereby, and she looked very 
 beautiful in her suffering and prostration. It 
 would have been a new pang, an added horror, 
 could she have understood that his strongest 
 reason for self-restraint and gentleness rose out 
 of the passion of his sensuous nature. 
 
 "I'll go down to the house with you," he an- 
 swered; "but let us say the real good-bye here. 
 You are a brave girl. You will try to believe I 
 meant to act for the best ? Kiss me, Elizabeth ; 
 let us be at peace." 
 
 The handsome face bent toward her ; the eyes, 
 soft with a sudden eagerness, gazed into her own. 
 She shrank away, moaning "I can't, I can't! - 
 Let me go! oh, let me go !" 
 
 Another man, with a temper so hasty as Vaugh- 
 an's, might have been roused to anger, but he 
 only felt a kind of pleasure in her hesitation. It 
 would be like winning a fresh heart, gaining a, 
 new experience, to woo her back to an accept- 
 ance of his caresses. But now he only said 
 " Come, then, let us go! We'll not talk of these 
 things any more. We will both forgive and for- 
 get ! In our whole lives, probably, no such strong 
 cause of difference will ever arise. I meant for 
 the best ; one day you will see it too." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "You are not angry still?" he asked, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 "No," she replied, in a tired voice; "I am 
 not angry. Leave the matter ; you said we were 
 to leave it." 
 
 They walked on toward the house. After a 
 few moments he spoke of the pretty landscape, 
 the cloud effects, the prognostications of the 
 farmers in regard to the coming season. An-
 
 90 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 other man would have done this to avoid the 
 embarrassment of silence, after a scene like that 
 they had gone through, or to keep his mind or 
 hers from dwelling on it ; but it was not Vaugh- 
 an's reason. He noticed, and was thinking of 
 the matters he talked about ; he had conquered, 
 and was prepared to be cheerful and at ease ; 
 curious also to see how much self-control she 
 could exert. 
 
 Margot and Prudence were standing on the 
 kitchen-porch when they reached the dwelling. 
 Elizabeth spoke kindly to both women, and be- 
 fore going away arranged that Mrs. Anderson 
 should still remain in her service. She was so 
 composed that most people would have believed 
 her convinced of the wisdom and necessity of 
 her husband's conduct. But Prudence was too 
 shrewd to be deceived, though of course she held 
 her peace then and afterward. 
 
 To pass through the denuded dwelling again 
 was mdre than Elizabeth's fortitude could sup- 
 port. She requested Margot to have the coach- 
 man drive round to the back entrance. 
 
 Vaughan helped her into the carnage, and took 
 his place beside her. Prudence alone caught the 
 one last despairing glance her mistress cast toward 
 the hill as they drove away. 
 
 Vaughan talked pleasantly, and Elizabeth 
 made a pretense of listening. Margot was 
 there ; no human being must obtain a glimpse 
 of the awful gulf across whose depths she re- 
 garded her husband. The effort and the strug- 
 gle had begun. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 BREAKING HER BOXDS. 
 
 THE slow, dull sweep of a sluggish river, the 
 stretch of a meagre village along its banks, here 
 and there a factory sending up clouds of black 
 smoke which render the narrow streets still 
 more dingy and close. An open square in the 
 middle, with an old gray church. From this 
 square, a stone bridge arching the stream ; be- 
 yond, a steep hill, along whose side rise sombre, 
 frowning houses, guarded by high walls. On the 
 summit another square, surrounded by still more 
 stately and sombre mansions, likewise jealously 
 guarded by lofty walls and huge oaken doors. 
 
 This square is so dull and silent that the one 
 in the village below seems a carnival scene in 
 comparison. There is a church here too, so 
 ancient that the columns along the front need 
 the support of iron stays. The tower is moss- 
 grown and covered with ivy ; a clock within 
 strikes the hours in a solemn voice, and the bells 
 ring out with a muflled sound,.a.s if they had 
 grown weak and hoarse from age. There is a 
 fountain in the centre of the square, backed by 
 a huge black cross, on which "hangs a bronze 
 
 figure of the Crucified ; but the fountain does 
 not bubble and laugh after the habit of its kind ; 
 it only rises and falls into the cracked marble 
 basin with a dolorous murmur, so like a human 
 complaint that a fanciful person might almost 
 deem it the moan of the tortured shape above. 
 A line of solemn cypresses extends along the 
 church, and adds to the gloom. No matter how 
 brightly the sun shines, it is a sombre, chilly 
 place, that makes one shiver. So horribly silent 
 too ! Occasionally a flock of pigeons darts down 
 from the belfry and circles about ; but they are not 
 talkative pigeons dark of plumage too, whisper- 
 ing a little to one another, stepping gingerly 
 over the broken pavement ; altogether so still 
 and shadow -like that one imagines them the 
 ghosts of the cloistered nuns who have died out 
 of the grim convent at the back of the church. 
 There are never any children playing about, to 
 rouse pleasant echoes by their blithe young voices. 
 One might sit there half a day without seeing a 
 creature pass, unless when toward sunset the 
 gates of the great houses open, and give passage 
 to elderly figures, who saunter about almost as 
 noiselessly as the pigeons, or an old-fashioned 
 carriage drawn by sedate horses rolls out of 
 some courtyard, and passes slowly away toward 
 the poplar-bordered road beyond the hill. 
 
 Leave the square, go along the street which 
 leads to the poplar-bordered road with its mo- 
 notonous . landscape. More tall houses, more 
 jealous walls, occasional glimpses of dull court- 
 yards and prim gardens through the iron gates, 
 which are kept as carefully locked as if the place 
 were in a state of siege. The last of these man- 
 sions, on the left hand, is the largest and gloom- 
 iest of all, with hideous turrets rising above the 
 roofs, and knots of chimneys, so twisted and con- 
 torted they are really painful to look at. Within 
 the great gates a dismally clean court, a garden 
 at the right and back of the dwelling, but a gar- 
 den as dreary as a churchyard, with tall yew- 
 trees and discolored marble vases, that remind 
 one of funeral urns. 
 
 The house has vast corridors, suites of rooms 
 where scarcely an article looks younger than the 
 days of Cardinal Mazarin rooms which might 
 be imposing enough filled with bright furniture 
 and gayly dressed crowds, but which suggest no 
 more idea of comfort or home than the dreary 
 old convent that turns its back virtuously on the 
 dead square we have just left. 
 
 It is autumn now deep in November. Just 
 three years since Monsieur La Tour brought his 
 young wife to this dwelling, which to him is so 
 precious and beautiful. 
 
 Only a twelvemonth after their arrival here 
 Madame L'Estrange died in this house, and so 
 an additional sense of desolation and gloom 
 darkens it to Nathalie's eyes. That was a, 
 strange death-bed. Nathalie is a creature whose 
 emotions are usually as evanescent as they are
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 91 
 
 easy to excite, but to this day she shudders when 
 i;he recalls that season. The weight of a secret 
 which Madame L'Estrange had carried about 
 her so long only once breaking the silence in 
 a few vindictive whispers to Mr. Crauford the 
 day they met in the Swiss chalet became too 
 oppressive when death stared her in the face. 
 Holding fast to Nathalie with her wasted hands, 
 transfixing her with the unnatural fire of her 
 sunken eyes, she gasped anew the secret, and 
 wrung from Nathalie a promise which both knew 
 there was scarcely a probability Fate would ever 
 put within the girl's power to fulfill. 
 
 Can Nathalie ever forget that scene ? Other 
 memories shall come and go, the most important 
 events of life will leave only a transitory im- 
 pression on her mind, but she will never forget 
 that hour. 
 
 She is thinking of it now, when we find her 
 sitting out in the dreary garden, a book lying 
 unheeded on her lap, her gaze wandering away 
 toward the pile of gorgeous-tinted sunset clouds 
 in the west. She never pays much attention to 
 the beautiful in nature unless there is some one 
 with her to point it out. She is so occupied 
 with dreams and fancies, which always have her- 
 self for an aim and centre, that she has slight 
 leisure for any thing else when a musing fit 
 seizes her. She has grown a more hopeless vis- 
 ionary than ever. When she is not reading 
 novels, or putting her wild fancies and borrowed 
 theories upon paper, she is imagining some won- 
 derful thing which is to happen some stirring 
 sensation, which shall shake her life out of its 
 present monotony make her a heroine of ro- 
 mance, whose fate will afford the scribblers of 
 another generation ample material for poems and 
 tragedies, over which future dreamers will mar- 
 vel and weep. 
 
 Directly after Madame L'Estrange's death, 
 her husband took her down to Italy. They vis- 
 ited all the famous cities sailed over to Sicily, 
 and Nathalie wrote an account of her wander- 
 ings. Feminine authorship was a thing opposed 
 to all Monsieur La Tour's creeds and prejudices, 
 but he could not oppose his young wife's will. 
 The book was published ; a noted litterateur, 
 who had been fascinated by Nathalie in Rome, 
 used his best efforts to give the work a tempo- 
 rary success. Nathalie tasted the first draught 
 of a most intoxicating cup and craved more. 
 
 After the return from Italy, she was forced to 
 accept existence in the old house for a consider- 
 able season. Monsieur La Tour was seriously 
 out of health, and the physicians insisted upon 
 his remaining here to try the beneficial effects 
 of his native air. But the spring before this 
 period of which I mean to write Nathalie did 
 succeed in getting up to Paris, and obtained 
 glimpses of excitement and gayety which ren- 
 dered the thought of life in this dull place more 
 insupportable. She had written a little romance, 
 
 full of French sentiment, impossible situations, 
 theories at once so appalling and absurd that a 
 reasonable person could not have told whether 
 to be shocked or amused. But the story pos- 
 sessed a certain grace and ease of style, adroitly 
 enough modeled upon, that of one of the most fa- 
 mous French authors of our day ; and this book 
 too had its brief triumph. 
 
 There remained one serious drawback to 
 Nathalie's satisfaction, however she dared not 
 put her name to the work. She was afraid both 
 of Monsieur La Tour's anger and the verdict of 
 people whose countenance she desired. The 
 book was one which, if known to be hers, would 
 have left no society open to her outside the Bo- 
 hemian literary ranks of Paris ; and insane as 
 she was to fling off her shackles and be free, she 
 dreaded the possible results. Marital law and 
 the authority of relatives are very powerful in 
 France. If she went too far, she might find 
 herself deprived of her freedom, and kept so se- 
 curely confined that she would have no oppor- 
 tunity even to make her woes public. 
 
 So this summer she came back to the old 
 house. What a life! how she hates, loathes, 
 chafes under it! breaks often into active re- 
 bellion, and renders poor Monsieur La Tour the 
 most miserable elderly man in all France. He 
 loved her so fondly he loves her still ; but now 
 he knows that she has not in her heart so much 
 as a gleam of tolerance for him. She does not 
 attempt to disguise the truth ; she taunts him 
 with it whenever he opposes her whims or one 
 of her black moods seizes her. 
 
 She execrates the staid, respectable people 
 about grand titled people, who, having slight 
 vestige of their ancestors' fortunes left, are doubly 
 grand and stately to atone for the loss. There 
 are dull dinners occasionally evening recep- 
 tions, where the women bring their embroidery 
 into the cold, gloomy salons where weak lem- 
 onade and sweetened water are drunk where 
 girls and youthful married ladies are expected 
 to listen submissively to their elders where 
 Nathalie is regarded with a certain wonder and 
 doubt because she has written a book, though 
 every body is kind to her on her husband's ac- 
 count, and few even among the women can re- 
 sist her loveliness and her charms when she 
 chooses now and then to rouse out of her apathy 
 and dazzle them by her wit and her marvelous 
 powers as a raconteusea style of amusement 
 irresistible to French natures. 
 
 How long shall she be able to endure it ? 
 That is the question Nathalie asks herself over 
 and over. Vain, frivolous in many ways, Natha- 
 lie is an odd compound. She married believing 
 that at least in flirtation she should find a con- 
 stant source of amusement, and yet even when 
 the opportunity offers it does not amuse her. 
 In Rome she managed to make ' Monsieur La 
 Tour several times uncomfortable, but, as she
 
 92 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 told herself, le jeu ne valalt pas la chandeUe. 
 In Paris the same effort with the same result. 
 Into the dull old place come now and then hand- 
 some or agreeable youths to visit their relatives. 
 Nathalie subdues these at once horrifies the 
 whole circle distresses her husband ; but she 
 does not amuse herself. When the youths, obe- 
 dient to the creed of Frenchmen, feel it their 
 duty to make love to her, she is bored, and dis- 
 covers that they are vapid and shallow. 
 
 What the girl wants is universal adulation : to 
 have a world at her feet, or some such impossible 
 nonsense. The applause bestowed upon a suc- 
 cessful actress would be delightful, but one man's 
 worship, a tete-a-tete offender words, even if the 
 situation be dramatic, has none of the relish she 
 expected it to possess. 
 
 So she tells herself it is because she has really 
 loved, and she moans and wrings her hands and 
 makes a god of Darrell Vaughan's memory, and 
 chooses him for the hero of her novel, and enjoys 
 all the misery she can manage to procure. 
 
 Here she sits in the quaint garden to-night, 
 as pretty a picture as the fancy of a poet ; older, 
 more matured than when we last saw her ; not 
 beautiful according to strict rules far from it, 
 indeed but with an inexplicable charm and 
 witchery about her. She is just one of those ex- 
 ceptional natures, those impressionable beings, 
 who seem at one hour animated by a good angel, 
 the next possessed by a demon. Often it almost 
 appears as if such creatures were brought into 
 the world to work evil, while always straining 
 after some unattainable ideal some vast theory 
 which shows foul and false under the glowing 
 hues in which its devotees enfold it, with faith 
 too, many of them, in the purity and right of its 
 doctrines. 
 
 There she sits, perfectly unconscious that a 
 crisis in her destiny is even now at the thresh- 
 old that the long-wishcd-for cause which shall 
 nerve her into positive revolt has at last ar- 
 rived. 
 
 She is roused by a hasty step on the gravel 
 walk by Susanne's voice close at her side. Su- 
 sanne is little changed, only that she is very gor- 
 geous in attire, and usually very grand in man- 
 ner putting on as many airs with the servants 
 of Monsieur La Tour's household and those of 
 the neighborhood as if she had always been con- 
 fidential maid to the Empress of Russia. A 
 more unfortunate person for Nathalie to have 
 ahotit could not be found. Susanne delights in 
 plots and intrigues ; is ready to lie to any ex- 
 tent ; enjoys the thousand small ways in which 
 Nathalie deceives her husband, and considers 
 their detention in this dull place a heartless tyr- 
 anny on Monsieur's part which deserves condign 
 puni.-hment. 
 
 "Madame! Madame!" exclaims Susanne, 
 clattering up on her high heels, with her head- 
 dress fluttering. 
 
 " How you startled me !" Nathalie says, peev- 
 ishly. " This horrid hole is so still that the least 
 noise makes me nervous." 
 
 " Chut!" whispers Susanne, as warningly as 
 if there were somebody near to listen, quite re- 
 gardless of the" fact that she shouted at the top 
 of her voice as she ran up. "Come this way; 
 something has happened." 
 
 "What "a mercy!" returned Nathalie, rising 
 slowly. " Now I am sure it is just a bit of your 
 nonsense ; tell what it is, and be done." 
 
 But Susanne will only utter hissing exclama- 
 tions, and refuse to speak till she has drawn her 
 mistress some distance from the house, behind a 
 thicket of laurustinus. Then she begins 
 
 " I saw her come in ; she asked for Monsieur, 
 so I knew she meant mischief, the old cat ? I 
 just whipped into the little passage back of Mon- 
 sieur's study " 
 
 " Who came ? what do you mean ?" inter- 
 rupts Nathalie, giving her shoulder an impatient 
 shake. " It must be Madame de Mercceur, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "She divines at once!" cried Susanne, tri- 
 umphantly. " Ah, Madame has reason to sus- 
 pect her of being an enemy the monkey-faced 
 old wretch!" 
 
 " She has come to tell my husband about Mon- 
 sieur Frederic, I conclude," pursues Nathalie. 
 " Well, let her ; I do not care." 
 
 Madame de Mercoeur is a countess one of 
 the magnates of the place, as poor as Job and 
 proud as Lucifer. She has always been kind to 
 Nathalie, on account of a life -long friendship 
 with Monsieur La Tour ; but she has never liked 
 her, and has been loud in her diatribes upon the 
 folly of that worthy gentleman in his marriage. 
 But of late she has cause to feel active animosity 
 toward the creature. Less than a month since 
 her youngest son, a naval officer, came home, 
 and fell hopelessly blinded by the first of Natha- 
 lie's smiles. In the end Madame surprised the 
 youth in the garden on his knees before the 
 enchantress. That was bad enough ; but the 
 crowning sin proved Nathalie's conduct at the 
 discovery. So far from showing confusion, she 
 appeared triumphant laughed at the boy and 
 bearded the mother. The climax had come, and 
 Nathalie was not sorry that Madame pounced 
 upon the scene. It had been all very well to let 
 Monsieur Frederic write her letters, to reply in 
 pages of equally exaggerated trash ; but to-day 
 he had screwed his courage up to the point of 
 revealing his passion in open language, and, as 
 usual when an adorer reached this stage, Natha- 
 lie's interest in the sport flagged, and the youth 
 became a bore. 
 
 Nathalie has not scrupled to repeat the whole 
 story to Susanne, mimicking the Countess and 
 her hopeful to the life. Indeed, she would have 
 revealed it just as unhesitatingly to her husband, 
 only that since the scene she has chanced to be
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 93 
 
 in an amiable mood where he is concerned, and 
 does not wish him to have the pain of giving up 
 his old fiiend's society. Madame fled from the 
 neighborhood with her boy the day after her dis- 
 covery, but Nathalie had this morning heard of 
 her return, and is not in the least astonished at 
 this visit. 
 
 "I am sorry now I did not tell Monsieur my- 
 self," she says ; " but after all it is of no conse- 
 quence; let Madame make her moan." 
 
 "Ah, but it is worse than that," cries Su- 
 sanne. " She has found out that you wrote the 
 book they are quarreling." 
 
 Nathalie turns pale, but answers recklessly 
 
 " It had to come sooner or later ! Well, there 
 is nothing he can do ; he dare not shut me up." 
 
 "Men dare do any thing," answers Susanne. 
 
 "Not with a woman like me !" cried Nathalie, 
 proudly. "Let me alone, Susanne; I want to 
 think I must reflect." 
 
 Nathalie's reflections do not go beyond vague 
 resolves of angry defiance, but she enjoys the ex- 
 citement, alarmed as she is, and even contem- 
 plates with satisfaction the idea of martyrdom 
 not carried to an unpleasant extent. 
 
 Madame de Mercosur has not rested till she 
 found some weapon wherewith to smite her inso- 
 lent /oe. Through a gossiping correspondent 
 she has learned that Nathalie is the author of 
 the much-talked-of novel a work which the co- 
 terie of the select in Du Bourg regard with hor- 
 ror. Monsieur La Tour has himself publicly 
 expressed opinions of unusual violence concern- 
 ing the book, declaring it unfit for any woman 
 to read. 
 
 Poor Monsieur! With unscrupulous ferocity 
 Madame intrudes upon his quiet and pours out 
 her tale. The little idyl in which Nathalie has 
 indulged with the susceptible Fre'de'ric admits of 
 no doubt. There are the letters ; one of them is 
 held before Monsieur's eyes ; but when he dis- 
 covers what it is he turns away. The story in 
 regard to the authorship of the romance he re- 
 fuses to credit, though in his heart he knows that 
 it is true. 
 
 "To-night I shall have a copy of the journal 
 which gives her name," cries Madame. "We 
 shall see what you can say then. " 
 
 "It will be no proof," replies Monsieur; but 
 his troubled heart sinks under a fresh pang. It 
 seems to him that he must die of shame and 
 grief; but he bears up, asserting again that the 
 story will be found to have no foundation. Ma- 
 dame de Mercoeur pities and blames him all in a 
 breath, and is so bitter against Nathalie that at 
 last he fires up, and more than hints, though with 
 great courtesy, that of course Nathalie's youth, 
 beauty, and great talents render her a mark for 
 the envious to shoot arrows at those unhappy 
 ones who have lost their beauty, and possess no 
 especial mental gifts to supply its place. This 
 is hard on Madame, who has been a belle in her 
 
 day. She fires up hi her turn, and tells him 
 roundly that the whole set all this great world 
 in little has decided to countenance Nathalie 
 no longer. Her conduct has brought misery 
 into more than one hitherto peaceful household ; 
 strange stories in regard to her birth have been 
 for some time afloat ; this history of her author- 
 ship has added the crowning sin to her wrong- 
 doing ! Nathalie is to be tabooed made a so- 
 cial pariah ; the magnates of Du Bourg will send 
 her to the wall, and gather their garments close- 
 ly about them as they pass, lest her touch should 
 contaminate their purity. 
 
 Then Monsieur rises, and, pale as death, asks 
 his visitor if she have any other communication 
 with which to honor him. She accepts the hint, 
 and goes out with scanty leave-taking. Though 
 even in the height of his wrath and pain, Mon- 
 sieur can not forget his old-fashioned ceremo- 
 nious politeness. His icy courtesy brings Ma- 
 dame a little to her senses she is not to be out- 
 done in that line, and their bows and obeisance 
 are a sight to behold. 
 
 The door closes ; Monsieur falls back into his 
 fauteuil, and sits there, looking five years older 
 than he did an hour ago sits pressing his hands 
 to his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts, to 
 decide upon some course which shall be at once 
 right and as merciful as he can make it toward 
 Nathalie. 
 
 The room ig filled with the gray shadows of 
 twilight before he rouses himself from his medi- 
 tation is roused from it rather by the measures 
 of a clear, youthful voice which float up from the 
 garden. Nathalie is returning to the house, 
 singing in very recklessness and defiance. Jnst 
 then a servant taps at the door enters with a 
 parcel, ard Madame de Mercceur's compliments ; 
 she sends the journal of which she was speaking 
 to Monsieur. Madame has had the decency to 
 seal the newspaper, that it may be safe from the 
 prying eyes of the domestics. 
 
 " Will Monsieur have lights ?" Monsieur only 
 shakes his head ; the roll which the servant has 
 placed in his hand drops from the nerveless fin- 
 gers. The man thinks Monsieur lays the package 
 on the table ; but it is not so. He has reached 
 the door, then his master speaks for the . first 
 time. 
 
 " Mes compliments respectueux a Madame ; if 
 she is not occupied, I should be glad if she would 
 come and read to me for a while." 
 
 The sen-ant goes out ; Monsieur bows his head 
 on his hands, and sits still. Presently there is a 
 light step in the stone gallery the tones of the 
 merry song which reached him from the garden 
 a little time before again fill the sombre room 
 with their melody. The wrinkled hands which 
 support the head, grown so gray during the past 
 year, shake nervously, but he does not stir. 
 
 Once more the door opens ; Nathalie pauses 
 on the threshold to exclaim
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "What a dungeon of a room like all the 
 rooms in this old den ! If I am compelled to 
 live here much longer, I shall pitch a tent in the 
 garden ; that is bad enough, but it is a degree 
 better than this awful barrack." 
 
 " You do not like this house ?" Monsieur says, 
 seizing upon the chance her words have made to 
 get at once to his purpose. " You would not 
 inind going away ?" 
 
 "Mind! Why Patagonia, wherever it is, 
 would be Paradise compared to this place." 
 Nathalie is rather nervous somewhat fright- 
 ened ; but she keeps up a show of courage 
 overdoes it, in fact, so that it looks like bravado. 
 " Martin said you wanted me to read to you 
 I must have a lamp." 
 
 "One moment, please! Come in, Nathalie." 
 
 She enters, and closes the door. 
 
 " Well, then !" she says in her defiant voice. 
 
 " About going away first," he continues, look- 
 ing at her with a gaze so wistful and sad that it 
 ought to soften her heart ; but she is not in a 
 mood to be touched. " I think it may happen," 
 he goes on slowly, after another pause ; "indeed, 
 I can see no other course to pursue, at least for 
 a time." 
 
 "So much the better !" she cries. " We shall 
 go to Paris." . 
 
 " No, Nathalie ; to Languedoc to my sister's. " 
 
 "What!" she almost shrieks, preparing to 
 rush into a fury without loss of time. She has 
 subdued him before this by a display of temper; 
 he so dreads to see her behave unworthily that 
 he often yields a point to escape the humiliation 
 perhaps he will now. " To your sister's the 
 awfulest old dragon in all France ! I'll not go 
 I remember my one visit there ! I tell you I will 
 not go I'd rather stay here even than endure 
 that purgatory." 
 
 "Unfortunately, you have rendered it impos- 
 sible," he says, still speaking in the same slow, 
 sad fashion he is too depressed and broken for 
 anger. " We must go away for a while. I will 
 even relieve you of my presence, but I must place 
 you under proper guardianship. There is no one 
 so fit as my sister no one who, misjudge her as 
 you may, will prove so kind, so lenient a friend, 
 if you permit her." 
 
 "And now, having announced your lordly 
 will, perhaps you will condescend to explain what 
 all this means," cries Nathalie. " You can nei- 
 ther drive nor frighten me, I warn you ; I am not 
 a woman of that sort." 
 
 " Child, child !" he says, reprovingly, yet with 
 a quiver of pity in his voice, as if trying to soften 
 his own judgment in regard to her by this name. 
 
 "Let us get at the bottom of the matter at l > 
 once," pursues Nathalie, hotly. " That old de- 
 mon, Madame de Mercoeur, has been with you. 
 What f.Usdiood did she bring this time? Brave 
 man gentlemanly conduct to listen to com- 
 plaints of your own wife!" 
 
 She will neither coax nor plead ; she will bear 
 down upon him with the full weight of her will ; 
 he shall yield beg for forgiveness; Madame, 
 and all the rest of her enemies, shall see that 
 their malice has only served to leave him a more 
 submissive slave than ever. 
 
 He does not recriminate ; one might almost 
 think he had not heard her cruel words, only 
 that the gray head bows lower, and the sad eyes, 
 which watch her always, grow misty and dim. 
 His hand stretches out and takes up the news- 
 paper he breaks the seal. He has no need to 
 search for the paragraph he wants Madame has 
 folded the journal so that it meets the eye as it is 
 opened, and she has drawn a wide line about it 
 with very black ink into the bargain. 
 
 " Will you read this ?" he says, his utterance 
 growing still'more difficult. 
 
 Nathalie takes the paper goes closer to the 
 window, and glances at the marked paragraph. 
 She is so delighted with seeing her name, so 
 charmed by the fulsome compliments paid her 
 beauty and genius, that she absolutely forgets 
 the danger which menaces her, and cries out 
 ecstatically 
 
 "Oh, how it praises me! signed 'R.Y.' Why 
 that is Monsieur Yalmont, the most celebrated 
 critic in France." 
 
 " Nathalie!" The name is groaned out with 
 such mingled pain and horror that she comes 
 back to her senses. She remembers the exigen- 
 cies of the moment is more angry than ever at 
 the idea of restraint or opposition just when such 
 incense and triumph are offered her. 
 
 " So this was the old cat's errand !" she cries. 
 "JE'A bien ! afterward ? You have not read it ; 
 stay, you shall hear how the world estimates the 
 woman you and your miserable idiots of neigh- 
 hoi's deem a child a frivolous butterfly, that 
 needs counsel and guidance. Listen then !" 
 
 "No, no; I don't want to hear," he exclaims, 
 brokenly. 
 
 " ' The much-talked-of romance, " Le premier 
 Pas," whose audacious theories astonished lim- 
 ited intellects as much as its pathos and dramatic 
 plot touched heart and imagination ' " 
 
 "Nathalie! Nathalie!" 
 
 But she reads on unheeding 
 
 '"This eloquent appeal against the unjust 
 tyranny of our social laws this bitter, ironical 
 exposition of the iron rule of marriage ' " 
 
 "I tell you I will not listen !" he interrupts. 
 
 "Bah!" she cries, contemptuously. "Of 
 course you can not understand or appreciate ! 
 Skip that part then. 'This work, assigned to 
 so many different writers, is. we are credibly in- 
 formed, the production of a lady already favor- 
 ably known as the author of "A Winter in 
 Italy" a lady whose beauty, grace, and varied 
 charms for a little time last spring fascinated 
 the literary circles of Paris '" 
 
 " Nathalie ! I beg ! I entreat !"
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 '"A certain Madame Nathalie La Tour,'" 
 continues the young voice, shrill with triumph. 
 '"One sees that she has written from her in- 
 most heart. The details of an actual experience 
 are here unfolded. She transcribes u drama 
 which she has lived. She '" 
 
 By a sudden movement Monsieur's tremhling 
 hands almost succeed in wresting the paper from 
 her. She retreats, calling out 
 
 "You shall hear! you shall! Listen to this 
 bit : ' She has placed herself among the fore- 
 most diseiplas of the school to which so many 
 of our great writers belong. She boldly avows 
 her hatred of the tyranny of marriage ; her 
 belief that love is too hdy and powerful to be 
 shackled by men's petty laws ' " 
 
 She is interrupted again ; it is only a groan 
 this time. Still she reads on from another sen- 
 tence that has caught her eye. 
 
 "'The incidents of the heroine's marriage, 
 the selling of her to a rich, elderly man, the 
 defeat of her lover's efforts to save her, are all 
 said to be actual experiences ' " 
 
 "It is not true at least that is not true." 
 
 " It is !" she cried, flinging the journal down ; 
 "it is true! There, then, do your worst! I 
 have suffered enough been submissive too long; 
 1 will give my wrongs full voice at last." 
 
 She stops, alarmed at the possible consequences 
 of her own recklessness, but the bowed form be- 
 fore her does not stir. She picks up the news- 
 paper and hides it in her pocket ; this tribute to 
 her vanity is too precious to be rudely treated. 
 Then she hears a rustling of other papers. She 
 sees that Monsieur is extending toward her a 
 package which she recognizes at once her let- 
 ters to Monsieur Frede'ric. One of them has 
 been separated from the rest^it is open. 
 
 "I have not read these," Monsieur says; 
 ' ' that single page I read ; it was placed in my 
 hand before I knew what it was." 
 
 Nathalie's quick eyes fasten on it ; a passage 
 in which she bemoans the weariness of her life 
 the utter lack of sympathy with her husband ; 
 a rhodomontade as overstrained and untrue as 
 possible, though she tried to believe herself in 
 earnest as she wrote. 
 
 " Go on go on !" she says. "What do you 
 mean to do now ?" 
 
 "Take your letters, Nathalie," he answers; 
 and still no thrill of anger sharpens his mournful 
 voice. "Child, child, I have tried to see what 
 was best to do. I want to act aright. It is so 
 hard to know ! I can not leave you to yourself 
 to the consequences of your mad folly." 
 
 "Are you silly enough to suppose I cared for 
 that young idiot ?" she asks. " The coward, to 
 give up those letters ! You ought to kill him ! 
 I played a little drama just to tease his mother." 
 
 " I know I know. Of what men call sin in 
 a wife, I hold you innocent, Nathalie. I am not 
 thinking of that. If I were your father I could 
 
 not be more anxious to help you. I can see but 
 one way." 
 
 "To send me to Languedoc ? I'll not go." 
 
 "Here we can not stay', Nathalie. I could 
 not live among my old friends and see my wife 
 avoided ; the talk of every servant's tongue ; the 
 scorn of those I honor and love " 
 
 "Your friends are idiots, fossiles," she breaks 
 in. "Take me among real live men and women 
 of our century people who can comprehend me. 
 Let me have my life !" 
 
 "Never! I put aside the danger you would 
 run the sin on my part of throwing you in the 
 way of temptation " 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "But I can not as a Christian, as I fear to 
 offend my God, aid you in promulgating the 
 dreadful theories you have imbibed from bad 
 books theories whose evil you do not half un- 
 derstand. " 
 
 "You forget to whom you speak!" she in- 
 terrupts again. " You have the honor to be 
 allied to a woman who has already given proofs 
 of her talent ! Do not presume to set your puny 
 judgment, your old-time scruples and supersti- 
 tions, against the verdict of the world." 
 
 "Ah, child, can you not see ! You have only 
 gained a little notoriety among a set of people 
 glad to hail a young, respectable girl as one of 
 themselves : this is not fame this is not literary 
 reputation." 
 
 "My book has been translated into Italian 
 and English,*" she exclaims. " I saw only the 
 other day that it had run through three editions 
 in America ! I have another finished ah, what 
 a work ! It shall be published too your tyranny 
 can not prevent that." 
 
 "If it inculcate similar doctrines, I must pre- 
 vent it," he replies. "Write books fit for a 
 woman to pen, for women to read, and I will not 
 interfere." 
 
 " I defy you !" she cries. 
 
 " Then you must listen to my will, and 
 you must obey," he answers. " Nathalie, in 
 France a wife can not easily dispute her hus- 
 band's law. Painful as it is, I must insist on 
 obedience." 
 
 She laughs aloud as she stands before him, her 
 eyes dilated, her face convulsed with passion. 
 
 " Let me hear your will your regal decree !'' 
 
 " If you could only trust in my tenderness 
 if you could believe what my age and'experience 
 make clear to me," he pleads. 
 
 "Genius has no need of either," returns Natha- 
 lie, grandly; "its intuitions are unfailing." 
 
 "You have a whole life before you," he con- 
 tinues. " The time must come when you will 
 see in their full horror the ideas and theories 
 which look so beautiful to you now " 
 
 "Which are to become the hope of the future," 
 she breaks in again, with a majesty that would 
 have amused a less interested listener. "I
 
 96 
 
 ME. VAUGIIAN'S HEIK. 
 
 expect persecution nil reformers and apostles 
 must ; I do uot shrink. " 
 
 "The time to die will come at last," he goes 
 on, unheeding her interruptions, his voice grow- 
 ing lower and more tremulous. "Child, there 
 are sins enough which affect one's own soul to 
 repent at that hour; do not add to the weight 
 the awful memory fliat by your written words 
 you have done incalculable harm to the souls of 
 others." 
 
 "I can not argue with you," retorts she con- 
 temptuously. " It is useless to attempt to make 
 you understand ! Yours is a narrow, priest-rid- 
 den nature I am a philosopher : the very word 
 is beyond your comprehension." 
 
 Absurd as the speech is, he can not smile ; he 
 can only grieve over her blindness and perversity, 
 wondering by what means he may save her from 
 herself from the effect of evil teachings and evil 
 books. 
 
 "Let us end the discussion here," he says 
 wearily; " for the present, at least." 
 
 "I told you arguments were useless," she re- 
 plies, almost ready to believe that she has con- 
 quered, and will be allowed to pursue her own 
 course unmolested. But the flattering delusion 
 is quickly dispelled, for Monsieur adds 
 
 "As soon as you can prepare, we will set out 
 on our journey." 
 
 "What?" she cries. 
 
 "I told you we could not remain here it is 
 impossible ; we must go without delay." 
 
 "To Languedoc ?" 
 
 He bows his head. 
 
 Nathalie stands for an instant^ dumb with rage 
 and terror, then bursts into a torrent of angry 
 speeches which he does not notice. She sweeps 
 out of the chamber, and leaves him alone in his 
 grief and desolation the terrible solitude of an 
 old man, whose one hope of earthly happiness 
 has been dashed into ruins. 
 
 " It has come at last, " Nathalie says this night 
 to Susanne. " At least I can depend on you. I 
 have already arranged a plan he shall not wreck 
 my life in its very opening." 
 
 "How will you manage, Madame?" asks Su- 
 sanne, greatly impressed by her looks and words. 
 "What will you do?" 
 
 "Do?"' she repeats. "Go to America he 
 can not touch me there : to America ! 
 
 But even as she utters the name her mother's 
 dying words come back, and Nathalie shivers and 
 turns pale, mad and reckless as she is. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 I. At NCK'S PICTUKE8. 
 
 IT often happens, especially in the history of 
 married lives, that even when some important 
 crisis breached no events of consequence follow, 
 
 although at first it has seemed impossible that 
 existence should ever settle back into the groove 
 from which it has been so rudely shaken. 
 
 After that interview with her husband, in sight 
 of the empty grave whicli his greed for wealth had 
 violated, Elizabeth Vaughan went home. For sev- 
 eral days she was left to herself ; then Darrell re- 
 turned, but was called away immediately to Wash- 
 ington, so that almost up to the time for their de- 
 parture into the country she was granted a sea- 
 son of solitude. 
 
 She needed this season to reflect to face her 
 life with its present pain, its future dreary possi- 
 bilities. The hero about whom she had tried to 
 cast a glow of enthusiasm so bright and warm 
 that she could believe even her heart joined in the 
 worship was flung down from his pedestal for- 
 ever. One course remained the fulfillment of 
 her wifely duty ; and to satisfy her conscience this 
 could take no narrow scope. She must put from 
 her mind bitterness and wrath ; she must strug- 
 gle against contempt and distrust. It was very 
 hard, but she did try faithfully, constantly. 
 
 When Darrell reached home he found her 
 tranquil, cheerful, and no allusion was made to 
 their last meeting. 
 
 The summer went, the autumn came, the win- 
 ter, with its round of society duties, which, under 
 other circumstances, might have possessed a cer- 
 tain pleasure for Elizabeth, if only she were not 
 forced to think she was wasting the time. 
 
 Most people regarded her as a beautiful statue, 
 with nearly as few human sympathies as her stone 
 prototype. The few who learned to know her 
 marveled what struggle was going on in the pure 
 soul ; but she made no confidences. 
 
 Scenes between Vaughan and herself were rare; 
 now and then his fiery temper broke out, but or- 
 dinarily peace reigned in the house. He was 
 less and less at home. Business, pleasure, led 
 him about, and his numerous schemes occupied 
 him greatly. He was a very successful man 
 honored, courted. This period was the heyday 
 of his triumph. Few reports to his discredit got 
 abroad ; he was still careful in his conduct. Eliz- 
 abeth's empire was rapidly wearing away. There 
 were times still when her beauty filled him with 
 fierce passion, and he could scarcely tell whether 
 he loved or hated her when he would have burn- 
 ed her soul up' under his kisses if he could. 
 
 Elizabeth Vaughan lived to endure the most 
 horrible form of degradation which can befall a 
 pure woman, and pure as she was, she could not 
 shut the humiliating truth from her soul. She 
 belonged to a man who prized her beauty because 
 it appealed to his sensual nature valued her men- 
 tal gifts only as they could be employed in his 
 sen-ice. A slave in an Eastern seraglio could not 
 have been placed on a coarser level, and here this 
 woman had to live. 
 
 Thwarted in every laudable ambition ; fetter- 
 ed even in the expenditure of money which was
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 97 
 
 her own ; obliged always to preserve for the 
 world's sake, for duty's sake, the semblance of 
 respect, an appearance of trust in what she knew 
 to be the hollowest sham ever hidden under a 
 golden exterior, lest it should be her hand that 
 rent the veil and showed him to his fellows as he 
 really was, thereby rendering him so utterly des- 
 perate that no chance of redemption would re- 
 main. 
 
 And she still tried to hope for this ; tried to 
 believe that he would grow out of his faults ; and 
 always just when some noble word, some worthy 
 act, seemed to promise a fulfillment, a cruel fate 
 would force the truth upon her, and she was doom- 
 ed to see plainly the selfish motive, the studied 
 craft hidden beneath. 
 
 Her life was not an idle one. She gave not 
 only all the money she could for the charitable pur- 
 poses which had been the dream of her girlhood, 
 but actual superintendence, real, honest work, to 
 atone for the limited means in her control. 
 
 The season advanced. Of course there was the 
 usual round of balls and dinners ; constant fes- 
 tivities at their own house or abroad. Elizabeth 
 did her part perfect in dress, calm and dignified 
 in demeanor ; and so the days passed. 
 
 It was toward spring once more when business 
 brought Mr. Carstoe on from California the 
 first time he had visited the East in many years. 
 Vaughan had need of his services in some com- 
 pany or project. He could trust Carstoe's hon- 
 esty and ability ; and where the former quality 
 at least was concerned, Vaughan's faith in most 
 of his kind was exceedingly limited. 
 
 Carstoe was often at the house, a devout ad- 
 mirer of Elizabeth's ; and she learned to enjoy 
 greatly his quaint conversation, and to appreciate 
 the stern integrity and perfect uprightness of his 
 character. Not an extraordinaiy person in other 
 respects, Carstoe impressed one as far beyond the 
 commonrun of humanity as regarded these virtues. 
 It was a keen pleasure to Elizabeth to study his 
 nature for this reason ; a comfort, in the midst of 
 the dissimulation and scheming which surround- 
 ed her, to watch this grave, plain, elderly man, so 
 firm to his convictions, so honest to his word. 
 Absolutely his society gave her a feeling of rest. 
 Most things on which she had placed her faith 
 looked so shifting and unstable that his immov- 
 able rectitude was like a prop to her tired soul. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe was the most unassuming of men 
 proud, too, in his quiet fashion, and utterly in- 
 capable of pushing or forgetting his position ; but 
 he was rather petted by both husband and wife, 
 and their kindness and consideration came like a 
 gleam of sunshine into the loneliness of his life. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe's respect and admiration for Vaugh- 
 an were as unbounded as ever. If he could have 
 brought himself to accuse Mrs. Vaughan's char- 
 acter of a fault, it would have been on account of 
 her manner to her husband. She was unfailing 
 in all essentials of deference and respect, but less 
 G 
 
 impulsive and demonstrative than Carstoe (always 
 a little visionary when love and marriage were 
 concerned) could have wished. But he felt cer- 
 tain it was only her manner ; of course she loved 
 him, and they were a very happy couple : Car- 
 stoe would have gone to the stake in support of 
 that belief. 
 
 Side by side on the elevation which Vaughan 
 and his wife occupied in his esteem, Mr. Carstoe 
 placed Launce Cromlin. Naturally he could not 
 be long in the society of Launce's relatives with- 
 out mentioning the young man's name. It was 
 the first time Elizabeth had ever heard it spoken 
 except joined to slighting allusions or open con- 
 demnation. Her father had told her something of 
 Darrell's cousin. As Mr. Crauford had made a 
 bete noire of Launce, he was loud in his censure : 
 according to him, Launce was a cross between 
 Caligula and a modern rake. When she asked 
 Vaughan, his hesitation and hints were as ex- 
 pressive as her father's sweeping though vague 
 censures. Of the reasons for his uncle's distrust 
 she knew nothing, and indeed she forgot all about 
 Launce Cromlin until Mr. Carstoe brought his 
 name abruptly into the conversation. 
 
 "Didn't know he was in America," Vaughan 
 said. 
 
 "He is not, but he has sent several pictures 
 over, and they are attracting great attention," 
 Mr. Carstoe replied. "The very best judges 
 pronounce that he has won for himself a foremost 
 place among our artists. " 
 
 "Really I have not even heard the paintings 
 mentioned," Darrell observed, disdainfully. 
 
 "They are only recently arrived yesterday's 
 papers began to speak of them ; but they had 
 been exhibited in London, and they established 
 his reputation there." 
 
 " Dear me ; well, I am very glad that Launce 
 lias won a little notice, however ephemeral," re- 
 turned Vaughan, carelessly. 
 
 Nothing is perfect there are specks on the 
 sun. The one blemish to Darrell's perfection in 
 Mr. Carstoe's eyes was this underrating of his 
 cousin. But he was too wise to make matters 
 worse by arguments or expostulations. 
 
 "I suppose you have not seen Mr. Cromlin 's 
 pictures yet?" he said, turning to Mrs. Vaughan. 
 
 Elizabeth roused herself she was falling into 
 the bad habit of growing abstracted and preoc- 
 cupied. During the last half-hour, while the two 
 men talked, her thoughts had been traveling 
 worlds away, or brooding drearily over the life 
 which looked so different from her girlish dreams 
 the life so void of fruition that it was hard to 
 be patient hard to remember that " they alo 
 serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 Several times while conversing, Mr. Carstoe had 
 glanced at her in a meditative, questioning way. 
 He had been some weeks now in the habit of see- 
 ing her daily, and of late, absurd as it seemed, he 
 had occasionally caught himself wondering if it
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 were possible that her happiness and content could 
 be less complete than he had supposed them. 
 
 It was growing a very sad countenance, that 
 beautiful face of Elizabeth's graver than suited 
 her youthful loveliness ; acquiring, too, a self- 
 restrained expression, which ordinary observers 
 called pride and haughtiness, but it possessed a 
 different significance to the few capable of closer, 
 clearer judgment. 
 
 More than once Darrell had glanced toward 
 her likewise, but with a feeling of irritation which 
 he found it difficult to restrain. He was talk- 
 ing particularly well, and it irked his vanity to 
 perceive that he had only one listener. Had 
 there been twenty people in the room, and a sin- 
 gle person among them appeared indifferent to 
 his eloquence, he would have been annoyed. But 
 this increasing habit of absorption or reverie on 
 Elizabeth's part irritated him hugely. It was as 
 if her soul soared off beyond his control ; and 
 though what he called love was rapidly wearing 
 out of his heart or fancy, he chose to dominate 
 her still. 
 
 So now, when she started a little as Mr. Car- 
 stoe roused her suddenly by speaking her name, 
 Darrell said with a laugh 
 
 " She has not heard a syllable ! My wife looks 
 a sibyl, and is as abstracted as a Sappho. " 
 
 It sounded only like pleasant raillery to other 
 ears, but the remark was meant to sting, and 
 Elizabeth understood its full significance. The 
 more he taxed her talents in his service, the more 
 he sneered covertly at her powers, making it evi- 
 dent that he considered her devoured by vanity 
 and self-esteem for which her mental gifts or 
 achievements offered no foundation. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mr. Carstoe?" returned 
 she, interrogatively. 
 
 "1 was speaking of Mr. Cromlin's pictures," 
 Carstoe answered. 
 
 "Lannce, you know my cousin," Vaughan 
 explained, with a polite sneer in his voice : it was 
 always there when he spoke of his relative. 
 
 "Yes," Elizabeth said. " I have seen a few 
 of his pictures since we came back to America ; 
 they seemed to me to show great talent." 
 
 ."Now that settles the matter!" laughed 
 Vanghan. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe laughed too, thinking the words 
 a merry jest, under which, while pretending to 
 sjxyik lightly of his wife's judgment, his great 
 love and admiration for her were plainly visible. 
 He worshiped the beautiful woman Mr. Car- 
 stoe knew this. Elizabeth paid no attention 
 whatever; did not seem to hear; though she 
 never grew hardened against such petty insults 
 from her husband, however much she might de- 
 spise them a proof that she still had some feel- 
 ing left where he was concerned. 
 
 She went on quietly speaking of the paintings 
 to Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 v Those were youthful works," the lawyer said. 
 
 "These new pictures are far beyond any thing 
 he has done before." 
 
 "You must go and see them, Queenie," add- 
 ed Vaughan, in his kindest voice. " Indeed, we 
 ought to buy one or two, if there are any for 
 sale." 
 
 " Several I know are already sold in England," 
 Mr. Carstoe observed, "and others since the ex- 
 hibition opened here." 
 
 "Then we must make haste," said Vaughan. 
 If Launce was achieving reputation though tlie 
 bare thought made Darrell grind his teeth it 
 suited him to appear the munificent patron as 
 well as friend of his cousin. " Don't forget, 
 please, Queenie dear ! I shall try and look in 
 myself, but I am awful busy just now." 
 
 "You wish me to select and purchase one?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "By all means." 
 
 "There's one I fancy greatly," Mr. Carstoe 
 said. "It is an Italian scene a balcony and 
 garden back, and a beautiful woman and child in 
 the foreground." 
 
 "Italian?" repeated Vaughan. "Ah, that 
 will be the picture to choose, Queenie we like 
 any thing that reminds us of our magic land." 
 
 She caught the sneer again. Italian! The 
 word carried her back to those days under the 
 soft Tuscan sky when her dreams looked so near 
 fulfillment when the idol which her enthusiastic 
 nature craved for worship seemed to have de- 
 scended at her side, as unexpectedly and in a 
 shape almost as glorious as the gods were be- 
 lieved sometimes to appear in the old days of 
 mythological credences. 
 
 Here he sat now opposite her ; handsome per- 
 haps as ever, though the face looked worn from 
 toil and mental effort the world would have said ; 
 from dissipation and evil courses she knew, and 
 could not soften the terms, try as she might. 
 
 Here he sat mocking her in his cruelty by ref- 
 erence to that season whose every memory he 
 had trampled upon and sullied ; captious and ir- 
 ritable from a sleepless night, in a mood to enjoy 
 hurting her in all possible ways. 
 
 "Besides buying one of these," pursued Vaugh- 
 an, "we'll have one painted specially for us 
 when Launce gets back. Say your portrait, 
 Queenie in that old palace salon, with the Pisan 
 mountains showing through the window you in 
 mediaeval costume, and I'll be coming toward 
 you as a Crusader just returned some business 
 of that sort. Nice idea, eh ?" 
 
 "If you fancy it," she replied, without show- 
 ing any trace of annoyance. " You must choose 
 some other lady for the mediaeval princess-thongh 
 I don't mean ever to sit for my portrait again."' 
 
 Just then she was called out of the room by the 
 arrival of visitors, and made her escape gladly. 
 
 Vaughan and his guest went back to the dis- 
 cusMon of the business matter which had brought 
 the latter to the house. But Darrell did not for-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 99 
 
 get that it would be well to prevent any danger 
 of rash disclosures on Mr. Carstoe's part. So 
 before he renewed the business talk he must 
 needs praise his lovely wife, and at the same 
 time mention sundry oddities in her character. 
 
 He made Mr. Carstoe understand that Launce 
 Cromlin's name was tacitly tabooed in the house, 
 and that from certain feminine repulsions in 
 which Mrs. Vaughan indulged. She was a very 
 proud woman a very peculiar woman ; and the 
 stipulation in that will of his uncle's had been a 
 wound to her pride. 
 
 In his wooing and success Darrell had received 
 no assistance from the dead man's request and 
 the letter left for Elizabeth Crauford just the 
 reverse, in fact ; and it was only love that had 
 enabled him to triumph over the distaste or ob- 
 stinacy which the details of that codicil had 
 roused in her mind. 
 
 "As for Launce," pursued Vaughan, "he 
 would never have stood a chance. Mr. Crau- 
 ford had a hopeless prejudice against him 
 would not have allowed him in his house. He 
 had known of the forgery affair ; I tried to set it 
 right to show him how convinced my uncle 
 was of his innocence : no use though." 
 
 "But surely Mis. Vaughan would not be so 
 so unyielding ?" Mr. Carstoe said. 
 
 "Ah, she never knew what made the trouble 
 between Launce and my uncle. She only 
 thought he had been wild and reckless, as he 
 was ; but of course I never told her of that 
 indeed, we just don't talk about him. I like 
 Launce I always shall ; but I have no hope of 
 ever changing her prejudices all the Craufords 
 are the same; otherwise my wife is perfect. I 
 suppose there must be some flaw in every thing 
 human. " 
 
 " I am sure when Mrs. Vaughan meets Grem- 
 lin she can not help liking him," Mr. Carstoe 
 said. 
 
 Darrell shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. 
 
 "I'd be glad to believe it," he answered, "but 
 I can't. At all events, it is better not to talk 
 about him above all of that wretched codicil ; 
 it is the one thing she can not speak or think of 
 with any calmness." 
 
 " Of course I never should mention it," replied 
 Carstoe; "it would be an impertinence on my 
 part." 
 
 "Oh no; we both look on yon as a friend; 
 but it would tease and annoy her." 
 
 " And that I certainly would not do for the 
 world," returned the lawyer, his face beaming 
 with satisfaction to hear himself called the friend 
 of these- two objects of his highest esteem. 
 
 So then Darrell could return composedly to 
 the business affairs. 
 
 A few days after this conversation, Elizabeth 
 went to see the pictures went again and again, 
 for they delighted her. She did become the pos- 
 sessor of one, though it was paid for out of her 
 
 j own means, and she refrained from speaking of 
 Launce to her husband ; she had long since per- 
 ceived that Darrell was always irritated at the 
 mention of the man. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe found her in the gallery one morn- 
 ing when he had taken advantage of a few hours' 
 idleness to have another peep at the productions 
 of his favorite. Remembering Vaughan's cau- 
 tion, he was careful to keep the .conversation 
 upon the grounds it would have assumed had the 
 artist been an unknown or indifferent person to 
 both. So he was somewhat surprised when 
 I Elizabeth said suddenly ^ 
 
 "I forget if you told me that you knew Mr. 
 i Cromlin ?" 
 
 "Yes; I know him well." 
 
 " Indeed ? I had an impression that he usu- 
 ally lived abroad. You have not been in Eu- 
 rope ?" 
 
 "Never. I met Mr. Cromlin in California, the 
 autumn after his uncle's death," Carstoe replied. 
 
 Every thing connected with old Mr. Vaughan 
 was interesting to Elizabeth ; she wondered now 
 that she had asked so little about him of this 
 man, who had been his trusted friend. 
 
 "After? Then he was not with Mr.Vangh- 
 an either at the time of his death ? My husband 
 likewise arrived too late at least his uncle never 
 knew him : it was very sad !" 
 
 "Very sad!" echoed her companion. 
 
 " But I remember now," continued Elizabeth ; 
 "Mr. Cromlin and his uncle were not friends. 
 It is a pity Mr. Vaughan could not have lived to 
 see how he has grown out of his youthful errors 
 for he must have done this : those paintings 
 i tell not only of genius but patient study study 
 that has been the habit of years." 
 
 "Cromlin is one of the most industrious men 
 I ever knew," returned Mr. Carstoe, warmly. 
 Since she chose to talk of Launce, Carstoe's fidel- 
 ity to his friendship obliged him to give the young 
 man the full credit that was his due. "Most 
 artists, they say, are spasmodic and irregular 
 about work. Cromlin is as methodical and pa- 
 tient as if he were as dull a plodder as as I am, 
 say, instead of a genius." 
 
 " Did he go to California to study new scen- 
 ery ?" she asked. 
 
 "Xo; he did remain with that view, but it 
 was not the reason which brought him there." 
 
 " \Vhat, then ?" 
 
 "You have forgotten, I suppose," he answered, 
 feeling a little uncomfortable. "He hoped to 
 find his uncle still alive ; the letter Mr. Vaughan 
 wrote begging to see him did not reach its des- 
 tination for many weeks. Launce sailed for 
 America, hurried on to California, but his uncle 
 had long been dead and buried." 
 
 "He sent for Mr. Cromlin? Then he had 
 ceased to be angry with him?" 
 
 Mr. Carstoe bowed. Elizabeth wished to know 
 i more of this young man. His pictures inspired
 
 100 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 her with such admiration that she wanted to 
 believe, if possible, that he had overcome those 
 vices which, always in a vague fashion, she had 
 heard laid to his charge. 
 
 "I do not know the cause of the difficulty be- 
 tween the uncle and nephew," she said. "My 
 father seemed to think the subject a painful one 
 to my husband, so I have never asked. Have 
 you any objection to telling me ?" 
 
 So after all the husband and wife misunder- 
 stood each other's avoidance of Cromlin's name. 
 It was all owing to Mr. Crauford's prejudices and 
 errors. No task could be more grateful to the 
 old lawyer than that of righting Cromlin in the 
 esteem of any person who misjudged him. It 
 was doubly a pleasure to attempt the work with 
 this woman, whose good opinion he deemed an 
 honor almost matchless. 
 
 It was better that she should know the whole. 
 That very suspicion in regard to the" forgery un- 
 der which he had at one time lain had better be 
 told. Dan-ell had kept the truth from her be- 
 cause he did not comprehend her feelings, but 
 Carstoe was sure that she desired to think well 
 of her husband's cousin. This story and the final 
 discovery of his innocence by the uncle now dead 
 would help more than any thing to enlist her 
 womanly sympathies in Cromlin's favor. 
 
 He told the history in his slow, clear manner 
 Edgar Vaughan's grief at having believed the 
 boy he loved capable of crime then Launce's 
 arrival, his sorrow for his relative, his delight in 
 feeling the old man had discovered his innocence 
 the impenetrable mystery which enveloped the 
 affair Launce's illness all the details of his 
 Californian life. 
 
 Elizabeth listened, while a strange wonder 
 awakened in her mind. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe made, too, certain allusions to the 
 codicil in Mr. Vaughan's will ; they came back 
 to her afterward. 
 
 NoW she was thinking most of another aspect 
 of the affair. Why had Darrell never told her 
 these things, instead of vaguely expressing opin- 
 ions of his cousin which were calculated to im- 
 press any listener with a sense of the man's un- 
 worthiness ? 
 
 Darrell hated Launce Cromlin ; she could not 
 help wondering why. And, too, the dead man 
 had meant to make a new will a more even di- 
 vision of his fortune. Vaughnn knew this ; but 
 here she dreaded to doubt him ; she would ask 
 no questions ; it might be an offer had been 
 made to Cromlin and refused. 
 
 Still the fact remained that during all these 
 years he had allowed her to think ill of his rela- 
 tive; had taken no pains to set her right far 
 from it indeed. Elizabeth hated injustice ; this 
 was a new shock and pain. Well as she knew 
 Darrell, now it was misery to have this fresh 
 if his utter hollowness, the entire sham of 
 i.i.s pretense of generosity and justice. 
 
 "I fear you are not well; you look pale,'' 
 Mr. Carstoe said. "I have tired you with my 
 OJig story." 
 
 "Not in the least," she replied, calling back 
 iier thoughts with an effort. "1 knew very lit- 
 tle of Mr. Cromlin ; I have always misjudged 
 !iim. At least I am a just woman ; I am glad 
 to change my opinion." 
 
 "Then I may tell you honestly that I am de- 
 lighted this conversation has come about," Mr. 
 Carstoe said, making a ball of his unfortunate 
 gloves, which he rolled between his long hands, 
 while the ugly old face lighted pleasantly. "I 
 do so thoroughly honor your husband that I can 
 not bear to have any estrangement between 
 them ! I should not of course have ventured to 
 speak unless you had brought the subject up. I 
 I am sure Mr. Vaughan would like to see his 
 cousin, to invite him to the house. Ah, I am 
 very glad there can be no objection, that you 
 feel differently, that " 
 
 He had been stammering dreadfully all 
 through the sentence ; now he broke down in 
 hopeless embarrassment, afraid that he had pre- 
 sumed too far in his earnestness. 
 
 Vaughan had given him to understand that 
 he feared she, Elizabeth, would desire to keep 
 him aloof from his cousin ; this was evident ; 
 but what could it mean what could have been 
 the motive? Oh, it was useless to search for the 
 reason ; perhaps only a wish to make her appear 
 in a harsh, unpleasant light. It seemed petty to 
 suspect him of such intentions, but he had so 
 often done similar things to prejudice people 
 whom she esteemed that she could not help sup- 
 posing he had been actuated by a like feeling in 
 this matter. 
 
 Her face changed, and her eyes grew at once 
 stern and troubled. She was glad to leave the 
 subject, once more assuring Mr. Carstoe that she 
 had no dislike toward his friend such as he had 
 imputed to her; that even her vague prejudice 
 had vanished under this explanation. 
 
 Then she bade the old man farewell and went 
 away, trying to put from her mind this fresh evi- 
 dence of her husband's untiring efforts to present 
 her in a wrong light to those about them. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A COUSINLY OFFER. 
 
 ONLY a few weeks later, Launce Cromlin re- 
 turned to America. He had begun to reap the 
 reward of his years of patient labor, though the 
 ideal for which he toiled was so far from reached 
 that the praise bestowed upon his work affected 
 him little. It was pleasant, because his broad, 
 generous nature yearned to give and receive sym- 
 pathy, to be in the fullest accord with his kind. 
 It was like scenting the fragrance of sweet flow-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 101 
 
 ers, this appreciation which floated his way 
 nothing more. Only the second night after his 
 'arrival, some lion-loving dame, who had known 
 him in Europe, begged his presence at one of 
 those reunions in whose pleasantness she found 
 the triumphs which gratified such necessity of 
 success as her nature required not a lofty form 
 of the longing perhaps, but since she was capable 
 of nothing beyond, one could only demand that 
 she should do her part well, and that she did. It 
 was late when Launce appeared. Of course, he 
 had first to run a gauntlet rather annoying to 
 any man not spoiled by vanity, but he let his host- 
 ess have her way, and, fortunately, the persecu- 
 tion was soon ended by the arrival of forest kings 
 of larger growth a foreign diplomatist, a noted 
 warrior, and the like and Launce was left free 
 to follow his own devices. 
 
 Presently he heard music ; a violin and harp 
 were discoursing eloquently in a salon beyond, 
 and he passed on through the brilliant rooms till 
 he reached that where the heavenly voices made 
 a welcome silence. How many among those 
 present kept quiet from a sense of decency, how 
 few from a comprehension of the language ut- 
 tered, Lannce was not misanthropist enough to 
 ask himself; had he been, the golden harmony 
 appealed too subtly to his own faculties for him 
 to have found leisure for the question. 
 
 The imprisoned souls in the instruments ceased 
 their melodious cry, and the murmurs of the list- 
 eners rose, rather making one feel as if a crowd 
 of gnats were buzzing their commendation of 
 nightingales, believing, too, that the nightingales 
 had sung for their benefit. Launce found that 
 while listening to the music he had been watch- 
 ing a lady seated at some distance ; and, though 
 he had not known it while absorbed by the duet, 
 he perceived now that all the time he had watched 
 because she struck his fancy as looking like the 
 personification of the harmony which had thrilled 
 his being. 
 
 A woman, young and beautiful a M-oman 
 whose very attire showed that artistic keeping 
 and perfection were a necessity to her in the 
 merest trifles. A dress of one of those marvel- 
 ous new tints for which the eye is as grateful as 
 the ear for a new strain of music. Bands of dark 
 Roman gold, in which were set antique cameos, 
 encircled the white neck and arms, and height- 
 ened the glory of her hair hair that was bronze 
 in the shadows, and took tints like those of a jel- 
 low topaz in the light. 
 
 Another moment and he was far enough down 
 from the height whither he had followed the 
 spirit voices to see more than the perfection of 
 the dress the grace of the attitude, the beauty 
 of the face, into whose fail-ness the music had 
 brought her very soul; he saw that the features 
 were familiar. A second's perplexed wonder, 
 and he knew that he was standing in the pres- 
 ence of the woman whose infcge had for a brief 
 
 season cast so lovely a light of dreams across his 
 later youth. 
 
 At the same instant a hand touched his shoul- 
 der a pleasant voice said in his ear 
 
 "Launce, old boy! How glad I am to wel- 
 come you home at last !" 
 
 As he turned and faced the speaker, Cromlin 
 remembered still another fact in connection with 
 this lady she was his cousin's wife. While 
 Vaughan hurried on with gay, friendly greetings, 
 a quick repulsion shook Launce a half-deter- 
 mination to check this affectionate enthusiasm 
 by chilling words. Once more his gaze wan- 
 dered toward Elizabeth. She was speaking now 
 with some one, but her eyes were fixed on Dar- 
 rell and himself. It seemed to Launce it was 
 an insane fancy, and he knew it but it seemed 
 to him that he saw a strange pleading in the 
 glorious face, as if she comprehended the sudden 
 impulse and entreated forbearance. The whole 
 was only a whirling fancy of a second, then 
 Lannce allowed his hand to be shaken, and the 
 salutations proper between such near relatives 
 were given and returned. 
 
 "I only saw your arrival in this morning's 
 paper," Vaughan continued. "I went at once 
 to your hotel, but you were out; then I met 
 Mrs. Sumner, and she said you were to be here 
 to-night. How nice it is to see you back, and 
 what an amount of work you have been doing 
 lately!" 
 
 Just the slightest possible inflection on the 
 final word, as if to express the contrast such in- 
 dustry offered to Launce's past ; but Launce was 
 rather amused than irritated thereby. 
 
 "One does not like to prove exactly a drone 
 in this busy old hive of a world," he answered, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No, no," returned Darrell, "I always knew 
 you would feel that sooner or later. I had faith 
 in you." 
 
 The words must have been audible to several 
 persons standing near people who were their 
 mutual acquaintances. Launce understood per- 
 fectly the light in which Vaughan meant to 
 make him appear, but he could afford to smile. 
 Besides, no ill-timed evidence of annoyance un- 
 der this affectionate patronage could have helped 
 his case. Indisputable facts and the future must 
 prove the falsity of the impression which Darrell 
 desired to produce, and Launce had schooled 
 himself in that most dignified of virtues pa- 
 tience. 
 
 Vaughan's hand still lingered on his arm ; he 
 was led forward ; they were standing before Eliz- 
 abeth, and her husband said 
 
 "Greet your new relative wild man, not of 
 the woods, but of the studio ! Queenie, here is 
 this wretched boy, Launce Cromlin, at last! 
 Scold him well for not coming to our house when 
 he landed. " 
 
 The words were so gayly spoken, that one
 
 102 
 
 MR. VAUGIIAN'S HEIR. 
 
 needed the most delicate intuitions to seize the 
 covert insolence and condescension lurking be- 
 neath the cousinly familiarity. Both Launce 
 and Elizabeth comprehended it was like a jar 
 in pleasant music though neither face betrayed 
 any consciousness. 
 
 Mrs. Vaughan looked at the new-comer with 
 a gravity which the faint smile about the serious 
 mouth sweetened, but did not brighten. 
 
 Still Launce thought the little she said the 
 most delightful welcome he had ever received. 
 
 It was the voice which made the spell so un- 
 like ordinary voices, that sound as if the world's 
 dust had spoiled their ring. This voice of Eliza- 
 beth's seemed never to have been used to utter 
 petty deceits or miserable trivialities. It was as 
 different from tones familiar with such verbiage 
 as a cathedral organ kept sacred to the expres- 
 sion of music's holiest utterance is different from 
 a shrill piano in a hotel, degraded by the touch 
 of every common passer-by. 
 
 The words were simple enough Elizabeth 
 was never pretentious or affected. She had even 
 outgrown the fault almost universal among full- 
 idead natures that of talking over the heads of 
 chance auditors. Best of all, she could listen. 
 Had nine persons out of ten been capable of an- 
 alyzing their impressions (that rarest gift), they 
 would have discovered that the chief charm of 
 her society lay in this she cculd listen. 
 
 Vaughan stood by the two for a while, talking 
 pleasantly ; then he strolled away into the outer 
 rooms. The harp and violin began another an- 
 gelic dialogue. When the silvery speech ended, 
 the newly introduced relatives it seemed odd to 
 both to remember that they were such con- 
 versed for a while longer. But other people came 
 tip presently to claim Mrs. Vaughan 's attention, 
 and Launce recollected that any further lingering 
 in her neighborhood would be contrary to the 
 small laws of etiquette. 
 
 An hour after he met the husband and wife as 
 they were leaving the drawing-rooms. 
 
 " We must ask Launce to come and see us," 
 Vaughan said, as he caught sight of his cousin. 
 " Nothing so absurd as coolness between rela- 
 tives. Besides, I wish to show him that I ap- 
 prove of the change there is in his life ; it prob- 
 ably won't last long, but it is right to encourage 
 him." 
 
 Elizabeth made no answer ; she was not irri- 
 tated on Mr. Cromlin's account only ashamed 
 for the man who spoke, who had forced upon 
 her a knowledge of the hollowness of such vir- 
 tuous pretense on his part. But Vaughan was 
 thinking of his intended patronage of getting 
 all the glory possible for himself out of his rela- 
 tionship with Launce, under cover of that same 
 condescension, and did not notice her silence. 
 
 " Let me see," he continued. " Suppose you 
 invite him for the day after to-morrow we have 
 some people coming to dinner, you know." 
 
 Of course Elizabeth gave the invitation, and 
 Launce accepted it without really thinking of 
 what such acceptance implied. But he did think 
 of it on his way home, and had 110 mind to be 
 drawn into an apparent intimacy with his cousin, 
 or to become his debtor even for ordinary social 
 kindnesses. 
 
 Before he went to bed he wrote a note to Dar- 
 rell, and told him, not this, but his cold regrets 
 that circumstances (which he did not attempt to 
 explain) compelled him to retract his promise 
 left that intention perfectly evident. 
 
 He sent the billet to Vaughan the next morn- 
 ing, and just after he had done so, Mr. Carstoe 
 came to pa)' him a visit, and to reiterate his sat- 
 isfaction at Launce's success, in a blundering 
 fashion as comical as it was sincere. Then the 
 good man rushed into praise of Vaughan, having 
 it always in his mind that slight prejudices ex- 
 isted between the two cousins, and anxious to 
 make each respect and admire the other as thor- 
 oughly as both in his convictions deserved. 
 
 Launce would not pain him by any expression 
 of doubt in regard to Darrell's worth or good 
 feelings toward himself, and Carstoe receded his 
 silence as a sign of assent to his own exalted 
 opinions. 
 
 In the midst of their conversation some one 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 "Come in," said Cromlin, supposing it to be a 
 servant ; and Vaughan entered. 
 
 "I was in too great a hurry to recollect cere- 
 mony," he said in his pleasantest voice. " Good- 
 morning, Launce. Ah, Carstoe, how do you do ? 
 I am glad to find you here." 
 
 "Good-morning, good-morning!" cried Mr. 
 Carstoe, fluttering and rubbing his hands with 
 delight at this visit, which seemed a proof of his 
 assertions in regard to DarreH's friendship for 
 his cousin. 
 
 Launce spoke some pleasant words of greet- 
 ing, as he might have done to any ordinary ac- 
 quaintance, but Vaughan hardly waited for him 
 to finish. 
 
 "Now, see here, Launce Cromlin," return- 
 ed he, "that's all humbug, and you know it. 
 You're not a bit glad to see me, and I don't 
 want politeness I want the truth ! I came 
 here on purpose to have an explanation and 
 I'm glad to find Carstoe he'll do me justice, if 
 you won't. " 
 
 "Sit down, Darrell," said Launce, cordially 
 enough, but not paying the slightest attention to 
 his cousin's half-injured, half-affectionate out- 
 burst. 
 
 "Well," laughed Vaughan, "if I were a dig- 
 nified fellow, I'd not do it I'd not come near 
 you ; but I can't behave in that way. Now, 
 Launce " his voice grew serious, even pleading 
 "tell me outright, are you angry with me?" 
 
 '* Not in the least," replied Launce. 
 
 "Come," said V;iughan, "that's something,
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 103 
 
 fur you always were a frank fellow, at least, and 
 meant what you said." 
 
 "That applies to both to both," murmured 
 Mr. Carstoe, rubbing his hands harder than ever 
 in delight at this prospect of a thorough under- 
 standing between his friends. 
 
 "Thanks, Carstoe, "returned Vaughan. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to inter- 
 rupt you," said the agent, confused at finding he 
 had uttered his thought aloud. 
 
 "I depend on you to help me set myself 
 right with this wrong-headed man," continued 
 Vaughan. 
 
 Cromlin perfectly comprehended Darrell's 
 drift, and the light in which his cousin meant 
 to make him appear impulsive, boyish, hot- 
 brained, perhaps envious and jealous ; but he 
 felt no inclination to anger rather amused, in 
 fact, at Darrell's craft. 
 
 "Mr. Carstoe has been sounding your praises 
 for the last half-hour," said he, smiling; "but 
 let me tell you, once for all, Vaughan, you don't 
 need any setting right with me. " 
 
 " How he says the words !" cried Darrell, pet- 
 ulantly. "Now don't put a fellow a thousand 
 miles offwith your stateliness ! See here, Launce, 
 I am going into the middle of matters at once. 
 I wish that confounded will had been at the bot- 
 tom of the sea " 
 
 "There need be no question about the will," 
 interrupted Cromlin. 
 
 "Yes, there need and there shall," returned 
 Vaughan. "Launce, you ought to have had 
 more than ten thousand dollars. I wouldn't 
 have said so once, because I should have thought 
 you would only waste it. But if my uncle could 
 have known how you would work, how steady 
 you would become, he'd have left you more." 
 
 "Ah," said Launce, composedly, "so you 
 thought me a spendthrift dissipated. On what 
 did you base your belief?" 
 
 " I don't think I could tell," replied Vaughan, 
 with delightful frankness. " I had an idea you 
 were very wild as a young fellow ; just what 
 my uncle thought." 
 
 "I never had any reason to think my uncle 
 believed ill of me until the time when he cast 
 me off without explanation," Launce said, still 
 retaining his calmness. 
 
 "And I never knew why either till just before 
 his death," Darrell said. "I told you that in 
 Europe. He told me only that he had been dis- 
 appointed ; that he had found you to be utterly 
 worthless and vile." 
 
 " But, thank God ! all that was cleared up in 
 his mind," Mr. Carstoe broke in. 
 
 "Yes, thank God!" echoed Vaughan. 
 
 Launce did not speak. 
 
 "Fortunately," continued Vaughan, " nobody 
 knew of that sad business except Mr. Sandford : 
 lie died just after our uncle learned the truth." 
 
 "It strikes me the truth is not known," ob- 
 
 served Cromlin. "My uncle was satisfied, yet 
 it was only circumstantial evidence on which he 
 based his conviction of my innocence." 
 
 " It's enough to drive one wild !" cried Vaugh- 
 an. "But it is only the mystery that is a worry 
 now. It's of no use to think ; the matter can 
 do you no hurt will never be heard of; you 
 ought to put it out of your mind, Launce." 
 
 " I think I have done so," he replied. " Pray 
 don't fancy that I am making a melodrama of 
 myself weaving a plot meaning to devote my 
 life to finding out who was my enemy, and what 
 induced him to work such villainy." 
 
 " No, no ; I am sure not," said Vaughan. 
 ' ' Better to let it go ! Carstoe and I worried 
 and thought, but it was of no use. Perhaps it 
 was not even an enemy just some fellow who 
 found himself in a corner, and helped himself 
 out of a scrape by using your name." 
 
 "I don't care to talk about it," returned 
 Launce. "It is done and gone. Time may 
 clear the mystery Time does odd things, you 
 know. " 
 
 "Ah!" said Darrell, but did not follow up the 
 vague ejaculation, which might mean any thing 
 or nothing. 
 
 "Let it go," said Mr. Carstoe. "At least 
 that can not stand between you two." 
 
 "Nothing must stand between us," said Vaugh- 
 an. "I suppose Launce thinks I did wrong in 
 never writing to him after we met in Europe. 
 But my uncle was so violent, so set against him 
 excuse me, Launce, I must say it that he 
 prejudiced me too. I admit that." 
 
 "It was natural," sighed Carstoe ; " you know- 
 it was, Cromlin." 
 
 " Once for all, Vaughan," said Launce," there 
 is no need of explanations ; I have no hard feel- 
 ings toward you." 
 
 Vaughan rose impulsively from his chair, and 
 put both hands on his cousin's shoulders. 
 
 "Prove it," he exclaimed, "by taking not 
 only what the will gives you, but a proper share 
 of the fortune my uncle left. I hinted at this 
 in my letter to you ; I was afraid of vexing you 
 by speaking outright, but I must now. Carstoe, 
 tell him it would be right tell him to put by his 
 pride and let me have the pleasure of doing this. 
 Ah, Launce, be a sensible old boy, and do what 
 I want." 
 
 Of course Cromlin felt terribly irritated; he 
 was tempted to push his cousin away and answer 
 roughly. He believed the whole a bit of hypo- 
 critical acting; but, after all, he had little be- 
 yond vague suspicions of Vaughan. The blotted 
 lines he had found in their uncle's note -book 
 were not a proof. Nothing could be gained by 
 giving expression to his doubts. He felt that 
 Darrell was not true how far he had been 
 guilty of actual treachery he could not fathom. 
 If was better to be silent ; he did not want his 
 life marred by contention or hatred. His doubts
 
 104 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 did not make him angry ; he tried to accuse 
 himself of injustice in considering his cousin a 
 hypocrite, but though unable to do this, it was 
 contempt he felt, not indignation. 
 
 Mr.Carstoe was immensely touched by Vaugh- 
 an's generosity. He knew that it would not be 
 accepted ; but it was noble and just, and Crom- 
 lin would give him due credit. 
 
 "Now speak, Launce say you will," added 
 Vaughan. 
 
 Cromlin looked up in his face ; he was sure 
 he caught a sudden gleam of anxiety in Dar- 
 rell's eyes. He could have smiled to think of 
 the confusion he should cause if he were to ac- 
 cept the lofty-sounding proposal. 
 
 " Don't let petty scruples stand between tis," 
 said Vaughan. ' ' What do you care if the world 
 does say I gave the money ? Are we not cousins ? 
 and who need know ?" 
 
 It was a little argument that might appeal to 
 Cromlin's pride in case the warmly urged plea 
 should have made him falter in his determination. 
 "We will have done with this matter too," 
 Launce said. "This question of money must 
 not come up between us again. I have all I 
 want without asking yours." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe heard only the quiet resolution in 
 the voice. Vaughan perceived the undertone of 
 mockery, which made him doubt whether his 
 cousin were fully impressed by his generosity. 
 
 "At least you will take the ten thousand dol- 
 lars," he said. 
 
 ' ' I shall not take a penny ! " exclaimed Launce, 
 sternly. Then he caught firm hold of his wan- 
 ing patience, and continued ' ' Now we are done 
 with all that; let us talk of pleasanter matters." 
 " There is just one other thing it is difficult 
 to speak about," Vaughan began, with a neatly 
 assumed hesitation. 
 
 "The codicil?" said Launce. "Not difficult 
 at all ; but there is no necessity." 
 
 " After all, that was a matter Fate settled in- 
 dependent of every thing and every body," re- 
 turned Darrell, with a triumphant laugh. Then 
 he added, more gravely, " I need hardly tell you 
 that my wife knows nothing of that sad story 
 about the check : you understand. I fancy her 
 father a dreadfully prejudiced old party gave 
 her an idea you were a very naughty fellow ; but 
 with your new line of conduct you'll soon live 
 down every body's prejudices." 
 
 His new line of conduct ! Whether he com- 
 mended or was affectionate, Vaughan managed 
 to be annoying. Launce only bowed and held 
 fast to his temper. Mr. Carstoe was too busy 
 now to notice what either said or did. He felt 
 dreadfully guilty toward Vaughan, though he 
 could not repent having told the wife the whole 
 story, since it had been the means effectually of 
 clearing Cromlin in her eyes. 
 
 "Come," said Vaughan, "I have not wasted 
 
 my time, after all, this morning. That note nothing of her talk." 
 
 does not count, Launce ; we shall see you at din- 
 ner to-morrow ?" 
 
 There was no possibility of refusal now, unless 
 he really meant to quarrel. Launce wished he 
 had left the matter where it was in the beginning 
 at least he might have been spared DarreH's 
 grand proposals and affectionate demonstrations. 
 But he was not by any means done with the lat- 
 ter. Vaughan remained, talking of his friend- 
 ship, his willingness to forget, his desire to have 
 faith in the future, till Launce scarcely knew 
 whether to laugh or turn him out of the room, 
 and at last felt rather confused. He almost 
 wondered if he were unconsciously a Prodigal, 
 whom it was magnanimous on Darrell's part to 
 receive with open arms and loudly expressed for- 
 giveness the sort of forgiveness which holds a 
 full recognition of the culprit's faults, and re- 
 dounds abundantly to the credit of the forgiver. 
 
 Finally Vaughan got round to the subject of 
 his cousin's pictures, and talked agreeably and 
 well. Several portfolios of sketches lay on a 
 table. They began turning them over, and dis- 
 cussing their relative merits as subjects for fin- 
 ished pictures. 
 
 Suddenly Launce felt the table shake under a 
 quick movement Vaughan made. He held a 
 sketch in his hands and was staring intently at 
 it. Launce glanced over his shoulder, and saw 
 that it was a scene in water colors that he at- 
 tempted in California after his illness Milady 
 in her cell. It was one of the most forcible of 
 Launce's studies the expression and life-like- 
 ness of the woman's face were wonderful. 
 
 "Not bad, is it?" said Launce. 
 
 Darrell turned toward him with a murderous 
 scowl : his countenance livid his eyes black 
 with anger yes, with an absolute dread added, 
 Launce felt. 
 
 "Where did you get this ?" he asked, hoarsely. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe had been seated by the hearth 
 examining a book of engravings. He came up 
 now and looked at the sketch. 
 
 "Milady!" he said in a low tone. "Won- 
 derful!" 
 
 Darrell controlled himself by a violent effort. 
 Launce perceived it, and laid the sketch down. 
 
 "You saw the creature, then?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," replied Launce. "I had an idea 
 an insane one that she might be able to throw 
 some light on that secret." 
 
 "Ah!" returned Darrell. 
 
 "I told Mr. Cromlin she could not, "observed 
 Mr. Carstoe, too busy with the drawings to look 
 at the cousins, who were gazing straight into 
 each other's eyes, Launce confused and puzzled 
 
 rather than suspicious, 
 to a crazy scene. " 
 
 "Ah!" Darrell said again, 
 think of her, Launce ?" 
 
 " She seemed to me half mad : I could make 
 
 " She only treated him 
 "What did you
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 103 
 
 "Her visits to Mr. Edgar Vaughan were un- 
 doubtedly an attempt to make a way for a bur- 
 glary," Mr. Carstoe said. 
 
 " No doubt of it," Darrell replied. 
 
 He began to speak of other matters, and pres- 
 ently took his leave, gay and sparkling to the 
 last. 
 
 After Vaughan had gone Mr. Carstoe fell into 
 one of his states of embarrassment. Launce 
 knew that he had something to reveal. It was 
 his way in such cases to flatter and bounce, and 
 behave generally like a fly hitting his head against 
 a window-pane. 
 
 It was only to confess to Launce that he had 
 told Mrs. Vaughan the story of the forged check 
 that is, as much as was known ; old Mr. 
 Vaughan's first anger and his final recognition 
 of his nephew's innocence. 
 
 "I could see she was prejudiced," he said; 
 " it was her father's doing. I couldn't help set- 
 ting it straight. I suppose, considering the cod- 
 icil and all, you know, it was a delicate subject 
 to Vaughan don't you see ?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I see," returned Launce wearily, 
 then tried to rouse himself. " It was very good 
 of you, Carstoe. I am much obliged all the 
 same ; I am not likely to see much of my cousin 
 or his wife." 
 
 " But you feel that he means to be kind ; that 
 he is friendly, as I told you he was ?" demanded 
 Mr. Carstoe, anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, of course of course. Vaughan has 
 about the most charming manners of any man I 
 ever met." 
 
 So Mr. Carstoe was enabled to think that the 
 slight clouds which might have separated the 
 two had been swept aside, and he rejoiced in the 
 knowledge, privately designing to relate the 
 whole interview to Mrs. Vaughan, because he 
 considered it greatly to the credit of both cousins. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 READING THE LETTER. 
 
 So Launce went to the dinner and called twice 
 at the house afterward. He met Vaughan and 
 his wife almost every night at the parties and 
 receptions from which he could find no reason- 
 able excuse for staying away, though Launce 
 was scarcely more of a society man than artists 
 in general. tt 
 
 Elizabeth's life, or rather she herself, reminded 
 him always of a beautiful strain of music which 
 some one insisted on playing in the wrong key, 
 and that not from ignorance, but cruelty. 
 
 They talked a great deal together, always 
 upon general subjects, of course ; but Launce's 
 perceptions went deeper into the reality of her 
 existence than those of the world about. He 
 saw beyond the veil of resolute composure which 
 
 her associates called coldness and haughtiness. 
 To him, in spite of its beauty, her face was the 
 saddest he had ever seen. The eager longing, 
 the great want, the bitter disappointment, the 
 struggle for patience they were all visible to 
 his sight. The subtle sympathies between their 
 natures, which Elizabeth herself did not as yet 
 realize or reflect upon, enabled him to look 
 straight into her soul through the disguises 
 which pride and wisdom alike taught her to 
 bring to her aid. 
 
 So a fortnight went by. There came one 
 evening a note to Launce an invitation to 
 another of Vaughan's dinners. It was a little 
 thing, but somehow the thrill of pleasure with 
 which he held the billet and gazed at the lines 
 Elizabeth's hand had penned roused Cromlin 
 for the first time to a perception of his own 
 state of mind. 
 
 He did not go out that night, though he was 
 due at a house where he would have met Eliza- 
 beth. He stayed resolutely at home, because 
 he was forced now to recognize the reason of 
 the new delight he had of late found in such 
 scenes. The result of his meditations was a re- 
 solve to cut short his stay in town to depart at 
 once. 
 
 Elizabeth's face haunted him, the memory of 
 the old dream had returned, and its golden light 
 rendered her still more beautiful to his sight. 
 So Launce knew that the prudent and only right 
 course would be to go away ; and he was not a 
 man to hesitate for an instant after he perceived 
 the truth. 
 
 At present he could conscientiously assert 
 that it was the recollection of his bewildering 
 vision which caused him unrest ; but if he lin- 
 gered he might later be obliged to admit a more 
 humiliating fact, and feel, too, that the fresh 
 trouble had been brought about by his weakness 
 in having remained in spite of his own convic- 
 tions that he ought to go. 
 
 The time would come must come when he 
 could meet this woman and recollect only that 
 she was his cousin's wife, in no way connecting 
 her with the rudely dispelled dream which dur- 
 ing a few months had lifted his life into fairy- 
 land a dream which, perhaps, must always 
 haunt him with a vague feeling of disappoint- 
 ment, as though he had lost some precious treas- 
 ure, without which existence would lack a cer- 
 tain fullness and perfection. 
 
 But now he must go go without delay. 
 
 He called the next morning at Vaughan's 
 louse to make his farewells. A resolution once 
 "ormed, he did not dally : he was going away on 
 the same evening. He tried first to write a note ; 
 a good many notes were attempted, in fact, but 
 none suited him : either they sounded stiff or 
 ;ontained polite falsehoods ; and he so wanted 
 to see her once more just once. He was pre- 
 jared to be inexorable with his weakness, but it
 
 JOtf 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 was scarcely in human nature to have resisted 
 the pleasure of that last visit. Darrell had gone 
 out, but the servant thought Mrs.Vaughan was 
 at home. "While Launce waited in a reception- 
 room, the notes of a piano rang softly down from 
 the apartment overhead, marvelously sweet, as 
 the voice of that much-abused instrument really 
 is when some rare player succeeds in rousing the 
 soul hidden under the cold white keys. The 
 music ceased. Presently the man came back : 
 Mrs.Vaughan would receive the visitor. When 
 Launce entered the chamber half library, half 
 morning-room where Elizabeth read and work- 
 ed, she was standing near the piano. He could 
 have sworn, when the tones struck his ear, that 
 her hand awakened them. She moved forward 
 to receive him with a light in her eyes which he 
 comprehended had no connection whatever with 
 his arrival. The interrupted melody was still 
 whispering to her. 
 
 " Unless you will be good enough to go on," 
 he said, after the first salutations, " I shall wish 
 I had stayed down -stairs I could hear you 
 there." 
 
 "I had found a book of masses and fugues 
 that I picked up in Germany," she answered. 
 "I will play you something else if you like. I 
 keep these for my own private delectation, be- 
 cause I can seldom persuade any body to be fond 
 of them." 
 
 " I know the collection," he said, turning over 
 the pages. " It is a rare old book ; how for- 
 tunate you are to possess it." 
 
 So she played and he listened ; then they wan- 
 dered into talk suggested by the music. The 
 picture of Launce which Elizabeth had purchased 
 hung near the piano-forte. It gave him a keen 
 feeling of pleasure to see that something of his 
 had found a place in her favorite retreat ; but 
 when she spoke of the painting, he did not at- 
 tempt any small compliment to that effect, such 
 as one would have paid an ordinary woman. 
 
 He knew intuitively that the room was a haunt 
 she loved, and its arrangement her own design. 
 The walls were hung with gray of a somewhat 
 severe tint, which suited Launce's artistic eyes, 
 l>ecause it brought out the pictures so admirably. 
 ( >f these there were not many, but every painting 
 was a gem a couple of veritable Titians among 
 them, and a copy of a Raphael by Giulio Rq- 
 inano, preserving the spirit of the master as only 
 he could do. The purchase of these three works 
 had been Elizabeth's sole girlish extravagance. 
 A gallery in Venice was being denuded of its 
 treasures during one of her visits there, and she 
 i-.i'l not been able to resist these, though the 
 cabinet Madonna alone was almost priceless, for 
 many art-judges declared it an original Raphael, 
 and had fought numerous battles in regard to the 
 matter. 
 
 Hut in spite of the gray hangings, and the size 
 and lightness of the apartment, it looked neither 
 
 sombre nor cold. The carpet was like a bed of 
 leaves that the frosts have turned to a golden 
 brown ; rays of vivid color were scattered here 
 and there ; on the walls, against shields of bright- 
 tinted velvet, were placed rare cinque-cento plates 
 and Etruscan cups. There was antique carved 
 furniture, which had been brought from some 
 ancient palace across seas, covered with pale silk 
 that had flowers and quaint devices woven over 
 it in blue and silver. Rare vases stood upon the 
 tables ; a glorious marble nymph lived in a re- 
 cess at one end of the chamber ; stands of odor- 
 ous blossoms brightened every corner : the whole 
 place looked not only luxurious and picturesque, 
 but home-like and womanly. 
 
 A room that was a poem, Launce thought ; 
 as plain to read as any written expression of its 
 owner's pure tastes and lovely fancies could have 
 been. And the woman herself, sitting there in 
 the midst, with her pearl - colored robe falling 
 about her in statuesque folds, filmy lace and 
 ribbons of bright color lighting it up every at- 
 titude she assumed as graceful as a picture 
 the sad, proud face glorified by the lambent eyes 
 and the dark splendor of her hair hair such as 
 the old masters delighted to paint, which altered 
 in its hues with every movement of her head, 
 just as her eyes changed color with each passing 
 emotion. 
 
 Those eyes! he could not tell if they were 
 brown or blue. Black he would have said 
 when the long lashes partially veiled them for 
 an instant then positively golden in their ra- 
 diance as they shone out full again, luminous 
 with some sudden thought. He did not know 
 that few people ever saw her look as she did 
 while their pleasant conversation took its course. 
 It was so seldom nowadays that she met any 
 one who cared for the subjects upon which she 
 liked to talk ; so seldom she could sufficiently 
 forget the disappointment and emptiness of her 
 life to grow visionary and enthusiastic, as had 
 been so easy in the old time ; but Launce's 
 earnestness and enthusiasm affected her uncon- 
 sciously. 
 
 From music and Launce's *' St. Agnes's Eve" 
 to reminiscences of foreign lands, to the books 
 which treat of art and kindred subjects, and 
 Cromlin ventured to fall foul of sundry great 
 critics, whose dogmatic assertions most people 
 consider themselves bound to accept for gospel. 
 
 "Yon are very bold," Elizabeth said with a 
 smile. " It quite takes n breath away ; though 
 several times, in Paris and London, I have met 
 those men, and felt a rebellious desire to con- 
 tradict the magnificent theories they poured out 
 with a sort of pitying condescension for the weak 
 intellects of their listeners." 
 
 "It seems to me absurd,'' Launce said, after 
 they had pursued the topic a little further, "to 
 talk about gradations in art I mean for one 
 set of art servitors to rank itself above another ;
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 107 
 
 fur instance, that the historical painter should 
 put himself on a grade above the delineator of 
 landscapes, or the sculptor above them both." 
 
 "Now I think I do not catch your meaning," 
 Elizabeth answered. " What is your creed ?" 
 
 "I should style Art a grand soul calling to 
 men out of the infinite ; all forms of art, as we 
 term them, only the voices of that soul where- 
 with she strives to lift men toward the light up 
 to the beautiful and true." 
 
 " Yes,I understand," Elizabeth said. "Music, 
 sculpture, painting, poetry Art's voices calling 
 to men." 
 
 "In certain ways all blend. We say of a 
 statue, it is a poem ; of a poem, it is a picture ; 
 of a picture, it is a dramatic scene ; of a great 
 actor's effort, that it is the picture and poem put 
 into action." 
 
 "Yet the latter critics rank the lowest, be- 
 cause it is so ephemeral in its influence." 
 
 "They might as well say a flood of sunshine 
 is lost, or that the world has forgotten Apelles, 
 because the actual works themselves have per- 
 ished." 
 
 "And you admit of no independent forms of 
 art?" 
 
 "The thing seems to me an impossibility. 
 Art must remain one and indivisible. The ex- 
 pressions or voices of the great soul unite in 
 harmony no voice perfect in itself needing 
 the whole to make the diapason complete. 
 Leave out a single tone music, poetry, acting, 
 what you will it is like an organ with one key 
 silenced." 
 
 "Yet some particular form expression, if 
 you please appeals much more strongly to each 
 man's mind than the others, as a rule." 
 
 "Naturally enough. No human being can 
 take in the glorious whole in its completeness ; 
 that would be to comprehend the spirit which 
 controls the voices ; it would be comprehending 
 Infinity." 
 
 "And so many mistake the voices altogether !" 
 
 ' ' Of course. There are numberless false voices 
 shrieking through the world. Men rush after and 
 believe in them, as men believe in false Christs, 
 too deaf and blind to distinguish between the 
 false and true. There are so many pretenders 
 in literature, sculpture men who think of 
 money only, or who arrogate strength to them- 
 selves, forgetful that they are but the mediums 
 through which Art makes herself audible." 
 
 ' ' I think the promulgation of your theory might 
 bring about a little desirable humility among the 
 servants of the great God," Elizabeth said. 
 
 Launce laughed. 
 
 " I just remember," replied he, " I have been 
 talking as dogmatically as the critics I presumed 
 to assail." 
 
 " There is a vast difference between assertion 
 and the expression of earnest conviction," re- 
 turned Elizabeth. 
 
 "At least it is very civil of you to offer me 
 that loophole of escape," Launce said, laughing 
 still. 
 
 Presently a clock in the adjoining room warned 
 Launce that he was making a visit of unconscion- 
 able length, for he remembered already to have 
 heard it strike the .hour a few minutes before, 
 it seemed to him, time being so entirely a rela- 
 tive term. 
 
 "We shall have the pleasure of seeing you to- 
 morrow night?" Elizabeth said, as he began to 
 express his contrition for the long stay. 
 
 Her words brought back the reason for his call. 
 
 ' ' I had forgotten that I came to bid you 
 good-bye," he answered, and the words sounded 
 very sad in his own ears. "I leave town this 
 evening. I must beg you to accept my excuses, 
 and make my farewell to Vaughan." 
 
 "You do not return this spring?" 
 
 " No ; certainly not this spring." 
 
 "I am sorry," replied Elizabeth, frankly. 
 
 Launce only bowed. His lost dream-world 
 looked perilously fair, the reality cold and gray. 
 He seemed to catch a glimpse of the two,both vis- 
 ible, though separated by more than the breadth 
 of a universe, and this woman standing between, 
 in her glorious loveliness. 
 
 Then he recollected that just at present his 
 business was to speak certain fitting words, and 
 take his departure. It was like going away from 
 the last gleam of radiance wherewith that dream- 
 realm had flooded his soul. 
 
 So there came a brief silence. Eli/.abeth re- 
 membered once, in an out-of-the-way part of 
 Spain, entering a beautiful garden, and spending 
 the whole morning there, while she awaited the 
 conveyance which was to carry them forward on 
 their journey a spot she was not likely ever to 
 visit again. Perhaps for that very reason the 
 lovely haunt had always kept a prominent place 
 in her recollection. 
 
 Whenever she thought of it she could fairly 
 hear the murmur of the fountain as it plashed 
 into its marble basin, the cooing of the doves as 
 they fluttered about it, the humming of the bees 
 among the orange-flowers, the patchas of shadow 
 under a group of cypress-trees could catch the 
 glory of the distant Sierra, and the marvelous 
 white clouds that drifted across the opal sky. 
 
 She thought of the spot now, and mentally 
 compared this hour spent with Cromlin to that 
 day. She was not absolutely regretting the fact 
 that they were not likely to meet soon again or 
 often, yet for this reason the morning was a thing 
 to treasure as she did the memory of the Spanish 
 garden amid whose beauty she should never wan- 
 der any more. Then both became suddenly aware 
 of the silence, and began speaking of ordinary 
 things. As Launce took his hat from the table, 
 some careless movement scattered a pile of photo- 
 graphs which Elizabeth had put there to arrange 
 in an album.
 
 103 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR 
 
 Launce picked up the pictures with a laugh- 
 ing remark upon his own awkwardness ; then he 
 perceived a portrait of his uncle among them. 
 
 "Is it like?" Elizabeth asked, bending her 
 head to see which had attracted his attention, as 
 she noticed his face grow suddenly grave. 
 
 " It was taken not long before his death ; Mr. 
 Carstoe showed me one," Launce said. "I had 
 not seen my uncle for five years. He must have 
 changed a great deal. The face had aged, and 
 it used not to look so careworn so hopeless and 
 despondent." 
 
 He sighed, remembering how great a share 
 the black clouds which had risen between him 
 and his relative had in causing this alteration. 
 Elizabeth comprehended what was in his mind, 
 and said gently 
 
 "But he knew at the last he had this great 
 happiness. You must always remember that." 
 
 "Yes," he replied. 
 
 But he was thinking of the sympathy there 
 was between him and this woman. Few and 
 brief as their meetings had been, it was already 
 a marked and pleasant thing, this ability that 
 each possessed to divine the feelings and fancies 
 of the other. Then he remembered that he had 
 no right to dwell upon this thought. It must 
 be put away along with all the host of bright 
 chances which his last dream had held the 
 treasures never touched, the happiness never to 
 be grasped, the whole round of golden possibilities 
 that lay buried in the irrevocable past, with those 
 saddest of human words engraved upon their 
 tomb, "It might have been !" 
 
 "Every thing connected with his memory is 
 very dear to me," Elizabeth continued, softly. 
 "I like to talk with Mr. Carstoe about him, to 
 make myself feel that I really knew him." 
 
 " You would have loved him dearly, I am cer- 
 tain," Launce replied. 
 
 "I have a letter that he wrote me," pursued 
 Elizabeth. " I suppose you did not know that. 
 Such a beautiful letter! I could not speak of 
 it to any other friend, because it holds a secret 
 which was his ; but I should like you to see it. " 
 
 Again Launce only bowed his head. He was 
 too much surprised more than that too much 
 annoyed, to answer. That she could speak to 
 him of the strange arrangement the dead man 
 had devised whereby his two nephews were to 
 have equal opportunities o( winning her regard 
 to him, the loser showed a lack of tact and 
 delicacy of which an ordinary woman might have 
 been guilty from frivolity, vanity, or coquetry ; 
 but coming from her, the speech gave him a pos- 
 itive shock. 
 
 Elizabeth had opened her writing-desk and 
 taken out the letter. 
 
 " I always keep it here," she said, " it is so lov- 
 ing and sweet. It seems to bring me so near him." 
 
 Still Launce did not speak. She looked up. 
 He had grown pale ; his mouth was set hard unJ 
 
 stern under his drooping mustache. There was 
 not only grief, but an expression of disappoint- 
 ment, of absolute reproof, in his eyes, which start- 
 led her. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said ; " I am afraid 
 I have pained you. I thought you might like 
 to see the last letter he ever wrote. It was 
 thoughtless of me to forget that just for this rea- 
 son it would be " 
 
 She hesitated, and Launce said coldly 
 
 "Not for that reason." 
 
 The color rose in her cheeks; she was hurt 
 rather than angry. Darrell or Mr. Carstoe had 
 told him of the romance of Mr. Vaughan's life 
 which this letter revealed, and he thought it in- 
 delicate for her to speak of the matter. Such 
 judgment above all, the betrayal of it was 
 not only unjust, it was an impertinence. She 
 felt a sudden pang of disappointment in her turn 
 the man's nature was not what she had sup- 
 posed. 
 
 "I see you think I have done wrong," she 
 said, and her voice sounded at once tremulous 
 and proud. " We do not think alike. To me 
 the little romance is very beautiful and sacred. 
 I did not even suppose you knew my husband 
 or Mr. Carstoe has told you " 
 
 She stopped again. She was terribly annoyed ; 
 almost angry enough now to have left him, had 
 he not been a visitor in her own house. 
 
 " I believe we misunderstand each other, Mrs. 
 Vanghan," Launce said, coloring too. 
 
 "Yes we do since you can find any impro- 
 priety in my speaking of the cause which makes 
 your uncle's memory so dear to me," she an- 
 swered. "Under other circumstances he would 
 have been simply my husband's relative a man 
 entirely unknown to me. But the fact that he 
 loved my mother makes me feel " , 
 
 "I did not kriouy' he interrupted quickly. 
 "You are misjudging me, Mrs. Vaughan in- 
 deed you are." 
 
 "Excuse me," she exclaimed, impulsively. 
 ' ' I told you I had a hasty temper I have been 
 positively rude." 
 
 " Xo, no !" he said. 
 
 Iti truth he did not know what to say ; he was 
 utterly bewildered. One thing was certain : she 
 had been thoughtless she had net shown indel- 
 icacy or a want of tact. She was thinking only 
 of the romance which connected her dead mother 
 and his uncle in her mind so full of it that she 
 did not remember the terms of the codicil or the 
 share given to him (Launce) therein. 
 . "Yes, I was rude," she continued, with the 
 rare smile that made her face almost childlike 
 in its sweetness. "I forgot that you do not 
 know me well that your uncle's loss is always 
 a grief and pain to you that to hear an almost 
 entire stranger laying a claim to his affection 
 would naturally give you. a sort of odd, jealous 
 feeling."
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 109 
 
 " But indeed it is all a mistake," he said, ear- 
 nestly. "I know nothing about the romance; 
 tell me, please." 
 
 " You shall read the letter if you like," Eliza- 
 beth replied. She glanced down the pages as she 
 spoke. A new pain, in which her companion 
 had no share, struck her heart. She was won- 
 dering if the dead man could know how yielding 
 to his plan had utterly wrecked her happiness 
 if he could see the weariness, the disappointment 
 of her life. How could he be at rest up in the 
 heavenly light knowing ? Yet if those gone for- 
 ward into the eternal sunshine do not perceive 
 what befalls their loved ones on earth, how can 
 they be near, as we believe they are ? 
 
 Then the trouble died ; Faith brought an an- 
 swer. They might see ; they might sympathize, 
 and yet be at peace; for they behold what we 
 are ignorant of God's plan. They understand 
 how our present tribulation is for the soul's de- 
 velopment, and worketh out an eternal weight of 
 glory. 
 
 The light came back to her eyes a look of 
 inexpressible patience and trust fairly transfig- 
 ured her mournful loveliness. 
 
 Of what was she thinking? where had her 
 soul gone? Launce gazed and wondered, but 
 he could not ask. 
 
 How petty and miserable it had been in him 
 for one instant to hold her capable of an unwor- 
 thy thought or act. He had no part in her past ; 
 she had never seen him before her marriage. It 
 was natural she should forget that the codicil 
 (whose terms were detailed, of course, in the let- 
 ter) could ever in any way have affected him. 
 To attempt explanation was an impossibility; no 
 conversation upon that subject could ever take 
 place between them : she was Darrell's wife 
 DarreH's wife ! 
 
 His head whirled ; the hand he was extending 
 for the letter trembled so that he let it drop upon 
 the table. Elizabeth, still full of her fancy, did 
 not observe him. He wanted to break the silence 
 to talk to get away from the wild thoughts 
 that stung. He meant to ask for the letter ; in 
 his pain and bewilderment he asked instead 
 
 "May I see the codicil?" 
 
 As soon as the word was uttered he realized 
 what he had said, but she betrayed no confusion. 
 She only looked surprised as she answered 
 
 " I never saw the codicil ; the will, you know, 
 was drawn up in California. " 
 
 " I think my head is quite astray this morn- 
 ing," returned he, trying to smile. 
 
 Then he became so utterly confused that he 
 added " I meant the letter. You must wonder 
 whether I am more boor or idiot to have men- 
 tfoned the other." 
 
 She was still more surprised at what she took 
 for embarrassment, and said laughingly 
 
 " Oh, I am not an engaged young lady to be 
 nervous about the matter." 
 
 But it was difficult to speak lightly of that re- 
 quest of the dead man which had brought her 
 such misery. Had she been a happy wife the 
 romance might have formed a pleasant enough 
 story to discuss with her intimates but now ! 
 Before the speech fairly ended, Launce saw her 
 brows contract her face suddenly lose its color. 
 All he could think was that she, for the fiist 
 time, remembered the dead man had meant him 
 also to be considered in that bequest. 
 
 " I had forgotten " 
 
 Then she stopped short after this beginning. 
 She had intended to say she had forgotten to add 
 that the letter gave no mention of the codicil. 
 Of course Launce interpreted the unfinished sen- 
 tence to mean that she had forgotten he had any 
 part therein. 
 
 She did not end the phrase. She wished to 
 leave the subject, for fear it might call forth some 
 complimentary words some expression of pleas- 
 ure that his uncle's wishes had been realized. 
 She did not want to hear such speeches and be 
 obliged to utter falsehoods in answer say things 
 which would imply content and happiness. Her 
 heart was too sore for such deceit : so she paused. 
 
 But it was unfortunate that she stopped, be- 
 cause Launce felt bound to answer what to him 
 her words implied. His confusion was gone 
 he felt cold and tired but he was calm enough. 
 
 " Under other circumstances it would have 
 been a matter I could\iot mention," he said. "I 
 never thought nor did you, I know to speak 
 of it but " 
 
 She did not really hear his words only fancied 
 that after all he was going to utter the compliments 
 the congratulations ; and she said hastily 
 
 "No, no !" Then got her senses back enough 
 to remember that a refusal would be a sort of 
 tacit confession that her marriage had proved a 
 mistake and disappointment. " I shall let you 
 read the letter now." 
 
 He took it from her hand and read the pages, 
 while Elizabeth sat thinking of all that lay be- 
 tween her and those bright Italian days when 
 she had first perused those lines. 
 
 "I loved your mother," Edgar Vaughan wrote. 
 " Your father won the prize I coveted. As I 
 look back over my long, dull life, I find always 
 that love and disappointment standing out the 
 .most important events in my whole past. It has 
 been my dream that your mother's child might 
 become connected with me by ties which should 
 bring you close to my side. If life is spared I 
 shall tell you these things with my own lips. If 
 my pilgrimage is near its end, I desire that at 
 least you should read this confession of my hopes 
 and wishes. I am ill and suffering now per- 
 haps even this letter will not sound clear and 
 coherent. Two weeks ago a great joy came to 
 me only yesterday a new blow struck my heart. 
 I am too old and broken to bear either happiness 
 or pain.
 
 110 
 
 MRVAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "la the trouble and confusion of my thoughts 
 it is a rest to pen this letter. I write with your 
 mother's picture lying beside me with those 
 beautiful eyes smiling at me like a promise of 
 peace that awaits beyond this weary world. They 
 tell me you resemble her. I know much of you, 
 my child, though you may scarcely have heard 
 my name. 
 
 "This is what the foolish old man has dreamed, 
 dear Elizabeth. I hope to see you my nephew's 
 wife I hope when spring comes to be able to 
 seek you with him. But if that last great pleas- 
 ure is denied me, one day he will give this letter 
 to you himself, after he has told you his own sto- 
 ry. For he will love you. That certainly is as 
 strong in my mind as if a voice from heaven had 
 whispered it. Your mother, when she comes to 
 me in my dreams, has never foiled to utter that 
 promise. How good and noble he is you will 
 perceive for yourself. The tale of his youthful 
 struggles his patience his fortitude you will 
 learn from him. 
 
 "It is a conviction in my mind that he will 
 win your affection. I try to believe that I shall 
 live to see you happy together ; but if that may 
 not be, I want this brief record to prove how dear 
 you are to me what the tie is that knits my soul 
 to yours. Perhaps I shall never tell even him 
 the secret of my past, but when I am gone, and 
 this letter is in your hands, you will tell him, 
 and you will both remember that I see and en- 
 joy your happiness. " 
 
 While Launce read, Elizabeth sat occupied 
 with bitter reflections. His blundering mention 
 of the codicil had roused a score of painful mem- 
 ories. Of course, when Darrell and Mr. Crau- 
 ford spoke of it to her, they explained its con- 
 ditions as referring only to Darrell himself. 
 Elizabeth had expressed a wish that after their 
 marriage the two hundred and fifty thousand 
 dollars might be wholly devoted to charitable 
 purposes. Vaughan had promised this had 
 arranged with her the precise uses for which the 
 money should be employed. When they re- 
 turned to America, and she found that he did 
 not resume the subject, she spoke of it. At first 
 he put her off the property was somewhat en- 
 cumbered ; after a while that portion should be 
 used as she desired. But when he began to 
 throw aside his disguises, he openly laughed r ;, 
 her folly in expecting him to carry out a pledge 
 which lie called the romantic nonsense of a 
 thoughtless moment. 
 
 Launce read the letter to the end, growing 
 colder and colder with anger now a stern, 
 hard indignation against Darrell Vaughan. 
 
 His suspicions, that even in this matter Darrell 
 had behaved treacherously, became a certainty 
 now. The entry he had found in his uncle's old 
 note-book took a fresh significance. That entry 
 had been penned on the very day of his paralytic 
 seizure the letter to Elizabeth bore the same 
 
 date. He spoke of a great happiness which had 
 come to him two weeks previous that was the 
 news of Launce's innocence. Only the day be- 
 fore that writing he had received a new blow 
 the entry in the journal proved that the pain was 
 in no way connected with Cromlin. 
 
 A sudden light struck Launce's mind. .The 
 nephew Mr. Vaughan had spoken of in that letter 
 was Cromlin himself! In the will which had 
 never been discovered the will which Mr. Car- 
 stoe believed had not. after all, been made Mr. 
 Vaughan proposed no division of his fortune be- 
 tween his nephews. Mr. Carstoe thought such 
 had been his intention Launce knew that it was 
 not so. Something had decided him to leave 
 Launce sole heir : it was of Launce he wrote to 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Cromlin knew this as well as if the dead man's 
 ghost had come back and uttered the fact. How 
 had Darrell managed? how deep was his guilt ? 
 Useless to question ; in this world there would 
 never be an answer. 
 
 Launce cared nothing for the fortune Darrell 
 should have been welcome to it. But this woman 
 this glorious, peerless woman, this reality of 
 his dream swept out of reach of his life by Dar- 
 rell's falsehood, DarreH's skillfully woven web of 
 deceit and sin ! 
 
 Launce could have cried the whole truth in 
 her ears as she sat there before him in her pale, 
 sorrowful beauty. The devils that tempt us all 
 at times fought fiercely in his soul, bidding him 
 do this. He recognized Elizabeth's unhappiness 
 he knew, without a word of explanation, just 
 what her life was. She had been hurried into 
 this marriage by her father's illness ; by her ten- 
 der feeling toward the dead lover of her mother 
 in that mother's girlhood ; deceived by Darrell's 
 specious eloquence, his charming manners, his 
 noble promises ; and she had lived to know him 
 as he was, as Launce knew him vile, base, de- 
 graded. 
 
 Yes, to tell her the whole truth, that was his 
 impulse. He shut his soul against the insidious 
 whispers he held fust to his reason, and con- 
 quered. He believed in honor he believed in 
 God. He could neither insult this woman by the 
 revelation of his love, which any explanation of 
 the truth must be, nor could he even ask her to 
 sully her soul by pity for his pain his terrible loss. 
 
 He must get away ; he could not trust himself 
 longer in her presence. He must not see her 
 again until time had given him strength to sup- 
 port the burden which this day's knowledge ren- 
 dered so much more difficult to bear. 
 
 He arose he felt that he almost staggered 
 he knew there was a terrible revealing in his face. 
 " I shall say good-bye now,'' he said. 
 
 Elizabeth held out her hand ; he hesitated 
 he dared not touch it. His hesitation made her 
 look up : she saw his face, pale, shaken with 
 trouble and anguish.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 She could not understand, but she could not 
 question him. (Something that letter memo- 
 ries of his uncle what, she knew not, had shaken 
 him to the very soul. His gaze was on her, 
 mournful, despairing as she had seen, in the 
 dismal vigils grown familiar, her lost hopes stare 
 at her with their dying eyes. 
 
 She longed to speak some words of comfort, 
 but in her uncertainty as to what had caused 
 his pain, she feared hurting him still more. 
 
 " Good-bye," she echoed, softly. 
 
 He touched her hand with his cold fingers, 
 and went quickly out of the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 BACK TO THE CODICIL. 
 
 ELIZABETH sat there a full hour after Cromlin 
 left her ; then Mr. Carstoe was shown into the 
 room. 
 
 He had taken advantage of a leisure morning 
 to go searching among all the hot-houses for a 
 Californian plant of which he had spoken to 
 Mrs. Vaughan. He found it at last hidden in 
 the depths of a botanical garden among the fast- 
 nesses of Brooklyn, and brought it away in tri- 
 umph. 
 
 He was amply rewarded for his trouble by 
 Elizabeth's thanks and admiration of the glossy- 
 leafed thing, but his mind was a good deal dis- 
 tracted by a chance meeting with Launce, who 
 had been on the way to visit him and say fare- 
 well. 
 
 " Mr. Cromliu is going out of town," he said, 
 dolefully. 
 
 "Yes," Elizabeth replied ; "he was here to 
 bid us good-bye. His departure is sudden, I 
 think." 
 
 " Very," said Carstoe. " He is going to visit 
 some friends in St. Louis, and means to wander 
 on into the far West for the summer. If I go 
 back to California in the autumn, I shall not see 
 him again.'' 
 
 " He is a great favorite of yours." 
 
 "Yes ; I rank him and your husband side by 
 side. I feel honored by their goodness in liking 
 me," he said, in his stiff, jerky way. "And you 
 like him now, Mrs. Vaughan ; I did not overrate 
 his pleasant ways ?" 
 
 "I like him very much," Elizabeth answered. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe rubbed his gloves into a ball at 
 once a sure sign of satisfaction with him. In- 
 deed, he felt his tongue pressed against the roof 
 of his mouth, and only just saved himself from 
 clucking with delight, like a hen or an indeco- 
 rous school-boy, growing quite red with dismay 
 at the idea of having gone so near such an atroc- 
 ity in Mrs.Vaughan's presence. 
 
 "It has been so pleasant to see him here at 
 the house on friendly terms, "the lawyer con- 
 
 Ill 
 
 tinued. " I'm sorry he is going. It must have 
 been a sudden idea. He said nothing about it 
 when I saw him yesterday, and I thought he 
 looked pale and worried. " 
 
 It had not been her fancy then, and the change 
 had come upon him during their conversation. 
 She feared that she had distressed him by the 
 sight of his uncle's letter. 
 
 " I have had no opportunity to tell you some- 
 thing which happened a few days ago, "continued 
 Carstoe, presently. " I knew your husband would 
 not, because it was so much to his own credit 
 indeed, they both behaved admirably, as one 
 might be sure they would in any matter." 
 
 "Mr. Vaughan has told me nothing," Eliza- 
 beth said. 
 
 " He went to Cromlin, and offered to share 
 their uncle's fortune was earnest and splendid 
 about it wasn't it fine ?" cried Carstoe, enthu- 
 siastically. 
 
 "And Mr. Cromlin?" 
 
 "Oh, he would take nothing ; but he admired 
 his cousin's behavior, and appreciated it. They 
 will be fast friends always now, those two," Mr. 
 Carstoe said. '.' So many men would have be- 
 haved differently. But Cromlin is so frank, so 
 large-minded. The two cousins are a great deal 
 alike, in fact, "he added, with a delightful faith 
 in his own powers of comparison and ability to 
 read character. 
 
 "I believe the will left Mr. Cromlin ten 
 thousand dollars," Elizabeth observed, speaking 
 more to keep the old man from fearing that she 
 lacked interest in the topic than for any other 
 reason. 
 
 "Oh, yes: he'll not take even that though; 
 but I did not mean about the money. In the 
 other matter plenty of men would harbor resent- 
 ment, or try to feel themselves ill used." 
 
 " What other matter ?" 
 
 In his earnestness Mr. Carstoe had touched 
 on a point which he felt himself unjustifiable in 
 alluding to. He grew confused again, and col- 
 ored till his bald head shone. 
 
 " I beg your pardon I do beg your pardon 
 for mentioning it ; and Mr. Vaughan had cau- 
 tioned me he said the codicil was did had 
 always " 
 
 Here he broke down completely, and sat such 
 a picture of embarrassment, done, too, in as 
 violent a purple as ever the most insane pre- 
 Raphaelite employed, that Elizabeth would kave 
 pitied his trouble had she not been too much 
 startled by his words to notice it. 
 
 The codicil again ! The recollection of his 
 allusion in the picture-gallery, disregarded at 
 the time, flashed upon her ; Cromliu's agita- 
 tion annoyance even of the morning, came 
 back too. The codicil! How far was she in 
 the dark ? What possible part or interest could 
 Launce Cromlin have had therein ? Something 
 there was which she did not in the least under-
 
 112 
 
 MR. VATJGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 stand. Mr. Carstoe had said that in Gremlin's 
 position many men would have harbored resent- 
 ment against her husband. 
 
 Dared she question further ? .If the answer 
 were to bring some new proof of Vaughan's 
 duplicity though she could not imagine how 
 this would be possible she should feel guilty at 
 having done any thing to render the fact patent 
 to her mind. 
 
 Her face changed so painfully that Mr. Car- 
 stoe was almost out of his senses from a fear 
 that he had hurt or annoyed her. 
 
 " I wish I'd been born dumb !" he exclaimed, 
 penitently. "Mr.Vaughfln would never forgive 
 me quite right, too, after his caution ! He told 
 me the subject was unpleasant to you, and here 
 I go blundering at it full tilt, like a bull at a red 
 cloth !" 
 
 " I am not annoyed," Elizabeth replied. " I 
 can not explain ; but indeed, Mr. Carstoe, I am 
 not vexed with you." 
 
 There was a secret a secret which Vaughan 
 had cautioned this man to keep from her. She 
 did not wish to hear another word ; it could serve 
 no good purpose. 
 
 " You would be vexed if you were not an an- 
 gel!" cried poor Carstoe, and then shuddered 
 with horror at his own boldness, becoming so 
 utterly bewildered that he stumbled on from 
 bad to worse. "I only wanted to show you 
 how just and honorable Cromlin is. Many men 
 would have hated Vaughan thought he took 
 an unjust advantage tried to think so, at least 
 for of course there would have been no ground 
 to think " 
 
 Another breakdown. Elizabeth was only 
 wondering how she could avoid further revela- 
 tions without strengthening his dread of having 
 offended her. But to Mr. Carstoe her silence 
 was the surest confirmation of his fears, and he 
 stammered 
 
 "Now just when you had learned to like 
 Launce (of course I've no business to call him 
 so), I go bringing these stupid things up ! Such 
 a noble fellow ! Why, when the news of the 
 marriage came, he had only the kindest wishes 
 for you both. Of course, he would have gone 
 to Europe long before that, if his illness had not 
 prevented. He never told me so, but I gathered 
 it from what he let fall." 
 
 Then he stopped ngain, and panted and puffed, 
 nnd Elizabeth's eyes, fastened upon him full of 
 trouble,only dazed him entirely,and on he dashed, 
 |>erfectly incapable of checking his own speech. 
 
 "There seemed a fate in it, did there not? 
 As if no wish of his uncle's in regard to him 
 were to be carried out. The new will not drawn 
 up then Vaughan won the prize for which the 
 codicil meant both nephews to have a chance ; 
 but of course Launce could have none, since 
 Vanghau was lucky enough to gain your re- 
 gard." 
 
 He could only choke and gasp now he was 
 past further words. In his whole life Mr. Car- 
 stoe had never spoken so fast nor blundered so 
 horribly. 
 
 Elizabeth's limbs trembled under her ; a tu- 
 multuous throbbing at her heart sent a dizzying 
 pain to her head. She had seized the full im- 
 port of Mr. Carstoe's broken words. 
 
 Even when he wooed her for his wife, Darrell 
 Vaughan had acted a false, treacherous part. 
 The codicil had been entirely misrepresented to 
 her. Scores of incomprehensible remarks of her 
 father's came back ; she understood them now : 
 they confirmed her dread. Then she felt shocked 
 at her own suspicions. She told herself that she 
 had harbored doubts against her husband until 
 her judgment was positively perverted. She con- 
 demned too harshly ; she was too ready to think 
 evil of him. She must hear more ; a clear ex- 
 planation might show her that she was at least 
 unjust in the present instance. Whatever had 
 been done, it could not be so vile and treacherous 
 as the idea upon which she had fastened. 
 
 "Mr. Carstoe," she said, suddenly. 
 
 He half jumped from his chair, still staring 
 at her open-mouthed, as he had been doing for 
 several seconds. 
 
 "Oh, I do beg your pardon I do!" moaned 
 the wretched man. 
 
 "But there is no need," she replied, able still 
 to keep her voice steady. "Pray don't worry 
 yourself any more. See, I want you to explain 
 that codicil fully to me. It is not only that I 
 wish to show you I am not annoyed, but I would 
 like you to go over all the details." 
 
 Her composure brought him out of his maze, 
 and after a little he grew less vivid in tone (to 
 use an artist's phrase), and was able to speak 
 without tumbling his words over one another. 
 
 " I dare say you remember the codicil," Eliza- 
 beth said. 
 
 "Yes, indeed word for word ; it was so odd, 
 you know, that it made a strong impression on 
 my mind. But of course you saw the copy 1 
 drew up for Mr. Vaughan?" 
 
 " Still, you shall go over it, if you please," was 
 all she said. 
 
 With his legal memory for dry facts, stimu- 
 lated by the romantic interest which the case 
 had always possessed for him, Mr. Carstoe was 
 not likely to be at fault in recalling the codicil. 
 He gave the exact terms as if he had been read- 
 ing them aloud. 
 
 Elizabeth listened to the end, then knew that 
 in her effort to soften her judgment of her hus- 
 band she had put the possibility of doubt beyond 
 her power. She was not past the capability of 
 suffering where he was concerned : she suffered 
 now, as only a pure, upright nature could have 
 done. 
 
 She could not wish that she had remained in 
 ignorance of the truth as to this or other matters.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 113 
 
 Better to see ber idols crushed into the dust than 
 bow before false deities. To her mind, devo- 
 tion to a false god must be enervating and per- 
 nicious, insensibly leading the soul from the 
 right path. How much her stern judgment 
 might have been softened had her heart cried 
 out in defense of the poor clay image from which 
 the shining gauds that wrapped its deformity 
 had one by one been torn, I can not tell. But 
 when she married, Elizabeth's feeling for her 
 husband had been hero-worship. The first per- 
 ception of the difference between the real man 
 and her ideal came too soon for her whole heart 
 to have joined imagination and enthusiasm in 
 that cult. 
 
 She suffered keenly enough, but she was not 
 broken-hearted. Her pride was lacerated, her 
 faith stricken, her sense of womanly purity out- 
 raged ; but the ache was over the disappointment, 
 the loneliness, the desolation, for she craved love 
 and sympathy ; it was not the death-like agony 
 of a heart which bursts under its burden. Sud- 
 denly a new thought started up in her mind : the 
 recollection of the words she had this morning 
 spoken to Launce Cromlin. He must believe 
 that she had known the contents of the codicil. 
 What could he have thought of her mentioning 
 it ? She understood now his annoyance and 
 surprise : he had believed her vain, coquettish, 
 unwomanly. She felt her face burn with shame 
 and mortification ; but a deeper pang followed, 
 for presently she recollected the after-conver- 
 sation the change in his manner. He had 
 comprehended that she only knew what the let- 
 ter expressed, that the real significance of the 
 codicil had never been explained. This was al- 
 most worse to bear than to have had him deem 
 her silly or unfeminine ; for now Darrell Vaugh- 
 an's baseness was not a secret confined to her- 
 self Cromlin had divined it. 
 
 But she heard Mr. Carstoe speaking, and hur- 
 ried back from her painful reverie. 
 
 " Thanks for your patience," she said. " You 
 are right, Mr. Carstoe ; your friend is a very 
 generous man. " 
 
 "Then I haven't vexed you and made mis- 
 chief after all ?" he cried, ecstatically. "I am 
 so glad you like him appreciate him as he de- 
 serves. I was sure you would. " 
 
 This cool, practical man of business the most 
 commonplace and trusty of mortals in that re- 
 spect was, I have told yon, an old romance- 
 weaver in his way. He would have kept a pro- 
 fessional secret even in regard to an enemy with 
 unfaltering caution ; but he could not resist the 
 impulse to share with Elizabeth a little secret 
 of another kind. He wanted by every means to 
 soften her heart toward Launce ; besides, he was 
 so carried on by the romance of the thing that 
 he could not repress a betrayal which could harm 
 no one, of which Cromlin would never be made 
 aware. 
 
 II 
 
 He winked and blinked so portentously that 
 Elizabeth perceived he had something else on 
 his mind ; but it was something agreeable, she 
 could see by his face. 
 
 " You look as if you had something pleasant 
 you would like to tell me," she said. 
 
 " Yes I would ; only it is a bit of a secret." 
 
 "But you know we women are said to like 
 secrets," she answered, cheerfully. 
 . " In a way it is," he continued ; "nobody told 
 me it was -only by putting two and two together 
 that I made it out." 
 
 ' ' Yes," she answered, not interested, but wish- 
 ing to be good-natured and set him thoroughly 
 at ease after his recent embarrassment. 
 
 " You see only think Cromlin had seen you 
 before your marriage, Mrs.Vaughan!" said Car- 
 stoe, eagerly. 
 
 "Seen me?" she repeated, in surprise. 
 
 "Yes; in Switzerland at Montreux the 
 very day he got the letter recalling him to 
 America," returned Carstoe, delighted with his 
 idyl. "You had fainted ; he carried you up a 
 hill. You must remember there was a young 
 lady with you." 
 
 He waited for her to answer. 
 
 "I remember," she said, rather coldly. "I 
 did not know it was he. " 
 
 " No, of course not; that made it so romantic," 
 and Mr. Carstoe fairly beamed. "He had to 
 hurry off to catch the train. Well, poor fellow, 
 after all his haste he was weeks and weeks too 
 late. Just fancy ; in New York he saw Vaugh- 
 an pass in a carriage, but could not make him 
 hear and Vaughan was driving down to the 
 steamer." 
 
 She wished he would stop ; she could not have 
 told why the whole story pained her, but it did. 
 
 " I told you how ill he was," pursued Carstoe, 
 in his voice of pleased mystery. "During his 
 fever he used to talk in a wandering way about 
 that meeting. He remembered the codicil too ; 
 and I know he had dreamed as young men will 
 it was natural." 
 
 He waited for an assent, but none was audible. 
 
 " When he was better, I showed him a picture 
 of your mother I had found among his uncle's 
 papers wonderful resemblance to you and 
 and he kept it. Then, just as he was getting 
 able to travel meaning to go over to Europe. 
 you can guess what for came the news." 
 
 Carstoe paused to shake his head and sigh. 
 "Poor fellow; I carried him the paper myself 
 I had no idea what was in it. So then he 
 changed his mind very suddenly, and stayed a 
 long while in California. How hard he did work ! 
 And that's all," concluded Carstoe, drawing a 
 long breath. "Quite a little romance, was it 
 not?" 
 
 Elizabeth had no opportunity to reply. The 
 door opened, and Vaughan entered. 
 
 "Ah,Carstoe," he said," just the man I want-
 
 114 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 ed to meet ! Qucenie, dear, I have scarcely seen 
 you to-day ! You look rather pale ; you stop in 
 the house too much." 
 
 He walked up to her chair, stooped, laid one 
 hand caressingly on her shoulder, and kissed her 
 forehead. She neither shrunk nor spoke, but a 
 chill that was like the coldness of death smote 
 her very soul : the touch of his lips seemed an 
 absolute pollution just then. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe sat silently watching the two, and 
 again a vague suspicion crossed his mind to see 
 Elizabeth so quiet and unmoved under her hand- 
 some husband's evidences of affection. But 
 Vaughan did not appear to notice any thing pe- 
 culiar in her manner. 
 
 "Poor Kibston died suddenly this morning of 
 apoplexy," he said. "I shall have to go into 
 harness sooner than I expected. " 
 
 Eibston was the member of Congress whom 
 Vaughan would have succeeded the next winter 
 in the natural course of events ; but now he 
 would be obliged to go on to Washington for 
 the remainder of the spring session, which might 
 "drag its slow length along" for several months 
 to come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A LAST APPEAL. 
 
 IN this age of railways and telegraphs, elope- 
 ments of any sort are rather prosaic matters, 
 and so Nathalie La Tour discovered when she 
 began to carry into execution her plan for es- 
 caping what she considered her husband's in- 
 supportable tyranny. But at least there was the 
 secrecy and excitement to give a glow of ro- 
 mance, and Susanne proved an invaluable coad- 
 jutor, enjoying the idea of the flight as much as 
 if she had been a youthful heroine going off to 
 join her Romeo. 
 
 The first thing was to gain time, so Nathalie 
 took to her bed, because as Susanne in her wis- 
 dom observed 
 
 "Arguments with men are just breath wasted ; 
 they can carry one off whether one scolds or 
 cries ; but they can't take one, pillow, night- 
 gown, and all, and that is where we have them, 
 the saints be praised." 
 
 Nathalie offered no further opposition to her 
 husband's will. She was sullen and taciturn, 
 acting so well her r6le of injured wife that a 
 more acute person than Monsieur La Tour would 
 have been deceived. The journey to Languedoc 
 was deferred for a week. Suffering as he was 
 in body and mind, the old man pitied Nathalie 
 .sincerely, and strove by gentleness and consid- 
 eration to soften somewhat the verdict he had 
 pronounced. He shut himself up in the house; 
 he could not bear to meet his neighbors' eyes 
 to feel that they were commiserating him; worse 
 
 still, were condemning Nathalie. He was stung 
 to the soul by this disgrace which had struck 
 the life he had kept always upright and pure ; 
 but, terrible as this was, he thought more of 
 Nathalie and her future than of any thing else. 
 The man's ideas ran in a narrow channel, re- 
 stricted by the prejudices of long years ; but he 
 thought vigorously enough, and his perception 
 of justice and right was more independent of his 
 prejudices than is that of many men who pride 
 themselves on their broad views and theories in 
 regard to social freedom. 
 
 He trusted that time and proper influences 
 might work a great change in Nathalie teach 
 her the falsity and wickedness of the doctrines 
 she had espoused. His ideas of the ways by 
 which this teaching was to be effected were ut- 
 terly erroneous, but he walked by such light as 
 he had. His sister was a woman upright and 
 gentle, whose whole life was a psalm of good- 
 ness. He really believed that her example must 
 have its effect on Nathalie, quite forgetting that to 
 his wife's mind psalms had no meaning. Then 
 he had great faith in the advice of a certain Cure 
 who resided near his sister ; the books which had 
 helped to disorganize Nathalie's judgment were 
 to be kept out of reach, a course of reasonable 
 literature substituted in their stead. 
 
 For himself, nothing could be done. Nathalie 
 did not love him. He could no longer court 
 deception here. For months trust in her affec- 
 tion had been slowly dying out of his heart as 
 the sun fades from a landscape, leaving it each 
 hour colder and more dreary ; now the last ray 
 was gone. 
 
 While he meditated over the means by which 
 Nathalie might best be aided, and prayed for 
 strength to bear the burden that seemed heavier 
 than his age-weakened shoulders could support, 
 the wife was arranging her flight. She had a 
 considerable sum of money by her ; the little in- 
 come she inherited from her mother was received 
 from funds in England her husband could not 
 touch that ; and her books had brought in 
 enough ; so that her fancy built glowing hopes 
 for the future. 
 
 She wrote to a friend in Paris a Uterary wom- 
 an, whose acquaintance she had made during the 
 memorable spring spent in the.enchanted city 
 one of the band of modem philosophers whose 
 practice went beyond Nathalie's most daring 
 theories. Even in her first excitement it was 
 hard for Nathalie to give up Paris, and there 
 would have been her rightful sphere ; life any 
 where out of its charmed influences must be dull 
 in comparison. But there could be no safety 
 for her in France ; expatriation was the price 
 she must pay for liberty. 
 
 Her letter received a speedy answer ; Susanne 
 managed its reception with the art of a soubrette 
 in an old comedy. The philosopheress was ready 
 to assist her young friend by every means in her
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 115 
 
 power. She had at once seen a publisher in re- 
 gard to Nathalie's new book. Best of all, she 
 and a party of friends were just setting off to 
 spend the autumn and winter in Italy. Nathalie 
 must join them ; break the* yoke under which 
 her soul had so long groaned ; seek freedom 
 and companionship of natures able to compre- 
 hend her exalted needs natures eager for the 
 regeneration of mankind and the glorious light 
 of liberty, undimmed by the blight of old preju- 
 dices and worn-out religious creeds. 
 
 These glowingly expressed theories were all 
 reul and beautiful to Nathalie a gospel to which 
 she clung as tenaciously as a blind man to some 
 vain support which he has convinced himself is 
 his one refuge. She would defer her journey to 
 America for a time. In Italy she should have 
 leisure to translate her novel into English, and 
 make arrangements for its publication in London 
 and New York. Her name would go far and 
 wide ; she should have the world at her feet. 
 
 But Susanne had no intention of leaving her 
 own or her mistress's wardrobe behind, and she 
 contrived, by the assistance of a friend in the vil- 
 lage, to get the principal part out of the house, 
 and sent on the road to Italy,. 
 
 Monsieur La Tour was so completely exhaust- 
 ed that for a few days he could only lie on his 
 bed in a darkened room, wondering what error 
 in his life had rendered necessary the terrible 
 punishment which now befell him. In the case 
 of another, he could have believed it only a trial 
 sent for the further purification of the soul, but 
 he was too humble to accept so hopeful a view in 
 his own case. 
 
 One morning he awoke to know that a fresh 
 blow had fallen Nathalie was gone. 
 
 At Genoa she found her friends awaiting her, 
 and together they journeyed down to Naples. 
 Nathalie's book was published under her own 
 name ; the translation she made would appear 
 in England and America in the spring. She 
 fancied herself on the road to fame and fortune, 
 and for a short time believed that happiness was 
 at last reached. 
 
 But that winter was not all sunshine. The 
 female philosopher and her band were disap- 
 pointed in Nathalie ; she was good at theory, 
 but beyond this she did not go. The women 
 grew venomous because she took no lover, the 
 men spiteful. Still there was the eclat of enroll- 
 ing this young, lovely, and, in certain ways, gift- 
 ed creature among their band, and the consola- 
 tion of having other people believe that her daily 
 life was in keeping with the laxity of mbrals in 
 her books. 
 
 On the whole, Nathalie was glad when spring 
 took the entire set back to France. She had 
 fears of being made a prisoner if she set foot on 
 Gallic soil, so the only course was to reach Os- 
 tend by Switzerland and Germany. The journey 
 was a hard one, and Susanne very troublesome 
 
 whenever she became fatigued. Nathalie began 
 to think that even the exalted career of a new- 
 light teacher was not free from small cares and. 
 vexations, and it had been just the trifles in her 
 former life which had seemed so unendurable. 
 
 London appeared a howling wilderness to her 
 eyes, and she hated it with a feverish energy, 
 which only French blood can feel in its full ex- 
 tent toward the damp shores of Albion. A few 
 hangers-on of newspapers came about her, a few 
 theatrical people ; but there was nothing brilliant 
 no ovation : not even women to envy her the 
 admiration of the stiff Englishmen she detested. 
 Nathalie felt existence to be as bitter as ever she 
 had done in the dreary house in the French pro- 
 vincial town. 
 
 She began to yearn for America. Since Paris 
 was a heaven closed to her, New York looked 
 the next brightest spot, and she waited impa- 
 tiently for certain money matters to be arranged 
 so that she might sail. 
 
 It was late in June before any fresh excite- 
 ment came to her, and as Nathalie only count- 
 ed life by sensations, the time seemed very long. 
 But one morning a packet of newspapers was 
 brought in. They were several numbers of a 
 semi-monthly journal that had been started in 
 New York, called the Bohemian, avowedly the 
 representative of a little set in that city who be- 
 lieved in their own importance, and had not the 
 slightest doubt they were destined to revolution- 
 ize the world. Nathalie found long reviews cf 
 her books numerous personal notices descrip- 
 tions of her beauty bits of romantic incident 
 supposed to have been actual experiences in her 
 girlhood a poem or so which chanted her praises 
 and eager assertions that America was the field 
 for her genius. 
 
 She laid down the papers actually convinced 
 that it was the voice of the whole vast continent 
 which she had heard. At last fame had come ! 
 Yes, there was her field of operations her Ely- 
 sium ! She was a recognized priestess at length, 
 and innumerable worshipers were eagerly calling 
 her to appear and occupy the shrine they had 
 erected in her honor. There were letters too 
 letters from men and women who belonged to the 
 newly established coterie of Bohemians. There 
 were epistles from youths in poetry and madder 
 prose, declaring the ardent love with which she 
 had inspired them. Their souls called her soul 
 across the vasty deep, and so on ; the plain En- 
 glish for which would have been that, as the 
 worshipers possessed no money for the voyage, 
 she must float withirt their reach if she desired 
 to test their devotion. 
 
 In addition to these eloquent communications, 
 she received a letter from the leading proprietor 
 of the Bohemian. He proposed that she should 
 come to America, buy a share in the newspaper, 
 and assist in conducting it. Between her books 
 and her editorial influence she would be able to
 
 116 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 accomplish the grandest work that the age could 
 offer any woman. 
 
 The newspaper itself reiterated this last asser- 
 tion, declaring that she was the true apostle for 
 whom the world had been waiting her genius 
 the immaterial divinity for which true souls had 
 sighed so long ! 
 
 In truth, he was a sufficiently shrewd man this 
 chief owner of the lever that was to move the 
 universe. The journal could not live longer 
 without assistance, and Nathalie's moneyed suc- 
 cess had been as much overrated as such suc- 
 cesses usually are. This philosopher, with a 
 practical vein under his theories, and a keen eye 
 to interest beneath his floating locks and dreamy 
 brow, saw clearly all the advantages of electing 
 this handsome woman (who could come with a 
 well-filled purse in her pretty fingers) the anoint- 
 ed Queen of the Bohemians. That was the title 
 the newspaper offered her : it sounded very sweet 
 in Nathalie's ears as she repeated it over and 
 over. 
 
 She must answer the letters at once! Her 
 brain was so dizzy and her hand so tremulous 
 that she could scarcely write. This was the hap- 
 piest hour of her life she had found her throne 
 and crown ! 
 
 The first thing was to secure the newspaper. 
 The long-headed philosopher had spoken of the 
 necessity for a speedy acceptance if she decided 
 to join in the great work. There was an Amer- 
 ican woman, with talent, money, and influence, 
 eager to be chosen as sovereign, and she had a 
 clique to support her claims. But to him, the 
 long-haired philosopher, and to all the furthest- 
 sighted of the band, there could be no doubt 
 they wanted Nathalie. Still (here he showed 
 talent which his printed writing&.seldom exhib- 
 ited) a certain portion of the^pntract money 
 must be forthcoming without 4^ay, in order to 
 crush the hopes of the New York literary lady 
 and her faction. He explained clearly how the 
 affair could be arranged through a publishing 
 house in London. 
 
 But eager as she was, Nathalie's usual lack of 
 continuity of thought caused a new idea to strike 
 her in the midst of her reply. She must write 
 to the poetess who had honored her with an epis- 
 tle. What she considered an apt quotation from 
 Mrs. Browning suggested itself, so she preluded 
 her rhodomontade with 
 
 "How dreary 'tis for women to sit still 
 On winter nights by solitary fires', 
 And hear the nations praising them afar." 
 
 Then she paused to read tfce newspaper tributes 
 Hgain, wishing for an auditor to share her tri- 
 umph. Susanne would be better than nobody ! 
 At least Susanne would express unqualified de- 
 light, even if she did show it by standing on one 
 foot and uttering incoherent phrases. 
 
 But when she rang she found that Susanne 
 had gone out ; the lodging-house sen-ant said a 
 
 gentleman had just called. Nathalie supposed 
 it must be some literary acquaintance perhaps 
 a person connected with the press, who could get 
 mention into London journals of this success 
 which her genius had achieved. Indeed, it might 
 ba a friend who had already heard of her tri- 
 umph, and had come to offer congratulations. 
 She bade the woman show the guest up at once. 
 
 The door opened again ; Nathalie looked down 
 the dimness of the dull, gray room and saw her 
 husband standing there, like a ghost among the 
 shadows. 
 
 She uttered a cry of fear. Her first impulse 
 was to flee. He had found her ; she might be 
 dragged back to the purgatory of her old exist- 
 ence just in this crowning moment of success. 
 
 "Nathalie," he called, in a slow, tremulous 
 voice ; " do not be frightened, Nathalie." 
 
 "I'll not go back !" she cried. "I'll kill my- 
 self first ! Never, never ; don't come near me ; 
 don't try to touch me !" 
 
 He had advanced half- way up the room, but 
 he stopped at the sound of the wild words and 
 the sight of her frightened face. 
 
 "I have no power over you," he said ; " think 
 a moment, and you will remember that. " 
 
 She sat down in a chair, trembling still from 
 the effects of her terror, but able to recollect that 
 out of France he had no authority whatever. 
 Then a sudden anger took the place of her fright ; 
 but as she turned toward him with insolent words 
 on her lips, they died unuttered. 
 
 Somehow, to look into his face was like looking 
 into the possibility of a life which made her hopes 
 and dreams show shrunken and deformed. The 
 idea was too vague for her to seize it indeed, 
 her vanity and her warped mind would have 
 rendered this impossible ; but the thrill shook 
 her only long enough to check that cruel speech 
 then was gone. 
 
 He stood there with his head a little bowed, 
 his eyes fixed upon her. Oh, the piteous hope- 
 lessness of that glance ! Every thing in his at- 
 titude and appearance aided the inner voice 
 which had tried to make itself audible to her 
 blinded soul the vision which had sought to 
 lighten the darkness where she groped ; but she 
 was deaf and blind alike to all. 
 
 "I don't know what you want ; I can't see 
 why you should come !" she exclaimed, fret- 
 fully. 
 
 Had she ever contemplated this meeting, she 
 would have fancied herself equal to the emer- 
 gency ; proud, haughty, like a priestess con- 
 fronting a heretic who had come to attack her 
 altar. But she was taken by surprise, and could 
 only wail out a peevish remonstrance. 
 
 "I think you shoidd know, Nathalie," he an- 
 swered gently. " Whenever I could learn where 
 you were I have written." 
 
 "I never read one of your letters," she broke 
 in ; and again was conscious that she had not
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 117 
 
 assumed the tone fitting her dignity as the ac- 
 knowledged apostle of a new faith, and paused. 
 
 " I wish you had done so," he continued. "I 
 nm not eloquent, but you might have seen my 
 heart, perhaps, and felt that at least I wanted to 
 help you." 
 
 "Help me you !" she cried, scornfully. 
 
 She saw him tremble a little. 
 
 "May I sit down?" he asked. "I am get- 
 ting old, you know, and the long journey has 
 tired me." 
 
 She ran and placed a chair for him ; she could 
 feel sorry to see how pale and worn he looked, 
 though her pity roused no pang of remorse. Her 
 intense egotism precluded the possibility - of her 
 seeing that she had erred. All faults were on 
 his side. She was a victim, not so much from 
 his deliberate causing as from the tyranny of 
 ancient creeds and laws but she was a victim. 
 
 "I wish you had not come; it would have 
 been so much better not!" she heard herself 
 saying in the same fretful tone, wondering at 
 the same time why she felt childish and weak, 
 and could get at none of the grand phrases with 
 which she would have expected to overwhelm 
 him. 
 
 As he seated himself, he took her hand gen- 
 tly, but so firmly that she could not release it, 
 and, looking in her face again with his sorrow- 
 ful eyes, said " Nathalie, do you ever pray?" 
 
 Straightway there rose before her the mem- 
 ory of her mother's last hours, that awful death- 
 bed, the dying woman's agony of supplication 
 and fear, her calls upon Virgin and saints and 
 Nathalie shuddered. 
 
 He let her hand go ; she got to a seat near, 
 and sank into it. She turned her gaze from his 
 face it was an effort to do so and fixed it on 
 the letters and newspapers. Her courage came 
 back ; her spirit rose indignantly at this tempo- 
 rary assertion of power by the old superstitions 
 and mummeries in which she had no faith. 
 
 " To live for the beautiful and true is prayer," 
 she cried ; "to keep the soul free from supersti- 
 tions ; to reach forward to the ideal, to the liv- 
 ing centre of magnetic influence. But you can 
 not understand ; why do I speak ?" 
 
 " Let us, then, talk of things in which we can 
 understand one another," he answered.. 
 
 Nathalie shrugged her shoulders. She wanted 
 to make a comparison about some dull, slow, 
 creeping thing presuming to imagine it could 
 comprehend a bird soaring and singing above its 
 head, but she was still sufficiently softened by 
 the wave of emotion which had touched her to 
 refrain. 
 
 "I made the journey on purpose to see you, 
 Nathalie," he continued. " I should have gone 
 to you in Italy when I heard you were there, 
 but I was very I was not just fit to travel." 
 
 She knew that he had been prevented by severe 
 illness ; but somehow to feel this irritated her, 
 
 as did his checking himself in the mention of it 
 through consideration for her. 
 
 " I wish you had left every thing as it was," 
 she said. " I can not think why you came ! I 
 shall never go back ; you ought to have known 
 that. Go back ? As well ask a skylark not to 
 fly when it has learned to use its wings. There, 
 it is all said now ; do not let us talk of it ! I 
 have no wish to say harsh things, but I will not 
 be reproached or lectured ; I am free." 
 
 She felt herself very magnanimous to speak 
 with such mildness. 
 
 "Will you let me tell you why I came ex- 
 actly what thoughts were in my mind ?" he ask- 
 ed, gently. 
 
 "Oh, tell me, then, "she replied, with a sort 
 of fretful resignation. 
 
 " All those weeks when I was prevented seek- 
 ing you I had time to think," he continued in 
 the same subdued, patient tone. " You are very 
 young, Nathalie. Many things will look so dif- 
 ferent to you when you reach my age." 
 
 Nathalie shivered, only at the idea of growing 
 old. The thought of age was hateful to her. 
 It was dreadful to look at him and remember 
 that some time she must be thus bowed, 
 wrinkled, gray-haired. She called it cruelty on 
 his part to force such reflections upon her mind. 
 "The idea of coming all the way from France to 
 talk of that !" she said, angrily. 
 
 " Only because it has to do with what I want 
 to say. Don't be impatient, Nathalie ! I am. 
 slow ; I do not explain myself well. Let me 
 try to tell what I mean in a few words." 
 
 He was about to make the offer against which 
 his priest had warned him as dangerous for his 
 own soul what the Cure called condoning sin 
 and crime ; the offer which his sister had im- 
 plored him to relinquish, because if he succeeded 
 in the errand he Vould only bring new and hard- 
 er suffering upon the last years of his earthly life. 
 But plain and commonplace as he was, narrowed 
 as his mind had become from living in the little 
 round which education and example had taught 
 him to consider the only safe one, Monsieur La 
 Tour could rise above these restraints, because 
 his love for Nathalie was strong enough to thrust 
 self aside. He paused, not because the oppor- 
 tunity to plead his wishes brought up any selfish 
 consideration, only to try for words which should 
 be most likely to influence her. 
 
 "Well?" cried Nathalie, sharply. She had 
 glanced back at the newspapers and letters. 
 She longed to return to her pleasant task. It 
 was too bad to have her time wasted ; to be 
 dragged down to earth by such antiquated talk 
 when she was eager to soar off into the realms 
 of transcendentalism and latter-day philosophy. 
 
 "If you would be content to stay with me 
 to let me be like a father to you. Listen, Natha- 
 lie " for she had made an impatient movement 
 to rise "I do not mean you to go back to the
 
 113 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 old home we would live where you chose. I 
 would only ask you to wait awhile to study 
 to think before you publish any more books to 
 examine well the doctrines which seem so beau- 
 tiful and broad to you before you help further 
 to promulgate them " 
 
 ''Stop now ?" she broke in. " Why, do you 
 know what position I have already won for my- 
 selfmy books translated my name famous ? 
 Read these!" 
 
 She ran to the table, seized the newspapers, 
 and brought them to him. 
 
 "I don't need to look at them," he said. 
 " Oh, child, child, can you not understand ! 
 This is not fame." 
 
 She smiled at him with a grand compassion ; 
 she could not even be angry. He was utterly 
 blind, earthly, soulless. Outside the crime of 
 having married her, he was a good enough plain 
 creature. She had shaken off her bonds she 
 was free! She could afford to look leniently 
 down on him from the height to which she had 
 risen. 
 
 "Yon ask impossibilities, "she said. "I could 
 not wait if I would ! Destiny has pushed me 
 on my work lies before me I must do it." 
 
 "God have mercy on your soul!" he mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "Bigot!" retorted she, and went back to 
 place her precious papers upon the table. She 
 stood restingonehanduponit, andglanced toward 
 him. Nathalie could undergo numerous emotions 
 and changes in an instant. She felt sorry for 
 him, because he must be deprived of her society 
 that seemed, indeed, a terrible punishment for 
 his error in having made her his wife. She must 
 have married somebody and been wretched it 
 was her destiny else how could she have suc- 
 cessfully preached against the miseries of wed- 
 lock ? She recollected a verse of English poetry 
 about suffering and song and crushed grapes and 
 wine, but it was not worth while to quote it to 
 Monsieur, whose comprehension of the language 
 was limited to the utterance of a few phrases 
 whereby man, the animal, makes known the 
 needs of his stomach. 
 
 And Monsieur looked at her and realized how 
 helpless he was to fulfill the mission which had 
 brought him, and with his usual humility blamed 
 himself. If he could only speak as he ought 
 if he could only find eloquent words which should 
 be like a sudden light whereby she might see the 
 dangerous precipice on whose edge she stood ! 
 His own pain he could bear he was old and ugly 
 and dull it did not matter ! But this creature, 
 so full of youth and loveliness, it was awful to 
 think of the future she must bring upon herself, 
 the harm she might do others. 
 
 Most men ia his position, cheated of their love 
 horrified by the distasteful notoriety brought 
 on their name would have had their opinions 
 
 color to Nathalie's conduct, believing that in 
 theory and practice she was alike depraved. But 
 this man, narrow as many of his ideas were, did 
 not do this ; he was capable of the heroism of 
 putting himself out of the question ; and when a 
 human being can accomplish this, his judgment 
 of a fellow-creature is a very different matter. 
 
 " If I could say what I ought !" he exclaimed, 
 suddenly. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders with impatience. 
 Why would he not go, and let her alone ? Her 
 mind was full of herself again ; these letters to 
 answer, this brilliant offer to accept, the first 
 taste of fame to indulge, and here he was drag- 
 ging her down to commonplace discussions, just 
 as if she were still a slave, sitting in the old 
 prison of a house iu France, and liberty only a 
 dream. 
 
 " AVe can neither speak a language the other 
 is able to comprehend," she said, magnificently. 
 "I have no desire to say unkind things, but I 
 wish you would go away, Monsieur." 
 
 He rose. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " I weary you I have always 
 wearied you. Wherever I have been wrong, 
 Nathalie, I beg your pardon." 
 
 "Never mind," she answered; "I do not 
 blame you now. In the daily irritation and 
 misery of my life, when the chain that bound 
 me galled my soul always, I was excitable and 
 impatient ; but that is all over." 
 
 " Oh, Nathalie !" he cried ; " think only 
 think ! Remember what the world will say and 
 believe of you ; what it says of your associates, 
 of those women who " 
 
 "Haven't I told you that it does not matter ?'' 
 she broke in. "We expect persecution and 
 misapprehension from the common herd all 
 reformers must. Why that very faith to which 
 you cling worn out as it is did not its first 
 proselytes struggle even to martyrdom in its sup- 
 port ? Do you think I am less brave ?" 
 
 This unconscious blasphemy was terrible to 
 the poor old man. He held" up his hand, saying 
 sadly 
 
 " Not that, Nathalie ! Say any thing else you 
 will, but let my religion alone." 
 
 He saw now that the case was hopeless ; he 
 could not move her in any way. His sister had 
 been right ; this visit had no effect but to bring 
 him a new pang a keener suffering ; he had bet- 
 ter go. It was a horrible alternative, but he had 
 no choice. His c^jvn misery, the utter wreck 
 she had made of his closing years, he could have 
 borne, but his agony went beyond personal feel- 
 ings. He had struggled for Nathalie's soul against 
 the tempter and been worsted. To him it was 
 not only that in her madness she risked honor and 
 reputation here, but he believed in eternal happi- 
 ness or eternal punishment ! lie dared not 
 think ; he could only shut his eyes and pray to 
 
 too warped by passion not to give the harshest | God to send a ray of light before it was too late.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 119 
 
 " If you should ever want me, Nathalie," he 
 said at last, "you will know where to find me. 
 You will come ?" 
 
 " Oh yes," she replied, indifferently. "I do 
 not dislike you. Now that we are free from one 
 another I can judge you more leniently." 
 
 " In God's sight we can never be free from 
 one another, " he said, solemnly. 
 
 " Rank nonsense !" exclaimed Nathalie. "If 
 you would only read my last book. There is no 
 answer to my arguments if you go by the light 
 of reason; but you would not ! You only see by 
 what you call faith, and there is nothing that so 
 enfeebles the judgment ! To doubt is the right, 
 the loftiest attribute of the mind !" 
 
 He would go. To linger only increased his 
 distress for her always for her. 
 
 "One thing more," he said. "I have ar- 
 ranged with a banker here to pay you an annual 
 sum in addition to your income ; I have made 
 it as large as my duty to others would permit." 
 
 " Oh, very well. One must think of money 
 as one must of other coarse needs of the body," 
 she replied, grandly. 
 
 She stood waiting for him to go ; she did not 
 want to be softened by further appeals. 
 
 "And is this farewell ?" he asked, after a brief 
 silence. 
 
 "Our paths separate unavoidably," she said. 
 "I have a great work before me ; I can not be 
 trammeled in any way." 
 
 " Oh, Nathalie, Nathalie !" he cried, in a voice 
 sharp with agony. "Come to me, child; come ! 
 For your soul's sake by your mother's memory 
 by that death-bed, I implore you to come !" 
 
 She shivered and grew frightened anew, but 
 this weakness only angered her. 
 
 "Let me alone!" she exclaimed. "I am 
 not a child to be scared by such folly ; let me 
 alone ! I will not go back ; I will not ! Say 
 another word and I shall hate you as bad as 
 ever ! I'll do any thing, no matter what, just to 
 make it impossible for you to come any more 
 with such silly offers." 
 
 , " You are right," he answered ; " it is useless 
 to trouble you. I am going now, Nathalie ; I 
 am going." 
 
 Again he gave her a long, yearning look ; he 
 loved her so ! He had gone through his youth, 
 past middle age, and love had never come to 
 him till he met this wayward girl ; and now she 
 had broken his heart and was endangering her 
 own soul. 
 
 His gaze troubled her ; she wanted him gone. 
 It was not that she was too hard-hearted to pity 
 his suffering, but she could not understand it. 
 He was old love could have no meaning to him ; 
 and to expect to fetter her genius and youth 
 down to his petty life was an insanity fairly lu- 
 dicrous. 
 
 "Farewell, Nathalie," he said ; " farewell." 
 
 He held her hands for an instant ; she heard 
 
 his lips murmur a broken prayer ; then he went 
 slowly out of the room, looking wistfully back to 
 the last, as if there still lingered a hope that she 
 might relent, might bid him return ; then the 
 door closed. 
 
 Nathalie cried a little from nervous excitement, 
 but the sight of the papers and letters soon re- 
 stored her composure, and she forgot him in her 
 engrossing occupation. 
 
 After a while Susanne entered in a state of 
 intense excitement ; she had seen Monsieur in 
 the street, had hurried round a corner to escape, 
 and flew home to warn her mistress. 
 
 "But he has been here," said Nathalie. 
 "Bah ! Don't weary me with such trifles, Su- 
 sanne ! Listen to this ; let me translate these 
 reviews and letters. Oh, Susanne, I am famous 
 at last I" 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 COME TO LIGHT. 
 
 AUTUMN was come again. 
 
 In the spring Elizabeth had gone to Wash- 
 ington with her husband, when he took his sent 
 in Congress. Some measure, momentous for the 
 time, whatever might be its effect on the future 
 about which Conscript Fathers talked so elo- 
 quently, was occupying* the attention of both 
 Houses. Vaughan's first speech was in regard 
 to this bill, and proved a great success. 
 
 Try to shut her eyes as she might, Elizabeth 
 could not help knowing that Vaughan fought 
 against his convictions in the interest of his par- 
 ty ; but she presumed to pass no judgment. She 
 saw other men, called good and great, doing this 
 daily. If such action Avas a necessity of politics, 
 she could only feel that another illusion had van- 
 ished another barrier been set up between her 
 and any possibility of sympathy with her hus- 
 band's career. 
 
 Vaughan worked hard, and Elizabeth was 
 aware that his recourse to stimulants had begun 
 anew. At this time she felt obliged to speak, 
 but the result was only what she had feared. 
 Darrell, enraged at her discovery, punished her 
 in a thousand painful ways for her "prying in- 
 solence " the name he gave her attempt at ex- 
 postulation. 
 
 The summer was spent at their country-seat, 
 with the house always full of guests. In Sep- 
 tember Elizabeth went to visit her old aunt, Ja- 
 net Crauford, and Darrell received an invitation 
 to attend the Chief Magistrate and Cabinet upon 
 one of those "presidential tours" which have 
 grown into a custom of late years, and prove 
 more expensive than a "royal progress " under 
 their republican name. 
 
 Toward the middle of October the husband 
 and wife again met at their house in town.
 
 120 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 It was hard for Elizabeth to be patient in these 
 days. Life had closed about her so circum- 
 scribed, so narrow, that she felt like one shut in 
 a cell into which there could only enter just air 
 enough to prevent suffocation. Disappointed 
 in her dreams thwarted in her aims not even 
 allowed to make a rightful use of the fortune 
 which she regarded as a stewardship bound to 
 the man through whom these and other troubles 
 came, and forced into the knowledge that greed 
 and avarice contended in his soul with darker 
 vices, which were dragging him so rapidly down 
 that soon the hollow fabric of his reputation must 
 crumble, and he lose the one restraint which 
 could keep him from deeper degradation the 
 approving verdict of the world. 
 
 She endeavored to learn the lesson of not look- 
 ing forward sought to live each day by itself; 
 trying to see how she might best use this disci- 
 pline for the development of her own soul. But 
 this was a pain too ; it seemed so petty thus to 
 concentrate life upon herself; it was sad to think 
 she had not been considered worthy to be of use 
 in her day and generation. 
 
 She was young 'still, and grand dreams are so 
 natural at her age ! 
 
 She visited her hospital attended to the 
 wants of her poor went into society, since her 
 position rendered, this a duty and so time wore 
 on. What would come after ? Over and over 
 she asked herself this question asked it as hope- 
 lessly as the young dojvhcn existence closes 
 about them, dull, purposeless, and gray, and no 
 efforts, no struggles, can show a path toward the 
 light. But she triea-to bear tried to be patient. 
 
 At least her home.was just now untroubled by 
 angry words or contentions. Vaughan had re- 
 turned in one of his most genial moods. He 
 was immersed in business, but the men she saw 
 about him at this time gave her a hope that for 
 a while, at least, his habits of dissipation were 
 kept in abeyance by the engrossing interests of 
 politics and the numberless other schemes in 
 which he was engaged. 
 
 Launce Cromlin also came back. He meant 
 to sail for Europe toward winter, and various 
 matters demanded his presence in New York 
 before setting out on his journey, from which he 
 might not return for years. Vaughan went to 
 see him, insisted on being friendly, inviting him 
 to the house with such urgency, and causing 
 Elizabeth to add her persuasions, that Launce 
 could not refuse without downright rudeness. 
 The quiet and hard work of the past months had 
 helped him to overcome the feverish restlessness 
 which beset him in the spring. He could meet 
 Elizabeth, confident that no wrong thought, no 
 weak grieving over thwarted possibilities, troub- 
 led his mind. Then, too, he was going away ; 
 half their lives might pass before they should 
 meet again. 
 
 Mr. Carstoc was still in town, but he had near- 
 
 ly completed the business which Vaughan had 
 intrusted to his charge, and would soon return 
 to his post in California. His society always 
 cheered Elizabeth, and was a great pleasure to 
 the solitary woman. She had grown attached to 
 the quiet, elderly man. He was so honest, so 
 straightforward, so earnest and good in his sim- 
 plicity, that his visits came like a breath of fresh 
 mountain air into the close, vitiated atmosphere 
 of her life. 
 
 Then Vaughan was called away by business. 
 Some difficulty had arisen in regard to the title 
 to a tract of land which he owned in Virginia, 
 and it was necessary to attend personally to the 
 matter. 
 
 He had been gone ten days, when one morn- 
 ing a letter from him was brought to Elizabeth 
 as she sat alone in her favorite room. He sel- 
 dom wrote nowadays during his absences un- 
 less there were a necessity therefor. She opened 
 the envelope and found a hastily written note, 
 beginning with a decorous "Dear Queenie," and 
 going at once into the business details she had 
 expected to find following by good wishes for 
 her health, a hope that she was amusing herself, 
 and winding all up with the information that he 
 was "her affectionate husband." 
 
 There was food for mournful meditation in the 
 epistle, just from what it lacked. Whatever 
 may be the circumstances which have caused 
 the estrangement, the desert is, indeed, reached 
 when husband and wife are only kept together 
 by a community of worldly interest, a regard {or 
 the decencies of life, or a sense of duty : perhaps 
 they suffer most who are detained by the latter 
 bond. 
 
 But Elizabeth had often enough thought of 
 these things: she was glad that just now she 
 lacked leisure. She hastened to put the letter 
 out of sight and attend to the request it con- 
 tained. Darrell needed certain deeds and pa- 
 pers ; he hoped that by aid of these the people 
 might be induced to compromise and prevent 
 the necessity of a lawsuit. He told her where 
 she would find a number of keys, which boxes 
 she was to open, the 'engrossing whereby she 
 would recognize the documents. To read the 
 directions one. would have supposed Vaughan the 
 most methodical of men ; but Elizabeth had too 
 often had experience of strange lapses of mem- 
 ory on his part to be much surprised when, after 
 patient search, the papers were not discovered in 
 either of the trunks he mentioned. 
 
 These boxes, along with a variety of others, 
 were in a light closet off Vaughan's dressing- 
 room. It was possible she might find the pa- 
 pers in some other trunk. Several of them were 
 not locked their contents unimportant ; noth- 
 ing, at least, like the documents he had described. 
 Then she perceived an old packing-case ; this was 
 locked ; none of the keys she had brought were 
 of use. She went to her chamber, took a bunch
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 121 
 
 of her own keys, and at last succeeded in open- 
 ing the trunk. 
 
 It had belonged to old Mr. Vaughan ; his 
 name was on the lid ; there were various pack- 
 ages of papers in his writing. Every thing con- 
 nected with the dead man's memory was pre- 
 cious to Elizabeth. She turned over the con- 
 tents with a carefulness which, had her husband 
 seen, would have called forth a contemptuous 
 smile for what he would have termed a bit of 
 sentimental folly : perhaps it was such ; but it is 
 not a bad thing for any human being to possess 
 the capability for that sort of romantic sentiment. 
 
 There, were numerous deeds among the great 
 mass of documents, pamphlets, and similiar mat- 
 ters which filled the trui.k, but those Darrell 
 wanted were not there. She had taken every 
 thing out ; there was a heavy writing-desk and 
 other articles not easy to lift, but she called no 
 assistance, knowing how great was her husband's 
 dislike to have any one meddle with his papers. 
 Nothing but an urgent need could have induced 
 him to commission her to search among them. 
 But the deeds were not there. She put the'con- 
 tents back, and was closing the trunk when she 
 perceived a little box that had fallen out ; it was 
 tied about with a cord ; she had no hesitation in 
 opening it because it had belonged to old Mr. 
 Vaughan. It might be some relic that would be 
 pleasant to keep. She had discovered a variety 
 of trifles a seal, a carved paper-cutter, and the 
 like, which she meant to retain. So she opened 
 the box, raised the cotton which lay next the lid, 
 and the gleam of jewels caught her eye. There 
 were a number of unset diamonds, a stud, a 
 ring, and a large emerald. Elizabeth knew 
 enough about gems to be certain that these were 
 valuable ; the ring struck her fancy from its 
 quaint setting. She put it on her finger, and 
 took the box to her own room. 
 
 Her maid chanced to enter at that moment, 
 and raised her hands and voice in horror at her 
 mistress's appearance. 
 
 "Only look in the glass," moaned Margot; 
 "only look." 
 
 Elizabeth did look, and could not help laugh- 
 ing : her dressing-gown was decorated with fes- 
 toons of dust, and her face adorned in the same 
 fashion. She hastened to dress, that she might 
 write to Darrell and tell him how unsuccessful 
 her search had been ; but before she began her 
 letter there came a telegram. She was not sur- 
 prised on opening it to find a message that Dar- 
 rell had discovered the papers among those he 
 had taken with him. 
 
 These lapses of memory, which would have 
 been the merest trifles in the case of another, 
 had a painful . significance to Elizabeth when 
 Vaughan was concerned ; for she knew their 
 cause, and she knew too that they, like other 
 symptoms which proved the baleful effects of the 
 poison to which he yielded more and more, were 
 
 increasing rapidly. It was so dreadful to do 
 nothing ; to sit still, and see the man rush on to 
 destruction and yet she was powerless ; plead- 
 ing or expostulation from her only made him 
 worse. 
 
 They came to tell her that visitors were be- 
 low. She went down to receive them ; spent a 
 half-hour in that frivolous talk which is so inex- 
 pressibly wearisome when one has heart and 
 brain full of anxieties and cares. 
 
 Just as these guests were taking their leave, 
 Lauuce Cromlin was announced. He did not 
 often visit her, but it was always a pleasure to . 
 see him come ; it was a little lifdng of the dull 
 mist which closed over her life to talk with 
 Launce, to see some one who lived in the higher 
 world of work and art in which her dreaming 
 girlhood had been spent. 
 
 She was playing to him, and he standing by 
 the piano ; chancing to look down at her hands, 
 he noticed the ring, which she had forgotten. 
 Later he spoke of it, and she drew it from her 
 finger, and handed it to him. 
 
 " It is very quaint, is it not ?" she said. 
 
 " Yes," he answered. "It is an old Spanish 
 setting ; you may occasionally find such in. Cali- 
 fornia ; they came, I suppose, from Mexico no- 
 body knows how old they may be. I suppose 
 you picked this up in Europe ?" 
 
 "No ; it belonged at least I think it must 
 have belonged to your uncle." 
 
 Then she told him about her discovery of the 
 box of jewels went to her room, and brought 
 them for him to look at. They both arrived at 
 the same conclusion in 'regard to the stones 
 that old Mr. Vaughan had purchased them in 
 California ; they had been put aside, and had 
 escaped Darrell's notice, if, indeed, he had ever 
 examined the trunk. 
 
 "Probably Mr. Carstoe sent that trunk be- 
 cause he saw it contained papers and deeds," 
 Launce said, "and neither he nor Vaughan ever 
 examined its contents carefully. " 
 . While they were still looking at the gems, a 
 servant came in with a message from Mr. Car- 
 stoe he wished to know if Mrs.Vaughan could 
 receive him. Kindly as Elizaletli treated him, 
 he was always careful in his humility not to 
 trespass upon her goodness. This cordial friend- 
 ship she showed him was the most beautiful 
 thing that had come into his commonplace exist- 
 ence for years and years. He felt as if a lovely 
 flower-garden had suddenly opened beside the 
 narrow, wearisome path he had so long trodden 
 with patient feet, and he could not enough mar- 
 vel at God's graciousness in allowing the dullness 
 of his way to be thus brightened. 
 
 As Elizabeth moved forward to receive him, 
 holding out her hand with her customary friend- 
 liness, he caught sight of the gleaming circlet 
 upon her finger. Its resemblance to that ring 
 which was connected with one of the most pain-
 
 122 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 ful episodes of his life was a mere chance, of 
 course, but it set him thinking of that time. 
 Between the reflections thus called up, and the 
 usual confusion which beset him on entering any 
 feminine presence, he became so nervous that 
 Elizabeth began to talk on the first subject that 
 suggested itself, and Launce good-naturedly tried 
 to aid her in restoring the shy man to composure. 
 
 Elizabeth was absently turning the ring about 
 on her finger, and the action reminded Launce 
 that he still held the open box of jewels in his 
 hand. 
 
 "See, Carstoe," he said, "what Mrs.Vaughan 
 found this morning among some old papers of 
 my uncle's." 
 
 He moved to Carstoe 's side, holding out the 
 box ; a ray of sunlight struck the gems, and 
 their radiance flashed full in the startled eyes of 
 the old man. 
 
 "And this ring," Elizabeth added, drawing 
 the jewel from her finger, and adding it to the 
 contents of the box. 
 
 At the same instant a sen-ant entered : Mr. 
 Vaughan's lawyer had called, and desired to see 
 her at once. She made a hasty excuse, and left 
 the mom without noticing the look of horror 
 that nad paled Carstoe's face, or the amazement 
 with which Cromlin stood regarding him. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter?" asked 
 Launce, as the door closed. "Are you ill? 
 You're as white as a ghost." 
 
 Carstoe extended his trembling hand, and 
 took the box. He held it for a while, staring 
 down at the gems, which flashed out rainbow 
 hues in the sunlight, speechless and immovable. 
 Launce spoke again, but he did not answer 
 evidently did not hear. Presently he let his 
 hand sink upon one knee, as if the tiny box had 
 been some heavy weight which he could with dif- 
 ficulty support. Launce stood still and watched 
 him, utterly confounded.' It was not a sudden 
 illness that had seized the man ; in some way 
 the jewels were connected with this inexplicable 
 agitation. 
 
 Carstoe lifted the ring and examined it closely. 
 His face was that of one who had stumbled un- 
 wittingly upon some dreadful discovery, and was 
 trying to doubt the evidence of his own senses. 
 He laid the ring upon the broad chair-arm at 
 length, and began taking up the jewels, diamond 
 after diamond. He spread them all out upon the 
 palm of his hand stones noticeable from their 
 size and purity. 
 
 There were also several immense yellow dia- 
 monds of unusual lustre, and a great emerald 
 with a tiny nick upon one of the edges. They 
 shone and flashed, and Launce gazed wonder- 
 ingly from the gems to the white face, and back 
 to the glittering baubles that sent forth new 
 gleams with every movement of the shaking 
 hand. 
 
 " Carstoe !" he exclaimed again, fairly terri- 
 
 fied by the horror which gathered more heavily 
 on the wrinkled countenance. 
 
 "Take them away," Carstoe groaned ; "get 
 them out of my sight ! I thought I was crazy 
 at first I wish I had been ; oh, I wish I had 
 been." 
 
 Launce brushed the jewels from Carstoe's 
 hand into the box, and shut the cover over 
 them. 
 
 "Do tell me what is the matter," he pleaded. 
 
 "I want to go let me get away, "returned 
 Carstoe, in the same slow, unnatural voice. "I 
 can't see her again yet ; say I was ill any thing. 
 And oh, Launce Cromlin, bid her put them away 
 hide them never let them see the light ; don't 
 forget that don't forget !" 
 
 He had almost reached the door before Launce 
 could do any thing but stare at him in dumb 
 wonder. Then he hurried forward, saying 
 
 " Let me walk to the hotel with you, Carstoe 
 you are not well ; you oughtn't to go alone." 
 
 "Stay where you are," returned Carstoe, in a 
 sharp, imperative tone, that one would not have 
 believed his A-oice could utter. " You must tell 
 her something she mustn't suspect you're 
 quick-witted enough oh use your wits to some 
 purpose. There's need, for I can't think I must 
 get away before she comes." 
 
 "What do you want me to tell her?" asked 
 Launce, holding fast to his sleeve. 
 
 "Haven't I said? To shut them np hide 
 them ; never to let any human creature see 
 them," whispered Carstoe, shaking from head to 
 foot till he fairly tottered to and fro. " Be care- 
 ful how you do it ; don't let her think there's 
 any reason. Say he might not like it ; say I 
 could not wait. Take care what you do, Launce 
 Cromlin ; there mustn't any trouble come near 
 her she has enough to bear, God help her. 
 Somehow I understand a great deal that I was 
 blind not to have seen before." 
 
 He pulled his arm from Launce's hold, and 
 went out of the room, motioning the young man 
 impatiently back when he would have followed. 
 
 Launce sat down, still holding the box of 
 jewels, and waited for Elizabeth to return, feel- 
 ing as dazed and astray as people usually do 
 when some bit of mysterious tragedy forces itself 
 suddenly out across the decorous monotony of 
 existence. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 HOLDING COUNSEL. 
 
 Two days elapsed before Cromlin saw Mr. 
 Carstoe. He called several times at the hotel, 
 but the clerks told him the gentleman was un- 
 well, and had given directions that no visitors 
 should be admitted to his room. At last Launce 
 grew too anxious to support the uncertainty
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 123 
 
 longer, and absolutely forced his way to the 
 chamber. Mr. Carstoe was up and dressed, and 
 sitting by a window, but he looked as changed 
 as if a long illness had wasted him. 
 
 "I couldn't endure it," Launce said, as he 
 entered. "You must excuse my forcing your 
 door, Mr. Carstoe, but I was too anxious about 
 you to stop for etiquette." 
 
 "I am glad you have come," Carstoe replied, 
 holding out his hand. " I was going to send for 
 you. I have thought and thought I can't see 
 my way clear. Launce Cromlin, you're an hon- 
 est man ; you must help me to do what is right." 
 
 He did not speak with any excitement; his 
 voice was weak and languid in keeping with 
 his appearance. Launce sat down by him, re- 
 taining the worn hand, and pressing it with gen- 
 tle firmness. It gave the tired man a sensation 
 of strength, that vigorous young grasp upon his 
 weary muscles. He looked up and smiled. 
 
 "You don't need any one to help you do 
 right," Launce answered, speaking cheerfully. 
 " .But if easing your mind a little will do you any 
 good, then talk to me. Something that troubles 
 you is making you ill ; this is no bodily ailment." 
 
 "No, I'm well enough," Carstoe answered. 
 "It's an awful thing, Launce Cromlin, to have 
 your faith in somebody you've trusted knocked 
 away at one blow. And I was so proud of his 
 friendship not so fond as I got to be of you 
 during that long illness ; but I honored and re- 
 spected him so ; and now " 
 
 He passed his disengaged hand across his eyes, 
 and sat silent for a while. 
 
 " Of whom are you speaking ?" Launce asked ; 
 but he knew who was meant. He tried to get 
 away from the conviction, feeling as if it rose out 
 of his own suspicions, out of a desire to believe 
 the worst of Parrell Vaughan ; all the same he 
 knew that it was Darrell of whom Mr. Carstoe 
 spoke. 
 
 "It seems like an ugly dream yet, "Carstoe 
 continued, "for all I have thought of nothing 
 else two whole nights and days. What did you 
 say to her ? Did she ask why I did not wait ?" 
 
 " Eh Mrs. Vaughan ? Oh, yes. I told her 
 you had not time." 
 
 ".I had a note from her this morning," Car- 
 stoe said. 
 
 He took from his breast-pocket the dainty 
 , billet, and gave it to Launce. It was a pleasure 
 to hold the violet-scented sheet, to read the kind- 
 ly words of inquiry. Suddenly Launce became 
 sensible of this feeling, and laid the paper down 
 on the table. It was a little thing, but just so 
 resolutely did he put every forbidden thought 
 and feeling in regard to this woman out of his 
 mind. 
 
 " Such a dear, sweet letter ; so like her," Mr. 
 Carstoe said. " She's an angel, that girl, Launce 
 Cromlin ; I feel a better man for knowing her. 
 And God knows what is in store for her!" 
 
 "I think she would tell you not to be afraid 
 just because God does know," Launce replied, 
 softly. 
 
 The old man's words filled him with a keen 
 anxiety, the more painful from their very vague- 
 ness ; yet somehow the comforting words came 
 to his lips uttered themselves, as it were as if 
 Elizabeth had prompted them. 
 
 "Yes," sighed Carstoe; "I'm an old hea- 
 then ; I keep forgetting that !" Then he asked, 
 eagerly "Did you tell her the the jewels, 
 you know did you warn her to put them away?" 
 
 "Oh, yes ; I said she had better." 
 
 "But not in a way to trouble her to make 
 her think there was any thing amiss ?" 
 
 "No ; I am sure not. I said perhaps Darrell 
 had picked them up as a present for her, and 
 had forgotten to have them set. He would feel 
 disappointed if he found she had anticipated 
 him ; she had spoken of doing that." 
 
 "Yes ; and she put them away all of them ?" 
 
 Launce nodded. He was thinking how sad 
 she looked, sad and startled, when he spoke of 
 Dan-ell's having forgotten, and wondering what 
 the look meant. He did not know what a signi- 
 fication his words had to her ears. Those lapses 
 of memory to which Vaughan was becoming 
 more and more subject filled her mind with 
 alarm at the possibilities they suggested. 
 
 "If they only had not been found ! " he heard 
 Mr. Carstoe say. " I don't see any good it can 
 do. What was the use of my knowing ? I'm 
 growing an old man ; it's very hard to have such 
 a blow." 
 
 Launce could not bring himself to ask a single 
 question further ; he had no desire to pry into 
 any of DarreH's secrets no wish to have further 
 confirmation that his opinion of the man was a 
 just one. He was going away soon; he and 
 Darrell might not meet half-a-dozen times dur- 
 ing the remainder of their lives. Whatever this 
 discovery was that had so terribly shocked Car- 
 stoe, he would prefer not to hear it. But after 
 an instant his companion continued 
 
 " But you must help me to do what is right, 
 Cromlin ; you must help me to do what is right." 
 
 "I will do any thing I can I have told you 
 that, " Launce answered, almost impatiently. In 
 spite of himself he was to be forced to sit in judg- 
 ment on Darrell, and he felt as if he were doing 
 the man a wrong, since he came with strong prej- 
 udices in favor of his guilt, no matter what the 
 case might be. "I don't know that you ought 
 to ask my advice either," he continued hastily. 
 "See here, Mr. Carstoe it is something con- 
 nected with Vaughan, with my cousin, that 
 troubles you. Now I'm inclined always to think 
 ill of him to put harsh constructions on his ac- 
 tions ; so, after all, I am not a fit person to coun- 
 sel with." 
 
 " Yes, it is about Vaughan," Mr. Carstoe re- 
 plied slowly. "Your likes or dislikes can't make
 
 124 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 any difference ; it is too plain a case. If I need 
 not believe if there were any way of I'm be- 
 having absurdly excuse me really my head is 
 so disturbed I think I don't quite know what 1 
 say." 
 
 "You are worn out from lack of sleep, and 
 staying shut up in the house, "Launce said, kindly. 
 
 " WJiy, I believe even yet you don't get near 
 the truth you don't suspect what it is he has 
 done, "exclaimed Carstoe. 
 
 "I have not the slightest idea. I know so 
 little about Vaughan's affairs " 
 
 He paused ; Carstoe had leaned forward, press- 
 ing his hand on Launce's knee it was pitiable to 
 see the fresh horror and pain which came into 
 his face. 
 
 " You remember about my loss in California," 
 he said, in a voice that was little more than a 
 whisper. " The jewels that were stolen from 
 me the " 
 
 " Good God !" cried Launce. 
 
 "Those diamonds that Mrs.Vaughan showed 
 us were the stones I lost !" 
 
 Launce sank back in his chair, his face grown 
 as pale as Carstoe's own, and for a few seconds 
 the two men stared dumbly in each other's eyes. 
 
 "AVhy, I can't understand !" muttered Launce 
 at last. " A portion of the diamonds were found 
 in the woman's possession " 
 
 Carstoe interrupted him by taking a little pa- 
 per from his pocket ; he unfolded it, and held up 
 a crescent-shaped diamond stud. 
 
 " Do you recognize this ?" he asked. 
 
 " Yes ; it was with the diamonds. How did 
 you get it ?" 
 
 "It is the mate to the one you saw the one 
 that was hidden among Uarrell Vaughan's things : 
 this is the stud we found on the woman when 
 she was searched," returned Carstoe, in the same 
 repressed, awe- stricken voice. 
 
 " You are sure you can't be mistaken ?" 
 
 "You know I can not you know I would 
 give my right hand to find out that I was. If 
 it had been only the unset stones but the studs 
 the ring couldn't you swear to that ring any 
 where, though you have only seen it once?" 
 
 " Yes it is so peculiar." 
 
 "And the yellow diamonds the emerald with 
 the nick in the edge : see, this is the description 
 of them I gave at the time. " 
 
 He took up an old newspaper from a bundle 
 of letters that lay on the table, and gave it to 
 Launce. It contained an account of the trial. 
 Launce read it through. Then n new horror 
 started up amid the confusion and trouble of his 
 brain. 
 
 "Have you thought," he said, " that woman 
 is innocent ? She has been four years in prison, 
 and she is innocent." 
 
 " Great heavens !" groaned Carstoe, "I have 
 thought until I seem to have almost lost my 
 senses! Cromlin, you remember my telling you 
 
 of your uncle's sudden attack of this woman's 
 coming to visit him just before ?" 
 
 " She had gone to him about Darrell," Launce 
 said. 
 
 " Yes ! Vaughan must have known it. Either 
 she held some secret of his, and he was afraid 
 of her, or he did it out of revenge ; but Darrell 
 Vaughan stole" those jewels that day he went to 
 my room. He put the stud in the woman's 
 dress while she was under the influence of some 
 drug his evidence sent her to prison ! There, 
 I have thought it over and over, but I can not 
 get away from the facts ; nor can you. " 
 
 "But to keep the diamonds " 
 
 "He dared not sell them. He put them in 
 the safest possible place ; there was scarcely a 
 chance of their ever being found ; and after all 
 he has betrayed himself." 
 
 "But what is to be done ?" 
 
 " Haven't I asked myself the question till I'm 
 dizzy and sick ? Yes ; what is to be done.?" 
 
 He bent his head upon the table, and groaned 
 aloud. 
 
 For many moments Launce sat immersed in 
 thought. His powers of reflection were not dis- 
 turbed, as poor Carstoe's had been during these 
 weary days and nights, by any shock to his heart 
 the pain of discovering that one he had trusted 
 and honored was a villain. He had long known 
 that Darrell was this ; whatever suspicions he 
 might have entertained of his cousin's utter 
 \vorthlessness had become convictions during 
 his stay in California. 
 
 It was not alone a desire for revenge which 
 had prompted that infernal plot against the 
 woman ; she had known some secret, and he 
 had conceived the idea of this charge, not only 
 to get her out of his way for the time, but to 
 render any revelation she might ever attempt 
 without weight. 
 
 And during these dreadful years she had lan- 
 guished in prison, and the man had gone serenely 
 on his path, courted, triumphant, untroubled by 
 a single memory of his hapless victim. Strict 
 justice demanded that this man should be given 
 up to the punishment due to his crime ; but 
 Launce never for an instant contemplated the 
 possibility of acting thus. Eight or not, it was 
 simply a thing impossible to do. It might' be 
 tampering with justice, it might be wrong, but 
 Dan-ell must be shielded from the consequences 
 of his crime. And the woman the unfortunate 
 creature who at some time had been in some 
 fashion linked with the man's tortuous, evil life 
 she must 1 be set free : that must be accomplished 
 at any cost, and with the least possible delay. 
 When he thought of her, Launce's indignation 
 rose hotly ; and as his fancy painted the picture 
 of that wretched creature wearing out the last 
 remnant of her youth in a prison cell ; losing 
 the last shred of faith in man or God in her re- 
 bellion against this unmerited punishment ; los-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S UEIR. 
 
 125 
 
 ing, by another's sin, the faintest hope of ever 
 being .able to regret or repent her misused life 
 he felt almost that it was an unpardonable guilt 
 on his part to think of screening the man. 
 
 But he could not betray him he could not ! 
 It did not even need that Elizabeth's image 
 should rise in his rnind to keep this resolve set- 
 tled and firm. He did think of her ah, with 
 such pity ! such yearning commiseration ! Why, 
 the miserable woman pining in prison on the far 
 Pacific shore was almost to be envied compared 
 to her ! Launce realized fully what her life 
 must be : that young face with all the joyfulness 
 of youth gone out of it those beautiful eyes, 
 heavy with thwarted dreams, with blighted hopes, 
 told their own story. She bore her burden, and 
 would continue to bear; but Launce knew that 
 her husband's character was no secret to her 
 knew that she lived degraded in her own eyes 
 from this companionship, which must go on till 
 death set her free. 
 
 At last Mr. Carstoe's voice roused him. Launce 
 looked tip. The old man had raised his head, 
 and was gazing drearily at him. 
 
 "Can you see the right way, Cromlin?" he 
 asked. "Is it clear to you what we ought to 
 do?" 
 
 " Right or wrong, I shall never betray Dar"- 
 rell," returned Launce, firmly. " That much is 
 clear to me. Never !" 
 
 "I am glad ; you must decide," Carstoe said, 
 with a sigh of relief. "It would kill her no, 
 the worst of it would be she would have to live 
 his wife, you know." 
 
 "I hare no need to consider his wife," Launce 
 replied, almost harshly. " But that unfortunate 
 woman ; she must be set free, Carstoe." 
 
 " Oh, that's worse than any thing !" cried the 
 old man. "Her face haunts me like a ghost ; 
 just as she looked that day in court, with her 
 awful eyes on Dnrrell, never moving never 
 oh, to think that I have helped condemn a hu- 
 man being unjustly " 
 
 " You can not blame yourself," Launce inter- 
 rupted. " You could not have acted otherwise ; 
 it is useless to dwell upon that. But she must 
 have her freedom now." 
 
 "How are we to do that without betraying 
 him ?" 
 
 "I don't know yet ; but we must find a way. 
 Who is the Governor of California now ?" 
 
 " Charles Howell." 
 
 "An old friend of mine ; a sort of connection, 
 too," Launce said. "Carstoe, I must go to 
 California at once. I believe I can convince 
 Howell of her innocence without implicating 
 Darrell ; nor can she hurt him by any thing she 
 may say or do after her liberation, even if she 
 wished." 
 
 "I shall go too," Carstoe said. "I can't 
 meet him again I can't! I must resign my 
 agency I He was kind so far as I was con- 
 
 cerned ; he more than made up to me my loss. 
 It's a hard blow, Launce Cromlin a hard blow!" 
 
 "I know what you feel. Indeed, indeed I 
 am sorry for you." 
 
 "I couldn't look in his face again," pursued 
 Carstoe. " I scarcely know what to write ; but 
 he must know that I mean to resign the agency. 
 He can send directions to me in California when 
 he decides whom to appoint." 
 
 ' ' When does a steamer sail ?" 
 
 "On Saturday." 
 
 " You must take two places in your own 
 name, "Launce said. "I shall let people think 
 I have gone to Europe. We will go on Satur- 
 day's steamer, Mr. Carstoe." 
 
 "You're a great help and comfort to me," 
 Carstoe said, wringing his hand. " I don't 
 know how I should have managed I could see 
 no way out ! But you're young and quick ; and 
 you'll be able to get the poor woman free, you are 
 sure ?" 
 
 "That must be done, at any cost ; but I do 
 not think there will be much difficulty. This is 
 Wednesday. You had better send at once and 
 secure a state-room, Mr. Carstoe ; the hotel people 
 will attend to it. Then you must lie down and 
 res* ; yon are not fit to be up. Don't think any 
 more than you can help. So far as that wretch- 
 ed woman is concerned, we can set the matter 
 partially right. I can't argue, but I must save 
 Darrell." 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "Help and befriend her we can. We leave 
 her still a criminal in the world's eyes, it is true; 
 but her past life was such that she was helplessly 
 rained before. Even if she were cleared of this 
 charge, human verdict would be as severe on her 
 as ever." 
 
 "But we may find her a home, make her 
 comfortable, try to keep her from going back to 
 the horrors of the old life." 
 
 " That we can and will do ! Now let us leave 
 the matter, Carstoe ; I am tired and sick with 
 thinking." 
 
 " Shall we have to tell him that we know ?" 
 
 " I see no purpose it can serve. If he finds 
 out that the woman is free, and attempts to 
 trouble her, we must not otherwise. I can't 
 tell, if the facts were known, whether Darrell 
 could be proved guilty. We know he is ; but 
 the box belonged to my uncle : they are not 
 Darrell's papers. Oh, well, let it alone ; we 
 have decided what to do." 
 
 ' ' I am almost afraid to see Mrs. Vaughan 
 again." 
 
 " She knows you have been ill. You must 
 tell her some business of your own calls you 
 away. You have nothing more to do here, and 
 can not wait for Vanghan to return. " 
 
 "I seem to understand so many things now," 
 Carstoe said, after a brief silence. " I used to 
 wonder sometimes at her manner toward him.
 
 126 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 It was somehow as if there were a great door 
 shut between them ; I can't explain. I half 
 blamed her ; I thought she did not fully appre- 
 ciate him ; it seemed her one fault. Now I see ! 
 Cromlin, she is a miserable woman I never ad- 
 mitted it to myself, but she is she knows that 
 man as well as you or I." 
 
 "We can't help her," returned Launce, short- 
 ly. " She chose her own life, and must endure 
 it God help her!" 
 
 "Did she choose?" questioned Carstoe, with 
 an odd, perplexed expression crossing the pallor 
 of his face. " I have been thinking of that too. 
 Oh, there's nothing my miserable old head hasn't 
 turned and bothered over.'' 
 
 "Don't bother any more now," Launce said. 
 
 " Why no, it's further past remedy than all 
 the rest," returned Carstoe, just thinking aloud 
 in his bewilderment. "But she never knew 
 I am convinced of that. I could not understand 
 her manner and her questions. Cromlin, she 
 married him without knowing!" 
 
 "Knowing what?" asked Launce, quickly, 
 trying to believe that the man's faculties really 
 were a little disordered by the shock he had re- 
 ceived, yet feeling all the while that some new 
 disclosure of DarreH's treachery was hidden un- 
 der his words. 
 
 "About the codicil," Carstoe began, then got 
 his senses back enough to realize that it was 
 worse than useless an absolute cruelty to speak 
 of the matter. " I don't know what I mean," 
 he added ; " I'm a blundering old idiot." 
 
 Cromlin had risen to go. He resumed his 
 seat. His face grew firm and hard, and his 
 voice sounded stem and cold, as he said 
 
 " What questions did Mrs. Vaughan ask you? 
 I insist upon knowing." 
 
 " It was just a conversation I had with her 
 I don't remember how it came up I thought 
 she was prejudiced against you I wanted her to 
 like you " 
 
 "Well, well?" 
 
 "But I've nothing to tell you it's only a 
 fancy. I did not think of it at the time," stam- 
 mered Carstoe. 
 
 " Think of what ? What did she not know ?" 
 demanded Launce. Then a sudden light struck 
 him. He half started to his feet ; a hot rage 
 thrilled his pulses and blazed in his eyes. But 
 he sat down again ; when he spoke his voice was 
 calm. "I want to hear that conversation ; you 
 have a wonderful memory for such things; I 
 want to hear every word that passed between 
 you, "he said. 
 
 It was too late now to retreat. Carstoe told 
 the whole in his hesitating fashion, and when he 
 had finished Launce Cromlin knew as well as if 
 Elizabeth had actually revealed it that Darrell 
 had kept back the fact of his uncle having meant 
 that the two cousins should have :m equal chance 
 to win her regard. 
 
 He knew this, and the discovery of the jewels 
 rendered it easy for him to avenge the wrong lie 
 had suffered at Darrell's hands. But he did 
 not want revenge not even for an instant did 
 the possibility of such action dwell in his mind. 
 The thought came he would have been more 
 than human otherwise but it did not take a 
 second's hold upon him. 
 
 Presently he rose and held out his hand. 
 
 "I must go now," he said. "I will see yon 
 in the morning. Try and rest ; have them se- 
 cure the tickets ; but don't attend to any thing 
 else or think any more to-day." 
 
 He walked slowly homeward through the 
 bright autumn sunshine, forgetting the long voy- 
 age, the duty that lay before him, in the host of 
 thoughts called up by Mr. Carstoe's revelation. 
 
 If that illness had not prevented his reaching 
 Europe, how different life might have been! 
 But it was useless to reflect upon mere possibil- 
 ities a power stronger than his will had ar- 
 ranged the whole. He must accept existence 
 as it came ; the events which, one by one, over- 
 take us we are powerless to govern ; but a man's 
 action under the joy or discipline which comes is 
 within his own control. Launce was thinking 
 this too, and he did not mean his life to be 
 either wasted or weak. At least Elizabeth had 
 learned to judge him differently from Avhat she 
 had once done she did not believe him either 
 an idle or a bad man. There was a certain 
 pleasure in feeling this. His way must lead far 
 from hers ; now and then their paths might 
 cross for a brief space, but that was all ; and it 
 might have been so different it might ! 
 
 Darrell Vaughan had kept secret the real con- 
 ditions of their uncle's will ; he had prejudiced 
 father and daughter against his absent relative ; 
 Mr. Crauford's illness had hurried on the mar- 
 riage. All these facts became clear to him as 
 he went over the matter, putting the conver- 
 sation he had held with Elizabeth the day he 
 read his uncle's letter side by side with Mr. 
 Carstoe's testimony. 
 
 Ah, life was not .easy Destiny was a stern 
 task-mistress! Then Launce remembered in 
 whose hands the universe was held, in whose 
 eyes the humblest creature was regarded with 
 pity and love, and got away from the fatalistic 
 theories which haunt us all at times. He be- 
 lieved in God's mercy ; he had faith in the Fa- 
 ther's loving care ; he would not doubt because 
 his way led over sharp rocks and through thorny 
 places. 
 
 But it was not easy oh, it was not easy ! He 
 had lost the hope that makes youth beautiful ; 
 he had been shown a bewildering vision, whose 
 fulfillment would have rounded his youth into 
 perfection then it had been snatched away. He 
 had lost it, too, by a human being's treachery. 
 Elizabeth was essentially a just woman ; had she 
 known the conditions of that codicil the full,
 
 MR. VAUGHAX'S HEIR, 
 
 127 
 
 entire conditions she would have carried out 
 her part to the very letter would have decreed 
 that both men mentioned therein must have a 
 chance given, if both desired it. 
 
 And if he could have met her if he could 
 have convinced her of his honesty and truth oh, 
 it might all have been so different ! He found 
 himself thinking this, and turned his mind reso- 
 lutely upon other subjects. The vision he had 
 cherished was dead lost ; this woman, who wore 
 its likeness, was separated from him more effect- 
 ually than if worlds swept between. She was 
 another man's wife, and' even speculation upon 
 chances which had been allowed no trial was a 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 WHAT SHE FOUND. 
 
 IT was adark,dismalday,threateninga storm, 
 but the rain kept aloof, and the air was heavy and 
 oppressive. Elizabeth grew tired of the confine- 
 ment of the house, and went out for a brisk walk. 
 
 She passed down the Avenue to the Parade 
 Ground, intending to visit a sick woman in 
 Amity Street who had formerly been in her em- 
 ployment. She had nearly traversed the block 
 between Fourth Street and Amity when she saw 
 a group of mischievous boys worrying an unfor- 
 tunate cat. At the same instant a little girl 
 dashed out of one of the houses, and flew at the 
 urchins in defense of the frightened animal. To 
 do the gamins justice, they were not hurting the 
 kitten a melancholy-looking grimalkin, with 
 more tail than he knew how to manage. They 
 saw the lady standing on the sidewalk, and re- 
 treated around the corner with a war-whoop 
 which might have led one to suppose them de- 
 scended from Mohawk chiefs instead of heavy 
 Dutchmen or merry Emerald Islanders. The 
 little Amazon seated herself on a door-step, and 
 began to cry not loudly ; in a womanly fashion, 
 wiping her eyes on her apron, while the cat lay 
 in her lap, and stared up at her with an expres- 
 sion of indifference which spoke ill for his charac- 
 ter in the matter of gratitude and other proper 
 sentiments. 
 
 It was not possible for Elizabeth to see any 
 creature in grief or pain and pass by " on the 
 other side." She crossed the street, and, as she 
 neared the child, saw that one of her hands was 
 bleeding, and she still grasped in it the neck of a 
 bottle, which she had evidently broken in her on- 
 slaught upon the boys, for her dress was stained 
 with some dark-colored liquid. 
 
 She was gazing disconsolately at the spots, and 
 did not even look up as Elizabeth approached ; 
 but the cat saw the intruder, and immediately 
 elevated its back and swelled its tail, as if expect- 
 ing to be attacked by a new enemy. 
 
 The child was an odd-looking thing too dark 
 and pale to be pretty ; but her short curly hair 
 dropped over her forehead in a succession of 
 sunny rings ? and her features were delicate and 
 intelligent. Her hat had fallen off, and lay on 
 the stones near Elizabeth, and her dress, though 
 of very common material, had evidently been 
 clean and tidy until -that misfortune with the 
 bottle befell her. 
 
 Elizabeth picked up the hat, and said kindly, 
 
 "I am afraid you have hurt yourself. You 
 were a brave little girl to defend kitty ; let me 
 see your hand." 
 
 The child raised her eyes great dark eyes, 
 so beautiful that they glorified her whole face, 
 and made Elizabeth wonder that she could have 
 thought the creature plain. She stopped cry- 
 ing, gave the speaker a long, solemn look of in- 
 quiry, then glanced at the wounded fingers. 
 
 "I didn't know I'd hurt myself," she an- 
 swered; "but I've broken the bottle, and now 
 Aunt Jean won't have any liniment, for Mrs. 
 Baines hadn't another scrap not a scrap." 
 
 The idea was so dreadful that it put her even 
 beyond the relief of tears. "She shook her head 
 dismally, and let the fragment of the shattered 
 phial fall. 
 
 "Perhaps we can manage about the liniment," 
 Elizabeth said ; "but the first thing is to attend 
 to your hand." 
 
 "Why, it does hurt," said the child, in a tone 
 of surprise; "hurts like murder; but I didn't 
 know it ! And, oh dear, my dress ! and it 
 was a clean one and I told Aunt Jean I'd be 
 careful ; and now only look and it was all Mo- 
 ses's following me down-stairs. Oh, Mose !" 
 
 Moses was the cat, and he at once proceeded 
 to give another evidence of the ungrateful nature 
 which had before exhibited itself in that con- 
 temptuous disregard of his saviour's distress. 
 He deliberately spit at her with all his puny 
 might whisked his tail across her face bound- 
 ed out of her arms, and flew into the house with a 
 sharp meaul of indignation and injured innocence. 
 
 "He lives there," said the child; "he'll go 
 tip-stairs, and Sally'll let him in." 
 
 "Sally is one of your playmates, I suppose?" 
 Elizabeth said, wanting to keep the child's atten- 
 tion occupied, for she had taken the injured hand 
 in hers, and on wiping away the blood perceived 
 that there were two or three bits of glass to be 
 got out of the fingers. 
 
 "Yes, ma'am," the child answered. "Only 
 we don't play, 'cause Sally's lame, and walks 
 with a crutch." 
 
 "Poor Sally! that is very hard, isn't it?" 
 
 " Oh, she was born so she don't mind," was 
 the philosophical answer. " Oh my ! see here ! 
 you hurt!" 
 
 " It is all over now. I will do your hand up 
 in my handkerchief. Is there a chemist's near 
 here a drug-shop, you know ?"
 
 128 
 
 MR. VAUGIIAN'S HEIR. 
 
 . " Oh, yes, just round the corner." 
 
 " Then we'll go there and get some plaster for 
 the cut. Does it hurt now ?" 
 
 "Not much," replied the small maid. "Why, 
 you're awfully good, ain't you ?" 
 
 Elizaheth put the hat on the child's head, and 
 they walked toward the shop. There was no- 
 body in but a long-legged, watery-eyed boy, and 
 he took a great while to find the plaster one of 
 those abortive-looking creatures of whom you 
 would prophesy that he would all his life be be- 
 hindhand with whatever he might undertake. 
 
 "Oh, dear me, ain't I a sight?" Elizabeth 
 heard the child sigh. "It's awful to be so 
 messed, and Mrs. Baines hasn't got a scrap more 
 liniment not a scrap." 
 
 "Perhaps we can buy some here," suggested 
 Elizabeth. ' ' What is it for ?" ' 
 
 "Rheumatism in the left arm," replied the 
 child promptly. "But you couldn't buy it any 
 where it's stuff Mrs. Baines makes herself, and 
 it's all roots and herbs, 'cause she used to live 
 in the country, and knows how ; but Aunt Jean 
 don't, and nobody else, I s'pose, though Aunt 
 Jean once lived in the country too, but that was 
 ever so long ago, in Scotland." 
 
 During the progress of these confidences, Eliz- 
 cbeth cleansed the blue dress as well as she could 
 by rubbing it with some paper, while the watery- 
 eyed boy peered at them over his shoulder, and 
 quite forgot the plaster he had been sent to find. 
 Elizabeth went to the case herself, discovered 
 what was wanted, and soon had the child's 
 wounded fingers neatly bound up. 
 
 "That's better now, isn't it?" she asked, with 
 her slow, beautiful smile, that never failed to 
 carry comfort to the sick or suffering. 
 
 "Oh, it's well enough, thank you," Was the 
 'answer; "anyhow it's my left hand, so I can 
 stuff all the same, and Aunt Jean's got a lot 
 ready for me." 
 
 " What ?" Elizabeth inquired, somewhat mys- 
 tified. 
 
 " Dolls ; she makes the kid parts, and I stuff 
 'em, and then she sews the legs and heads on." 
 
 "So you have dolls enough to play with?" 
 Elizabeth said. 
 
 The bright eyes gave her a rather contemptu- 
 ous glance. 
 
 "It's all foolishness," she said; "I've seen 
 too many of them made ; but Sally Baines's got 
 a woolen rabbit with a squeak in it that ain't 
 so bad. She likes dolls though. Aunt Jean 
 made her one once out of a broken-headed one 
 that wouldn't sell, and so she wears a cap ; but 
 Sally don't mind." 
 
 By this time Elizabeth had paid for the plas- 
 ter, and was ready to go. 
 
 "There is a shop up toward Broadway where 
 they have something that is good for rheuma- 
 ti.m," she said; "if you like to go there with 
 me, I will buy a bottle for Aunt Jean. " 
 
 The little face grew troubled. 
 
 "I don't know," she said; "Aunt Jean sent 
 the money to pay Mrs. Eaines, and I haven't 
 got any more." 
 
 "But I mean to get it myself, you see." 
 
 "I'm afraid Aunt Jean would send it back," 
 returned the mite, still shaking her head. " She 
 never takes any thing she don't pay for, and I 
 don't know as she's got any more money to-day ; 
 and you don't play with dolls, 'tain't likely." 
 
 "But I know some children that I buy dolls 
 for sometimes," Elizabeth said. "If you like, 
 I will go with you and tell Aunt Jean how it all 
 happened. Do you live far from here ?" 
 
 The little creature interested her, and she 
 wanted to see the place where she lived, and the 
 woman who had charge of her. 
 
 "No, not far; it's in Minolta Lane," the 
 child said, still hesitating. 
 
 " Shall I go with you ?" 
 
 "I I don't know. See here you ain't a 
 deestrict, are you ?" 
 
 "I don't believe I am," Elizabeth said, laugh- 
 ing. "What is it?" 
 
 "That's what Aunt Jean calls 'em she's 
 Scotch, you know ; and there's another word " 
 
 "Oh, yes a district visitor ?" 
 
 "That's it; and how she does hate 'em! 
 They don't come much now, 'cause she told two 
 or three that she had her Bible, and the tracts 
 were no good not even to stuff dolls, though 
 she did cut some up to fill a pillow, and I sleep 
 on it." 
 
 "I am not a district visitor. Aunt Jean can 
 be sure of that," replied Elizabeth. 
 
 "I didn't think you looked like one," said 
 miss, with a smile of approval ; " and I like 
 your bonnet ; they do wear such dreadful ones. 
 And I expect Aunt Jean would be glad of thr 
 liniment, for she said her rheumatism was bad 
 enough ; but she'll want to pay." 
 
 Erom the chemist's they passed down Bleecker 
 Street to the narrow, crooked by-way, which was 
 in old days the channel of a brook that still gives 
 its name to the lane. The dwellings were clean 
 and decent, and the house at which they stopped 
 one of the most comfortable. 
 
 "I live here," said the child. " I don't think 
 the stairs are very steep." 
 
 They went up two flights, and Elizabeth's con- 
 ductress knocked at a door, which was opened 
 by an elderly woman, holding in her hand a half- 
 finished doll. She dropped a civil courtesy, but 
 seemed ill pleased at the sight of a stranger. 
 Evidently her first thought was that another rest- 
 less seeker after good works had come, prepared 
 to show, by manner and words, that she supposed 
 herself visiting a heathen. 
 
 " It's the lady that tied up my hand," the child 
 burst out volubly ; " and how it did bleed ! But 
 oh, I've broken the bottle, Aunt Jean, and I'm 
 ever so sorry ! But she bought some liniment,
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 120 
 
 though I said you always paid, and it was Mo- 
 ses's running out after me that did it, and my 
 dress is spoiled. " 
 
 She began to sob. The woman tapped her 
 head with the doll's one leg, but not unkindly, 
 and said 
 
 "Don't cry, Megsie spilt milk, ye ken!" 
 She dropped Elizabeth another courtesy, a little 
 less stiff, and added, "I'm obliged to you, 
 ma'am, for your trouble. It's na' much o' a 
 place to rest in, but if you feel to tak' a chair 
 after climbin' the stair " 
 
 The invitation was given in a doubtful tone, 
 and scarcely came to a legitimate conclusion, 
 still Elizabeth accepted it. Aunt Jean led the 
 way through a dark passage into a moderate- 
 sized chamber, which served as parlor and bed- 
 room, but was scrupulously clean. A table stood 
 near the window, covered with dolls in different 
 stages of development a rose-bush in a pot on 
 the window-sill. The woman herself looked 
 delicate and ailing ; but, though the eyes were 
 keen and the lips compressed, it was not a hard 
 face. Elizabeth felt sure that Meg had a far 
 from unhappy home. Poverty was visible every 
 where ; but poverty ^n its better aspect, which 
 struggles and works, and will so struggle to the 
 end. Elizabeth knew the signs. This was a 
 person who would starve rather than descend to 
 beggary just one of those cases it is a pleasure 
 to assist, and yet difficult. An offer of money to 
 that resolute old body would have been an in- 
 sult no penny had ever found its way into her 
 dwelling which had not been honestly earned. 
 
 Elizabeth seated herself in the wooden rocking- 
 ciiair the woman drew forward, and related in a 
 few words her meeting with the child ; praising 
 her courage, which had brought about the acci- 
 dent, and the fortitude with which she had borne 
 her hurt, while Meg stood behind her chair and 
 dolefully regarded her dress at leisure now to 
 indulge a purely feminine distress over the ruin 
 which had befallen it. 
 
 " She told me you suffered from rheumatism," 
 Elizabeth added, "and I ventured to bring you 
 this liniment. I thought possibly you had never 
 heard of it, and I know that it is an excellent 
 remedy. " 
 
 Aunt Jean's gray eyes softened, and she smiled. 
 " I thank you hearty," she said, taking the little 
 bottle Elizabeth held toward her. "I hope I 
 didn't seem rude when I first saw ye : I'd ask 
 ye to excuse it if I did. I'm always thinkin' 
 ony stranger is ane o' the deestrict visitors, and I 
 canna bide 'em, and that's the truth. And I 
 dinna like tracts, and I dinna like my floor mud- 
 died, and I dinna like to be speered at for a 
 heathen or a beggar !" 
 
 "And I shouldn't like it either," replied Eliz- 
 abeth ; "nor should I have taken the liberty to 
 come, only I did not wish to leave the little girl 
 after I saw that she was hurt." 
 
 She smiled, and the woman smiled in return : 
 her obstinate old heart was fairly won. 
 
 " Dinna talk o' liberty to such as me," she 
 answered, ' ' nae mair than the sunshine wad ; 
 it does me mair good to see your face and be 
 spoken to that gait than a quart o' liniment ! 
 Megsie, go into the closet and tak' off your dress. 
 I'll warrant we'll get those stains out ; so dinna 
 fash yersel', my woman." 
 
 "She is your niece?" Elizabeth said, as the 
 door closed behind the child. 
 
 "She's nae kith or kin," replied Aunt Jean, 
 shaking her head; "but I feel as if she were. 
 She's been with me ever since she was a baby, 
 and she's like to stay now." 
 
 " She has no father or mother, then ?" 
 
 " She may have baith, or neither ; I don't 
 know for sure, and she knows nathing, and it's 
 better she never should. Ye understand ?" 
 
 The child's little history was easy to compre- 
 hend from these few words. Evidently a com- 
 mon enough one ; but out of the common was 
 the fact that the poor, nameless waif should have 
 found proto :-tion and kindness like these. 
 
 "What do you call her?" Elizabeth asked, 
 not liking to question a syllable beyond the ac- 
 count the woman might choose to give. 
 
 " Her true name wad be Marguerite." 
 
 " That is French." 
 
 "Like eneugh;.it was her mother's before 
 her, when she had a name, puir soul," mur- 
 mured the woman. 
 
 " How old is she ?" inquired Elizabeth. 
 
 "Oh, shell be a bit past eight now, though 
 she does na' look it." 
 
 Just then Meg came out of the closet in her 
 ordinary dress, and seated herself on a stool by 
 the window. 
 
 " Now I'm ready to stuff, Aunt Jean," she 
 said. "I've wasted a lot of time, haven't I ?" 
 
 "We'll let the stuffin' bide the day," replied 
 her protectress. ' ' It's like your wee fingers '11 
 be stiff. Ye may gae up to the auld fiddler 
 body, if you're likin'." 
 
 Meg disliked to lose sight of the beautiful 
 lady, but the temptation to listen to the violin- 
 ist's music was irresislible, and she rose at once, 
 though she looked rather wistfully at the vis- 
 itor. 
 
 "Aunt Jean will call you before I go," Eliz- 
 abeth said, understanding her thought out of 
 that great sympathy she always had with chil- 
 dren. ' ' I am going to sit here awhile, if she will 
 let me." 
 
 "Megsie," cried the old woman, "the rose- 
 bush 'ull blossom after this ; mind that !" 
 
 And Elizabeth thought in her life she had 
 never received a prettier compliment. 
 
 Meg went out of the room, and left Aunt Jean 
 and her guest together. 
 
 "And yon have taken care of the child 
 worked for her and supported her as if she were
 
 130 
 
 your own ?" Elizabeth said. " I think you must 
 be a very good woman." 
 
 " Eh, the bit she eats is na' much ; and she's 
 help to me now," was the cheerful answer. 
 
 " You will not be offended at what I want to 
 
 MK. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 say ?" Elizabeth continued. 
 
 "Dear heart!" exclaimed the other; 
 
 ; that 
 
 voice could na' say any thing it would na' be a 
 pleasure to hear." 
 
 " I'm glad of that, Mrs. 
 
 " Murray Jean Murray," supplied the wom- 
 an. "It hae been my name aboon forty years ; 
 but it's nigh half that time since I lost the gude- 
 man ; he died in Scotland. Then I cam' across 
 the water, and I've na' fared ill, first and last." 
 
 "Will you tell me something about Meg?" 
 asked Elizabeth, gently. 
 
 "I'm drawn to," returned the woman ; " that 
 was why I sent her out. Odd times I think I'm 
 growing auld, and nae that strong I was ; and 
 on'y this morn I was wondering o'er it, and when 
 you cam' in, somehow it was just as if something 
 said to me, The Lord has found the way. He 
 does, leddy, in spite o' all our frettin', always 
 He does, if on'y a body could remember it." 
 
 The simple words of faith struck like a prom- 
 ise to Elizabeth's heart, which had been so bit- 
 ter during these past days. She was gkd, too, 
 of any thing that took her out of herself gave a 
 hope of being of use to any human being, in how- 
 ever small a way. 
 
 "I never have talked to aye a creature about 
 her," Mrs. Murray was saying; "it was nae- 
 body's business the child had me. But since 
 I took the long illness, and these weaknesses 
 coming o'er me but who was I to tell? na' 
 the Visitors ; my certy, no !" 
 
 "I should like to help where the child is con- 
 cerned, if you will let me," Elizabeth said. "I 
 am not a philanthropist " 
 
 "The vara word. I could na' speak it," inter- 
 rupted Aunt Jean, in a parenthesis, with a shiv- 
 er of disgust. 
 
 " But I have money, and I have no children," 
 Elizabeth continued ; and the quick-witted hear- 
 er noticed how her voice saddened, but she gave 
 no sign. " Sometimes I find children I can help, 
 can educate and bring up to learn trades and be 
 useful. I might assist you about Meg; she 
 ought to go to school to " 
 
 She stopped, for Mrs. Murray made a quick 
 movement, and she was fearful of having an- 
 noyed her. Elizabeth had not a particle of the 
 stuff in her composition which helps to make a 
 philanthropist by profession. She was as shy of 
 intruding where humble people were concerned, 
 as careful of hurting their independence or pride, 
 as if they had been formed of the delicate porce- 
 lain which enters into the composition of the 
 great. She was a foolish creature in many ways, 
 tliis Elizabeth. 
 
 " I;'.- like having a dream come true!" Mrs. 
 
 Murray said, in a low, awe-stricken tone ; and a 
 dew gathered over the sternness of her eyes, 
 which had ached under too many troubles for 
 tears easily to dim them. " On'y the ither 
 night, when the pain kept me awake, I lay think- 
 in' o' it. If on'y there were somebody able to do 
 it, and with a kind heart if I should be taken ! 
 And now you come oh, leddy, ye maun hae been 
 sent I'd been a wicked woman na' to let ye 
 do what He puts in your mind ; and He's show- 
 ed the way, too. " 
 
 "I must think what it would be best to do," 
 Elizabeth said. 
 
 " It's not now that help is needed dinna go 
 believing that," returned Aunt Jean, eagerly. 
 "I'm able to work, and she pays for her keep. 
 She has been to school, too there are plenty, 
 gude and free, and I manage to dress her decent 
 for that. It's if ony thing happened to me." 
 
 "I shall not forget," Elizabeth said. "But 
 there is no reason why all the care of her should 
 come on you. It is only right that you should 
 be paid something for her board when she goes 
 to school, and not have the expense of clothing 
 her." 
 
 "I could na' tak' it, m$'am! Forgie me I 
 canna pit it in the right language but it wad 
 be like sellin'my hairt, somehow," Mrs. Murray 
 replied. " The claes and welcome, because of 
 her not then having call to feel ashamed amang 
 the ither bairns." 
 
 Elizabeth did not urge the matter. After a 
 moment, Aunt Jean added, with a shrewd smile 
 
 "Ma'am, I beg your pardon! But hae ye 
 thocht how ye're takin' me on trust ?" 
 
 "I am not afraid to do that, Mrs. Murray." 
 
 "And ye're ane to gae straight to the hairt 
 an' motives ye'd be guided !" 
 
 Elizabeth laid her hand on the old woman's 
 for an instant. 
 
 "Now tell me about Meg's mother," she said. 
 
 "Eh, it's awa' bock, to begin wi' the com- 
 mencement," said Mrs. Murray, picking up her 
 glasses from the table, and rubbing \hern dili- 
 gently on her apron. " Yes a'maist ten year. 
 I got a hurt in the street a'maist rin doun wi' 
 an omnibus in Broadway. The last thing I mind 
 was a leddy in the crowd that got aboot me the 
 grandest-dressed body wi' e'en like twa stars. 
 Someway I felt she could understand, and I 
 ca'ed, ' Na' to the hospital dinna tak' me to the 
 hospital!' Then I tried to gie me address, but I 
 could na' speak anither word. And it was her 
 ainsel' answered me, ' Ye'll not go, gude wom- 
 an, I'll promise thot.' Then it was a' mirk, 
 and I swounded awa'." 
 
 She sat silent for some seconds, still polishing 
 her spectacles. Elizabeth could see that she had 
 to struggle hard to retain her composure. 
 
 " I get sae Scotch when I'm a bit movet," she 
 said, apologetically. " Maist times I mind me- 
 sel', for I wad na' hae the bairn tak' my way. It
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 131 
 
 seems right ye suld knaw, though it can do nae 
 gude, but ye'll understand what I'm always fear- 
 in' for the child I could na' tell why." 
 Elizabeth bent her head. 
 
 "And when you came to your senses?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Ah !" resumed Mrs. Murray, drawing along 
 breath like a sob, "when I cam' to I was in a 
 braw chamber, and a doctor there, and the led- 
 dy. I was in her house, she said, and I'd be 
 cared for." . 
 
 She stopped again. 
 
 " Were you ill long ?" Elizabeth asked, to help 
 her, for it was evident she found the story diffi- 
 cult to tell. 
 
 " Xae, nae, I was na' ill bruised like. In the 
 evening I could rise up. Dear ma'am, I canna 
 bide to think what I did ! I thocht I was vara 
 gude and virtuous, a' the same I was a wicked 
 Pharisee. " 
 
 "I am sure you did not mean to do wrong," 
 Elizabeth said. 
 
 "I did wrang, though, "answered the old wom- 
 an, "as ony body does when they thank God 
 they're not so bad as ither folk. She trippit into 
 my room wi' anither gown on she was aff to 
 the opera, she said. She tauld me she'd need 
 o' an honest body to be her housekeeper and 
 mind the maids. She'd a fancy to me, she said ; 
 wad I stop ? I was out o' wark joost then. I'd 
 been to see a place that vara day, and was too 
 late. But that's nae matter." 
 
 " So you agreed to remain," Elizabeth rejoin- 
 ed, eager, she could not have told why, to get 
 to the end of the story. 
 
 "Aye, that was it ! I'll never forget how beau- 
 tiful she looked, a' in white, wi' jewels in her 
 hair ; but her eyes were brighter still the child's 
 'mind me o' them, odd times. Eh sirs, she was 
 na' muckle mair her ainsel' ; she'd na' hae been 
 ower nineteen, puir soul!" 
 
 "Poor soul!'' repeated Elizabeth, pityingly. 
 
 "Yes. I've telled eneugh ; ye can speer the 
 rest. When she'd gane, I sleepit a bit. Wakin' 
 again, her servant came till mo, and we'd a lang 
 crack aboot it a'. Then the jade let it oot that 
 the bonnie lass lived wi' a nion wha was na' her 
 husband, and she skirled awa' and telled me how 
 she garred her mistress pay a double wage be- 
 cause o' her ain character. 
 
 "Then Mileddy, as she ca'ed her, cam' hame 
 wi' a troop o' freends, and the hizzie said there'd 
 be supper and dancin' and mad doins till day- 
 break. So off she rin, for the leddy had come 
 up the stair and was ringin' her bell. I could na' 
 to say walk, but I could mak' shift to win alang, 
 and I'd hae creepit on hands and knees to be 
 free the hoose. I did na' reflect that whatever 
 she might be she'd been gude to me, and that it 
 was na' for the like o' me to judge her. Silly doit- 
 ed auld carle, I thocht it a fine Chreestian thing 
 to bear my testimony, as I ca'ed it, against sin !" 
 
 She mechanically took some bits of kid from 
 the table, and tried to work, but laid them quick- 
 ly down, put her glasses off and on several times, 
 while her features quivered as if she were crying, 
 though she shed no tears. 
 
 "You believed you were doing right," Eliza- 
 beth said, longing to comfort her. 
 
 " Eh, dear leddy, I did na' stop to think, I was 
 that full o' mysel', ye ken. Aweel, I got out o' 
 my chair and searched my claes, and though 
 sair stiff and lame, I could hirple alang. As I 
 stepped doon the passage, oot shot the maid in 
 a great takiu' to know my wull, and then cam' 
 the leddy too. 
 
 " ' What do you want?' she says, kindly like. 
 
 " ' Let me gang oot o' this,' says I. ' For the 
 gude ye've done me ye hae my thanks, but I'd 
 BO hae tuk it an' I'd knawn. I'm an honest 
 woman, and I tell ye the "wages o' sin is deeth !'' ' 
 
 " She sank bock to the wa', like as I'd struck 
 her, and went white i' the face. In a bit minute 
 she began laughing, but not hearty just reckless 
 like. ' Let ner go,' she says, ' that's the thanks 
 one gets for helping these Chreestians. ' I got 
 doun the stair and out intil the night. As I 
 was ga'en by the perlor-door I heard skirlin' an' 
 singin', an' I felt like Lot a fleein' from Sodom ; 
 an' aiblins I was wickeder than she I condemned. " 
 
 Mrs. Murray sat silent for a time. Her eyes 
 were closed ; her lips moved slowly. Elizabeth 
 knew that she was praying. She looked up at 
 last, and went on slowly 
 
 "I hae made it a lang story, but there's little 
 mair. I was awa' to Kew Orleans; I'd gaen 
 there wi' a sick leddy. She died sune. What 
 wi' wark frae shops an' two bit bairnies to mind, 
 I was fairin' weel. I'd took some wark hame, 
 and was hastenin' bock, for I'd asked a neebor 
 to sit wi' the weans, fearin' they'd wake while I 
 was gane. The night was mirk, and the wind 
 howled, and the big river a roarin' like the sea. 
 The rain cam' pourin', an' I rin wi' a' my might 
 till I saw a woman crouched in a corner, sair 
 droukit, puir thing ! an' holdin' a bundle in her 
 arms. It was a bairn. It began cryin' as I rin 
 past. I stoppit the mother not hearin' in a 
 dream like. I caught a glint at her face ou, 
 it was Mileddy !" 
 
 "Did she recognize you?" 
 
 "Just at my voice she loupit up wi' a skreigh 
 I can hear yet, an' the first words she said were 
 the haird anes I spoke when I rin awa' oot o' 
 her hoose. ' The wages o' sin is deeth,' says 
 she ; ' the wages o' sin is deeth ; ye tauld me 
 sae!' Weel, weel, I took her to my own bit 
 place ; it was ane body's wark to get her there, 
 for she'd meant to droon hersel'. Happen it was 
 nae a kindness to keep her here, wicked as it 
 sounds, but I did it" 
 
 "She would not stay with you?" 
 
 " She bided the night and the next day ; she 
 was reicht dour and silent ; waur than that
 
 132 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 half-mad like. The mon had flung her aff and 
 gaed his gate ; she telled me sae much. She'd 
 come to New Orleans \vi' him ; her wean was 
 born there. Oh, ma'am, he left her, an' he took 
 anither lass wi' him when he went, an' she was 
 knowin' to it." 
 
 "It is too dreadful!" shivered Elizabeth. 
 "Tell me what you did what became of her." 
 " Waur than the deeth she was seekin' wanr 
 than the black, black water she meant to hide 
 her trouble under," groaned the old woman. "1 
 took her to my airms, and begged her to let me 
 help her an' the bairnie, in token she forgave my 
 haird words. The bit babbie was in a bad way. 
 She'd no milk fur it, and it was nigh stairved. 
 The night, when I thocht the puir body was 
 sleepin' at last, I dozed aff, wi' the bairn beside 
 me. She cam' and stood by my bedside, beg- 
 gin' an' prayin' me to keep an' care for the wean. 
 I thocht her daft, an' had a muckle wark to com- 
 fort her wi' promisin' all she asked. Then she 
 quieted, an' lay douu again, askin' me to pit the 
 babbie by her. I was sair worn mysel', and slept 
 sound till the morn's mornin', an' the baimie 
 woke me wi' its skirlin'. Dear leddy, it was 
 broad day, and she'd gaed her lane to due pen- 
 ance for her sin." 
 
 " But you heard from her afterward ?" 
 
 " It was lang fir^t na' ti' I was hame here. 
 When we were talkin', she asked an address that 
 wad always reach me, an' I gied her one, though 
 I was mindin' the babbie, and did na' think o' her 
 meanin* at the time. But I got a bit scrape o' 
 the pen an' a hantle o' money no news o' her- 
 sel', but just the money ; it cam' a matter o' 
 three times plenty too; checks frae a San 
 Francisco bank. I was to write to a man there 
 how the child fared ; an' I did." 
 
 " But that is a good while ago ?" 
 
 "Aye! The last news that cam' to me was 
 through an English sailor I knew just chance. 
 He was here, an' when he saw Megsie he was 
 that scairt he tauld n:e the story. As ye may 
 think, I did na' let out that the bairn was nane o' 
 me or mine. It was a story about a drunken 
 frolic he had in San Francisco. A parcel o' men 
 robbed him at a drinkin' an' gamblin* place kept 
 by a woman they ca'ed Mileddy. I'd hae known 
 her wi'out the name, just by his account o' her 
 looks. Eh, dear ma'am, she'd gaed from bad to 
 waur. He telled how she was mair like a fiend 
 than n woman, on'y sae beautiful through it a', 
 and gangin' always doun, dotin !" 
 
 Kliz;ibeth covered her eyes with her hand. 
 Aunt Jean's simple words made the picture so 
 terribly clear that it was unbearable. 
 
 "That was the last I ever heerd," pursued 
 Mrs. Murray; "four year an' mair. It's like 
 she's dead lang syne ; it's the best to hope. 
 < >ny way, she'd be in God's hands, an' after a' 
 thiit's come an' gaen, He might judge her as mon 
 could na' do." 
 
 " And through His goodness you were^illowed 
 to save the child, " Elizabeth said. 
 
 "Eh, dear ma'ara, in ane way or anither He 
 warks to bring gude out o' a' the wrang and sin, 
 in His ain way an' His ain time. Whiles it's 
 haird to believe, but He does it." 
 
 The touching words from the old Scripture 
 narrative rose involuntary to Elizabeth's lips. 
 She did not speak aloud, but in her heart she 
 cried, "Lord, help thou mine unbelief!" 
 
 "It's muckle the bairn need never ken," Mrs. 
 Murray was saying. "The money's a' pit by. 
 I could na' use it I could na' !" 
 
 "You are a good, good woman!" Elizabeth 
 said; and Mrs. Murray only looked at her in 
 mild wonder. 
 
 What made up a complete life? Elizabeth 
 was thinking. Perhaps in the sphere beyond 
 this the patient sacrifice of this lowly woman, 
 the tender caring for this helpless waif and stray, 
 should count for more than all the grand achieve- 
 ments, the far-reaching plans for human ad- 
 vancement, which had been the dream of her 
 own visionary youth, even had she been able to 
 carry them out in their fullness. 
 
 "I've always kept some bit trifles that I 
 found," Mrs. Murray said presently. "They 
 must have droppit out o' a bundle she had, wi'out 
 her knowin' it." 
 
 She went to a trunk that stood in a dark cor- 
 ner, and unlocked it with a key she took from 
 her pocket. She came back to the table, and 
 set a small box down upon it. 
 
 "I've aye kept them in this," she said; 
 "they're naught, but I could na' bear not to treat 
 them carefully. Whiles I've fancied always they 
 were just the first he'd given her that she kept 
 after sellin' the rest, for he'd treated her so ill 
 a woman is aye a woman, ye ken." 
 
 She lifted a coral necklace of no great value 
 a simple ring-^some withered flowers a book. 
 One could fancy, as the good woman said, that 
 these trifles had each possessed a history. Per- 
 haps the coral was the first gift of the man to his 
 victim the flowers might have been gathered 
 some day the two had spent in the country. 
 
 "An' this," Mrs. Murray said, holding up a 
 silver cross, with a horrified look " a crucifecx ! 
 The puir lass pit it roond the bairn's neck her- 
 sel' she's aye worn it till the ither day the ring 
 broke. I had it mendit, and she's na' asked it 
 yet I've na' the hairt to keep it frae her. Meg 
 kens naething aboot its bein' a heathenish em- 
 bleem, and I hae warned her ne'er to show it. 
 And the book it's Freench, I'm thinkin'. I 
 hae na' looked at the things in years, till I pit the 
 crucifeex here they're awfu' to me awfif !" 
 
 She held the book toward Elizabeth. It had 
 been richly bound, but was worn and tarnished. 
 There were stains on the cover perhaps the 
 trace of tears who should say ? 
 
 Elizabeth mechanically opened the volume
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 133 
 
 it was a collection of Alfred de Mussel's passion- 
 ate lyrics. On the fly-leaf was carelessly written 
 the one word "Milady." Here and there on 
 the pages other pencil-marks were visible pas- 
 sages underscored in certain places a date scrib- 
 bled. To an imaginative person the book con- 
 tained a complete history. 
 
 "I'd na' seen the writin'," Mrs. Murray said, 
 looking over Elizabeth's shoulder. " I just saw 
 it was a foreign tongue Freench belike ; and 
 that aye seems wickedness. It wad be in verse, 
 I'm thinkin'.'' 
 
 "Yes, "Elizabeth answered, and still absently 
 turned the leaves whose few pencil records seem- 
 ed to make plain to her the black tragedy which, 
 like so many another, had passed under the 
 world's eyes without the world's heeding. 
 
 Mrs. Murray began collecting the finished 
 dolls, and putting them in a basket ready to be 
 carried to the shop. She had gone to the other 
 end of the room. Elizabeth still lingered over 
 the pages, which possessed a painful fascination 
 she could not dispel. 
 
 Toward the middle of the volume she came 
 upon a page that had a couple of lines written 
 on the inner edge ; they were partially effaced 
 by flourishes and careless marks, as if some per- 
 son had done it absently while reading. She 
 moved close to the window to see more clearly. 
 It was an extract from the poem that had been 
 written in a man's hand then came again the 
 name "Milady" then another name not dis- 
 tinct at first, but as Elizabeth stared at it, the 
 words seemed to grow till they rose like gigantic 
 characters before her horrified eyes. 
 
 The name was Darrell Vaughan, and the writ- 
 ing her husband's ! It was a habit of his as 
 he read to scribble absently on the margin of a 
 page. 
 
 She felt dizzy and faint at this fresh proof of 
 the vileness of the man to whom her life was 
 bound, but the shock did not come with the vi- 
 olence it might have done to most wives. She 
 had grown accustomed to proofs of his baseness 
 month by month, week by week, some new 
 evidence was forced upon her. She tore the page 
 from the book, and hid it in her dress at least 
 it must not be left for any other eye to discover. 
 She caught sight of her face in the little mirror ; 
 she was startled at its stern coldness. In the 
 midst of her weakness and trouble she was con- 
 scions of wondering could it be the same face that 
 used to meet hers in the glass? the face that 
 was once eager with bright dreams, out of which, 
 young and fair as it still was, every trace of hope 
 had worn away ? 
 
 She drew her veil down, and turned toward 
 Mrs. Murray. 
 
 "I must go now," she said. "I have stayed 
 a long time. I will come again soon ; I shall not 
 forget." 
 
 She was out in the air, hurrying through the 
 
 streets toward her home. One reflection came 
 suddenly up, and brought a sort of comfort with 
 it. At least she might make it her care that the 
 future of this nameless child should be peaceful 
 kept far away from harm or evil. 
 
 Her husband's daughter, and she was child- 
 less ! He had often reproached her with it, and 
 sometimes she had grieved because the sweet bless- 
 ing of maternity was denied her. She thanked 
 God heartily now for the want which had help- 
 ed to make her life solitary and gray. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FOR HIS OWN SAKE. 
 
 ELIZABETH went back to her desolate home, 
 and sat down in the silence. The secret which she 
 had discovered which had been thrust upon her 
 rather could not outwardly affect her life. This 
 was the clearest thought in her mind after those 
 long hours of meditation perhaps the hardest of 
 all to bear. She was married to this man, and 
 neither human judgment nor human law would 
 be on her side if she were to throw her burden 
 down for a cause like the present. She was old 
 enough, had knowledge enough of the world, to 
 understand this. That page out of the dark book 
 of her husband's past was filled up and put aside 
 before her life touched his ; she had nothing to do 
 with it. That would have been the world's verdict. 
 Even women good, pure women would unhes- 
 itatingly say that a young man's weaknesses and 
 follies should not be submitted to a rigid, piti- 
 less examination. No young man's record would 
 stand it. Men were exposed to temptations which 
 women could not appreciate ; besides, they often 
 made better husbands if during their bachelor 
 liberty they had gone through experiences "like- 
 ly to teach them the folly of such things. " Over 
 and over Elizabeth had heard these arguments 
 from feminine lips, and had learned to listen in 
 silence. Her soul filled with bitterness, as many 
 another woman's has done, when such theory and 
 practice were forced upon her knowledge, and 
 now it had become a personal matter ; yet she was 
 bound hand and foot. Still, she was thinking 
 more of that unhappy creature, a glimpse into 
 whoso history Mrs. Murray's words had offered, 
 than of herself. Some wild idea rose in her 
 mind as to the possibility of finding her out if 
 she were alive trying to help her k There came, 
 too, a wilder idea of appealing to Darrell : beg- 
 ging him for his soul's sake to discover the 
 woman, and sav^ her from the final consequences 
 of misery and sin. It was all she could do ; and 
 was not this course a plain duty? Oh, that word! 
 Why, holy and beautiful as it had once seemed 
 to her, it had grown the greatest stumbling-block 
 in her path ! She was always bruising herself 
 against it at every turn, and to her piteous cries,
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 her eager questions, it returned no more answer 
 than if it had been a dumb heathen idol, stand- 
 ing up with a smile of imbecile ferocity amid the 
 ruined temple of her life. 
 
 What was her duty? what, indeed, was exist- 
 ence for? what part or place had she in the 
 grand universal plan ? Her place ! A wife, and 
 vet widowed that most terrible widowhood of 
 the soul ! A woman in the fullness of her youth, 
 in the strength of her powers, and no work grant- 
 ed not even the sweet task of making home 
 pleasant to a loving husband. 
 
 Thought was too dreadful, too dangerous ; she 
 must get away from it. She could only hold 
 blindly to her faith, and pray that it might not 
 forsake her. 
 
 The whole afternoon had gone unnoticed ; the 
 shadows of evening were filling the room, and 
 still she sat there, holding the leaf she had torn 
 from that book, trying always to see some gleam 
 of light, some means, at least, of aiding her sis- 
 ter woman, of urging upon Vaughan the need 
 of going back over that disregarded, perhaps for- 
 gotten episode, and trying if atonement were 
 possible. 
 
 Disregarded ! forgotten ! this seemed the 
 strangest, the most unnatural part of the whole 
 matter. Could he have forgotten? Could he 
 be so utterly callous and hardened that not even 
 a memory remained not a pang of remorse ? 
 
 Suddenly she heard her husband's voice in the 
 hall addressing one of the servants. He had 
 come back without warning, as his habit was. 
 
 " Mrs. Vanghan is in the library ? Tell them 
 to hurry dinner, please. I am hungry and tired." 
 
 Then he entered ; she saw him pause on the 
 threshold, and look about. His eyes, unaccus- 
 tomed to the dimness, did not at first distinguish 
 her, but she saw him clearly. She did not rise 
 she could not ; the paper that fluttered in her 
 trembling hand seemed the sign of a new and 
 sterner barrier between their already widely sev- 
 ered souls. 
 
 "Are you here, Elizabeth?" he called, pleas- 
 antly enough. " What a fancy you have for en- 
 joying blind-man's holiday !" 
 
 He was beside her now, holding out his hand. 
 " How do you do been well?" 
 
 He did not offer to kiss her. She noticed this, 
 confused and troubled as she felt ; noticed it, and 
 was glad. 
 
 " I did not expect you to-night," she managed 
 to say, and rose, slowly, letting her fingers lie pas- 
 sive in his clasp. 
 
 " How cold your hand is the room's like a 
 furnace, though you stay shut^ip too much," 
 were his next words. Then he gave a fretful 
 little laugh. " Have you got to the end of your 
 welcome already?" he asked. 
 
 ' ' I hope you have been well. Were you suc- 
 cessful in your business ?" 
 
 For the life of her she can think of no other 
 
 words ! That paper is still in her hand ; she can 
 neither turn her eyes from it nor hide the page, 
 though she would like to do one or the other. 
 
 "Yes, to both questions," she hears him say. 
 Then he adds, " I should think we might as well 
 have the good of what little light there is." 
 
 He goes to the window near her chair, and 
 pulls back the curtain which Elizabeth had drop- 
 ped over the casement when she entered the room 
 hours before. 
 
 " Upon my word, this is a cheerful sort of wel- 
 come for a man to receive !" he exclaimed, turn- 
 ing toward her again. She is still standing, her 
 eyes fixed on the torn page. Dim as the light 
 is, she can see his name written there ; the char- 
 acters fairly burn before her eyes. 
 
 She is at a loss what to do. To leave the mat- 
 ter without making some appeal to him she feels 
 impossible. But whether it is better to wait or 
 in what words to frame her explanation she can 
 not think. 
 
 " I will hurry the dinner," is all she does say ; 
 there is a kind of relief in falling back for an in- 
 stant to the safety of some commonplace house- 
 hold matter. 
 
 " Thanks. I told Martin. I dare say they 
 will manage. I should be sorry to trouble you," 
 he replied with an elaborate civility, which be- 
 trays his rising anger. 
 
 If she could talk get that paper out of sight 
 keep down to the level of ordinary subjects, if 
 only for a time. To let the matter in her mind 
 come up in a way to cause contention or harsh 
 words would be to add to its loathsomeness. 
 There must be no quarrel ; he is dead to her ; 
 absolutely dead ! What she must say, let her 
 try to speak as dispassionately as if she had been 
 set free from this earthly bondage, and had come 
 back to plead with him. 
 
 Just then he notices the pnpcr in her hand. 
 He is always ready with suspicions ; he never 
 fails to believe the worst of any man or woman. 
 Some quick thought that he has taken her by 
 surprise is what goes through his mind. She is 
 agitated confused. Perhaps he has come near 
 some secret. Is it a letter? does some feeling 
 lie at the bottom of her odd manner ? 
 
 ' ' What are you holding ? what have you got 
 there ?" he exclaims, and tries to draw the paper 
 from her. 
 
 "Don't take it don't touch it," she replies, 
 putting her hand behind her. 
 
 "I insist on knowing what this means ! Give 
 me that letter." 
 
 "It is not a letter," she says ; " it is only a 
 page out of a, book." 
 
 "A page out of a book ! Then what are you 
 hiding it for?" retorts he. and pulls her arm 
 roughly. 
 
 A swift, sudden indignation rises in Elizabeth's 
 soul a prouder creature never breathed. The 
 scowling, 'angry face confronting her does not
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 bring any sensation of terror as it might to a 
 weaker woman. 
 
 "Let me go, if you please this instant !" 
 
 The voice is very low, but there is something 
 in its tone which brings him back to his senses 
 something in the haughty coldness of her face 
 which reminds him, as it has done before, that 
 with her no show of threat or tyranny will serve. 
 His hand drops ; he retreats a step, and Eliza- 
 beth sinks wearily back into her chair. 
 
 She realizes that this is no fitting moment to 
 bring up the subject which has been in her 
 mind during these hours since her return home. 
 Months and months ago she decided that anoth- 
 er quarrel between them must be fatal. Strife 
 shall not come now ; certainly not in regard to 
 this matter about which she feels so strongly the 
 importance of acting aright. It may be that his 
 soul and hers must endure for a period, which to 
 mortal comprehension would seem endless, the 
 consequences of their action at this crisis. 
 
 Something of these thoughts, this resolve, he 
 sees in her face what they mean he can not of 
 course tell. So often he has been irritated, half- 
 maddened by the unknown language written on 
 her countenance many a time of late he has al- 
 most hated her therefor. 
 
 "You and I are reaching a point where some 
 sort of explanation will be necessary," he says, 
 angrily. " I don't mean to be met at every 
 turn by obstinacy and secretiveness mysteries 
 made out of every trifle just to irritate me. If 
 you have any secrets, I advise you to be careful." 
 
 " Oh, stop don't say any more, "she answers, 
 wearily. " We have nothing to quarrel about 
 do not invent reasons let us have such peace 
 us we can find." 
 
 "I want that paper," he persists. "I am 
 determined to know what it is ! I wish to un- 
 derstand why my coming home unexpectedly 
 puts you in this state ! I have not the slightest 
 intention of playing the part of un mart sage, 
 and timing my arrival to suit any little plans 
 you may happen to have on foot." 
 
 " If you will not be quiet, I shall go," she says, 
 rising. " Perhaps you will have come back to 
 your senses by the time dinner is ready." 
 
 With an unexpected movement he snatches 
 the paper from her hand, so carried away by 
 anger that for an instant he half believes that he 
 holds some secret. Well as he knows her, forced 
 as he is to feel her honor and truth, detesting 
 her sometimes therefor, with one side of his dis- 
 torted mind, he half believes, his devilish suspi- 
 cions for an instant. 
 
 " Now then for your little private letter !" he 
 cries. 
 
 "Not yet don't look at it 3 r et,"she pleads. 
 " I meant to tell you, but not with such feelings 
 between us ! Oh, of all things in the world over 
 which we might have trouble, do not let us choose 
 this ! Let me tell you in my own time my own 
 
 way. Let us try for cnce to act together and to 
 act for the best." 
 
 "I* is my opinion that I shall have to end by 
 paying for your keep in a mad-house," is the an- 
 swer she receives. 
 
 She has laid her hand on his arm ; he shakes 
 it off. 
 
 " I beg you to wait !" 
 
 " And I beg you not to touch me," he retorts ; 
 "my susceptibilities are as keen as yours. Hands 
 off", if you please! I shall not wait! I shall 
 read it!" 
 
 "Then read read it and be done," she an- 
 swers, and once more seats herself. 
 
 A fresh sensation of hopelessness strikes her. 
 Even if she tries to do right, something prevents 
 her doing it in a manner which could bring about 
 the good she desires. She can not tell if it be 
 fate or her own error, but so it always happens. 
 He must have his way ; she can struggle no 
 longer. 
 
 Vaughan is laughing bitterly, scornfully, as he 
 lifts the paper. It is only a printed page, after 
 all. 
 
 " What do you mean by such a performance ?" 
 he asks. ' ' A nice bit of work over an accursed 
 little" 
 
 He stops. He has caught sight of the writing, 
 and he recognizes it; he deciphers the lines, more, 
 it seems to him, by a sudden action of memory 
 than any thing else. 
 
 ' ' Mila dy Marguerite. 
 
 "Darrell Vaughan Darrell Vaughan." 
 
 Something shivers at his heart as if a hand of 
 ice had suddenly been laid there. Were he able to 
 analyze his thoughts, he could not tell whether, 
 it is pain what men call remorse or only rage. 
 But he feels as if a ghost had started up before his 
 eyes yes, a ghost, though his materialistic creed 
 would not grant any significance to the word in- 
 vented to frighten children. 
 
 It all comes back incident after incident of 
 that episode in his life so long perished of the 
 veiy day he wrote those line's the beautiful face 
 which looked up into his as he laughingly pen- 
 ciled them the face radiant with youth and 
 loveliness ! More than this, he sees the crowd 
 in the court -room that face looks out at him 
 again, awful in the wreck of its beauty, in its 
 apathy of despair. These pictures flash before 
 his eyes as a gleam of lightning reveals phase 
 after phase of a landscape that has been hidden 
 beneath the blackness of a tempest till it looks 
 unfamiliar. 
 
 He turns angrily upon Elizabeth. 
 
 "Have you been spying hunting among my 
 things " 
 
 Then he stops, conscious that he has betrayed 
 himself. 
 
 "I will tell you how I found it," he hears 
 Elizabeth say. 
 
 " Nonsense ! What is it any way ? I am sure
 
 136 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 you must be out of your senses making a scene 
 over a scrap of an old book." 
 
 This with some feeble pretense to cheat not 
 only her but himself to get away from those 
 flashes of memory that burn and sear somehow 
 as they have hardly done during all these years 
 of secrecy and guilt. 
 
 "We must talk about it," Elizabeth says, firm- 
 ly. "I can not live, Darrell Vaughan I can not 
 bear my part of the burden unless you will take 
 some means try in some way to atone." 
 
 "Now see here " 
 
 " Stop, stop ! listen to me !" 
 
 "I shall do nothing of the sort! . You have 
 found, Heaven knows how or when, a scrap of an 
 old book, and you choose to build up a romance, 
 and go into one of your fevers, and act when I 
 come home more like a lunatic than any thing 
 else." 
 
 She sits upright in her chair now. Every trace 
 of emotion has left her face ; her eyes are full 
 upon him with that cold, searching expression he 
 has learned so well a look that always irritates 
 him more than the most bitter words could do. 
 
 " Why you showed me this I can not imagine," 
 he hurries on, forced by his natural dissimulation 
 to keep up this farce of falsehood, however vain 
 and shallow he may feel it to be. 
 
 "Don't say any more don't !" Elizabeth says, 
 and her voice falters. It makes her faint, sick, 
 the miserable attempt to deceive at a moment 
 like this, when all she longs for is to help him 
 into some course of right action. " Let me tell 
 you I am not angry, I don't mean to make a 
 scene ; but you must hear. " 
 
 " I'll hear nothing more of your absurd fan- 
 cies ; some ridiculous whim ; a trick you have 
 gotten up to annoy me," he persists still, and 
 canot stop, though he feels the absolute absurd- 
 ity of the position he has taken. 
 
 "I must tell you, Darrell, for I have found 
 Milady's child." 
 
 She hesitates a little over the words. Even 
 now, after all that has come and gone, after all 
 she has livd through, the misery and degrada- 
 tion he has forced upon her, she shrinks from the 
 task of showing him that she sees his soul as it 
 really is. Bt she has spoken the words. A 
 brief silence follows. 
 
 "Well, what do you mean to do now?" he 
 asks, sullenly. 
 
 " It was about that I wanted to speak," she 
 replies. "If that had been nil, I would never 
 have told you I would have cared for the little 
 thing, and been glad to ; but there's something 
 more to be done." 
 
 He leaves her side, and walks up and down the 
 room among the shadows. Elizabeth rises from 
 her seat and approaches him. He turns toward 
 her, frowning blacklv. 
 
 "I'll just tell you one thing," he says ; "you're 
 the curse of my life, and I hate you !" 
 
 The cruel words do not anger her ; they do not 
 even cause her pain. What she thinks of at this 
 moment is to succeed in her purpose to find 
 some appeal which shall move his heart or his 
 conscience. 
 
 " There is no need to talk of yourself or me 
 just now," she answers, moving beside him as he 
 resumes his march. " I am not minding for my- 
 self I can't even care about what you say " 
 
 "Because you are stone ice!" he breaks in. 
 passionately. " All you want is to set yourself 
 up on a pedestal of dignity and virtue, and show 
 how much better you are than other people ! 
 Better ! Wait till you are tempted ; wait till 
 you have blood in your veins before " 
 
 He ends the speech only by a gesture a move- 
 ment as if his impulse were to strike, but lets his 
 hand drop to his side. 
 
 She must go on she must tell the rest. Per- 
 sonally she is powerless to act, but she can not 
 endure the consciousness that she has made no 
 effort to aid that hapless woman, to aid Darrell 
 himself in the strife of his evil instincts against 
 his own soul. 
 
 "Don't talk of me," she says; "don't think 
 of me if you can help it. I am nothing in the 
 matter." 
 
 " Then why do you meddle with it ?" he inter- 
 rupts. " I suppose you mean to do heroics ! I 
 should think you were old enough to have learn- 
 ed common-sense. Do you suppose men are an- 
 gels ? Do you think there is any body that has 
 not gone through some infernal folly of the sort ?" 
 
 "I don't judge you; try to understand me. 
 It is not that. I only want oh, Darrell ! it is 
 never too late to set wrong right ; never too late 
 to atone!" 
 
 He looks at her now with only an expression 
 of amazement in his countenance. 
 
 "Now what have you got into your head?" 
 he asks. 
 
 " If she could be found she went to Califor- 
 nia it is long ago but she might be found she 
 might be helped. She was ill suffering ; she '' 
 
 "Who the deuce told you all this fine ro- 
 mance?" he breaks in. "Now let's finish and 
 have no more jcords. I've no intention of pre- 
 tending not to understand. There was such a 
 woman, and I was a young fool ! If there was 
 any body deserved pity, it was I. But it is use- 
 less to try to make you comprehend that." 
 
 " She was so young, so " 
 
 " Will you be quiet ? I tell you that you don't 
 know what you are talking about ! The woman 
 was one of the worst creatures that ever lived. 
 As for all that stuff the child, and all that it 
 might be mine or any body's ! Now don't shiver 
 and shake you've brought it on yourself try 
 and look at the business in a reasonable light." 
 
 "Oh, don't I tell you it makes no difference 
 
 where I am concerned ?" she groans. " Only let 
 
 ! let us try to do something. Don't remember I am
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 137 
 
 your wife; just think that we are two friends 
 that I want to help that I shall be glad and 
 thankful to help." 
 
 ' ' Why, what is there to be done ?" 
 
 "The child. If there is nothing else to be 
 done, we might " 
 
 She can not tinish ; lie is laughing ! Oh, if he 
 had heaped abuse upon her, struck her to the 
 earth, she thinks it would have been little to bear 
 in comparison to this proof of his utter hardness. 
 
 " Perhaps you'd like to adopt the brat do the 
 good Samaritan, so as to have a proof of my 
 wickedness always at hand," he sneers. 
 
 "I would take it if you would let me," is her 
 answer ; " I would love it. Who knows ? Per- 
 haps she might bring a blessing into our home." 
 
 " Of all exasperating women you are the worst ! " 
 he exclaims. " Now let this be the last time you 
 erer mention the subject. I should think you 
 would be ashamed to mix yourself up with such 
 wickedness so fine and virtuous as you are." 
 
 " And you will do nothing ?" 
 
 "No! A pretty idea if a man is to hunt up 
 every vile woman that happened to fasten herself 
 on him when he was young and silly ! If that 
 were the law, I'm thinking you'd find some of 
 your religious friends with a sort of harem that 
 would astonish you." 
 
 She has gained nothing done no good ! That 
 is all she thinks or cares for. She does not even 
 heed the coarse words which at another moment 
 would have hurt her worse than blows. 
 
 "I can not bear it!'' she cries; "I cannot bear 
 it ! She was young she was a woman she 
 must have been innocent once " 
 
 "Now I doubt that," Vaughan breaks in again 
 with cool irony. ' ' She was born utterly depraved 
 and abandoned. I see what you fancy that I 
 ruined her life drove her to sin, as you call it. 
 Nothing of the sort. Why you ought to be 
 ashamed to make me tell you such things. Of 
 course you would blame me you would be cer- 
 tain I had been wrong ! I suffered enough from 
 that she-devil. I hope she's dead 1 TI 
 
 "Darrell!" 
 
 "I hope she's dead! She nearly ruined me; 
 she Why she was a liar and a thief 1 Look 
 here, you needn't talk about hunting her up. I 
 remember now, she was concerned in a murder 
 or something of the sort. I heard of her in Cal- 
 ifornia ; they lynched her, I think. A wretch 
 a devil ; and you come laying her sins at my 
 door ! I'll not endure it. I'm tired of you al- 
 ways trying to believe some ill of me. Let me 
 alone, or I'll make you repent it." 
 
 How much is acting, how much genuine rage, 
 Elizabeth can not tell. It does not matter. As 
 usual, she has done harm in her effort to act 
 aright. She is ready to believe ill of him she 
 feels that ; is it strange ? She has every reason ; 
 but what good can follow harsh words or recrim- 
 ination? If she had onlv been silent vet that 
 
 seemed impossible. She has accomplisned noth- 
 ing, but she has done every thing in her power. 
 She knows that each word he speaks is false ; 
 she can not credit him, though there would be a 
 certain relief in doing so. Whatever she had 
 since grown under the brutalizing effects of an 
 evil life, the woman had loved him. She had been 
 young and fair, and oh, why think, why torture 
 herself! She is helpless helpless! Living or 
 dead, the outcast is beyond her reach. It had 
 seemed so easy, as she thought, of ways and 
 means to help, and a wall, a great black wall, has 
 suddenly been built between her and the possi- 
 bility. 
 
 Something for the child she may do in secret. 
 Dan-ell Vaughan's child his eyes, his expression. 
 There is proof there which even he could not re- 
 sist were she set before him. 
 
 When she looks up from that whirl of dizzy- 
 ing reflection she is alone. Vaughan has left the 
 room without her observing it after that last furi- 
 ous tirade. The torn page lies at her feet, where 
 he flung it ; she picks it up smoothes it out 
 hides it away. She can not destroy the record ; 
 utterly worthless as it is, she can no more do it 
 than she could spurn the wretched creature her- 
 self if she were to appear suddenly and beg for 
 help. Dead dead as the penalty of her crimes ! 
 Vaughan had said this ; it is not true ! There 
 seems no reason for doubting him, but, all the 
 same, Elizabeth feels that it is not true. 
 
 It is quite dark ; dinner must be nearly ready. 
 It is time to dress ; every wearisome, petty de- 
 tail of common life must go on. Shock after 
 shock may come she may be thrust further and 
 further into the gloom and cold, further and fur- 
 ther from any hope whereon to steady her mind 
 but life must go on. The miserable pretense 
 must be kept up : dinners eaten, friends greeted, 
 the whole round of daily existence endured, while 
 her soul stares out into the blackness with aching 
 eyes, and can scarcely find a ray of light to re- 
 mind her that above all and beyond all, the mis- 
 ery, the sin. there still stretches heaven with its 
 future. 
 
 Her dressing-room is lighted, but the maid is 
 not there. 
 
 Vaughan enters quickly ; he has heard her step. 
 He comes holding a letter in his hand. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me Carstoe was gone ?" 
 he asks. " What the devil does it mean is this 
 your work too?" 
 
 "I had no time to remember," she answers. 
 "He told me business called him back to Cali- 
 fornia. If I had thought about it, I should have 
 supposed you knew." 
 
 "The old fool has resigned the agency !" ex- 
 claims Vaughan. "Now just tell me what that 
 means." 
 
 "I have no idea ; he did not speak of it to me. " 
 
 She is telling the truth he sees that. 
 
 " Ungrateful old hound !" he mutters.
 
 138 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 " I don't think Mr. Carstoe is that," Elizabeth 
 replies, absently. "It seems odd what does he 
 say ?" 
 
 ""Say say? Read his letter and see! You 
 may dine without me I am going out. You 
 have managed a pretty welcome for a man after 
 a month's absence ! You're a lovely pattern of 
 a wife a model of the domestic virtues !" 
 
 Then he flings out of the room. Elizabeth 
 reads Mr. Carstoe 's letter. It affords no expla- 
 nation ; he only says that circumstances compel 
 him to resign his trust. While in California he 
 will arrange the business matters so that they can 
 be placed in some other hands. If Mr.Vaughan 
 will write at once and appoint a new agent, he, 
 Carstoe, will be glad, as he desires as soon as pos- 
 sible to be freed from his present duties. 
 
 What it means Elizabeth does not know, but 
 she feels that the brief, constrained letter has a 
 meaning, and a painful one. In some way his 
 illusions in regard to Darrell Vaughan have been 
 dispelled he knows him for what he is : so much 
 significance the letter has to her. 
 
 They come presently and tell her dinner is 
 ready. She makes some excuse for her husband, 
 but not a soul among the domestic band is de- 
 ceived. They know very well that Mr.Vaughan 
 is subject "to his little tempers," smooth as he 
 appears to the outside world. They comprehend 
 perfectly that he has left the house under the in- 
 fluence of one of these attacks. They talked it 
 over among themselves of course, and are divided 
 in opinion as to whether the blame rests with the 
 master or mistress of the mansion, and, after a 
 general instinct of human nature, end in blaming 
 both about equally, and finding a certain pleasure 
 in so doing. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF THE BOHEMIANS. 
 
 THE autumn hnd come before . Nathalie La 
 Tour's affairs rendered the voyage to America 
 practicable. She was wild with impatience to 
 go. More numbers of the Bohemian had reach- 
 ed her, bringing fresh incense of praise, and ea- 
 gerly demanding her presence in the New World, 
 where, according to the Bohemian, a whole na- 
 tion waited to greet her with the admiration due 
 her genius and her success. 
 
 Nathalie had looked forward to attracting 
 great attention on the steamer : of course all 
 her fellow-voyagers would be excited about the 
 presence of so celebrated a woman. Unfortu- 
 nately, Nathalie's stomach was not of the strong- 
 est, and from Liverpool to New York she could 
 only lie flat in her berth, and wish disconsolately 
 that she had never been born. But she could 
 not even be miserable in peace, for Susanne, 
 finally wretched, and no better able to bear it 
 
 than if she had been a genius also, lay moaning 
 night and day on the upper shelf, finding slight 
 comfort in peevish complaints against the cruelty 
 of her mistress in having dragged an unfortu- 
 nate old woman forth to meet an awful death upon 
 the sea, in spite of prayers and resistance. Su- 
 sanne always insisted upon her unwillingness to 
 go, though she had scolded straight through the 
 summer over the delay in their departure. 
 
 But the misery ended at length ; land was in 
 sight ; the steamer sailed majestically up the 
 beautiful bay, and Nathalie got on deck to catch 
 a first view of the great city where the fulfillment 
 of the future awaited her. 
 
 She was, perhaps, a little surprised that the 
 cannon from the different forts did not boom out 
 a welcome as she passed ; but when the vessel 
 reached the dock, what she called her triumph 
 commenced. 
 
 The editor of the Bohemian, accompanied by 
 representatives of the illustrious band which 
 gave the paper its name, came on board to re- 
 ceive her. Nathalie could have wished that most 
 of the party had been differently attired, but con- 
 soled her easily disturbed taste by remembering 
 how many examples there were of genius appear- 
 ing indifferent to such matters. 
 
 Lodgings had been procured for her at a 
 French hotel in the upper part of the town, and 
 the very evening of her arrival there was a gath- 
 ering of the Bohemian clique in those apart- 
 ments. The editor had told her how anxious 
 these earnest-souled men and women were to 
 welcome her appearance among them, and 
 though she would have been glad to rest and re- 
 cover her looks a little, the fear of disappointing 
 them, and her own eagerness to taste her triumph 
 to the full, prevented her asking for any delay. 
 Indeed, as she understood the matter, these un- 
 known worshipers had prepared an entertain- 
 ment in her honor to be given at the hotel in 
 order to spare her fatigue, but an entertainment 
 of which she was to be the chief guest. 
 
 The supper was a good one ; nothing had 
 been spared, even to champagne ; and the Bo- 
 hemians more shame to an unappreciative 
 world, who paid slight attention to the needs of 
 such elevated natures did not drink champagne 
 every day. A few men appeared in correct 
 evening dress, more or less dilapidated ; several 
 with their coats tightly buttoned, in order to 
 conceal the lack of waistcoat. Others made a 
 much as possible of that garment, conscious that 
 it was the best point in their attire. There were 
 long-haired poets, who had pined voiceless until 
 they found utterance through the columns of the 
 Bohemian. Men whose pictures year after year 
 were sent ignominiously back from the exhibi- 
 tions, owing to the malice and envy of the "hang- 
 ing committee ;" but the Bohemian was at hand 
 now to give their wrongs a tongue, not to men- 
 tion interminable criticisms upon those remark-
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 139 
 
 able works. There were women celebrated, 
 through the Bohemian women who wrote, wom- 
 en who painted, women who acted and sang as 
 neither Rachel nor Fatti had ever done, though 
 fate and a gross world refused a recognition of 
 their gifts. But men and women, they bowed 
 before Nathalie, and the supper proved a brill- 
 iant success. 
 
 Many poems were recited in her honor ; she 
 was called on for a speech ; she made one that 
 was loudly applauded. She was crowned with 
 a garland of flowers, and hailed Queen "Queen 
 of the Bohemians!" Her heart swelled, and 
 Susanne, peeping at the scene through a half- 
 open door, fairly wept with joy, convinced, like 
 her young mistress, that this adulation was the 
 admiring utterance of a whole people an entire 
 continent. 
 
 But the culminating moment was when the 
 prophet of the band rose to pour forth the in- 
 spired measures her coming had roused in his 
 mighty soul. This tribute had been left till the 
 last it followed directly after the coronation, 
 and Bohemia felt that nothing more was possible 
 in the way of honoring its new sovereign. Natha- 
 lie was convinced of the beauty of the poem ; 
 every body rushed into ecstasies ; one enthusias- 
 tic female kissed the hem of the prophet's robe 
 a rather greasy black frock-coat, much worn 
 about the seams. But somehow, try as she 
 might to appreciate the tribute, it seemed to 
 Nathalie that she must be less familiar with 
 English than she supposed, though she had 
 spoken it all her life, for these glowing strains 
 sounded almost like an unknown language in 
 her ears. 
 
 The editor of the Bohemian was too wise a 
 man to lose any time. On the very next day 
 Nathalie signed various legal documents and a 
 check for a goodly amount ; a share of that new 
 lever of the world belonged to her, and her 
 name would appear on the next issue as one of 
 the editors. 
 
 Those first days were so full of occupation 
 that Nathalie had little leisure for surprise or 
 disappointment, though the moment she set eyes 
 on the leaders of the clan, old Susanne expressed 
 her opinion that if literary men wore such shabby 
 trousers, for her part she would prefer those with 
 less poetry and better clothes. 
 
 Nathalie had several articles to prepare for the 
 Bohemian, and, as newspaper writing was new to 
 her, of course they occupied a great deal of at- 
 tention. Then her friends were much about 
 her, and somehow, men and women, they al- 
 ways seemed to be eating how it chanced 
 Nathalie could not tell. She began to fear she 
 had a mania for making people eat, and that 
 these poetical natures yielded just to gratify her. 
 
 Why, there was Mrs. O'Moo, who gave lectures 
 (in California) "On the Radicalism of Jesus 
 Christ," who said that the fathers of women's 
 
 children ought to be whatsoever men those wom- 
 en happened to have a spiritual affinity for at 
 the time even she ate, ethereal as her nature 
 was ate breakfast and dinner often, and extra 
 meals besides. And young Mr. Fustian, with 
 his long hair in his eyes, and poetry upon his 
 lips, whose soul had called Nathalie's soul across 
 the vast deep, he ate ; and all the intermediates 
 between these two extremes of the Bohemian 
 clique did more eating during the first ten days 
 after Nathalie's arrival than they had done in 
 months. 
 
 It was a little blow to Nathalie when Miss 
 Grun (who painted such lovely pre-liaphaelite 
 pictures, which some man high in authority kept 
 out of the exhibition from jealousy) I say it 
 was a blow to Nathalie, when the fair Miss Grun 
 made a symposium at her studio in honor of the 
 Queen, to be set down to cold beans and vinegar, 
 and a huge pitcher of ale to moisten the repast. 
 
 But when Nathalie's hotel bill came in, she no 
 longer wondered at cold beans and vinegar being 
 the usual Bohemian ambrosia at supper. She 
 was almost frightened to death, accustomed as 
 she was to the moderate prices of the Continent, 
 and Susanne gave her an inordinate scolding. 
 
 There were items in the bill which puzzled 
 Nathalie exceedingly. The expense of the en- 
 tertainment given by the Bohemians on her ar- 
 rival was set down. This must have been for- 
 getfulness on the part of the deputation Natha- 
 lie felt that she could not bring herself to men- 
 tion it. There were carriages at late hours of 
 the night, and double prices for them in conse- 
 quence. The only carriages ordered at such 
 times had been those her guests had command- 
 ed ; but this was a matter also that she could 
 not mention to her friends. Then followed 
 items such as these : Three rum punches at bar ; 
 four gin cocktails at bar ; six hot whiskies at bar. 
 Nathalie did not even know what the bar was. 
 Susanne was unable to comprehend the bill be- 
 cause the clerk had written it in English, but 
 she sent for .the hotel-keeper, and rated him 
 fearfully. He listened with the composure only 
 a French landlord can attain, then reminded 
 Nathalie that the day after her arrival he had 
 asked her if orders given by her guests were to 
 be set down to her account. Nathalie recollect- 
 ed this remembered, too, that she had replied 
 in the affirmative, without stopping to think the 
 question an odd one her head had been full of 
 her honors. 
 
 But Madame had not forgotten ? Very well 
 all these extraordinary items were the result 
 of this direction on Madame's part. Nathalie 
 bethought herself that Bohemianism was frater- 
 nity, and.held her peace. 
 
 Miss Grun happened to come in while Natha- 
 lie was still regarding the long row of figures, 
 and Susanne upbraiding her loudly. Miss Grun 
 soon understood the case. No doubt the bill
 
 140 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIK. 
 
 was right enough (Nathalie could not bring 
 herself to do more than show the total) ; she 
 must expect horrible charges if she lived at a 
 hotel. 
 
 'I do not know what your fortune may be," 
 said Miss Grun, beautifully oblivious of the fact 
 that nothing else had been talked of in Bohemia 
 for months before Nathalie's arrival ; "but it is 
 only the very wealthiest persons who can afford 
 to live at such places in New York." 
 
 "I did not know," returned Nathalie. "I 
 wonder Mr. Counter did not tell me." 
 
 "Oh, Counter is always in the clouds," said 
 Miss Grun, disdainfully. 
 
 " Or Mrs. O'Moo," continued Nathalie. 
 
 Miss Grun gave vent to a sharp, derisive laugh. 
 
 Even in Bohemia ladies sometimes quarreled, 
 and a bitter enmity existed between the female 
 lecturer and the maiden artist. The origin of 
 the difficulty was quite obscure ; but it appeared 
 tolerably certain that a ruffled petticoat was at 
 the bottom of the feud a ruffled petticoat, and 
 a man, of course. 
 
 In Bohemia it was by no means uncommon 
 for people to borrow articles of attire. Nathalie 
 had herself noticed a blue-crape shawl which 
 belonged apparently to six different ladies, and 
 was acquainted with a turquoise pin which made 
 regularly the round of the younger gentlemen's 
 shirt-fronts. So following this sweet rule of 
 communism and fraternity, Miss Grun had once 
 upon a time lent Mrs. O'Moo the ruffled petti- 
 coat but she did not lend her lover. Mrs. 
 O'Moo took him without leave ; whether as a 
 lawful perquisite on the ground of affinity, or a 
 natural accompaniment to the petticoat, I am 
 unable to say she took him, however, and hinc 
 illce lachrymal. 
 
 So now Miss Grun emitted a derisive laugh, 
 and, as if the sound had been a magic spell which 
 forced her into speech, she began the melancholy 
 history. O'Moo did not, in reality, belong to the 
 band over which Nathalie ruled. She was a 
 New Light had foisted herself upon Bohemia, 
 and stuck there like a barnacle to a ship. 
 
 Miss Grun enveloped Nathalie in the petti- 
 coat blinded her with the ruffle produced a 
 picture of the false lover wept moaned had 
 to be comforted with cura9oa and stayed with 
 sweet - cake. At the end of all her eloquence, 
 Nathnlie's ideas were so vague that she could not 
 tell whether the young man had tried to cut the 
 border off O'Moo's under-garment as a present 
 to his lady-love, or O'Moo had attempted to make 
 a ruffle for her petticoat out of some article of the 
 gentleman's attire. 
 
 Nathalie thought that Miss Grun ought to con- 
 fine herself to telling stories with her brush. 
 
 But to return to the matter in hand, which 
 they did, after Miss Grun grew composed. The 
 artist advised Nathalie to take a furnished house, 
 and the counsel met with the approbation of sev- 
 
 eral of the male Bohemians who chanced to stray 
 in at the moment. 
 
 These brethren took lunch, by the way. They 
 found Miss Grun daintily nibbling her sweet-cake, 
 and proposed joining her, "not to interrupt." 
 
 Nathalie did take a furnished house, and spent 
 a good deal of money on what she called "tri- 
 fles" for its further embellishment, and made it 
 a very pretty abode indeed. Her expenses were 
 lessened, but she had so many hangers-on that 
 they were still heavier than she could afford. 
 For instance, when Miss Grun confided to her 
 with bitter tears that she was forced to sleep on 
 a sofa in her studio, and cut her bread with a 
 palette-knife, how could Nathalie avoid offering 
 her a home ? Then some poet would fling him- 
 self upon the floor in her drawing - room, and 
 beg for a dagger wherewith to cut his throat 
 Nathalie would lend him fifty dollars instead. 
 Somebody was always dining with her, more 
 somebodies going to theatres or opera at her ex- 
 pense, and most of the band, male and female, 
 soon appeared in entirely new wardrobes. But 
 even this did not prevent articles of dress be- 
 ing frequently borrowed. However, old Susanne 
 put a stop to that privilege. She and Mrs. 
 O'Moo finally had a battle royal about the mat- 
 ter. Susanne caught O'Moo one evening rum- 
 maging among her mistress's trinkets and laces. 
 O'Moo said sho was searching for a pattern, Su- 
 sanne swore that she was stealing a pocket-hand- 
 kerchief. Between them they made such an out- 
 rageous racket that a stray policeman stopped 
 before the house, and Nathalie and the rest of 
 the Bohemians rushed upstairs in wild excite- 
 ment. 
 
 Luckily Susanne could only tell her story in 
 French, so scarcely any one besides Nathalie un- 
 derstood the charge she brought. But O'Moo 
 was furious, and w..rted the Queen to send the 
 old woman adrift. Nathalie refused to do this, 
 so O'Moo deserted the Bohemians in disgust, 
 and went back to California in the society of a 
 man who gave concerts to illustrate the "Music 
 of the Future," and O'Moo explained his mean- 
 ing in a lecture styled the "Probable Nebulislic 
 State of Souls in the Inner Cosmos." 
 
 So the weeks went on to November. Natha- 
 lie's kingdom did not prove the golden land she 
 had expected. What was the good of making 
 pretty toilets for men who seldom combed their 
 hair, and to sit in the room with women who 
 pinned on their flounces, and wore stockings that 
 needed darning ? 
 
 Then one day there came a famous lady from 
 another clique, and told Nathalie she had made 
 a mistake been swindled, in fact. The Bohe- 
 mians were a low, impecunious set, possessing 
 no influence whatever. Nathalie ought to join 
 the Transcendcntals buy into their journal, 
 which was the real lever that was to move the 
 world. Then appeared somebody else belong-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 141 
 
 ing to another "ism" which was the only light 
 to live by. Then a third set descended upon 
 her, and the Bohemians fought all the intruders 
 tooth and nail, and fairly set a guard in the royal 
 abode to keep their Queen from being stolen. 
 Between them all Nathalie felt terribly confused 
 and at a loss, and was almost inclined to run 
 away and subside into obscurity. Bohemian- 
 ism in New York she found was very different 
 from the upper world of Parisian Bohemia, 
 glimpses of which had so dazzled her. 
 
 Then her ready money was almost exhausted. 
 She had debts. The fortune from her new book 
 did not pour in its golden tide. The editor of 
 the Bohemian was constantly demanding mate- 
 rial aid. Altogether, Nathalie began to find her 
 crown a thorny one, and to be sorely perplexed 
 and troubled whenever she had time to think. 
 And a period came when she must take time, 
 for her affairs were in a critical situation. 
 
 So it chanced that on the very evening of Dar- 
 rell Vaughan's return she sat alone in her pretty 
 salon. The whole Bohemian set had gone to a 
 lecture for which Nathalie had been persuaded 
 to buy a score or two of tickets, but she herself 
 remained at home, and went down into the 
 depths of despair. 
 
 Since her arrival in America, Nathalie's days 
 had been so full of occupation that she had 
 thought little of Vaughan. She was fond of in- 
 dulging in a bit of sentiment over her girlish 
 dream fond of saying, writing, and believing 
 that her heart had been crushed by a cruel tyr- 
 anny which had separated her from' the man 
 she loved, and tied her fast in unholy wedlock ; 
 but it was a very pleasant misery. The Bohe- 
 mians were not interested in politics, or in any 
 thing or any body outside their circle, so it was 
 only lately that mention of Vaughan had reached 
 Nathalie. But she had learned something of the 
 prominent position he occupied, and wondered 
 occasionally how and when they should meet. 
 She could not have accounted for the feeling 
 which restrained her from making an effort to 
 bring this meeting about. She liked to think 
 of the possibility ; yet mixed with the romantic 
 pleasure there was a certain shrinking, almost 
 a dread, which kept her passive. 
 
 Yaughan had lately read Nathalie's last book, 
 though he had forgotten the name of the man 
 she married, and did not connect this new author 
 with the girl he had met at Clarens. 
 
 He recollected Nathalie herself very well, and 
 often felt angered that he had not been able 
 further to study the peculiar nature which had 
 greatly impressed him. Girl and woman, Na- 
 thalie always showed for more than her mental 
 gifts really warranted, and Vaughan had mis- 
 taken the glitter for gold. Often in his thoughts 
 he compared her with Elizabeth, to the latter's 
 disadvantage. There was a satisfaction in un- 
 derrating his wife. The more he was obliged to 
 
 make use of Elizabeth's talents, the fonder he 
 became of doing this probably to convince him- 
 self that she had no important part in his work. 
 
 When he dashed out of the house after the 
 scene with his wife on the evening of his return, 
 he went to his club to dine. A literary acquaint- 
 ance whom he happened to meet told him over 
 their wine of which both drank a goodly share 
 the history of the woman whose novel he had 
 just been reading, and Vaughan learned that des- 
 tiny had again flung Nathalie L'Estrange within 
 his reach. 
 
 So late that evening, as the Queen of the Bo- 
 hemians sat alone, succeeding very tolerably in 
 being miserable, because she hated solitude, the 
 door opened suddenly, and Darrell Vaughan came 
 once more, without warning, into her presence. 
 
 She had not looked up, supposing the intrud- 
 er to be Susanne, armed with some sort of re- 
 proof or complaint. 
 
 " Nathalie !" he called ; " Nathalie!" 
 
 She raised her eyes, and saw him standing 
 before her handsomer than ever, she thought. 
 Dissipated habits above all, the use of that 
 poisonous drug which he craved more and more 
 had terribly sapped Vaughan's vigor, bodily 
 and mentally ; but as yet there were few out- 
 ward physical signs. To-night the wine and 
 spirits which he drank would have left many men 
 helplessly intoxicated, but with him the only ef- 
 fect was to make his face deadly pale, kindle a 
 fire in his beautiful eyes, and quicken fancy and 
 tongue with the eloquence which grew daily more 
 dependent upon such stimulus. 
 
 Nathalie started to her feet, and uttered his 
 name, half in joy, half in terror a terror for 
 which she could not have accounted to herself 
 had she sought to do so. 
 
 He was beside her, clasping her hands in his, 
 raining kisses upon them, uttering wild words, 
 the poetry of which rather than their full mean- 
 ing struck Nathalie's fancy. But partly the 
 spirit of coquetry so strong within her, partly 
 that inexplicable dread which had sent a chill 
 across her joy, enabled her quickly to regain an 
 apparent composure. 
 
 "That will do," she said, laughing, "even as 
 a tribute to an acquaintance so pleasant as ours 
 was. " 
 
 She drew her hands from his clasp, and sat 
 down. He would have flung himself on his knees 
 before her, but she held up a warning finger. 
 
 "I shall send for Susanne," she said. "Sn- 
 sanne outwitted us once she will come down 
 upon you like an ogress." 
 
 " And they married you carried you off 
 and I was helpless!" cried Vaughan. "I only 
 knew to-night that you were near ; I have been 
 away for several weeks. Oh, what a life it has 
 been since I lost you ! But I have found you, 
 found you, my beautiful Nathalie !" 
 
 "I have seen your name frequently, "she re-
 
 H2 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 plied; "you have been growing famous, and I 
 I have not been idle." 
 
 "Idle? I should think not! Why, you are 
 the most celebrated woman of the day. I have 
 read every one of your books." 
 
 She believed his statement in regard to her 
 fame, despite of the unpleasant fact that only to- 
 day the editor of the Bohemian had been after 
 more money to keep the journal in existence, 
 and her publishers had hinted that if she decided 
 to bring out a novel during the winter it would 
 be well for her to advance the sum necessary to 
 meet the expenses. But she forgot these trifles 
 in the pleasure of listening to the exaggerated 
 encomiums which he lavished upon her works 
 and her success. 
 
 "And you are married too," Nathalie said, 
 when her vanity was, for the moment, sufficient- 
 ly gratified to be able to think of something else. 
 " The only person I have met who knew you 
 told me that Mr. Peters." 
 
 Mr. Peters was the literary man who had in- 
 formed Vaughan of Nathalie's whereabouts. 
 
 "Yes, I am married," returned he moodily. 
 
 " Tell me what your wife is like. Mr. Peters 
 only knew the fact. Indeed, he did not pretend 
 to be well acquainted with you." 
 
 " No ; I just knew him from our belonging to 
 the same club." 
 
 "Never mind him," broke in Nathalie; "I 
 just know him too, and very heavy he is on 
 hand. " She uttered the bit of slang with a slight 
 foreign accent that made it amusing. " Tell me 
 about your wife. How does she look is she 
 handsome ? Is is she fond of you ?" 
 
 "No, to both questions," replied Vaughan. 
 "There is nothing to tell. I was married the 
 spring after I saw you at Clarens. My wife is 
 the dullest, most commonplace of women ; she 
 goes her way, and I go mine. The marriage was 
 a family matter ; considered a good thing for us 
 both by our relations; and that's all there is 
 about it." 
 
 "Ah, 1 * said Nathalie. His account was so 
 perfectly in keeping with her French ideas of 
 matrimony that it seemed natural. "And you 
 have no sympathies, no tastes in common ?" 
 
 "Bah! Does not marriage prevent such? 
 Don't let's talk of her ! I had lost you nothing 
 made any difference. Oh, Nathalie, those lovely 
 days at Clarens ! " 
 
 "But suffering develops the soul," she re- 
 plied, with her grandest manner. "I should 
 not have won the fame which is mine had I 
 never suffered." 
 
 She looked so pretty, voice and gestures were 
 so sweet and graceful, that Vaughan did not no- 
 tice the absurdity of the speech. 
 
 " Then you did care, Nathalie?" 
 
 "Oh, don't talk of those days," she sighed. 
 "We shall be good friends now; no one can 
 hinder that soul- friends!" 
 
 "All my heart and soul are yours!" he ex- 
 claimed. "I love you I have always loved 
 you." 
 
 She held up her finger, laughing, though her 
 color changed and her eyes softened. 
 
 " I have forbidden such words in my hearing, '' 
 she said. "You are my friend, my best friend 
 my only one, indeed. Ah, life is sad, sad 
 my way is very lonely." 
 
 She wanted poetry and sentiment, that was 
 evident, so Vaughan prepared to do both to any 
 extent. She talked freely about herself few 
 things pleased her more than to do this. She 
 detailed her life in France, made a dramatic 
 scene of her escape, the perils she had run, and 
 brought up her narrative to the present. She 
 told her plans, expounded her theories; and 
 though Vaughan was perfectly able to perceive 
 their absurdity, they did not seem absurd when 
 uttered in her pretty words. He shuddered at 
 the idea of the people by whom she was sur- 
 rounded, but it would not be difficult to persuade 
 her to give them their cong. He knew her well 
 enough to be certain that she loved gayety and ex- 
 citement better than any thing in the world, and 
 the land of Bohemia had grown familiar enough 
 to appear a little wearisome now. 
 
 There was nothing she concealed, even to the 
 money anxieties, of which Darrell was delighted 
 to hear. 
 
 " Oh, life shall be a different thing henceforth 
 to us both!" he cried, and burst into excited 
 blank verse, which sounded sweeter to Nathalie 
 than any thing her most admired poets of the 
 modern sensational school had ever sung. 
 
 Still, the interview convinced Vaughan that 
 triumph would not be easy. The creature was 
 an odd compound: tantalizing, bewitching. Dar- 
 rell's head was in a whirl. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 VACGHAN had been at home about four weeks. 
 When December came, Congress commenced its 
 session. He went to Washington for a few days. 
 The morning after his return, Elizabeth learned 
 that he had resigned his seat in the House had 
 been offered, and had accepted, one of the prin- 
 cipal city offices connected with the Port. 
 
 She read this in a newspaper the first tidings 
 that reached her in regard to the matter. She 
 had scarcely seen her husband alone since the 
 evening of his arrival. She understood perfect- 
 ly that it was neither a feeling of shame nor guilt 
 which caused him to avoid her not even anger; 
 but a sentiment of dislike, so strong that in his 
 nature it might grow rapidly into positive hatred. 
 
 She was by no means satisfied with her own 
 conduct she knew that in her appeal to his con-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 143 
 
 science she nad meant for the best; but she 
 might have erred might only have rendered 
 matters worse so far as their present life was 
 concerned. Yet had it been to do over again, 
 she felt that she could have adopted no other 
 line of action. 
 
 But the subject still kept its hold upon her 
 mind ; discouraged as she was, helpless indeed, 
 she could not relinquish the idea in some way of 
 aiding that unknown woman. She was not dead 
 this conviction remained. But to find her, even 
 to take the least step toward so doing, appeared 
 utterly impossible. Yet to sit quiet, be passive, 
 was terrible it seemed like spurning a human 
 soul that called for help. 
 
 Between herself and her husband no further 
 conversation could be held in regard to the affair. 
 He had not even asked how she discovered the 
 child, or where it was thrust every thing con- 
 nected with the history aside, as he had done for 
 years perhaps did not even recognize it as spe- 
 cially the cause for the active animosity growing 
 up in his soul toward herself. 
 
 Elizabeth was right in these conclusions. If 
 he had put his feelings into words, she could not 
 more accurately have understood them. The 
 motives which had induced Vaughan to resign 
 his seat in Congress and accept his present po- 
 sition were twofold. A question was coming up 
 during the present session upon which he desired 
 to avoid giving either speech or vote he saw 
 clearly that it would be full of complications for 
 the future. 
 
 Vaughan comprehended that the two great 
 political parties were on the eve of a crisis out 
 of which would inevitably spring new platforms 
 possibly an entirely fresh party. He had no 
 mind to involve himself just now in any impor- 
 tant decision, and the city office gave an admira- 
 ble pretext for a withdrawal. But there was an- 
 other inducement at work that insane greed for 
 money which seemed only to increase with the 
 growth of his fortune. The ramifications of the 
 potent Ring extended to this office also. Vaugh- 
 an knew that vast sums could be plundered 
 that they had been by his predecessor without 
 the slightest danger of incurring condemnation 
 or even inquiry. So he found patriotic reasons 
 for accepting the position, and made a brilliant 
 speech, which was quoted in the journals from 
 Maine to Georgia, and proceeded to plunge both 
 hands into the public coffers without delay. 
 
 But occupied as he was, his passion for Natha- 
 lie La Tour became the ruling influence of his 
 life so absorbing that, in spite of his ability to 
 reason, to regard the future, it would have led 
 him into any reckless measure which she might 
 have demanded. 
 
 But Nathalie did not ask or want this. She 
 enjoyed the new excitement that his society 
 brought, and she believed herself wildly in love 
 with him ; and, as usual, contented herself with 
 
 dreams and theories, whatever the world might 
 think. 
 
 Short as the time had been since Vaughan's 
 finding her again, there was already plenty of 
 gossip among his more intimate associates, and 
 the Bohemians were greatly enraged by the 
 change which his appearance effected in Natha- 
 lie's habits. 
 
 Vaughan absolutely refused to have any thing to 
 do with the troop. He irreverently pronounced 
 the men a set of cads, and the women worse. 
 Nathalie was somewhat horrified at his openly 
 expressed contempt for these high-souled creat- 
 ures, but she would have given up a great deal 
 more than their society for Darrell's sake. 
 
 Then, too, he brought a different set of peo- 
 ple about her : men who dressed well, who could 
 talk agreeable nonsense had an odor of ele- 
 gance, a glint of jeunesse dorde in every thing 
 they said and did, which was delightful to one 
 side of her capricious, excitement-craving nat- 
 ure, however much in theory she might believe 
 herself attached to soul-intercourse, aims for hu- 
 man progress, and other matters equally grand 
 and poetical. 
 
 She formed the acquaintance also of two or 
 three French actresses ; and it was delicious to 
 talk chiffons and have perfectly dressed women 
 by her side, and witty speeches and brilliant 
 repartees flitting about, after so many weeks 
 of aching eyes, caused by the ill-assorted colors 
 with which the Bohemian sisters had vexed her 
 spirit, and the constant strain upon her faculties 
 from listening to long-winded poems that did not 
 contain a line she could understand. 
 
 Her house was a convenience to Dan-ell : he 
 could there indulge his love of high play with- 
 out danger of discovery, and gather about him 
 the brilliant, worthless men and women whose so- 
 ciety he so thoroughly enjoyed. Therefore the Bo- 
 hemians were furious, though wise enough not to 
 ruin their cause by expostulations or complaints. 
 They had the sense to comprehend that any inter- 
 ference would altogether deprive them of their 
 Queen. And Nathalie was as ready as ever to 
 give them money to invite them to dainty sup- 
 pers when Vaughan was not there. Still, they 
 felt themselves injured, and were the first to give 
 her intimacy with this man a coarse name, and 
 assail her reputation in every way possible. 
 
 Probably in neither of the two opposite little 
 circles between which Nathalie vibrated was there 
 a human creature (save one) who believed her 
 other than a bad woman employing the word as 
 people do where feminine sins are concerned ; 
 as if there were only one sort of evil-doing which 
 can entitle a member of the sex to that name. 
 
 Yet Vaughan's passion had met with no other 
 reward than tenderness and sympathy sympa- 
 thy for the dismal, thwarted life whose dreari- 
 ness he had painted to her in such glowing col- 
 ors. The people about them believed that he
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 was her lover, and Darrell felt himself ridiculous 
 in his own eyes at the position in which he was 
 placed. Nathalie would talk sentimental non- 
 sense to any extent ; she would weep at the 
 cruel destiny which had separated them enjoy 
 a melodramatic scene, and rave and rant like a 
 second Juliet ; but she stopped there. 
 
 It was not calculation; it was not that she 
 doubted the strength of her love ; it was not re- 
 spect for any law human or divine she gloried 
 in believing herself above the reach of dull 
 prejudices and senseless creeds. Still, neither 
 Vaughan's passionate pleadings, her own weak- 
 ness, nor the fear of losing him and he some- 
 times threatened her with that penalty were 
 able to carry this woman, reckless and abandon- 
 ed as the world believed her, one step beyond 
 what society calls "flirtation," and permits its 
 devotees to indulge without scruple. 
 
 Nathalie could not argue the matter in her 
 mind she was too inconsequent, too frivolous ; 
 but the fact was there. The more she became 
 convinced of the power of her own affection, the 
 more completely heart and fancy went out to- 
 ward this man, the more did she retreat from 
 a position which, theoretically, she boldly ad- 
 vanced in her books. 
 
 It was natural enough that no information 
 should reach her whereby she could have con- 
 nected Elizabeth Crauford with the tiresome, 
 commonplace creature that she pictured Vaugh- 
 an's wife to be. The Craufords were not a 
 Knickerbocker family Elizabeth had never lived 
 in New York before her marriage ; and among 
 the men whom Darrell introduced to Nathalie 
 there probably was not one acquainted with Mrs. 
 Vaughan's maiden name. Of course there was 
 no possibility of the two women meeting, unless 
 it might be at the theatre or opera, and this sea- 
 son Elizabeth seldom went to places of amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 At the time Nathalie's book gained its brief 
 notoriety, Elizabeth, attracted by the name of 
 her former acquaintance, had tried to read the 
 story ; but its rehash of the Simonian doctrines 
 was not even redeemed by the great genius which 
 has given an unenviable celebrity to certain 
 among the leading French writers, and Elizabeth 
 flung it aside with a sigh, and a feeling of pity 
 for the poor girl, whom she had always remem- 
 bered with kindness and sympathy. 
 
 So, while Vaughan's infatuation became so 
 well known that even Elizabeth's world caught 
 up the story, she remained ignorant of Nathalie's 
 presence in New York. She was not a person 
 to whom her most intimate friends could bring 
 a hint that might awaken any suspicion in her 
 mind where her husband was concerned. What- 
 ever her troubles, they were sacred. She would 
 never, under any circumstances, be guilty of that 
 most contemptible weakness a married man or 
 woman can betray the putting griefs into words, 
 
 and permitting those about to share the pain by 
 so much as an expression or look of sympathy. 
 
 The winter dragged by ; it could be of no serv- 
 ice to any human being to detail its records. 
 Day by day the path grew harder, the darkness 
 more intense. Elizabeth tried to cling to her 
 faith ; tried to endure ; tried to silence the bit- 
 ter wail of her heart, which moaned ceaselessly 
 " How long, O Lord, how long !" 
 
 There were such employments as she could find 
 for herself: the round of visits and society du- 
 ties ; and that was all she had to fill up her life. 
 
 At last some unwise writer in a prominent lit- 
 erary journal gave vent to a long diatribe against 
 certain bad books, thus attracting to them the 
 very attention which he declared unworthy any 
 clean-minded man or woman. Foremost in the 
 bitter criticism stood Nathalie La Tour's works 
 a brief account of her life the desertion of her 
 husband her present residence in New York 
 her absurd title of "Queen of the Bohemians." 
 The whole thing was as injudicious and uncalled 
 for as possible,but by this means Elizabeth learned 
 that Nathalie was near. The fact could be of no 
 importance to her she could do the woman no 
 good. It was terrible to think of the harm the 
 creature was perpetrating, sad to recollect how 
 many good qualities she possessed, and to what 
 unworthy use she had devoted them but nothing 
 beyond this regret was possible. 
 
 A great crisis in any life is, oddly enough, 
 nine times out of ten brought about by causes 
 which seem the merest trifles. 
 
 Only the day after Elizabeth had been reading 
 that review, and sorrowfully recalling the quiet 
 weeks she and Nathalie had spent in the pretty 
 Swiss valley, she received a letter from a friend 
 in St. Louis, begging her to attend to some com- 
 missions at Madame Dinner's, the famous modiste 
 of the time. She was going out, so she drove at 
 once to the establishment, as the business was 
 connected with a wedding trousseau, and the ar- 
 ticles must be sent immediately. 
 
 Madame Dimier herself was condescending 
 enough to attend to Mrs. Vaughan, and could 
 not resist tempting the rich lady by the display 
 of a marvelous dress of Point d'Alen9on lace, 
 which was just then driving half the society wom- 
 en of New York mad, not only by its loveliness, 
 its costliness, but by the history connected there- 
 with. The robe had been manufactured for a, 
 royal marriage which never took place ; it >?as 
 purchased by an English Duke for a famous Pa- 
 risian actress famous rather for her beauty and 
 adventures than her talent. Mademoiselle P 
 appeared once in the dress on the stage of the 
 Gymnase. The next week she died suddenly 
 every body must remember the story. Her cred- 
 itors seized upon her effects, and this wonderful 
 robe had been sent across the ocean as a mat- 
 ter of speculation, and the price set upon it was 
 eighteen thousand dollars.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 145 
 
 Elizabeth stood for a while examining the 
 dress, full of the fancies which its history must 
 have roused in any imaginative mind. .Then 
 she half smiled to perceive that she had gone 
 leagues away from romance, and was simply 
 wishing the thing could be converted into hard, 
 prosaic cash. 
 
 One of the hospitals in which she was inter- 
 ested needed money sorely, and Darrell had ab- 
 solutely refused to give her even a^uarter of 
 the sum she desired. He assured her that his 
 available funds were at the time required in his 
 affairs, and would listen neither to persuasion 
 nor argument. 
 
 She finished her business, and went home. A 
 week later she received a telegram from St. Lou- 
 is ; there was some mistake in regard to the pur- 
 chase a shawl or a scarf or other important trifle 
 had been forgotten. Would Mrs. Vaughan have 
 the goodness to attend to the matter at once ? 
 Of course she went immediately, wondering a 
 little, as the most patient human being might 
 have been excused for doing, that it had not oc- 
 curred to the excited purchaser of wedding finery 
 to telegraph directly to the modiste. 
 
 On her way out of the place she chanced to hear 
 Madame informing certain customers, desirous 
 of seeing the famous lace dress, that it had been 
 sold that very morning ; but Madame either 
 could not or would not tell by whom it had been 
 purchased. 
 
 She paid several necessaiy visits, which de- 
 tained her so long that it was growing dusk 
 when she returned. As she drove up to the 
 1. mse, Vaughan was just entering ; they had not 
 met for two days. He spoke politely enough in 
 the presence of the footman who opened the door, 
 and they passed on into the library together, 
 talking of the first trifle which suggested itself 
 the weather, the dampness. Both had that 
 consciousness of the eager eyes and ears watch- 
 ing every look and gesture which becomes ha- 
 bitual to all who attempt to keep a show of de- 
 cency in their married lives when cruel secrets 
 lie under the surface. Not that the eyes and 
 ears ever are deceived, or that the pretenders 
 believe them to be ; but somehow playing the 
 sorry farce is a kind of comfort an absolute ne- 
 cessity, in fact, so long as people have a care to 
 stretch the slightest shred of illusion across the 
 loathsome reality. 
 
 Then another domestic Argus followed them 
 into he room with such letters and cards as had 
 arrived. Vaughan took his share, and, still un- 
 der the control of the eyes, civilly handed Eliza- 
 beth's portion to her. 
 
 The man went out. Elizabeth sat down by 
 the table, and read her notes nothing of impor- 
 tance then remained looking at Vaughan, as he 
 stood by the fire-place busy with his letters. 
 
 " I shall not dine at home," he said, as he fin- 
 ished the perusal of his correspondence. 
 K 
 
 There was nothing surprising in this announce- 
 ment ; he seldom dined at home nowadays un- 
 less there were invited guests. Whether he took 
 his meals at his club, whether he accepted invita- 
 tions in which she had no share, Elizabeth never 
 asked. 
 
 He was going out ; she wanted to speak to 
 him first. The managers of the hospital had 
 written to her again they were in great difficul- 
 ty. She had been put to heavy expenses in va- 
 rious ways of late, and for the time had no further 
 means in her possession. But it occurred to her 
 that Vanghan might be willing if he would give 
 her nothing to advance the sum she required 
 upon dividends which would come to her in the 
 course of a few months. She had the matter 
 much at heart, and could not forbear this last 
 effort. 
 
 " Will you wait a moment, please ?" she said, 
 nervously : she never could help being nervous 
 when the necessity for any discussion in regard 
 to money arose. 
 
 ""What do you want ?" he asked, coldly. 
 
 He had crossed the room before she spoke. 
 He stood on the opposite side of the table, and 
 looked at her. How rapidly his face was chang- 
 ing! what a worn, strange look it had! how 
 bright and feverish the eyes were ! She noticed 
 this with a certain wonder. It was something 
 more than the effects of dissipation : it was the 
 expression of a man consumed by some strong, 
 overmastering passion. This thought flitted 
 rapidly through her mind even while answering 
 his question. 
 
 "I wanted to speak to you again about that 
 matter " 
 
 " I told you I had no money to waste on such 
 folly, "he interrupted. "We live at the most 
 expensive rate forty thousand a year would not 
 cover our expenses I have got mixed up in those 
 companies. I can't give, and I won't." 
 
 So gladly, long since, she would have reduced 
 their princely establishment to a more reasonable 
 footing, but this Vaughan would not permit; he 
 was lavish and reckless where show and luxury 
 were concerned. 
 
 "I did not mean to ask you to give it," she 
 replied, quietly, with a certain chill disdain in 
 her voice, for strive as she might against her 
 faults she got nowhere near perfection. "I 
 want to borrow it I shall have funds enough in 
 April. If you would get me the four thousand 
 dollars upon some of my stocks " 
 
 " Oh, if you could ever come down enough 
 from poetry to be practical, and show a little 
 common-sense !" he broke in. ' ' Borrow ? and 
 a miserable sum like that ? What do yon sup- 
 pose people would think? I never heard any 
 thing so ridiculous in my life even from you !" 
 
 "You are right to call it a miserable sum," 
 she replied, angry now, though her anger only 
 betrayed itself in the cold scorn of her voice.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "It is ridiculous, too, that I should have any 
 difficulty in procuring it. You are right there, 
 also." 
 
 "Now you mean to talk ahout your accursed 
 money, I suppose !" he exclaimed. 
 
 " I never have done so, I think," she said. 
 
 "But it is never out of your mind never! 
 A fine use you would make of it too, if it were 
 in your power ! You keep a set of harpies about, 
 and let them plunder you. It's just your vanity, 
 your desire for notoriety, which is at the bottom 
 that, and a wish to annoy me. " 
 
 She might have known nothing but strife and 
 harsh words would come of her attempt ; she told 
 herself this. An angry retort rose to her lips ; 
 she set them hard together, and kept silence. 
 
 "Now it is perfectly useless to speak of this 
 again ! Give give why, I am always giving ! 
 My name is on every list of charities and public 
 schemes-r-" 
 
 "When there is any glory to be gained by 
 it," she added, as he paused. 
 
 Repentance came as soon as the bitter speech 
 found utterance ; but it was too late the words 
 were spoken. 
 
 "I did not mean to say that,"she continued, 
 quickly, though it required a powerful effort to 
 make the admission. "I beg your pardon 
 don't let us quarrel over the matter. If I can 
 not have the money, there is an end." 
 
 " Always an end when you have done your 
 best to irritate me by sneers and taunts. Quar- 
 vel ? Bah ! I'll not waste my time by talking to 
 you I can spend it more pleasantly. " 
 
 He went quickly out of the room, and pres- 
 ently she was summoned to her solitary repast. 
 She was a great deal alone this winter ; they gave 
 frequent dinners Vaughan had insisted upon a 
 couple of balls ; but she accepted only such in- 
 vitations as it was impossible to refuse, and 
 appeared in public just enough to avoid the rep- 
 utation of singularity. Of late Vaughan had 
 ceased to urge her to go out ; he had grown fond 
 of observing her peculiarities of talking about 
 them before others ; and when he talked there 
 was something in his face which fairly startled 
 her. She had learned to know that Darrell 
 Vaughan never did any thing without motive, but 
 what his reason for this could be was beyond the 
 reach of any supposition or fancy. 
 
 When she came back to the library, after din- 
 ner, one of the men was just entering with coals. 
 He had expected to finish his task before she re- 
 turned, but to-night she was too miserable even 
 to go through the pretense of a meal. 
 
 " Is this of any consequence, ma'am ?" she 
 heard the man say, as he ended his string of ex- 
 cuses. 
 
 He had picked up a crumpled paper from the 
 hearth, and was holding it toward her. She 
 opened it mechanically, and turned to the table, 
 where a reading-lamp stood. 
 
 "DearV., I have bought the lace dress as 
 you desired sixteen thou. was the lowest figure ; 
 I have put it to your account, and I sent the robe 
 at once to la belle. I am afraid, in spite of all 
 our precautions, your part in the matter will leak 
 out " 
 
 That was what Elizabeth read on the scorched 
 page read so far without thinking. She did 
 not look further ; she crushed the paper in her 
 hand, and stood there till the servant had left 
 the room. Then she went back, and thrust the 
 sheet between the bars of the grate. She recol- 
 lected seeing Vaughan fling the letter into the 
 fire it must have rolled off upon the hearth. 
 
 He had bought the dress ; had commissioned 
 some friend to make the purchase, in order that 
 his own name might not appear ; this was evi- 
 dent enough. Sixteen thousand dollars paid for 
 that worthless thing, and he had refused her a 
 quarter of the sum ; had talked of embarrass- 
 ments, of the cost at which they lived, as if her 
 extravagance, her reckless tastes, were the cause! 
 Oddly enough, she did riot at the time view the 
 matter from the side which would have been 
 prominent in the thoughts of most wives. Her 
 soul had gone so far from any possibility of con- 
 tact with this man to whom her life was bound 
 that jealousy had grown out of the question. As 
 she sat by the fire, thinking, thinking, or walked 
 up and down the room when some sort of physical 
 exercise became a necessity she was not dwell- 
 ing upon the object her husband had in that pur- 
 chase, not wondering for whom the robe had 
 been bought her reflections had gone back over 
 the misery of her existence its emptiness, its 
 dreariness, its daily torture of pin-pricks, that 
 deprived of all dignity even the current of dark 
 tragedy which lay under. 
 
 The next day she did not see Vaughan. It 
 chanced to be a night when they gave a dinner- 
 party, and Elizabeth and her husband did not 
 meet until their guests began to arrive. It 
 proved a gay enough affair ; Vaughan was in 
 the highest spirits. It seemed odd to Elizabeth 
 to sit there in the light and warmth to talk, 
 laugh, listen, and yet have a feeling of such un- 
 reality through it all ; her heart shivering with 
 a dreary chill. 
 
 Every body had engagements ; coffee was 
 served, and the people took leave directly after, 
 Vaughnn departing among the guests. There 
 was no one left but an elderly gentleman with 
 whom Elizabeth was a great favorite. He re- 
 mained, perhaps because he understood some- 
 thing of the dreariness of her life, and pitied her; 
 perhaps because he had no engagement, and the 
 drawing-room was bright and comfortable any- 
 way, he stayed. Conversation was an effort : 
 Elizabeth suddenly recollected that it was the 
 first night of a new opera troupe ; she might in- 
 vite her visitor to go with her to listen to the last 
 acts, and BO escape the need of talk.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 147 
 
 They did not reach the theatre until the inter- 
 lude between the third and fourth acts. As they 
 ascended the stairs into the upper lobby, a lady, 
 accompanied by two gentlemen, brushed so close 
 past Elizabeth that their dresses fairly touched. 
 She had passed on before Mrs.Vaughan could 
 catch a sight of her face, but the first glance at 
 the costume would have been enough to make 
 Elizabeth avoid doing so. The woman wore a 
 moire' silk of a golden green, so vivid that it was 
 as showy and voyante as scarlet could have been ; 
 over this swept the folds of the lace robe she had 
 seen the week before the robe purchased by 
 her husband. 
 
 Mr. Howland was speaking : she heard her- 
 self answer walked steadily on. 
 
 The curtain had risen when they entered the 
 box. Elizabeth had not been six times in the 
 house during the whole winter. Music was often 
 a positive pain to her at this period. More than 
 once she had been obliged to leave the theatre. 
 It was as if a voice of unutterable anguish called 
 to her in every measure the orchestra played, in 
 every note that was sung, while some voice away 
 down in her soul moaned in answer. It was 
 fanciful absurd ; but she had grown full of 
 fancies and absurdities, and could not struggle 
 against them. It was the same to-night. She 
 wondered why she had tried not to listen ; would 
 have risen and gone away, only that she deter- 
 mined to yield no further to a folly of which she 
 felt ashamed. 
 
 The curtain fell. Mr. Howland perceired 
 some friend to whom he wished to speak, and 
 left her for a few minutes. Elizabeth had kept 
 in the shadow of the box draperies, and had 
 asked her good-natured old friend to do so. 
 
 "I am stupid and dull," she said, "and I 
 don't want any men to come and make me talk. 
 You don't mind my stupidity, but I can't trust 
 to other people's leniency." 
 
 And the elderly bachelor thought her smile 
 the saddest sight he had seen in many a day, 
 and, knowing Darrell Vaughan tolerably well, 
 wondered why this beautiful creature should 
 have met with so dismal a fate. For she was 
 very beautiful, this weary Elizabeth. The great 
 eyes were dark and soft as deep waters where 
 the stars are shining. Her face had lost the 
 first roundness and bloom of youth, young though 
 she was, but hers had always been a countenance 
 whose beauty depended more on expression and 
 delicacy of feature than upon its coloring. She 
 appeared older than her age one would have 
 said a woman of twenty six or seven. It was a 
 countenance that possessed a language not easy 
 to understand untranslatable to many, who 
 would have decided that it looked haughty, cold, 
 and unsympathetic. But those were the fools 
 and blind it was all written on that melancholy 
 face. The whole record of her disappointed 
 youth was there ; the blighted hopes, the thwart- 
 
 ed dreams, the controlled passion and imperi- 
 ousness, the effort at patience aye, even to the 
 earnest faith which alone supported her, and gave 
 to eyes and brow the marvelous light which 
 struck the dullest with a vague wonder as to 
 what its signification might be. 
 
 After Mr. Howland had gone, she sat trying 
 to occupy her mind with any trifle that she 
 could call up. A passing excitement in a box 
 nearly opposite attracted her attention several 
 men entering at once laughter and conversation 
 louder than one would have expected in such a 
 place. 
 
 In the front of the loye sat a lady the gleam 
 of jewels on her neck and in her hair. She was 
 fluttering a fan ; her hands moved in pretty 
 gestures, which reminded Elizabeth of the wom- 
 en iii Southern climes across the sea. 
 
 Something in the figure, the attitude, sudden- 
 ly struck her with a strange sense of familiarity. 
 Her opera-glass lay beside her on the cushion ; 
 she took it up, and from the safe screen of the 
 curtains looked out again ; then her hand dropped 
 slowly into her lap. 
 
 She had seen Nathalie La Tour, talking, 
 laughing, full of animation prettier, more be- 
 witching than of old. But this was not all : the 
 rich lace dress she wore was the robe that had 
 brushed against Elizabeth a little while before 
 in the lobby the dress purchased by Darrell 
 Vaughan only the day previous. 
 
 The door of the box opened again. Elizabeth 
 lifted the glass anew, and looked across the 
 house. 
 
 Vaughan had entered the loge. The other 
 men made way for him. Nathalie half rose 
 from her seat, then sank back. She had grown 
 singularly quiet ; the animation of her manner, 
 the Southern gestures, all these had left her. 
 But Elizabeth saw her face saw the eyes that 
 still had a sort of childish eagerness in their 
 depths saw the smile which brightened the 
 features into positive beauty ; and she knew 
 that Nathalie La Tour loved the man. 
 
 Elizabeth turned away ; she could not bear 
 to look again. The first conscious feeling in her 
 mind, the first tangible thought, was a sincere 
 pity for this woman, whatever she might have 
 become pity. 
 
 There are many men, there may be women, 
 though I think few, who will declare this un- 
 natural ; but it was all that Elizabeth felt pity. 
 She was not even thinking of the sin, the shame 
 positively not remembering that she was Dar- 
 rell Vaughan's wife only recollecting what Dar- 
 rell Vaughan was ; and she pitied this ill-brought- 
 up, misdirected creature, whose evil destiny had 
 brought her to so sad a pass. 
 
 Presently other reflections came as she leaned 
 back in the shadow, hearing vaguely the pleasant 
 murmur that rose about a gayety and excite- 
 ment in which she had no part which only
 
 148 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 surged faintly to her ears as she sat there alone, 
 just as the pleasant tumult of other lives, the lives 
 of happy, ordinary people, made itself audible 
 through the dreary stillness of her own ; coming 
 only like an echo nothing real, nothing which 
 she could grasp and hold fast nothing she could 
 claim in all the interests and enjoyments which 
 were so freely granted to them. 
 
 Other reflections followed, Harsh enough, an- 
 gry enough, but this had been the first. Eliza- 
 beth could not close her eyes to facts so patent. 
 Purity is not innocence ; she was a woman and 
 a wife, and there was only one interpretation 
 to what she had seen. The paragraphs of that 
 harsh review of Nathalie La Tour's works and 
 life recurred to her. Elizabeth understood now 
 the allusions they contained ; she knew, too, that 
 Darrell Vaughan was the man indicated in the 
 record of the person "who had so bitterly dis- 
 appointed the Bohemians by almost depriving 
 them of the Queen they had selected." 
 
 She could scarcely feel shocked ; first and last 
 she had borne too much. Blow after blow had 
 fallen with such rapidity that she seemed incap- 
 able of poignant sensations. Only cold and sick 
 with a strange feeling of abasement and degra- 
 dation as if she had been unconsciously dragged 
 down a flowery path into a noisome pit, and saw 
 herself lying there bound hand and foot, her gar- 
 ments stained, impurity and loathsomeness all 
 about her, and the noble face which had lured 
 her on suddenly turned into the gibing counte- 
 nance of a fiend that mocked at her. 
 
 \Yhat to do ! which way to turn ! What was 
 duty ? How far did vows and promises bind the 
 soul ? What could be expected of her ? Was 
 there no mercy among men? not even in the 
 God she had prayed to and believed in at the 
 worst ? 
 
 But the door opened, and Mr. Rowland re- 
 turned. The curtain had risen again without 
 her knowing it ; the tenor and soprano were 
 singing one of the most beautiful duets of the 
 whole opera she had not heard a note. 
 
 The old bachelor stood quiet behind her chair, 
 believing her absorbed by the music. The sound 
 of his entrance brought her back to the present. 
 She caught the crash of the instruments, the 
 tones of the united voices ; it was like heavenly 
 music striking her ears from the impenetrable 
 distance flinging its echoes down into the black 
 depth where she lay helpless. 
 
 It grew unbearable ; she could not remain. 
 She rose caught up her cloak. 
 
 "I must go," she said; "take me home 
 please take me home." 
 
 The kind old man obeyed without a question, 
 conscious that she suffered, wishing he had pow- 
 er to aid, but feeling that in the pass to which 
 life had brought this woman not even the re- 
 lief of human sympathy could be offered or re- 
 ceived. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 HIS VICTIM. 
 
 IT is deep in December. The snow lies thick 
 in the streets of Moysterville ; the mountains 
 rise about it grand and awful, looking like gi- 
 gantic icebergs towering above the white level 
 of some frozen sea. 
 
 Out beyond the town stands a great pile of 
 gloomy buildings, with walls almost as thick and 
 strong as those of a mediaeval fortress, with 
 dreary courts, and dark passages, and grated 
 windows. Every thing is stern and heavy and 
 grim, as if the place itself had grown sullen un- 
 der the burden of sin and crime which makes up 
 the record of those who from the four corners of 
 the earth have finally met here in dismal com- 
 panionship. 
 
 In a long room on an upper floor a bare, 
 desolate place, though neither cold nor ill-lighted 
 sits a row of women, each bending silently over 
 her appointed task. They are binding shoes. Not 
 one of them appears to work slowly or unwilling- 
 ly. The skillful fingers fly just as rapidly along 
 the tedious seams even if the eyes of the task- 
 master chance to be withdrawn for a little. Prob- 
 ably to each one of the ghost-like company the 
 work is a solace. They all look ghost-like some- 
 way, even the strongest. There are a score of 
 them more than that ; and though, perhaps, no 
 two resemble each other, there is a dreadful gen- 
 eral likeness running through the whole group, 
 not arising entirely from the similarity of dress 
 or occupation. One finds it difficult to tell in 
 what the resemblance consists ; but it is there 
 one feels it : it is a part of the shadow which 
 affects the very walls themselves that shadow 
 of sin and crime. 
 
 Down at the farther end of the room sits a 
 woman who seems, no matter how diligent the 
 rest may be, to work twice as fast as they; She 
 sits perfectly motionless, save for the swift move- 
 ments of her fingers sits so for hours together ; 
 and yet, paradoxical as it sounds, the apathetic 
 stillness has no sense of quiet in it. You expect 
 each instant to see her spring like a panther 
 rush out of that immobility into an insane fury. 
 The guardians used to have this feeling in re- 
 gard to her; the women, her fellow-prisoners, 
 have it always they catch themselves furtively 
 watching her day after day. But the outbreak 
 never comes. She is a model of orderly con- 
 duct, though she never receives praise for it. 
 Nobody can help feeling there is something dan- 
 gerous in the creature no more sense of security 
 in her stillness than there would be in that of 
 the panther of which she reminds one. 
 
 These years of imprisonment have not aged 
 her face. It is paler, thinner than it was the 
 day it looked at Darrell Vaughan out of the 
 prison dock, but it is the same face still. The 
 eyes are a little deeper set, a little more sombre,
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 149 
 
 as if the inner fire which lights them were slowly 
 consuming the soul that feeds the flame. More 
 hopeless than the countenance was that day it 
 could not grow, but there is a certain strength 
 and fixedness of purpose and will which it lacked 
 then. This may come from the fact that for so 
 long she has been unable to reach either narcotics 
 or stimulants, but it does not seem as if that was 
 wholly the reason. She looks as though some 
 strong determination were keeping her alive as 
 if it would continue to do so through all failure 
 of bodily power ; some work to accomplish, some 
 vengeance to take who shall say? and per- 
 haps, after all, none of these. 
 
 She has never spoken a harsh word to one of 
 her companions, and yet among the whole set 
 there is not a woman but fears her. She seldom 
 talks at all ; that may be at the bottom of their 
 dread. During the hours of recreation the oth- 
 ers chatter among themselves tell stories of 
 their misdoings ; scoff or are penitent according 
 to their natures but she never opens her lips in 
 regard to herself. Several of them know about 
 her, the old nickname clings to her still, but the 
 boldest there has no inclination to question Mi- 
 lady, or rouse the nameless spirit they have 
 sometimes seen in her eyes, though it finds no 
 utterance. The rest have friendships and en- 
 mities, as their innocent sisters might in the 
 ordinary walks of life ; but Milady has, appar- 
 ently, no more feeling for their memories or their 
 pains than if she had been a ghost. The rest 
 have found certain little interests which have a 
 pathetic side to them. One woman pets a lame 
 chicken that lives in the covered court where 
 they go for exercise in the winter; one has a 
 familiar in the shape of a spider that dwells in a 
 chink of the window-sill near her seat in the 
 work-room. Not a soul among them that does 
 not yet show human capabilities and needs just 
 in those trivialities all except Milady. Nobody 
 ever saw her moved but once that was soon after 
 her arrival. Those who were here when she came 
 still relate the story to each new-comer who takes 
 her place among the band of hopeless ones. 
 
 They were all out in the walled inclosure 
 where they walked at certain hours during the 
 pleasant weather. Milady was sitting as usual, 
 dumb and apathetic, on a stone in the middle of 
 the little misery of a garden the women were 
 allowed to cultivate. Suddenly a child of one 
 of the keepers a sick baby, being carried up 
 and down in the sunshine the other side of the 
 wall was heard to cry. The next thing the 
 women saw was Milady on her feet rushing to 
 the wall beating her head and hands against 
 it in a mad frenzy shrieking unintelligible 
 words, as if she had lost even the power of hu- 
 man speech. 
 
 The keepers came and carried her away. 
 Weeks, a good many of them, passed before 
 she appeared among the women again. It was 
 
 known that she had been ill raving in a brain 
 fever, from which the doctors had no idea she 
 could recover. But she lived and came back, 
 more still and taciturn than before, and from 
 that time until the present there has been no 
 change. 
 
 Here she is in her place to-day, and, as usual, 
 the other women find themselves, every now and 
 then, watching her. There always seems to them 
 something unfamiliar in her appearance ; they 
 never grow accustomed to it as they have done 
 to each other. 
 
 Suddenly a door opens noiselessly there is a 
 horrible quiet about every thing that happens in 
 this place. The warden enters, and he and the 
 keeper of the room whisper together for a few 
 seconds. Milady is the only creature there not 
 interested, to a certain degree excited the 
 slightest event, if it be only a footstep at an un- 
 usual time, is a matter of importance to these 
 poor souls. But Milady hears nothing does 
 not lift her head. * 
 
 Then the keeper calls " Number 37!" 
 
 Every woman starts except she who owns 
 the number. Milady is "No. 37." She looks 
 up slowly ; the keeper speaks again. She lays 
 her work on the bench in an orderly, methodical 
 fashion, and walks the length of the room, nei- 
 ther interested nor excited, though her fellow- 
 prisoners are ready to spring out of their seats 
 and cry aloud from sheer nervous agitation. 
 
 She moves slowly down the chamber ; the 
 keeper motions her to follow the warden; the 
 door closes. Milady has passed out of sight, 
 and not one of those women who have been her 
 companions so long will ever see her face again 
 in this world. 
 
 She follows her conductor through a passage 
 which her feet have not traversed since the day 
 she entered the prison, down a flight of stairs, 
 and into an apartment where several gentlemen 
 are seated. She stands quite still near the door ; 
 not looking at any of the group, not conscious 
 even that their eyes are fixed upon her. Some- 
 body is speaking she does not notice that he 
 addresses her. The warden, who is near, nudges 
 her elbow lightly, and she hears him whisper 
 ' ' Why don't you listen ?" 
 
 If she has had any thought at all since she 
 left the work-room, it has been that she is to be 
 removed to another prison no possibility beyond 
 this has crossed her mind. 
 
 But the gentleman is reading a paper aloud ; 
 he is reading a proclamation of pardon from 
 the Governor of the State for the woman who 
 has no name, even in the prison records, except 
 "Milady." 
 
 They are all looking at her ; the measured 
 voice has ceased to read ; there is an instant's 
 silence. They see Milady sway to and fro and 
 put her hands to her head. They think she is 
 going to faint, and the doctor, who is among the
 
 150 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 group, comes toward her. But she only drops 
 slowly into a chair which is behind her, and sits 
 motionless, with her hands still pressed to her 
 head. They bring some water, but she pushes 
 the glass away. The chaplain feels it his duty 
 to improve the occasion. Several times during 
 the past years he has addressed words of exhor- 
 tation to Milady, but he might as well have talked 
 to the great door of the prison for any response 
 he received, any sign that his warnings or coun- 
 sels were heard. 
 
 He tells her now that she ought to be very 
 grateful to God and the Governor. He has 
 not meant to put the two so close together in 
 his speech, but Milady has glanced suddenly up, 
 and her eyes have startled him so that he makes 
 this blunder. The other men forget to smile 
 they are watching Milady too. So the chaplain 
 l>egin$ again ; he means to advise her to lead a 
 different life, to employ the years which may be 
 left in repentance for the past and endeavors to 
 make her peace with her Creator. To his utter 
 confusion, he hears himself, instead of saying a 
 single word he intends, just repeating that un- 
 fortunate error. But he can not stop ; once 
 more he has advised her to be grateful to God 
 and the Governor. 
 
 He retreats, and whispers to the person near- 
 est him 
 
 "I think she's not right in her mind." 
 
 If he were to follow out his full thought, he 
 would suggest a similar doubt in regard to him- 
 self. He has been a finger-post to heaven for a 
 quarter of a century, and it is a horrible humilia- 
 tion to have made such an utter failure when he 
 has expected to be unusually impressive and elo- 
 quent. 
 
 There is a little further conversation among 
 the gentlemen, then they all go out except one. 
 Launce Cromlin is left alone with the woman 
 whom he has at last succeeded in liberating from 
 her unjust imprisonment. The case will not at- 
 tract any especial attention. The pardon of a 
 convict by a new Governor is too common for 
 the newspapers to do more than make a brief 
 paragraph in regard to it. The new Governor 
 is popular, too. A few of the opposition journals 
 may sneer, and observe that it would be satis- 
 factory to the public mind to have some explana- 
 tion of this extraordinary step ; but in fact the 
 public mind will be slightly exercised in regard to 
 the matter. Events of a startling nature follow 
 each other too rapidly in this age for any body, 
 even among those present at Milady's trial, to re- 
 member much about it after this lapse of time. 
 
 So Cromlin is left alone with the woman. He 
 i> not laboring under the same difficulty as the 
 parson ; he has no desire to improve the occa- 
 sion ; his heart is full of pity and sympathy. He 
 goes up to her as she sits leaning forward in the 
 chair, her head drooped, her hands crossed over 
 her knees. 
 
 "Do you remember me?" he asks. 
 
 She starts at his voice ; stares wildly at him 
 for an instant. 
 
 "You came to see me in the jail," she half 
 whispers. 
 
 " Yes ; I am Launce Cromlin you would not 
 believe it then. " 
 
 She only looks stupefied vacant. 
 
 "You hardly realize it yet," he says, "but 
 you will presently. You are free you can go 
 away as soon as you like." 
 
 " Go away ?" she repeats, with a sort of dull 
 wonder in her voice. 
 
 "Yes; the formalities are all settled the 
 order is signed you are just as free to go as I." 
 
 She gives him one glance, then drops her head 
 again. 
 
 "Ten years," he hears her mutter; "ten 
 years!" 
 
 She presses her hands to her forehead; he 
 knows that she is conscious of the confusion in 
 her faculties, and is struggling to right her 
 brain. He perceives what might, perhaps, have 
 escaped the chaplain, in spite of his wisdom : 
 the creature is still so dazed that she c:;n only 
 think the ten years of her allotted imprisonment 
 have expired. She knows it is not so, yet she 
 can comprehend in no other way the fact that 
 she is free. 
 
 "You have been pardoned," Launce says. 
 " That was the meaning of the paper you heard 
 read. It is more than four years since you 
 came here." 
 
 "What do they let me out for now?" she 
 asks suddenly. Then, before he can speak, a 
 new thought comes, and finds utterance so 
 puerile, so unexpected, that if the chaplain were 
 here he would have no doubt whatever of her 
 helpless insanity "I hadn't finished binding 
 the shoes." 
 
 But she is not mad ; it is only that her mind 
 fixes instinctively on this petty, familiar thought, 
 just to steady itself. You shall read in the rec- 
 ords left by men who have spent half a life in 
 prison that some similar slight recollection has 
 been all they were capable of when the news of 
 freedom came. 
 
 "You will find some other work to do,'' Launce 
 says, gently. "You will be glad to work, will 
 you not ? to have a home, and be taken care 
 of, and helped on your way ?" 
 
 Again she looks at him in dull surprise. 
 
 " Say that over," she half whispers ; " say it 
 slowly. " 
 
 Launce repeats the words. 
 
 " I can't make it mean any thing," she mut- 
 ters, in a still lower tone. " Sometimes I've 
 heard the women say I was crazy do you think 
 I am ?" 
 
 " No ; it is only that the news has come upon 
 you suddenly ; you can not realize yet that you 
 are free completely free. 7 '
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 151 
 
 " I thought I dreamed it !" 
 
 She says this, and sits looking helplessly ahout. 
 If he can find some strong impulse upon which 
 to fasten her attention, the mist will pass, and 
 her faculties begin to act. 
 
 " You had a child," he says ; " you will want 
 to find her." 
 
 A sudden spasm distorts her features her 
 face turns a deathly bluish white she groans 
 aloud, and falls back in her chair, pressing her 
 hand to her bosom. Launce does not summon 
 assistance ; he brings some water, forces her to 
 swallow a little, and gradually her breath returns. 
 But Launce has medical knowledge enough to 
 know what the attack means the woman has 
 heart disease. 
 
 Her wasted hands twist themselves together 
 in her lap a faint dew gathers in her eyes 
 the dull cloud lifts, and a strange gleam of the 
 old beauty comes back to her face. 
 
 "The child, the child !" The words are al- 
 most a shriek. She presses her hands hard 
 against her mouth, and struggles for composure. 
 
 "I sha'n't go to her," she says. "If the 
 child's alive, it's with a good woman I've no 
 business near her." 
 
 "Some time you will go," Launce replies. 
 " You are young yet ; you will try all your life 
 to redeem the past, and you will succeed." 
 
 Instantly her face becomes hopelessly sullen. 
 
 " I'll strike you if you say that again !" she 
 cries, with a return of the old ferocious spirit. 
 
 " That is very silly," says Launce. " I shall 
 think you are crazy if you talk in that way." 
 
 "Oh, yes," she sighs, with a sort of childish 
 penitence. Absurd as the word sounds applied 
 to a creature like her, it is the only one that an- 
 swers. ' ' I forgot. I almost thought I was in 
 the court again. It seems a hundred years, 
 and yet it is all like one day ! Four years did 
 you say four years ? Come here come close 
 I want to whisper." 
 
 ' ' What is it ?" Launce asks, bending his head. 
 
 " Does he know ? did he let me out ?" 
 
 "You had better not ask any questions to- 
 d:iy,"he replies. "I am going to take you 
 away from here now." 
 
 "Shall I be shut up again?" she demands, 
 apathetically. 
 
 "No try to understand. You are as free 
 as I am. If you will let me, I will take you 
 where you will be kindly treated where you 
 can rest, and when you are strong, and able to 
 work, something will be found for you to do." 
 
 "Let me think- let me alone for a minute 
 my head turns ! " 
 
 She sits for a few seconds with her hands 
 clasped over her forehead. Presently she speaks 
 again. " And you were Launce Cromlin all the 
 time ; I believed it after you'd gone." 
 
 " You had heard my name, then ?" 
 
 ' ' What do you want to help me for ?" she 
 
 continues, without noticing his question. "Do 
 you know I'm the worst creature in the world ? 
 You've been in San Francisco didn't you hear 
 about Milady ? That's me I'm the woman." 
 
 "I know I am very sorry for you, "Launce 
 answers ; "that is all you need care about now." 
 
 "Darrell Vaughan's cousin!" she mutters. 
 "Darrell Vaughan's cousin! And he asks if 
 I'd ever heard his name !" 
 
 She laughs, though she shivers from head to 
 foot. 
 
 " Never mind about him," Launce says, and. 
 noticing the shudder of fear, hastens, if possible, 
 to strengthen her dread of the man, and thus 
 keep her from taking any step toward exposing 
 him, if such possibility be in her power. " I 
 would advise you never even to mention his 
 name to any human being don't forget. " 
 
 "I won't," she whispers. "He'd shut me 
 up he'd find ways and means I'll be too wise 
 for that." 
 
 An expression of such insane cunning bright- 
 ens the dreary darkness of her eyes that Launce 
 begins to think her faculties really disordered- 
 perhaps hopelessly so. 
 
 "You must not keep me any longer," he ob- 
 serves ; "I have a carriage waiting to take you 
 away." 
 
 "He'll not find me? he's not where we are 
 going ?" 
 
 "No; he is thousands of miles off. If you 
 keep quiet, he will not even know you are out of 
 prison." 
 
 "I will," she whispers; "I will. You are 
 Launce Cromlin you'll hide me safe." 
 
 "You will be perfectly safe. There is a good 
 woman where we are going who will be very 
 kind to you." 
 
 " Where is it ?" she asks quickly. 
 
 " To the house my uncle lived in " 
 
 He steeps, more puzzled than ever, absolutely 
 startled by the look of triumph, of savage joy, 
 which kindles in her eyes. 
 
 " The house his uncle lived in !" she mutters. 
 "Oh, yes, he's Launce Cromlin I believed it 
 after he was gone." 
 
 "When I went to see you that time, you 
 would not tell me why you visited my uncle," 
 Launce says. "You seemed to think that Dar- 
 rell and I ' 
 
 She puts out her hand to interrupt him ; 
 draws a heavy breath ; the cunning, frightened 
 look comes over her face again. 
 
 " Who says I went to see the old man ?" she 
 returns, irritably. " He's dead, and can tell 
 nothing. I don't know you do you hear ? I 
 don't know any thing about you or him either !" 
 
 Launce can not decide whether she is in mor- 
 tal terror of Darrell or half mad, but it is useless 
 to question her further. Indeed, the old shrink- 
 ing has come back to his mind : he does not 
 want her to make revelations they could avail
 
 152 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 nothing. He knows enough more than enough ! 
 The past is dead let its secrets lie ; their ex- 
 posure could only fling an added bitterness over 
 his soul. 
 
 A faint groan from Milady rouses him out of 
 his reverie. He sees that she has grown terri- 
 bly pale, and presses her hand anew on her 
 heart. 
 
 " You suffer," Launce says. 
 
 " I'm used to it. I never spoke about it ; 
 somehow it's worse tOiday,".she replies, brokenly. 
 
 A slight convulsion passes over her counte- 
 nance ; she groans again, and this time sinks 
 back in her chair completely insensible. 
 
 Launce summons the doctor and the matron. 
 It is a long while before they can restore Milady 
 to consciousness. After that, they are obliged 
 to put her to bed, and it is evening before she is 
 able to leave the prison. At Launce's request, 
 another gown is provided for her. He thinks 
 that to find herself divested of the penitentiary 
 uniform may help her to realize that what has 
 happened is indeed real, for on waking from her 
 swoon she seems more bewildered than ever. 
 
 She allows them to do what they please, ask- 
 ing no questions. 
 
 They get her into the carriage the great 
 gates open and close behind her, but she does 
 not appear to heed. Her strength seems to 
 have given way completely she has not even 
 vitality enough left to understand that she is 
 free. 
 
 Launce takes her to the villa, as had been 
 agreed upon, and places her under good Mrs. 
 Simpson's care. Neither Launce nor Mr. Car- 
 stoe has stayed at the house since their return 
 to Moysterville. They have lodgings in the 
 town ; to both of them it has seemed impossible 
 to sleep under that roof. 
 
 Milady is ill for more than a week, and the 
 fiery-haired Simpson nurses her as tenderly as 
 if she were the purest and greatest lady in the 
 land. It is enough for her to know that Launce 
 and Mr. Carstoe are sorry for the woman. She 
 asks no questions, and has no time. There is 
 only one sen-ant in the house, a new-comer, who 
 does not even know who the sick woman is that 
 has been brought there ; so Moysterville has no 
 idea that Milady is at hand, and, as I prophesied, 
 Milady's pardon attracts slight attention in any 
 way. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe has been very busy since his re- 
 turn, setting Vaughan's matters in complete or- 
 der. He is ready now to resign the agency. He 
 has lately received a letter from Darrell, ex- 
 pressing surprise at his hasty departure, dwell- 
 ing lightly on Carstoe's desire that he would ap- 
 point a new agent, adding certain insinuations 
 about ingratitude, and winding up by the offer 
 of an increase of salary and percentage, as if he 
 supposed that would settle the question. 
 
 So Mr. Carstoe has now to write that he has 
 
 resigned his position, put Mr. Vaughan s affairs 
 in the hands of a well-known lawyer, and pro- 
 poses before long to leave California. It is dif- 
 ficult to frame this epistle. Poor Carstoe is so 
 oppressed by the awfal secret which he holds in 
 regard to the man he once loved and honored 
 that he has a positive sensation of guilt, from 
 which, argue as he may, he can not free himself. 
 
 He is talking of these things with Launce as 
 they sit "in his room this evening the tenth since 
 Milady's liberation. 
 
 The woman is much better able to sit up. 
 They have been to the villa to-night, and seen 
 her. She is taciturn, but not sullen. Launce 
 thinks her mind quite restored, though he fears 
 the effect of any excitement, and has been care- 
 ful to talk of the most ordinary matters ; indeed, 
 he has ceased to think she could throw any light 
 upon the forgery of the check. Her visits to 
 his uncle might have had a merely personal 
 motive a desire to revenge herself on Darrell. 
 Some terrible revelation she brought with her, 
 that is certain. Some strong fear of her dis- 
 turbed Darrell, that is equally sure, else he 
 would never have devised the plan which he 
 carried out with such unwavering cruelty. But 
 she dreads him too much now to open her lips. 
 The long confinement and this mortal disease, 
 which the doctors are certain must end her life 
 in a few years, have tamed the old savage spirit 
 and broken the obstinate will. Launce has no 
 fear for Vaughan where she is concerned. 
 
 To-morrow he is to leave Moysterville, but 
 this fact has not been mentioned to Milady. He 
 proposes to visit New Orleans for a while before 
 returning to New York. 
 
 " I think every thing is arranged for the poor 
 creature," he says to Carstoe. "Mrs. Simpson 
 will take care of her until she is strong again, 
 then she can go to the place we have found 
 she will be quite safe. She can earn large wages, 
 and lay up all the money." 
 
 Milady embroiders in the most wonderful 
 manner in silk and gold thread. Weak as she 
 is, she has given them proofs of her skill, and 
 Launce has already procured her an extensive 
 order for the working of altar-cloth and robes 
 needed by a Romish church in San Francisco. 
 
 " Later, I dare say, she will want to find her 
 child, but I think there is no danger of her fall- 
 ing back into her old life." 
 
 " I don't .agree with you about her being alto- 
 gether right in her mind, "Mr. Carstoe observes. 
 " She's quiet enough, though ; and, indeed, I 
 think the poor thing can't last long any way.'' 
 
 "So much the better, certainly. It is the 
 best wisli one could make for her.'' 
 
 "Yes. They must have a plan up yonder 
 for setting the errors of this world right," Mr. 
 Carstoe replies, thought fully. " It's an odd 
 muddle, Launce Cromlin, but it's good to hold 
 fast to that belief."
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 153 
 
 "I should think so," returns Launce, with 
 his pleasant smile. " Well, Carstoe, we've been 
 able to set some part of a great wrong right 
 also." 
 
 " Yes, thank God ! I couldn't rest I felt as 
 if I should never sleep while there was a doubt. 
 If there had been no other way, I must have 
 spoken let the whole out." 
 
 "I don't feel that we have any thing to do 
 with his part now," Launce says. " The wom- 
 an is free ; after all, she is better off than she 
 was before. But come, we've argued the whole 
 question more than enough. We shall never be 
 certain, either of us, whether we are doing right. 
 But we can't expose Darrell ; nothing but the 
 sternest necessity, the impossibility of helping 
 her without, would have made us. We may 
 both be wrong ; it has to rest so, any way." 
 
 Then they get round to the question of the 
 business, and the letter which must be sent to 
 Vaughan. 
 
 "I've written it over three times, "-sighs Mr. 
 Carstoe. "I suppose it will do as well as any- 
 thing. I want you to hear it." 
 
 "I am listening," Launce says. 
 
 "First I wrote that I was not strong, was 
 tired of California, and wanted to go East ;" 
 Mr. Carstde interrupts himself in the reading 
 to observe : " but I couldn't tell any untruths, 
 or make any excuses ; there's the fact, and he 
 must be satisfied with it." 
 
 " You have decided to go, however ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I shall take what I have saved, and 
 go to live in Albany again ; it was home to me 
 as a boy. I have a chance of employment a 
 bookkeeper's place. I shall do very well Now 
 let me read the rest of the letter." 
 
 "It is all that is necessary," Launce says, 
 when he finishes. 
 
 "Do you suppose he will suspect that I have 
 found out any thing ?" 
 
 "If he happen to hear of this poor woman's 
 release, he may ; but he will hold his peace, of 
 course ; you will never be asked for reasons. " 
 
 "I hope I shall never see him again, "sighs 
 Mr. Carstoe. " I don't think that he can per- 
 secute Milady any further." 
 
 " Of course not ; he would not dare, if he felt 
 inclined to try. The whole matter is at an end. 
 We shall never even know why he invented that 
 infernal plot for shutting her up." 
 
 " I did think she knew something had some 
 hold upon him ; but there seems no chance of 
 that." 
 
 ' ' No. Perhaps it was only that he was afraid 
 of her watching him following him to Europe 
 and preventing his marriage ; that seems more 
 probable than any thing else. " 
 
 "You have never questioned her?" 
 
 "She is frightened at the mere mention of 
 his name at least it seems more fright than 
 anger. But I don't want to know, Carstoe ; it 
 
 could do no good. Leave him and his secrets 
 alone. God have mercy on him, is all I can 
 say. " 
 
 " God have mercy on him," repeats the other 
 man. " But the judgment, the retribution, it 
 must fall sooner or later; it never fails." 
 
 "That is in God's hands too, "says Launcfc, 
 " and we must leave it there." 
 
 ' ' Only when I think of his wife. Ah, that's 
 the strangest consequence of the law that the 
 innocent must suffer with the guilty." 
 
 Launce lifts his hand warningly ; he has 
 grown very pale, and his voice trembles as he 
 answers 
 
 "Don't, please ; I have to pat that part out 
 of my mind." 
 
 He rises, and walks up and down the room for 
 some time in silence. Mr. Carstoe comprehends 
 what he suffers, and is conscience-stricken at 
 having allowed his thought to find voice. There 
 has scarcely been a mention of Elizabeth during 
 all these anxious weeks ; never a , syllable of 
 confidence has passed between the two ; but Car- 
 stoe, in his odd fashion, understands what a 
 beautiful dream, what a golden hope, was strick- 
 en out of Launce Cromlin's life the day he read 
 oh, years since the news of his cousin's 
 marriage. 
 
 Presently Launce comes back to his seat, and 
 the two talk of other matters of a future meet- 
 ing in New York of Launce's long-deferred 
 journey to Europe, which will take place in the 
 spring. There is always a solace in work to a 
 mind like his, and no pain would be insupport- 
 able to Launce as long as he feels that he is not 
 wasting the precious weeks and months which 
 grow so rapidly into years. There is so much 
 he wants to accomplish not just for Fame's 
 sake, though he prizes that as any man ought ; 
 but to feel when the end comes, and the great 
 portals open into another sphere, a new phase 
 in the endless cycle of existence, that he has not 
 played ill his part here, not neglected such gifts, 
 such opportunities of usefulness, as this earthly 
 career may have offered in its course. 
 
 It is late at night before they separate, and 
 each goes to his bed-chamber ; each, as he lays 
 his head on his pillow, feeling a sense of relief 
 in recollecting that the anxieties which were so 
 incessant and so torturing during that long sea- 
 voyage have been set at rest Darrell Vaughan's 
 victim is free. Not a night since Launce brought 
 her forth from those dreary walls but this thank- 
 fulness has been the last waking thought in t"he 
 minds of both these men ; the last but one al- 
 ways another comes after a petition to God for 
 mercy on a woman almost more to be pitied than 
 this outcast on her whose fate is indissolubly 
 knit to Darrell Vaughan's. 
 
 Out in the villa, too, all is quiet and still. 
 Mrs. Simpson sleeps heavily after so many days 
 and nights of watching. Milady is quite her-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 self again ; able to leave her chamber to walk 
 about ; she will soon be as strong as ever. 
 
 In her room only bums a light. The woman 
 is standing by a window, and looking out into 
 the star-lit sky. The face, wasted and worn, 
 with a mere spectre of its wonderful beauty still 
 clinging about it, has recovered a force and ener- 
 gy which it has not exhibited for years. She may 
 be silent, she may shroud her features in Launce 
 Cromlin's presence under a veil of passivity, 
 which makes him doubt whether she feels or re- 
 members any thing with keenness ; but this 
 woman thinks clearly, consecutively ; and her 
 brain is able to weave its plans her will to 
 carry them out. 
 
 She waits in her chamber till the little clock 
 on the mantel strikes midnight. It would seem 
 a signal she had given to her own soul. As the 
 last chime dies she takes up the lamp, passes 
 noiselessly down the stairs, and enters the library. 
 
 Of what is she thinking as she stands gazing 
 straight before her into the shadows ? Of the 
 day she held her last meeting with old Mr. 
 Vaughan in this room ? Of a later meeting 
 here with the nephew on the night that Mr. 
 Vaughan died ? 
 
 The face tells nothing ; the very eyes look 
 dead and cold. 
 
 At one end of the apartment stands the cabi- 
 net which has been so many times diligently 
 searched since Edgar Vaughan's death. She 
 goes to It, and sets the lamp on the floor by its 
 side. The cumbrous thing almost as large as 
 an organ is a mass of wonderful carving and 
 ornament. Four immense scroll-shaped legs 
 support the ancient affair, which the strength of 
 a dozen men would hardly suffice to lift. 
 
 Milady, on her knees, holds the light close to 
 u panel near the bottom of the cabinet. She 
 takes out of her pocket a long knitting-needle 
 the restless Simpson yesterday missed that needle 
 from her work, and is dreaming about it at this 
 moment. After several trials, Milady succeeds 
 in pushing the slender steel far up under a mass 
 of carved flowers. The panel flies out and dis- 
 closes a drawer, in which lie folded papers. 
 These Milady seizes and hides in her bosom, 
 muttering "I saw him open it. I thought 
 afterward I was crazy to hide the papers here 
 but they have kept safe they have kept safe." 
 
 Then, noiseless and ghost-like, she creeps back 
 to her chamber, and the old house remains si- 
 lent as a grave. 
 
 Two days elapse before she learns that Lannce 
 C'romlin is gone; but she asks few questions, 
 though she looks troubled and disappointed at 
 first. When she is alone again she presses her 
 hand to her bosom, and the paper hidden there 
 cra:kles under her touch. 
 
 " It doesn't matter," she whispers ; " they are 
 safe." 
 She goes soon afterward to the home Launce 
 
 has provided for her a place where she will be 
 perfectly secure should Darrell Vaughan make 
 any attempts to discover her whereabouts. 
 
 Weeks go by drift on to spring. Even 
 Mr. Carstoe has left California. One day news 
 comes to Mrs. Simpson that Milady has disap- 
 peared. She had taken the sum gained by her 
 work and never woman toiled as Milady did 
 and is gone. 
 
 Mrs. Simpson is troubled and anxions, but is 
 obliged to wait, for Mr. Carstoe has not yet sent 
 her his address, and she does not know where to 
 send information either to him or Launce Cromlin. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 THE GIANT'S CASTLE. 
 
 IT was a beautiful February day ; every trace 
 of snow had disappeared ; the air was balmy 
 and soft, with promises of spring promises 
 which the fickle goddess would be sure to for- 
 get by the time March arrived, as in the matter 
 of pledges and vows she resembles the order of 
 human beings who "protest too much." 
 
 But it was lovely weather, and useless to pro- 
 ject one's soul into the future ; better to enjoy 
 it, as we do the pleasant mood of some friend 
 troubled by an uncertain temper, without ques- 
 tioning. 
 
 Mrs. Murray seldom got out of the house, ex- 
 cept when obliged to go to the shop which gave 
 her work. To-day, however, Meg persuaded 
 her that it would be delightful to undertake a 
 long-promised journey to the upper part of town, 
 where lived an old Scotch woman whom they 
 visited two or three times a year. The street- 
 cars that blessed modern invention which puts 
 " a carriage-and-pair " at the service of the poor 
 and ailing set them down within a short dis- 
 tance of their destination. 
 
 But to Meg the ride was the chief pleasure, 
 for she found slight entertainment in their host- 
 ess's room after she had exhausted the pictorial 
 resources of an old Bible, and worn out her pa- 
 tience trying to persuade the misanthropic black 
 cat who dwelt on the warmest corner of the 
 hearth to play with her. 
 
 "Meg," said Mrs. Murray at last, noticing, 
 with her usual thoughtfulness, that the child be- 
 gan to look weary of her efforts to amuse her- 
 self, " I'm thinkin' pnss is like Mrs. MacLean 
 and me, my woman she's outlived her playin' 
 days. But ye may walk in the square, if ye'll 
 tak' good heed." 
 
 " And may I go over to the Reservoir?" asked 
 Meg, ready, like any other human being, to de- 
 mand an ell when an inch was granted. 
 
 " Yes, if ye'll be sure to mind the carriage? 
 at the crossings. Ye'll be back at the end o' 
 the hour ?"
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 155 
 
 Meg promised, and decided to leave the 
 square for a future day, when the trees should 
 be in leaf, and flowers in blossom that could be 
 looked at, even if touching them must remain 
 an unattainable bliss. To walk about under the 
 shadow of the lofty walls that shut in the Reser- 
 voir was a pleasure which made these visits to 
 Mrs. MacLean something to dream of in advance 
 and long afterward, where Meg was concerned. 
 The great mass of masonry might look prosaic 
 enough to most people : it entranced Meg as 
 much as ever a ruined castle on the Rhine did a 
 poet. Jean Murray, unconscious as she was of 
 possessing imaginative gifts, had a rare talent 
 for story-telling. Meg never went to sleep with- 
 out a wonderful story. She was familiar with 
 all the fairy tales that have been sacred history 
 to children for centuries, and believed them just 
 as implicitly as those out of the Bible which 
 were reserved for Sundays. Indeed, she some- 
 what confused matters, as many a small per- 
 sonage has done before, and often pictured one 
 of her pet elfin kings in Joseph's gorgeous coat 
 of many colors, and mixed up fairy -land and 
 Eden in a fashion that would have horrified 
 Aunt Jean's natural enemies " the district vis- 
 itors." And almost the next best thing to find- 
 ing the road to the kingdom of the fairies a 
 feat Meg by no means despaired of if she could 
 only get fuirly out into the broad, green, tree- 
 shadowed country of which she had caught oc- 
 casional glimpses on bright summer days were 
 these expeditions to the Reservoir. Meg had 
 no doubt whatever that these great walls hid a 
 notable giant who figured in one of Aunt Jean's 
 narratives a giant who bore no family likeness 
 to the generality of those wicked old fellows that 
 infest the realm of Fable. This 'giant was as 
 kind and gentle as he was strong, and helped 
 princes to their rights, and screened beautiful 
 princesses from their foes, showered costly gifts 
 upon good children with a lavish hand, and was 
 altogether the sort of giant one would be very 
 glad to meet and propitiate. 
 
 So Meg gained the broad, quiet street walked 
 on past Sixth Avenue past Broadway and came 
 in sight of the giant's castle. When she was 
 tired of staring up at the frowning height, and 
 fancying that she heard the sound of the giant's 
 tread and the voice of the Princess Thelusia 
 from within, there was a convenient deep door- 
 way on the Fifth Avenue side where she could 
 sit and watch the carriages and the horsemen 
 dash past, and the beautifully dressed ladies 
 saunter along the sidewalk, and find the real 
 world about her nearly as marvelous as the fair 
 "\Vonder-land familiar to her childish fancies. 
 
 She was to have a whole hour in the shadow 
 of the giant's castle and an hour is a lengthy 
 period either for pleasure or pain at Meg's age. 
 The great clock in the church-tower farther down 
 the avenue had struck two as she neared the 
 
 walls. Meg had so long to live before that 
 hoarse voice would call again that it was not 
 necessary to think about its warning. She was 
 a conscientious little soul, however, and as soon 
 as the first chime sounded would have set out 
 on her return, even if the giant and the princess, 
 the elf in Joseph's gorgeous coat, and the whole 
 train of brilliant creatures had appeared in a 
 body and tempted her to remain. 
 
 After Meg had been there a great while, and 
 had begun to think she must listen for the bell 
 (as if one of the seven sleepers himself could 
 have failed to be roused by its brazen voice, 
 that always sounds so angry and fiendish one is 
 inclined to believe the unfortunate dissenting 
 chapel where it lives possessed of a devil), a 
 carriage drove up the avenue, and stopped in 
 front of Meg's doorway. 
 
 A very pretty lady descended almost as 
 pretty, Meg thought, as the one who had been 
 so kind the day Sally Baines's cat got her into 
 difficulty, and who had several times since then 
 visited the little rooms in Minetta Lane. 
 
 " You need not wait," Meg heard the lady say 
 to the coachman; "I shall walk awhile before 
 going home. Be at the house in time to take 
 me to the theatre." 
 
 A very elegant lady, in a rich black dress Meg 
 knew to be velvet, and with a bonnet so beautiful 
 that the child immediately appropriated it for 
 the benefit of the Princess Thelusia, and such 
 clouds of golden hair under the bonnet that Meg 
 decided them also worthy to decorate the head 
 of her favorite heroine. Up and down the lady 
 walked in a slow, meditative fashion, and Meg 
 watched her, wondering if she knew the giant, 
 and was waiting to have an interview with him. 
 How Meg longed to run and ask, but even at her 
 time of life one begins to be shackled by the pro- 
 prieties, and Meg felt it was impossible to grati- 
 fy her yearning. She watched her so attentive- 
 ly that at last the lady, passing several times 
 close to the doorway, noticed the child. There 
 was a look of admiration in Meg's face easy to 
 read especially to a woman as fond of such in- 
 cense, from whatever quarter it might come, as 
 this lady chanced to be. She glanced at Meg 
 and smiled, and Meg thought the very sunshine 
 grew brighter and warmer. The other lady had 
 smiled at her too, but so sadly, so sorrowfully, 
 that Meg had asked Aunt Jean if she were un- 
 happy. Still, even as she compared the two, 
 Meg was faithful to her allegiance, and decided 
 that her first favorite was more beautiful: this 
 one might be a princess, like Thelusia, but the 
 other was a grand queen at the very least. 
 
 Presently the lady turned down the very street 
 Meg must take? and not long after the bell chimed 
 three. She started up at once, bade farewell to 
 the giant's castle and her dreams, and descended 
 to the actualities of life. Aunt Jean expects 
 prudence on the part of a child considered fit to
 
 156 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIK. 
 
 be trusted out alone, and Meg would not disap- 
 point that confidence for the world. 
 
 Meg saw the lady in advance, walking slowly 
 along. At length she stopped before a house 
 which Meg had remarked on her way to the Kes- 
 ervoir, from the quantities of flowers in the win- 
 dows. She lived there she was going up the 
 steps. Meg hunied on to get a last look before 
 she disappeared. Just as the child reached the 
 dwelling the door opened and closed behind the 
 ladv, and Meg was turning away disappointed at 
 not having had another glimpse of the lovely 
 face when she perceived something white lying 
 on the lower step. 
 
 It was a handkerchief, as filmy and soft as a 
 spider's web, Meg thought, and there was lace 
 on it, such as she had seen in the windows when 
 Aunt Jean took her into the region of shops 
 away down Broadway, and an odor of violets 
 that was like a breath of garden air. 
 
 Meg picked up the handkerchief, mounted the 
 steps, and pulled the bell in great haste. An old 
 woman appeared ; she looked very cross, and be- 
 gan gesticulating and crying out in some un- 
 known language, and was altogether so violent 
 that Meg's first impulse was to fling the hand- 
 kerchief down and run away, afraid that she had 
 encountered some malevolent fairy for, alas! 
 there were evil- disposed natures even among 
 fairies. But she stood her ground, and was try- 
 ing to explain what had brought her, though the 
 old fairy only scolded the harder, and refused 
 even to notice the bit of lace Meg held up. Just 
 then the pretty lady came back through the hall, 
 and addressed the woman in that same unknown 
 tongue, only it sounded sweet and musical from 
 her lips. She perceived Meg, and said in En- 
 glish 
 
 " What is it, little girl ? What did you want ?" 
 
 "Please, it's the handkerchief; I saw it on 
 the steps," Meg stammered, not so much because 
 she felt shy as from eagerness. 
 
 "Ah, thanks; you are a good child I am 
 much obliged. Let me see, what shall I give 
 you ?" returned the lady, regarding Meg. The 
 child's dress was simple enough, but she did not 
 somehow look as if one could offer her money. 
 
 The old woman was talking all the while ; the 
 lady put up her hand, as if annoyed by the buzz- 
 ing, and sent her away. Meg knew that by the 
 gesture which accompanied the words. The at- 
 tendant clattered along the marble floor on a pair 
 of preposterously high heels, chattering like an 
 ill-n:itured magpie till she disappeared. 
 
 Meg could not help watching her, and the 
 lady said 
 
 "Were you frightened at my old Susanne? 
 She is not so cross as she looks."' 
 
 But Meg scarcely heard ; she had caught sight 
 of a flowering shrub in a great pot near the foot 
 of the staircase a man - el of dark glossy green 
 leaves, and delicate pink blossoms hanging down 
 
 like tiny bells. Meg clapped her hands in de- 
 light. 
 
 "Ah, I see the flowers, "said the lady, fol- 
 lowing the direction of her eyes. "You like 
 flowers ? Come in there are jgjaie I shall give 
 you come." 
 
 Meg would have expostulated, remembering 
 that the fatal hour had sounded, but there was 
 no time, for the lady drew her into the vestibule 
 and closed the door. Meg allowed herself to be 
 led across the hall into a room hung with blue 
 and some other color that Meg thought neither 
 white nor gray, but like both, with silvery streaks 
 through it. The bay-window was full of the 
 plants she had seen from the street, and there 
 were pictures, and a marble boy in the comer, 
 and scores of man-els, which made Meg think 
 fairy-land had opened at last. 
 
 " You shall have a bouquet to take home with 
 you," the lady said, beginning to select flowers 
 from the different plants, and talking pleasantly 
 as she did so. "What is your name? where 
 do you live, little girl ?" 
 
 " Meg ; with Aunt Jean," returned the child, 
 scarcely able to hear or answer at the moment. 
 
 "Ah, you think my room pretty, I see. What 
 eyes the creature has!" And the lady stopped 
 short, and gazed fixedly at her. ' ' Why, they are 
 like what a goose I am !" she muttered to her- 
 self, then resumed her employment. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot I mustn't stay!" exclaimed 
 Meg, coming suddenly back to her senses. "It's 
 past the hour, and Aunt Jean said I was to go 
 as soon as it struck. " 
 
 "Then you shall why, what an honest little 
 soul you are!" laughed the lady. "See here 
 is a pretty bouquet for you. Some time if you 
 come back I shall give you more. I am much 
 obliged to you this is my pet handkerchief; I 
 wouldn't have lost it fur any thing!" 
 
 She put the handkerchief to her lips, and kissed 
 it passionately several times, though laughing 
 still, as if in mockery of her own childishness. 
 
 "Ah, little one," said she, "you don't know 
 what my nonsense means ; but you will under- 
 stand if you remember it when you grow to be a 
 woman you will understand." 
 
 She had caught her dress in the jardiniere. 
 She tried in vain to extricate it, uttering impa- 
 tient French exclamations, and rushing into a 
 tremendous excitement at once. 
 
 " I see where it's fastened," Meg said. She 
 laid her bouquet on a chair, and went upon her 
 knees to pull out the fringe, which had twist- 
 ed itself about some of the decorations of the 
 stand. 
 
 The lady stood looking down at her. As Meg 
 
 rose, the silver cross which she always wore 
 
 swung out from her neck, and the lady saw it. 
 
 ] She pulled the child up so suddenly that Meg 
 
 was almost frightened ; the face which bent over 
 
 ! her had grown very pale.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 157 
 
 "Take it off let me see it, "she said, point- 
 ing to the cross. 
 
 Meg obeyed ; the lady turned away to exam- 
 ine the ornament, and stood for many moments 
 with her back to the child. At last she seated 
 herself in a chair, and motioned Meg to her side. 
 
 " "Where did you get this ?" she asked, almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " I've always had it," Meg answered, ready to 
 sob. "It was my mother's, Aunt Jean said." 
 
 ' ' Your mother's ? Hush don't cry don't be 
 frightened ! Oh, I where do you live ?" 
 
 " With Aunty Jean down in Minetta Lane 
 number six," sobbed Meg, choking back her 
 tears. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! won Dieu .'" 
 
 The lady was not noticing her ; she was star- 
 ing at the cross again. She had turned the other 
 side, and seen the letter N that had been cut deep 
 into the silver. 
 
 " May I go ?" whispered Meg. "Aunt Jean 
 will expect me please, may I go ?" 
 
 "What did you speak? Oh, I know you 
 want to go ; yes," the lady answered, controlling 
 herself by a violent effort, though she looked very 
 pale still, and there was a terror in her eyes far 
 deeper than Meg's childish alarm. " Here is 
 your cross don't be afraid it is only that I am 
 not well. " 
 
 "Aunt Jean takes drops," said Meg, practi- 
 cal, and ready to be of assistance, discomposed 
 as she felt. 
 
 The lady laughed out again, but there was no 
 mirth in the sound now. If Meg had been old- 
 er, she would have known that the stranger was 
 dangerously near hysterics. 
 
 "I shall be better soon I don't want any 
 drops," she said. "Tell me again where you 
 live wait, let me write it." 
 
 She hurried to the table, and scribbled the ad- 
 dress which Meg repeated. Then she moved 
 close to the child, and looked fixedly at her. 
 
 "I can not understand," she murmured. "Oh, 
 I do think I must be mad! mon Dieu! 
 maman, maman /" 
 
 She struggled with herself again, and tried to 
 smile as she saw how her agitation confused and 
 distressed the little girl. 
 
 " You want to go ?" she said. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, please. Aunty will be expect- 
 ing me," faltered Meg. 
 
 " Good-bye. Ah, I must open the street-door 
 tor you. Stop, do not forget your flowers." 
 
 Meg recovered her precious nosegay, saying, 
 " Thank you, ma'am, oh, so much." 
 
 She followed the lady across the hall into the 
 vestibule. 
 
 " Perhaps I shall come to see you soon be a 
 good child." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am; thank you," returned Meg, 
 trying hard to act up to her ideas of propriety 
 and politeness. 
 
 The lady regarded the childish face wistfully 
 for an instant, bent her head as if from an im- 
 pulse to kiss the uplifted forehead, then drew 
 back, and motioned her to go, repeating, " Good- 
 bye, good-bye." 
 
 Meg hurried down the street, and reached 
 Mrs. MacLean's dwelling just as Aunt Jean had 
 begun to grow anxious, and was sallying forth 
 in search of her. It was time to go home, so, 
 after a hasty adieu to their hostess, they set off, 
 Aunt Jean reserving questions till she found her-; 
 self alone with Meg. 
 
 And the lady whom Meg had left went back 
 to her drawing-room, and walked up and down 
 for some time in troubled thought. At last she 
 pulled from her bosom a cross which was the ex- 
 act counterpart of that worn by Meg. Again 
 she grew frightened and hysterical, moaning 
 
 tf O maman, maman! OmonJJieu! monUieu!" 
 
 Nina de Farolles had worn the cross up to the 
 day of her death. She had given it to Nathalie 
 when her dying terrors wrung from her that dis- 
 mal confession, and caused her to burden Natha- 
 lie's soul with the promise which even her fickle 
 nature could not forget. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE PRESENTIMENT FULFILLED. 
 
 Two days later, Mrs. Murray, sitting in her 
 cheerful room with her dolls, heard a knock at 
 the door. Meg had gone to visit the violinist, 
 who was not well, and had begged for the child's 
 society. The musician was a crack-brained old 
 fellow, with an odd gleam of genius, which en- 
 abled him to comprehend an imaginative little 
 creature like Meg, just as it unfitted him for the 
 ordinary duties of this hard world. Had he pos- 
 sessed less or more than this gleam, the case 
 might have been different, but Meg was satisfied. 
 
 Mrs. Murray had reached a critical point in the 
 embryo existence of the doll she was busy over, 
 and did not feel best pleased at having to let the 
 plump kid body and the waxen head fall apart on 
 the table while she rose to see what ill-timed in- 
 truder might be at hand. She crossed the dark 
 passage, and opened the outer door that led to 
 the staircase. A lady was standing there. She 
 did not raise her veil, but said quickly 
 
 "I want to see Mrs. Murray the woman who 
 has a little girl called Meg living with her." 
 
 So Mrs. Murray knew that the visitor was the 
 lady of whom Meg had spoken, and felt flattered 
 and curious, naturally enough. But she only 
 said 
 
 " It's me, ma'am. Will you walk in ?" 
 
 The lady followed her into the room> sat down 
 in the chair Mrs. Murray offered civilly enough, 
 and put her veil back. Aunt Jean looked hard 
 at her looked a second time ; and then there was
 
 158 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 neither curiosity nor civility in her face any lon- 
 ger. She had suddenly grown stiff and erect. If 
 she had borrowed the poker for a backbone she 
 could not have sat up straighter and more rigid. 
 By the merest chance in the world Aunt Jean 
 knew the stranger. She never forgot a face, and 
 she had seen this lady before remembered, too, 
 the history related in connection therewith. 
 
 She had come out of M'Intyre's shop one day, 
 and was standing on the sidewalk, talking with 
 an acquaintance who worked in the establishment, 
 when Nathalie La Tour's carriage drove up, and 
 Nathalie herself descended. 
 
 "There's one with money to spend," whisper- 
 ed Aunt Jean's companion. " Just look at her ; 
 and to see her smiling and happy, as if there was 
 no judgment and no hereafter!" 
 
 Aunt Jean's acquaintance was a vinegary-faced 
 old maid, who had never seen the bright side of 
 temptation, though she was as proud of her vir- 
 tue as if she had fought scores of battles in its 
 defense. She loved gossip also, as so many vir- 
 tuous people do, and knew all about the famous 
 Frenchwoman and her naughty books and her 
 naughtier life her suppers, her coterie of bad 
 women, her lovers, and all the rest ; and she told 
 the story so fast that Aunt Jean could not help 
 listening. 
 
 " She comes to the shop often," the old maid 
 said; " she's always ordering embroidery. If 
 you just saw the chemises of her ! I've had to 
 take work to her house sometimes. Oh, its aw- 
 ful ! with a naked boy in one of the rooms, and 
 she as bold as brass, and talking so sweet ! I al- 
 ways feel like quoting Sodom and Gomorrah to 
 her, and Jezebel, and all the rest, but a body 
 doesn't dare. St. Paul says, 'Be instant in sea- 
 son and out of season ;' but if he'd had to do em- 
 broidery for a living, and one's place lost if a 
 customer complained of impudence, maybe he'd 
 not have found it so easy to do his duty after 
 all." 
 
 Mrs. Murray had gone away, laughing quietly 
 to herself at the odd jumble virtuous Sarah Jenks 
 made of the matter, but the history remained in 
 her mind notwithstanding, and straightway at 
 sight of Nathalie's face she grew as rigid as Sa- 
 rah herself. 
 
 "The little girl is not here?" Madame La 
 Tour was saying. 
 
 " No, ma'am," replied Aunt Jean. 
 
 " She was at my house the other day," pursued 
 Madame, with a smile which few people could 
 have resisted. " Perhaps she told you ?" 
 
 Aunt Jean was sorely tempted to give utterance 
 to another " No, ma'am, "but her worship of truth 
 compelled her to make the first word an assent 
 instead of a denial. 
 
 " Such a nice little girl," pursued Madame,try- 
 ing to speak carelessly, though there was a trem- 
 or in her voice, and her features worked nervous- 
 ly, and her usually perfect English caught a slight 
 
 foreign intonation, as it did in moments of strong 
 agitation. " I was much interested in her, and 
 she said I might come to see her. I am very fond 
 of little girls." 
 
 " You're very good, ma'am," said Aunt Jean. 
 
 She was watching the visitor with her shrewd 
 gray eyes. She looked as upright and uncom- 
 promising as ever, and chopped off her words 
 with the same unresponsive coldness, but her 
 breath came quickly, and her eyes took a troub- 
 led, puzzled expression for all that. 
 
 She had pondered much over Meg's account 
 of the lady's odd manner her examination of 
 the cross, her excited questions. She perceived 
 her agitation now, and a score of bewildering 
 thoughts rose in Mrs. Murray's mind. But one 
 determined reflection came quickly in the wake 
 of those perplexed fancies. This woman, what- 
 ever her motive might be, should neither see Meg 
 nor obtain a shred of information in regard to her. 
 
 "You are her aunt, she told me," Madame 
 continued. " Is her name Murray ?" 
 
 The child was always so called. Aunt Jean 
 compounded with her conscience, and gave a 
 sign of assent. 
 
 " Then her father was your brother, I suppose ? ' 
 said Madame. She paused Aunt Jean did not 
 speak. "Was he your brother?'' demanded 
 Madame, a sudden impatience shaking the voice 
 she tried so hard to keep composed. 
 
 " No, ma'am," said Jean once more. She had 
 come too near a falsehood already for her peace 
 of mind she would equivocate no further. But 
 she would tell nothing, even if she were forced to 
 take refuge in sullenness or incivility to avoid so 
 doing. 
 
 " Ah, her mother was your sister," returned 
 Madame, and there was a tone of relief in her 
 voice which did not escape her listener. " I am 
 sorry the little girl is not in," she continued ; " I 
 would have liked to see her again. She does not 
 remember her parents, she told me. " 
 
 " No, she does not," returned Aunt Jean, and 
 her voice likewise had a tone of relief in it. Some- 
 thing had changed the stranger's mood. She had 
 found wanting the clew that she had expected to 
 catch ; her interest and agitation were both gone. 
 
 " Her parents dead ! She is fortunate to have 
 a kind relative like you to take care of her." 
 
 " What's in my power, I do," replied Aunt 
 Jean. 
 
 If the lady would only go go before further 
 question could bring back whatever doubt or 
 trouble had occasioned this visit. Mrs. Murray 
 had some wild idea of inventing an excuse to get 
 out of the room, but no reasonable pretext would 
 suggest itself. 
 
 "I saw I want you to tell me " began Ma- 
 dame. 
 
 Aunt Jean felt that her only hope lay in as- 
 suming the defensive. She said quickly 
 
 "I'll a^k your pardon, ma'am, but ye are
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 15'J 
 
 strange to me, I must just beg ye to mind. I'm 
 a poor, plain body, but a' the same I dinna like to 
 hae strangers come speerin' after me and mine 
 this gait. I'm Scootch an' ye're Freench, if I may 
 mak' boold to judge by your speech, an' that's the 
 deeference betwixt us. I'm no meanin' to offend, 
 but it's aye better to speak out what's in the 
 mind, an' then each onderstands the ither." 
 
 And very " Scootch " Aunt Jean grew both in 
 pronunciation and looks. She was frightened at 
 the ideas her visitor's words and manner roused 
 in her mind, and determined to guard her secret 
 under a panoply of grimness and obstinacy. 
 
 No trouble or mental agitation, however great, 
 could be strong enough to keep Nathalie's pre- 
 posterous vanity in the background. Aunt Jean 
 could not have stung her worse than she did by 
 that unintentional thrust. To be told that she 
 spoke English with an accent she who prided 
 herself on having ' ' two native languages ! " She 
 colored sensitively, more hurt than angry, but of 
 course Mrs. Murray ascribed the blush to the lat- 
 ter emotion. 
 
 "I've nae wish to be rude, ma'am," she con- 
 tinued, a little less stiffly, though she looked as 
 grim and obstinate as ever. "It's on'y that you've 
 made a mistake my bairn an' me could na' hae 
 ony interest for you whatever. I'm a plain body, 
 as ye may see, and Megsie is all I hae, an' there's 
 nae call for ony one to ask questions aboot her." 
 
 Nathalie would have liked to believe ; to de- 
 part and be done with the matter put it out of 
 her mind. She did not object to troubles of a 
 certain sort troubles which could assume a poet- 
 ical coloring. But there was no romance in the 
 business which had brought her here ; it was a 
 subject that, next to death, was always the most 
 dismal for her to contemplate. Still she could 
 not obey her first impulse accept the obstinate 
 old woman's assertion as proof that she had de- 
 ceived herself. She recollected the cross that 
 initial scratched on the back. She would be glad 
 to find that the woman knew nothing of its his- 
 tory that it had corns into her possession by ac- 
 cident above all, that it had no connection with 
 the child. The surroundings were so common- 
 place that Nathalie felt it would be a severe blow 
 to be obliged to give the little girl a part in the 
 fears and fancies which she had woven into a ro- 
 mantic background for the picture so long car- 
 ried in her mind. 
 
 She would ask her questions, and go away ; this 
 blunt, stiff woman was an eyesore to her. If she 
 had been a hag, like some creature of sensational 
 romance, or the child in the depths of misery and 
 danger, Nathalie could have found an excitement 
 in trying to follow out the clew she had first be- 
 lieved found; but respectable poverty poverty 
 which toiled and was honest and content pos- 
 sessed no interest whatever. 
 
 " I saw she showed me a cross she wears," 
 Nathalie said, trying to speak carelessly ; not so 
 
 much from a desire to deceive the woman as to 
 cheat herself, eager to believe that she expected 
 some answer which would set her mind at rest, 
 be a proof that she had only excited herself over 
 a chance likeness. " It was an odd little cross ; 
 it is one you purchased for her, I suppose ?" 
 
 She stopped, and looked inquiringly at the old 
 woman, who had picked up her work, and was 
 sewing busily. If the creature would only say 
 " Yes." But Mrs. Murray stitched on, and said 
 nothing. " I have a reason for asking about it," 
 continued Nathalie, her voice becoming tremu- 
 lous again, for the silence troubled her. " A 
 reason nothing that has to do with you or the 
 child but I should like You bought the 
 cross, did you not ?" 
 
 It was full a minute before Mrs. Murray an- 
 swered ; but she could not escape she must 
 
 " Nae ; I did na' buy it," she said. 
 She heard a heavy, gasping breath ; felt her 
 arm seized in a quick, nervous grasp. Madame 
 was leaning forward in her chair ; her face had 
 lost its color again, and her eyes looked eager 
 and frightened. ' ' Where did you get it ? tell 
 me. How did you come by the cross ?" she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 Speak? say a word which could in any way 
 give this dreadful woman cause to think she had 
 part or lot in that innocent child ? Never ! Aunt 
 Jean would sooner have been trampled to death 
 by wild horses. 
 
 "Ane gied it me, if ye maun ken," she said. 
 " I hae naething in the world I did na' come by 
 honestly." 
 
 "It's not that ; I don't doubt your honesty." 
 
 " Nae, nae, I should na' fear ye wad ; naebody 
 e'er did that," retorted Jean, seizing at any pre- 
 tense for anger, in the hope that her visitor might 
 take offense and end the interview. 
 
 " Who gave it to you ?" cried Madame, more 
 excitedly. " Can't you speak ? don't you hear?" 
 
 Aunt Jean formed a sudden resolve. 
 
 "I'll tell ye," she said; "I'll tell ye; then 
 maybe ye'll leave me an' mine to gae our lane." 
 
 ' ' Who was it ? A woman, I know. Where 
 is she ? is she alive ?" 
 
 " Dead, most like ; I hae reason to think so," 
 returned Jean, in a solemn voice, as she held up 
 a warning finger. " Dead, nae doot. 'The wages 
 o* sin is deeth. ' If e'er ye read your Bible, ye ken 
 that." 
 
 " She hae a conscience," Mrs. Murray thought. 
 ' ' I'll na' be baird as I was to the ither ; but if 
 I could on'y speak the right word if I on'y 
 could !" 
 
 " Get me some water I'm not well," sighed 
 Madame La Tour, letting her hands drop into 
 her lap, and leaning back in her chair with a 
 frightened, helpless look which changed her whole 
 face. Aunt Jean gave her a startled glance a 
 sudden resemblance to another face struck her
 
 ICO 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 for the first time ; but, sorely as it dismayed her, 
 it was only an added reason for hugging her se- 
 cret fast. Speak ? Never ! She would save her 
 child her one treasure her sweet Meg ! That 
 was her duty in this world. God would require 
 at her hands the precious soul His mysterious 
 workings had intrusted to her guardianship. 
 
 She was thinking this as she hurried to fetch 
 the water. She came back to Madame La Tour 
 put the tumbler into her shaking hand. Ma- 
 dame drank eagerly ; her color and strength be- 
 gan to return. 
 
 Aunt Jean felt a pity for the woman rise in 
 her heart. It was not only that she wanted to 
 say some word which should strike to her soul, 
 but something that should bring comfort too. 
 
 "Ma'am," she said softly, " there's ither things 
 in the Bible too : there's loving promises, an' 
 there's a hope, if on'y a body will turn from the 
 evil it's ne'er too late. He raised the dead to 
 life He pardoned the Magdalen Oh, He's just 
 as kind an' pitiful this day." 
 
 "You're mad!" cried Nathalie. "You're a 
 hopeless, raxing lunatic ! How dare you talk to 
 me like that! What idea have you got irT your 
 head? for whom do you mistake me? Why, 
 you crazy thing ! What dreadful words ! what a 
 horrible old woman in every way ! I don't want 
 to hear your ignorant fancies, your antiquated 
 superstitions," Madame cried, desperately. "You 
 are rude and impertinent ; you're a bad-hearted 
 creature, too." 
 
 Nathalie had all her mother's horror of death. 
 The very word was enough to give her a nervous 
 spasm in her calmest moments, and now, when 
 half beside herself with excitement, it was torture 
 of the most horrible description to hear this cruel 
 creature complacently naming it, and talking as 
 her mother used to talk in her dark moods of 
 pain and remorse. That death-scene rose before 
 her the moans, the prayers, the imprecations ; 
 but through them all came the words which had 
 been reiterated over and over the words she 
 could never forget, which had a hold upon her 
 mind such as no other memory ever did or could 
 possess. "You have promised, Nathalie! you 
 have promised ! I shall watch you I shall be 
 near : take care that you don't forget !" 
 
 Why, many a time she had awakened from sleep 
 with those words ringing in her ear ; had run to 
 Stisanne's room for refuge, almost expecting to 
 see her mother's ghost appear and demand if she 
 had forgotten. Here, in the broad daylight, 
 with tlie sun shining through the window, and in 
 the midst of these commonplace surroundings, 
 the same dreadful terror came over her. She 
 hid her face in her hands, and shivered piteously. 
 
 What could Jean think but that her warning 
 had struck home awakened some gleam of re- 
 morse in the heart of this woman, whose de- 
 praved life was too well known for harsh judg- 
 ments to be a slander? 
 
 " You ought to feel as if a queen had honored 
 you by coming ! You might see my name the 
 first time you go out ; you can read, can't you ? 
 I saw the placards with my books and my name 
 at the corner even ; why, I am Madame La 
 Tour !" 
 
 That the very stones in the street would have 
 recognized this title was a solemn faith to Natha- 
 lie's positively sublime vanity. The Empress 
 of all the Russias could not have revealed her 
 identity with a more perfect confidence of her 
 name being a familiar sound through the length 
 and breadth of Christendom. 
 
 That appalling old woman ! She only shook 
 her head sadly, and, as firm in her conviction 
 that she was following out the line of duty as ever 
 one set of Christians were when they put to death 
 those who presumed to reject their creeds, said, 
 with a mingling of firmness and pity 
 
 " It's because I do know your name that I 
 speak just for that ; an' oh, if ye wad listen ! 
 I'm poor an' plain an' ignorant maybe, bat it's 
 all written there ye can na' mistake it." She 
 put her hand on the great old-fashioned Bible 
 tliat lay upon the table. " Nae money, nae youth, 
 nae beauty can escape ; the time o' reckonin' 
 comes ' The wages o' sin is deeth !' Oh, dinna 
 reject the warnin' : it's ne'er too late never!" 
 
 " Go away from me! let me get out of your 
 house !" exclaimed Nathalie, really convinced now 
 that the woman was mad. 
 
 "It's nae use, it's nae use !" sighed Aunt Jean, 
 and sat drearily down in a chair opposite, and 
 gazed with tears in her eyes at this brand which 
 refused to be plucked from the burning. 
 
 Pathetic and solemn as the scene was, I think 
 had there been a saint in the room who under- 
 stood the characters and motives of both, he must 
 have laughed in spite of himself. 
 
 The old woman's restored composure brought 
 back Nathalie's courage. She was a lunatic no 
 doubt, but not a dangerous one. Aunt Jean sat 
 resting her elbow on the table, supporting her 
 head with her hand. 
 
 She was thinking of that lost creature who had 
 crossed her path years ago of the time she saw 
 her in the fullness of youth and beauty before 
 her sin had found her out. She was thinking of 
 that last interview ; of the desolate, desperate, 
 homeless wretch whom she had rescued from the 
 night and the storm, and taken under her roof; 
 who had drifted away to new misery new sin. 
 
 Ah, if she could only tell the tale in fitting 
 words ; if she could only bring the history close 
 to the heart and conscience of this pretty, arro- 
 gant creature, who was treading the same down- 
 ward road treading among flowers still, but be- 
 yond loomed the night and the storm, and worse 
 worse ! Strive as she might, believe in God's 
 goodness as she did, Aunt Jean's mind was so 
 troubled by dark. Calvinistic creeds that all hope, 
 all promise, ended with this life.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 161 
 
 The silence and the woman's quietness of man- 
 ner had given Nathalie time to recover her wits. 
 She shook out her ruffled plumage, smiled, and 
 said sweetly 
 
 "Now please tell me all you can about the 
 cross, there's a good soul ; it is time I was gone." 
 
 "The crucifeex ?"' cried Aunt Jean. "Did 
 na' ye hear me say ane gied it me ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes ; but who who ?" 
 
 " It's na' a story about me or mine, remember 
 that ; but I'll tell it ye yes, I'll tell it ; mayhap 
 it'll bring the warnin'hame." 
 
 " man Dieu!" groaned Nathalie. "There 
 she goes again with her warnings and every sort 
 of horror ! My good creature, don't excite your- 
 self just give me a plain answer." 
 
 "I'll gie ye ane; I will!" said Aunt Jean. 
 " It's to ken how I haed the crucifeex ? A wick- 
 ed, papistical emblem, that's been a sair trouble 
 to me mony a time, but I could na' bring mysel' 
 to put it awa'forby but that's na' the question." 
 
 " No, no ; I only want to know who gave it to 
 you," Nathalie said, growing anxious and eager 
 again. 
 
 Aunt Jean leaned forward, speaking slowly, 
 with her lean forefinger extended to point her 
 words. 
 
 " She was nane o' me or mine, do ye mind 
 that ? A poor, lost creature that I saw ance in 
 the midst o' her wealth an' her luxury goin' 
 down a flowery path ; but it led straight to hell 
 dinna' forget that ! Ye may cover up the sin 
 wi' gauds and treenkets ye may ha' the voice 
 o' hairps an' the soonds o' revelry, but it wins 
 straight to hell a' the same." 
 
 "The cross I only want to hear about the 
 cross," shivered Nathalie. 
 
 She would have got up and run away, just from 
 a vague, nervous terror, but Aunt Jean's solemn 
 eyes and Aunt Jean's warning finger held her fast. 
 
 " It's just a pairt o' it," the old woman an- 
 swered. " That was the way I see her first 
 in broidered raiment an' jewels an' a' the rest, 
 an' it's on my soul that I was na' merciful 
 enough for she was young oh, younger than 
 you, my leddy, an' just as fair " 
 
 "I'll not have you talk about me," broke in 
 Nathalie, passionately. ' ' I'll not stay ; you shall 
 be made to speak I'll send those who will force 
 you to; but I'll not stay." 
 
 Yet Aunt Jean's eyes held her fast she could 
 no more have stirred than if she had been bound 
 in her chair. 
 
 "An" I left her in the midst o' her sin, for 
 she'd hear nae warnin' mind that !" continued 
 Jean, in a deeper voice, with an added trouble in 
 her keen gray eyes. " An' where did I find her 
 next ? In the street, wi' ne'er a shelter left 
 lovers an' freends far aloof, an' she speerin' at 
 the black river an' dazin' her poor brain wi' its 
 roar, an' the worst sin o' all temptin' her like a 
 fiend." 
 
 " won Dieu! mon Dieu!" moaned Nathalie. 
 
 "I gie her shelter I'd hae saved her if I could, 
 but she wad na' bide. She went her lane stole 
 off while I slept, an' journeyed on down the fear- 
 some road down, down ; an' I hae reason to 
 think the end cam' at last the awfu' end, an' 
 she lies in a nameless grave, awa' by the great 
 Paceefic shore, an' ne'er a sign o' her left but 
 the bit cross I let my childie wear to comfort me 
 auld heart a bit by thinkin' that though I was 
 haird at first, I softened little eno' I did, but I 
 had the wull I'm aye glad an' thankfu' for that." 
 
 She put her hand before her eyes, and sat silent. 
 
 Dead ! That was the one thought in Na- 
 thalie's mind. She could not tell if she were 
 shocked or grieved that the dread which had 
 haunted her so long was lightened. Dead ! 
 There need be no further remembrance of her 
 promise there was nothing to do. 
 
 Then every other reflection vanished in a de- 
 sire to get beyond the woman's reach out of 
 the sound of her voice. She rose quickly, and 
 hurried toward the door. She was weak and 
 shaken ; she could bear nothing further not a 
 word a syllable ; she should faint or go into 
 hysterics if those dull, grating tones struck her 
 ear again. 
 
 Aunt Jean heard her rise, but she did not 
 move. She watched her depart in silence, with 
 a keen feeling of relief. She had uttered her 
 warning she was powerless to do more. And 
 Meg was safe God had cared for the nameless 
 little one. No further danger would beset the 
 child ; she might grow up humble, honest. The 
 Lord would spare her He would spare her! 
 For when it became a matter that touched her 
 beloved, Aunt Jean could forget, as the sternest 
 do, the mysterious sentence in regard to the 
 transmission of punishment for sin from father 
 to child, though ordinarily she held fast to it in 
 all the horror of its full meaning accepted it 
 literally, forgetting that though " the letter kill- 
 eth, the spirit maketh alive." 
 
 She watched the graceful creature float out of 
 the room with her golden hair and her silken 
 robes, and all the radiance that to most eyes 
 would have brightened the shadowy haunt ; and 
 when the door closed Aunt Jean went down 
 upon her knees, and while she thanked God for 
 having been allowed to keep her darling safe, 
 she prayed for the beautiful woman, compassion- 
 ating the sinner even while she shuddered at the 
 sin. 
 
 As Nathalie La Tour reached the lower hall 
 she encountered a lady who had just entered the 
 house. They both looked up simultaneously 
 their eyes met ; once more she and Elizabeth 
 Crauford were standing face to face. 
 
 " Elizabeth !" exclaimed Madame La Tour, 
 forgetting her recent agitation forgetting what 
 she had always remembered when thinking of her 
 former friend, that Elizabeth's judgments upon
 
 16S 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 her books and her doctrines would be too con- 
 demnatory for any chance of future companion- 
 ship to be possible forgetting every thing except 
 that she saw before her the one member of her 
 own sex for whom she had ever really cared 
 ' ' Elizabeth ! How glad I am how odd to meet 
 you after so long ! Aren't you glad won't 
 you speak to me don't you know me, Eliza- 
 beth ?" 
 
 She had begun eagerly the broken exclama- 
 tions came more and more slowly, as she looked 
 at her .former friend standing there silent, unre- 
 sponsive, not noticing her extended hand, and 
 saw, too, the mingled emotions which stirred the 
 pale, proud features aversion horror. Na- 
 thalie was too quick in her perceptions not to 
 read the whole. 
 
 Her voice died in a sort of sob ; her lips quiv- 
 ered, her eyes filled with a sudden trouble, which 
 gave her face the childish look Elizabeth recol- 
 lected so well the look which in the old days 
 had never failed to soften her heart, however 
 much Nathalie might have annoyed or shocked 
 her by the utterance of her absurd theories or 
 wicked transcendentalism. 
 
 But she was not softened now. One could 
 not say that it was anger which filled her heart. 
 This woman had stolen no treasure that was 
 hers ; the law bound her to Darrell Vaughan ; 
 but in listening to his love Nathalie brought to 
 her no appreciable personal wrong. Horror and 
 aversion were in her face Nathalie read its 
 language aright ; but neither jealousy nor pain 
 had any part therein. It was only as if a spirit 
 of evil had started up before her under a sem- 
 blance of beauty, and were trying to cheat her, 
 in spite of all her knowledge of the truth, into a 
 belief of its purity. 
 
 A/ter an instant she spoke ; courteously, qui- 
 etly except that she uttered the name just as 
 she might have addressed a stranger. 
 
 " '\Yill Madame La Tour allow me to pass ?" 
 she said. 
 
 " Oh, Elizabeth !" exclaimed Nathalie again. 
 There were positively tears in her eyes. Tears 
 did not mean much with her : she could weep 
 over touching poetry, a pathetic novel, a sorrow- 
 ful play. It was the same sort of sentiment that 
 moved her now ; still to her it was real light, 
 transitory feelings were all that her facile nature 
 could hold. But to Elizabeth the mournful 
 voice, the pretty, pleading gestures, the misty 
 eyes, were only a paltry bit of acting, that had 
 not even the excuse of a motive. 
 
 She moved a step forward, impatient of the 
 i-cene, but Nathalie did not stir she was stand- 
 ing on the lower stair, and kept her place. 
 
 "I have thought so much about you I want- 
 ed so to see you again ! I wondered how and 
 where we should meet and now you'll not speak 
 to me even. Oh, Elizabe.th, Elizabeth!" she 
 cried anew. 
 
 " I must again ask you to let me pass," was 
 all Elizabeth said. 
 
 " Oh, you hard-hearted thing !" exclaimed Na- 
 thalie, a hot anger drying her tears and flushing 
 her face. "I couldn't treat any creature so that 
 I had ever called my friend, no matter what had 
 happened." 
 
 " The difference between Nathalie L'Estrange 
 and Madame La Tour is too great for me to feel 
 that they are one and the same," Elizabeth re- 
 plied. " If you will not let me pass, I must go 
 away again." 
 
 She turned ; Nathalie caught her dress, and 
 said, in a voice which was only pleading and 
 earnest 
 
 " Don't leave me like that don't !" 
 
 "I must," Elizabeth ans*.vered. "Madame 
 La Tour ought to feel the impossibility of our 
 meeting even standing face to face exchang- 
 ing so much as a word." 
 
 A vivid scarlet rushed into Nathalie's cheeks. 
 Proud of her daring creeds, at the same time, in 
 odd contradiction, proud of the personal purity 
 of her life, she felt a certain shame in listening 
 to Elizabeth's rebuke shame so strong that she 
 could not even be angry. Naturally Elizabeth 
 ascribed that confusion to a very different cause 
 from its real one. She could but recollect that 
 she was Darrell Vaughan's wife, and this woman 
 one for whose sake he was periling reputation, 
 honor, setting at naught the common decencies 
 of life. 
 
 "I don't see why you should be so hard on 
 me," said Nathalie, with another sob in her 
 voice. " You may not like my books, you may 
 not think as I do ; but I have won fame I have 
 proved that I am not an ordinary, frivolous wom- 
 an : and you used to talk so much about worship- 
 ing genius, and all that." 
 
 " Madame La Tour remembers my opinions 
 so accurately that she ought to recollect there 
 were things I prized more highly," was the re- 
 sponse. 
 
 "Oh, you always had all sorts of old-fashioned 
 ideas!" retorted Nathalie, impatiently. "But 
 you can't say I'm not famous and admired ! Did 
 you ever read one of my books ?" 
 
 "You know I never have." 
 
 Nathalie was vexed. She could have borne 
 coldness, would not have minded rebuke or 
 harsh language ; but to have any human creat- 
 ure deny that she was pretty, or speak scornfully 
 of her literary labors, was too much for her pa- 
 tience. 
 
 "Ah!" said she, with a shrug of her shoul- 
 ders ; "I'd have said there was one woman in 
 the world incapable of envy, but I see you are 
 not different from the rest." 
 
 That speech was so thoroughly Nathalie, 
 Elizabeth could almost have smiled almost 
 have believed that these weary years since thev 
 parted were only a dream ; that she and this
 
 MR, VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 163 
 
 absurd, contradictory, impossible creature were 
 back in the pleasant Swiss valley, and no sin on 
 the woman's soul worse than that of holding 
 borrowed theories, whose wickedness she seemed 
 too frivolous to comprehend. 
 
 She moved aside a little, and Elizabeth took 
 advantage of this to pass her. Again Nathalie 
 put out her hand and caught Elizabeth's dress. 
 
 "So you mean to go?" she asked. "You 
 think because I have a soul broad enough to 
 hold new, true creeds, that I must necessarily 
 be what you call bad. Go, then. I would not 
 be you with all your virtue and your pride. 
 Narrow, petty, and so cold ! Go ; we shall not 
 see one another again. Oh " 
 
 She broke off suddenly. A new thought 
 struck her. 
 
 "Why, what are you doing here ?" she asked. 
 
 "There is a woman I come sometimes to vis- 
 it," Elizabeth said. " Please to let go my dress, 
 Madame La Tour." 
 
 "A Scotch woman, with a little girl a 
 niece ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Great heavens!" cried Nathalie. "Yon 
 don't know about the cross ?" She struck her 
 hands hard together ; her anger at Elizabeth's 
 scorn of her books gave her a new idea. " Why 
 shouldn't you bear part of the burden ?" cried 
 she. " I wouldn't have told you ; I'd have died 
 to keep the knowledge from you, for I loved you 
 yes, I did. I never cared half so much for 
 any girl ; but you hate me, you brush me out of 
 your path, and I'll tell !" 
 
 Was she about to boast of her empire over 
 Vaiighan? Had she sunk so low that, to grati- 
 fy her malice, she would be capable of this base- 
 ness ? 
 
 "Tell me nothing," Elizabeth said. "What- 
 ever you may have become, you would regret it 
 some day, if there is a trace of the old Nathalie 
 left. Go your way, and let me go mine. Cm- 
 paths need not cross." 
 
 " There is a fate links your way with mine," 
 cried Nathalie, in her theatrical fashion ; "the 
 threads were woven before you or I was born. 
 Aye, that was what my warning meant when I 
 first met you that was the trouble I must bring 
 you. Maybe I shall be sorry, but I'll tell all 
 the same. I've borne it alone long enough ; 
 take your share." 
 
 She was holding Elizabeth fast again. With- 
 out an absolute physical struggle Mrs. Vaughan 
 could not have freed herself. 
 
 "Speak, then, ''said Elizabeth. " I, too, have 
 borne so much that my heart is callous. I can 
 bear even this." 
 
 Still she misinterpreted Nathalie's meaning, 
 still gave it the only significance it could have 
 to her mind. 
 
 "You don't know, you don't know " 
 
 " Hush !" interrupted Elizabeth. "I have 
 
 seen with my own eyes. Nathalie, I know ev- 
 ery thing." 
 
 "And did you ever try to find her to help ? 
 I thought I had a clew, and it has failed, only I 
 know she is dead. " 
 
 " Dead ! Who ?" asked Elizabeth, wonder- 
 ing if the woman had gone out of her senses. 
 
 "Marguerite my sister and yours the child 
 of your father and my mother, Nina de Favol- 
 les!" exclaimed Nathalie. 
 
 Elizabeth clutched blindly at the banisters, 
 and would have fallen had not Nathalie held her 
 up. 
 
 "Oh, Elizabeth!" she cried, struck with a 
 sudden remorse. "I am so sorry, indeed I am. 
 You didn't know, you " 
 
 " Hush !" interrupted Elizabeth again, sitting 
 down on the stairs. "It is not true ! it is not 
 true !" 
 
 " It is true. I have old letters of your fa- 
 ther's that would prove it. Mamma gave the 
 child away. She was brought to America. 
 When mamma was dying she told me begged 
 me to find her, if I could. She wore a cross 
 like this." 
 
 Nathalie drew from her bosom a cross exactly 
 like the one Elizabeth had been shown by Mrs. 
 Murray. She was stunned and faint. The last 
 prop seemed forced from under her feet by this 
 tale of her father's sin. 
 
 " She is dead," pursued Nathalie ; "dead. I 
 saw the cross on that child's neck. But these 
 people were nothing to Marguerite ; the old 
 woman was kind to her once, and Marguerite 
 gave her that." 
 
 Elizabeth found strength to get upon her feet, 
 and turned her white face on Madame La Tour. 
 
 " I don't believe the story you have told me," 
 she said ; "I don't believe it." 
 
 Again anger overcame all other emotions in 
 Nathalie's mind, even her sudden remorse. She 
 took two letters from her pocket, and held them 
 toward Elizabeth. 
 
 "Then read these, and you will believe it," 
 she cried. " I brought them thinking that if 
 the child proved to be Marguerite's I might 
 need them. They weren't wanted ; but look at 
 them, you " 
 
 She unfolded one, and held it before Elizabeth. 
 She read almost in spite of herself read enough 
 to know that doubt was impossible. She closed 
 her eyes for an instant, and clung to the banis- 
 ters again. 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear, I wish I had not!" 
 moaned Nathalie, thrusting the letters into her 
 pocket, with a return of terror and remorse. 
 " Elizabeth Elizabeth !" 
 
 Mrs. Vaughan let her hands drop to her sides 
 bent her death-like face upon Nathalie. 
 
 "If you are satisfied go,"she said. 
 
 This time Nathalie shrank away without a 
 word.
 
 101 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "I am sorry I told her," she muttered, as her 
 carriage rolled oft'. "But she vexed me so! 
 Well, we shall not meet again and I did not 
 even ask if she were married ! Oh, I was very 
 fond of her, my beautiful Elizabeth ! Ah, mon 
 Dieu ! mon Dieu .' But I don't want to think 
 about her thank goodness I know nobody 
 who will ever mention her name. And it's 
 all so odd ! Poor Marguerite oh, mamma, 
 mamma!" 
 
 She began to shiver and sob, and was so ex- 
 hausted by the time she reached home that she 
 could only creep into bed and let Susanne dose 
 her with sedatives. But when evening came 
 she was quite restored, able to receive Vaughan 
 and other guests, and charm them all by her 
 brilliancy find high spirits. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 SO NEAR DEATH. 
 
 IT was very late the next morning when Eliza- 
 beth left her chamber and went down into the 
 breakfast-room. She was ill; suffering bodily 
 as well as mental pain. In all the dismal watches 
 which had become so familiar to her during these 
 years of trouble, perhaps no vigil had been so 
 sad as that of the past night. 
 
 Even without the testimony of the letter, it 
 would have been useless to try for comfort by 
 any attempt to disbelieve the tale Madame La 
 Tour had revealed in her reckless anger. Mo- 
 tive for a falsehood, there could have been none ; 
 besides, there was the stamp of truth in Natha- 
 lie's face in every word she uttered. Circum- 
 stances long forgotten came back, and added their 
 proof to the record. Even the name Nathalie 
 had spoken Nina de Favolles ; it struck Eliza- 
 beth with a sense of familiarity when she heard 
 it: the time and place recurred to her before her 
 vigil ended. Years and years ago, in Europe, 
 when she was a tiny child. It was one of the 
 rare occasions on which Elizabeth could recollect 
 seeing her mother roused to anger. Now and 
 then Mr. Crauford would persevere in teazing 
 and annoying her until he excited a storm be- 
 fore which he quailed. There had been conten- 
 tion between the parents, and they quarreled, 
 unconscious that the little daughter had stolen 
 into the room. Nina de Favolles ! It was Mrs. 
 Crauford who had uttered the name in the midst 
 of angry and disdainful reproaches. Elizabeth 
 remembered how white her mother was how 
 her great eyes flashed as she snoke ; remember- 
 ed her father's growing humble and penitent at 
 once. 
 
 Then there returned the recollections of Mr. 
 Crauford's anger and nervous dread when he 
 discovered the identity of their neighbor at La 
 Muladeyre the odd, rude words Nathalie's 
 
 mother had several times spoken to her. There 
 was no memory, however slight, which would 
 not have brought its evidence, even without the 
 letter. 
 
 If she could only have got away from all 
 thought could have put the matter out of her 
 mind as a history which perished with those dead 
 and gone a tale which could in no way concern 
 her. But this was impossible. The name by 
 which Nathalie had mentioned their sister yes, 
 great God, their sister Nathalie's as well as 
 hers ! And Nathalie believed her dead ; but 
 there was no actual proof of that. Elizabeth 
 had found strength after Madame La Tour left 
 her to go on up to Jean Murray's room had 
 heard the story of the interview ; Jean's belief 
 of some relationship between this wicked woman 
 and Meg's mother ; her thankfulness that she 
 had been able to keep from betraying any thing. 
 
 Meg's mother ! Oh, it was too horrible for 
 the whole loathsome truth struck Elizabeth at 
 lengih. Milady Marguerite this was Meg's 
 mother ; the girl Darrell Vaughan had desert- 
 ed left to find a grave for her shame as best 
 she could. And that unknown sister, hers and 
 Nathalie's this was Marguerite too, the same 
 Marguerite. 
 
 It was as if Fate had taken a horrible pleasure 
 in weaving the most unlikely events into one 
 web ; working out a drama the most improba- 
 ble, with a pitiless persistence which rendered 
 the slightest unity complete. 
 
 So the night had gone by. To be quiet, to 
 lie in bed, was out of the question. Elizabeth 
 set the doors open that connected her suite of 
 chambers, opened the door even into the corri- 
 dor, to afford herself a longer march, and paced 
 up and down their length for hours. A window- 
 shutter in the hall had been left ajar; the moon- 
 light streamed in and trembled across the floor 
 like a ghostly presence. Up and down, up and 
 down, Elizabeth passed ; thinking, thinking, 
 watching, her whole thwarted life spread before 
 her. She was too crushed and broken for active 
 rebellion ; worn and weakened in mind as well 
 as body, yet no more able to drive thought away 
 than she was to seek physical repose. 
 
 Ah, no wonder the shock of the first discovery 
 she had made, the connection between Meg and 
 Darrell Vaughan, had held a horror deeper even 
 than the knowledge of his sin. No wonder the 
 idea of the lost girl fastened with such persistency 
 on her soul, and the feeling that she must find, 
 must help her, had been like a command from 
 some higher power. 
 
 Her sister hers ! Not a blow spared not n 
 love of her life allowed to keep its reverence and 
 purity ! Sin treachery wretchedness wher- 
 ever she turned. And what coidd it avail that 
 all this knowledge should fall upon her ? What 
 could she do what work was there for her in 
 the atoning for these crimes ? If Marguerite
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 165 
 
 were alive, how find, how aid her ? And she 
 was; Elizabeth could neither content herself with 
 Mrs. Murray's conviction nor believe Vaughan's 
 tale. The wretched outcast had not been freed 
 from her misery and shame she was alive. 
 These revelations had a force and meaning ; 
 they came thus into her life because she was ex- 
 pected to act. But how which way turn 
 what step take even to learn if Marguerite were 
 living or dead ? 
 
 So the night dragged on. Toward morning 
 Elizabeth heard a sound below stairs a key 
 turning in the street-door. Vaughan had re- 
 turned ; she knew that it was not unusual for 
 him to enter at this hour. She slipped back into 
 her room, and partially closed the door. She 
 never watched him shrank always from seeing 
 him at such seasons ; but to-night somehow she 
 could not stir she must stand there and look. 
 
 Presently he came up the stairs, wearily, heav- 
 ily ; passed along the corridor, carrying a taper 
 in his hand. He was pale as a ghost his eyes 
 gleamed with an unnatural fire his step steady 
 enough, though slow. But Elizabeth was no 
 longer blind a doleful experience had rendered 
 that impossible. She knew the night had been 
 spent in some wild carouse. To make him look 
 as he did now like a coarse spirit of evil show- 
 ing through the face she could remember so fine, 
 so noble was the only effect of potations which 
 would have reduced another man to brutal in- 
 toxication. 
 
 He walked on, and entered his chamber. She 
 closed her door, crept into her bedroem, put 
 out the light, and sat there shivering in the silence 
 till at last the dawn peeped through the curtains, 
 and warned her that another day had begun. 
 Then she undressed and went to bed ; and there 
 followed the heavy, unrefreshing sleep which 
 morning often brings one after a wakeful night 
 of suffering. 
 
 So it was very late when she went down-stairs. 
 A pile of letters and newspapers lay by Vaughan's 
 plate. Soon he came into the room ; the servant 
 was present, so there were quiet salutations, and 
 the idle attempts at conversation which decorum 
 demanded. When the man went out, Darrell 
 began opening his letters. One of the epistles 
 was in the handwriting of Mr. Carstoe, Elizabeth 
 saw. The contents irritated Vaughan evident- 
 ly. He read, crushed the sheet in his hand, and 
 muttered an oath he had long since ceased to 
 pay his wife the compliment of guarding against 
 such brutality in her presence. Formerlv it was 
 her habit to rise and leave the room when he 
 outraged her in that manner; but she had ceased 
 to do this. She could not escape from the coarse 
 horrors of her life, why vex him, and perhaps 
 bring on a disgraceful scene by noticing an insult 
 not directed her way ? 
 
 He took up his newspapers ; among these she 
 noticed a California journal, which he had sent 
 
 to him regularly each week. He had given the 
 order as long ago as when he was in the Pacific 
 State, and the paper still continued to come 
 not that he cared particularly for it, but he had 
 grown accustomed to its arrival, and so had never 
 withdrawn his subscription. 
 
 Elizabeth, seeing him occupied, rose from the 
 table to leave the room. For days past he had 
 been in one of his moods of not speaking to her ; 
 he would pass her on the stairs, or in the hall, 
 without a word sit at meals speechless, except 
 when the servants were about. His sullen fits 
 had ceased to irritate her, though there are few 
 things more vexatious than such conduct, even 
 on the part of a person to whom one is perfectly 
 indifferent, if forced to live in the same house. 
 
 She stopped on her way out to look at some 
 hyacinths in one of the windows delicate pur- 
 ple-and-white blossoms, heavy with a delicious 
 fragrance, which brought memories of her happy 
 childhood of a summer she had once spent at 
 her Aunt Crauford's place off in the heart of 
 Pennsylvania, 
 
 Then she heard Vaughan give the table a push 
 which made the cups and plates rattle. She 
 glanced instinctively round. If Mr. Carstoe's 
 letter had vexed him, there was something in the 
 journal which roused him to a more fiery anger. 
 The wildest malediction, the most atrocious blas- 
 phemy she had ever heard from his lips, caused 
 her to hurry on, eager to escape. He did not 
 notice her ; he was absolutely tearing the news- 
 paper with fingers and teeth, as a wolf might 
 worry its prey. 
 
 She knew that dissipation and evil courses had 
 left him more and more incapable of self-control, 
 but there was something inexpressibly painful in 
 this exhibition. He was so fierce in look and 
 gesture that it took away from the pettiness of 
 the act. The show of emotion was absolutely 
 terrible from the possibilities it suggested for the 
 future the danger that his very reason had be- 
 gun to be troubled by the reckless degradation 
 of his life. 
 
 It might have been an hour after that he en- 
 tered her morning-room, where she sat making 
 a pretense of work to read was out of the ques- 
 tion. Somehow, in the quiet in which she was 
 forced to sit down, agitated, feverish with a wild 
 desire in her soul to rush forth to do she knew 
 not what attempt some effort at the task which 
 Fate seemed to call upon her to perform, and 
 yet toward which it opened no possible way she 
 found a sensation of comfort in letting her fin- 
 gers plod along the weary hems. No pretty fan- 
 cy task, no delicate crochet or ladylike embroid- 
 ery : just a thick, warm dress she was making 
 for a pensioner ; one of the few acts of usefulness 
 left in her power to her who had dreamed of 
 being a strength, an aid in her day and genera- 
 tion! 
 
 " Didn't I give you some papers to keep
 
 1G6 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 a while ago it mav have been last autumn ?" he 
 
 asked. 
 
 'Yes; just before you went to Virginia," she 
 
 replied. 
 
 "I want them," he said; 
 
 "they are the deeds 
 
 of those lots I bought in Albany there's a good 
 chance to sell/' Then he could not resist saying 
 something ill-natured. "Sorry to disturb your 
 dolcefar niente," he sneered. " I am aware you 
 don't like me to intrude into this sanctum; but I 
 happened to remember the papers as I was pass- 
 ing your door, and so ventured to enter." 
 
 Last night's dissipation had left him pale and 
 haggard, but there was a disturbance in his face 
 beyond those signs a strange trouble and anx- 
 iety. Elizabeth was thinking this ; conscious 
 of pity for the man so obstinately bent on self- 
 destruction. In spite of what she knew him to 
 be, she could not help remembering there had 
 been capabilities in his nature of results so dif- 
 ferent the possibility of making a real good, a 
 true use, of the life he wasted, grosving daily less 
 careful to cover its baseness with the veil of fine 
 pretense under which he had once shrouded its 
 reality. 
 
 Thinking these things even as she rose to seek 
 the papers, trying at the same time to recollect 
 where they had been put. He sank into an arm- 
 chair, and sat watching her. Had she glanced 
 at him again, she would have seen other revela- 
 tions in his face a frown of irritation and dis- 
 like so black that it was fairly like hatred. He 
 did hate her sometimes. She looked so pure, so 
 noble this morning with a strange patience in 
 her sad eyes. He was feeling how far off she 
 was from him ; how something that religion he 
 sneered at, that faith he held to be a weak de- 
 lusion put her soul beyond his reach. And she 
 was so beautiful ! Even with a mad passion in 
 his heart for another woman, her beauty at this 
 moment had its influence. Faithfulness was out 
 of the question in his nature he would have 
 bartered his soul for Nathalie ; yet that love, ab- 
 sorbing as it was, would not have hindered his 
 plunging into the first disgraceful amour that 
 chanced to offer itself. 
 
 But though he felt the spell of her beauty as he 
 gazed, he was hating her ; no matter what oc- 
 curred to irritate him, however distant the thing 
 might be from any connection with her, he was 
 always bitter toward her at such moments 
 longed to do her a mischief; found a vent for 
 his ill-humor by torturing her ; felt always as if 
 she in some way must be to blame. 
 
 Elizabeth remembered where she had put the 
 papers. She had kept the desk which had been 
 old Mr.Vaughan's ; it was strong, and the lock 
 peculiar a safe receptacle for small articles that 
 needed to be secure. Besides, she liked having 
 this memento of the dead man toward whom 
 her fancy always turned so tenderly. She took 
 the desk out of a cabinet, set it on a table, sought 
 
 her keys to open it. Darrell, idly watching her, 
 noticed the desk recollected it. 
 
 ' ' Where did yon get that ?" he called. ' ' Have 
 you been rummaging among my things ? What 
 the devil do you mean by such a performance ?" 
 
 She glanced at him over her shoulder with one 
 of those looks of icy disdain with which she al- 
 ways met such attacks. 
 
 ; ' You wrote me to look for some deeds that 
 were in a trunk of yours," she said. " I found 
 this desk ; it was empty. I took a fancy to have 
 it that is all." 
 
 " Oh, don't be tragic !" retorted he. " Come, 
 get me my papers ; I can't wait all day; I hate 
 this room anyhow." 
 
 In removing the contents of the desk to find 
 the deeds, Elizabeth came upon the box of jew- 
 els, placed there the day she showed them to 
 Launce Cromlin ; she had never recollected to 
 speak to Vaughan of their discovery. The box 
 was lying on the documents she wanted ; she 
 took them both out together. Vaughan had 
 risen in one of his sudden fits of impatience he 
 reached her just as she turned from the table. 
 
 "At last!" said he, rudely taking the j apers 
 out of her hand. The box fell upon the table, 
 the lid dropped off. The ring, the stud, the un- 
 set jewels, lay in a little glittering heap upon the 
 cloth. 
 
 There was a sound from Darrell Vaughan's 
 white lips something at once a groan and a 
 curse. The next instant Elizabeth felt herself 
 seized in an iron grasp was flung forward upon 
 her knees. In her utter bewilderment and con- 
 fusion she saw her husband's face bending over 
 her, convulsed and awful almost beyond any 
 semblance of humanity. 
 
 He could not articulate ; he was trying to 
 speak nothing but gasps escaped him. Specks 
 of foam flew from his lips, his eyes glared like a 
 wild beast's. He shook her to and fro as she 
 knelt. It was death at 'last ! He would kill 
 her! This was to be the end. She was not 
 frightened ; she did not even know that his 
 clutch hurt ; only conscious that his face meant 
 murder, and that there was a strange comfort in 
 feeling death near, for death meant freedom 
 escape. 
 
 "I don't mind!" she whispered, gazing al- 
 ways into his mad eyes, not aware that she 
 spoke. " Kill me I don't mind !" 
 
 He pulled her up from the floor, and flung her 
 into a chair. He must have realized then how- 
 near he had come to murder the devilish temp- 
 tation must have been strong in his soul still. 
 He retreated, made a spring toward her, forced 
 himself back, got the table between them, griped 
 it with both hands, and held himself quiet. 
 
 "Say something!" he groaned. "Quick! 
 Call somebody get out of my reach ! I shall 
 kill you this time I can't help it I shall kill 
 vou!''
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 1G7 
 
 " Oh, do it !" she cried, in a voice scarcely less 
 wild than his own. There was no patience, no 
 fortitude, no thought of right or wrong, no recol- 
 lection of any thing for the moment but the un- 
 told horror of her life the insane longing that it 
 should end no matter how only end ! 
 
 He staggered down the chamber, opened the 
 door, crossed the corridor into one of his rooms 
 directly opposite. He left that door open too. 
 From her seat Elizabeth could see him. He 
 went to a closet, unlocked it, took out a decant- 
 er of brandy, more than half filled a goblet, and 
 swallowed the contents at a draught. If she had 
 wished, she lacked force to stir to lock herself 
 in from danger ; but she did not think of it. If 
 she had any distinct thought in her mind, it was 
 a feeling of disappointment that after all death 
 had not come when it was so near so near. 
 
 He stood still in the middle of the room ; she 
 sat and watched him in the same blind, uncom- 
 prehending fashion. He came back into her 
 chamber, closed the door behind him, and sat 
 down, still keeping the table between them. His 
 face was livid yet, his eyes kept their sombre fire ; 
 but the spasm so like insanity was over the 
 brandy had given his nerves a temporary strength. 
 
 " How did you come by those things I mean, 
 where did you steal them ?" he asked. " You're 
 a thief do you know that ? a thief!" 
 
 "Oh," she said, with slow, concentrated bit- 
 terness, "I might have known you were too 
 cowardly to murder me you haven't courage to 
 go beyond insult and outrage." 
 
 " Those things those jewels how did you 
 come by them ?" he repeated. 
 
 Her first impulse was to remain silent, but her 
 power to reflect, her better feelings, returned. 
 The whirl and confusion left her brain. She 
 was calm enough ; could recollect that to tanta- 
 lize him would perhaps be a wickedness beyond 
 his : he might be mad she had sometimes feared 
 such a fate for him ; it might have come at last. 
 
 " There is no secret, no mystery," she said. 
 "I found them in one of the trunks I opened. 
 I supposed you had,forgotten them I took them 
 out, and did not remember to tell you." 
 
 He had forgotten them. Another of those 
 strange lapses of memory which had grown more 
 and more frequent during the past years, tortur- 
 ing him with a dread which he would not study 
 nor face. He leaned his elbows upon the table, 
 and rested his head on his hands, pressing them 
 hard across it. His brain reeled ; the diamonds 
 danced like specks of fire before his eyes. These 
 mute but potent proofs of his guilt, these evi- 
 dences of that awful episode which he had put 
 aside as easily as other men would the recollec- 
 tion of a trifling fault, here they appeared again. 
 
 He could have sworn that he had destroyed 
 them had flung the box into the ocean one 
 night during his voyage back from California. 
 Then he remembered. He had mistaken one 
 
 box for another in packing his things. He found 
 when too late that he had reserved a box con- 
 taining a watch the jewels he had put into a 
 trunk which was down in the depths of the hold, 
 and could not be reached. 
 
 "When he changed steamers at Panama he 
 would open the trunk and get the jewels. He 
 had stayed two days on the isthmus before the 
 Atlantic steamer was ready to sail. The dull- 
 ness, and a desire to convince himself that the 
 painful effects of the last doze of hasheesh were 
 only caused by some peculiar physical state, 
 caused him again to indulge in its use. 
 
 Lying on his bed under the influence of the 
 drug, he had in fancy enacted the work he meant 
 to do. He was on the steamer, he opened the 
 trunk, took the jewels out, and flung them into 
 the sea. It was all real every link perfect 
 even to the excuse he had given for wishing that 
 particular trunk placed in his state-room. He 
 had gone to the stern ; the moon was shining ; 
 the foam looked to his eyes as if the gems he had 
 cast down were rising and flashing in countless 
 multitudes. As he walked back he had met the 
 captain they had talked he could recall the 
 conversation. 
 
 From that day to this he had not thought of 
 the affair. Now here the diamonds appeared 
 again, and the hasheesh dream separated itself 
 from the reality. He saw the dream and the 
 fact side by side ; yet, though he realized it was 
 a vision, it looked real as ever. 
 
 And he had betrayed himself he could recol- 
 lect this too. Impossible that Elizabeth should 
 not feel there was an awful secret connected 
 with the jewels after the insane scene he hr.d 
 made. He must find some excuse, offer some 
 reason ; and his brain was so dull his inven- 
 tion failed so ! 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said, with a kind of sudden 
 hesitation. "I'm not well this morning. You 
 couldn't know but those jewels had something 
 to do with my uncle's history." (The tale 
 seemed to frame itself as he went on. Eliza- 
 beth did not even deign him a glance.) " I 
 thought he had sold them got rid of them ; he 
 meant to. I can't explain the matter can't be 
 talked of even between us ; it was my uncle's 
 secret, and that fellow's, Launce Cromlin." 
 
 He had not thought of his cousin a second be- 
 fore he spoke ^ the name came to his lips, and 
 he uttered it. 
 
 "I don't wish any explanation," Elizabeth 
 said, quickly. 
 
 He looked at her ; she had raised her eyes. 
 She was perfectly calm and self-possessed ; he 
 knew that she did not believe a word he had 
 spoken. Once more he felt his fingers quiver 
 with the hot thrill the murderous instinct 
 which had animated him when he held her in 
 that stern grasp. He clasped his hands togeth- 
 er, and pressed them hard down on the table. ,
 
 1CS 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 " Yes Launce Cromlin's secret ; more of his 
 misdoing," he went on slowly. " If it had not 
 been for his conduct, my uncle might be alive 
 this day." 
 
 It was on Elizabeth's lips to defend Launce 
 to tell the man what she knew of his treachery, 
 his falsehoods ; but what possible good could 
 come of such an avowal? She sat silent; turned 
 her eyes away from his face, certain that they 
 told the tale almost as plainly as words could 
 have done. 
 
 "Be good enough to give me no explanation," 
 she said, wearily. "Take the diamonds ; don't 
 let me have to see them be obliged to remem- 
 ber this day." 
 
 " You are very chary of hearing any thing 
 against our cousin," sneered Vaughan, with a 
 sudden look of suspicion. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, coldly ; "I believe him to 
 be a good man : we need not talk about him." 
 
 He only answered by that same evil look. He 
 began collecting the jewels and putting them into 
 the box. 
 
 "This matter must rest between you and me," 
 he sdd ; "forget it if you can. No one has 
 seen the diamonds ?" 
 
 "Your cousin saw them, and Mr. Carstoe too," 
 she answered. 
 
 This time, had he reached her, she would 
 have been a dead woman before he could have 
 got his senses back. She saw him coming 
 saw the murder in his blind, staring eyes. She 
 was out of her chair across the room her 
 hand on the bell-pull. She was not frightened 
 even the desperate feeling which before had 
 kept her unstruggling in his grasp was gone. 
 
 " If you come any nearer," she said, " I shall 
 ring : it's an electric bell, remember, and sounds 
 from garret to cellar." 
 
 He stopped short her perfect calmness acted 
 like a dash of ice-water on his frenzy. He 
 could think too ; rather, he could listen to what 
 some power, which seemed extraneous to his fac- 
 ulties, whispered like an audible voice. Useless 
 to kill her no harm done after all ; that is^-no 
 harm could come to him. Carstoe could prove 
 nothing. Milady even, free, pardoned, as the 
 California journal had this morning told him, 
 could prove nothing, if she wanted revenge. And 
 Carstoe would take no step this was why he 
 had resigned the agency ; but that would be the 
 end. Nothing would come of the matter. Launce 
 Cromlin himself could not hurt him. Bah ! 
 plenty of traders could be found, if necessary, to 
 swear they sold him the jewels swear they 
 bought them in California, He had been a fool 
 to be frightened overcome. And there that 
 woman stood defying him knowledge of his 
 vileness, his cowardice, written in every Jine of 
 her marble-like face ! How he hated her I How 
 he longed to expose her to some awful torture, 
 some unutterable degradation, which should 
 
 strike body and soul leave her incapable to 
 cleanse either from the stain, and then let her 
 live and be forced to bear it ! 
 
 "So, so!" he cried. "I understand a few 
 things that were not clear before. You and 
 master Launce hoped to hatch some plot. I 
 know what he has been at all a failure ! But 
 you I comprehend your little game now : you 
 the pattern of modesty and purity you so re- 
 ligious and virtuous! You're an infamous wom- 
 an, and Launce Cromlin is your lover : I know 
 the truth at last." 
 
 She still kept her hand on the bell-pullshe 
 neither stirred nor spoke. He went back to the 
 table, and thrust the box of jewels into his 
 pocket. 
 
 "When you write to your paramour,'' he said, 
 " tell him I have discovered it all ; tell him if 
 he takes another step, opens his lips, I will com- 
 mence a divorce suit against you for adultery, 
 and I'll find proofs at any cost. You know what 
 money will do !'' 
 
 She did not speak did not move. 
 
 " There sha'n't be any more attempts at tle- 
 corum and decency between you and me," he 
 went on ; " we look at each other just as we 
 are, without disguise. Remember a word, a 
 single step, and you shall go into court, and come 
 out of it a woman so infamous that you'll find no 
 shelter short of that heaven you're fond of talk- 
 ing poetry about." 
 
 He spoke partly because a devil of jealousy 
 really had seized his depraved mind, partly from 
 an idea that he might frighten her into begging 
 Cromlin to be silent, if there had been any idea 
 of exposure most of all, because he was so in- 
 sane with passion that to hurl the coarse threat 
 at her was a positive delight. 
 
 Then he passed out of the room, and Elizabeth 
 was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 "THEN I'LL TELL." 
 
 Two weeks went by, weeks without incident 
 without a break to the dull monotony in which 
 Elizabeth sat dumbly waiting for the next blow 
 to fall. Fate had not done with her yet there 
 was more beyond ; it would come soon. 
 
 Lent had arrived. There were decorously so- 
 ber festivities to which she was invited : she went. 
 There was the ordinary round of duties : she ful- 
 filled them. She and Vaughan met never r.lonc. 
 If he entered a room and saw her sitting there in 
 solitude, he retreated. On on drifted the days. 
 She could do nothing nothing. She was not 
 heeding that last disgraceful scene. She was not 
 especially hopeless from this new degradation 
 which had been cast upon her ; it was not that. 
 Marguerite Miladv her sister hers and Na-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 1G9 
 
 thalie's a bond between herself and this woman 
 whom she seemed now every time she left her 
 house to meet with Vaughan. 
 
 It was always as if some voice urged her on to 
 help that unknown sister as if the peace of de- 
 parted souls depended upon her doing it but 
 how? Could Nathalie have aided, she would 
 have gone to her. In spite of the bar between 
 them, the shame and disgrace which separated 
 their lives, she would have acted hand in hand 
 with her as if no Darrell Vaughan existed, or had 
 been personally a stranger to her own life ; but 
 Nathalie was powerless as herself. 
 
 She had written to Mr. Carstoe that was all 
 she could do simply asking him to find out any 
 thing concerning a woman called Milady, or Mar- 
 guerite, who had at such a time lived in San Fran- 
 cisco. She put the date which had been on the 
 last check sent to Mrs. Murray gave the name 
 of the bankers from whence it was issued. Hav- 
 ing done this, she could only wait, and she had 
 little to hope. It was long since Mrs. Murray 
 had heard of her there. Whither since then the 
 desperate creature might have drifted, God only 
 knew. She felt no horror, no disgust, at the 
 thought of this unfortunate woman. Even the 
 fact itself separate from the poor girl the sin, 
 the shame, coming into her life, did not horrify 
 her as it would once have done. In thinking of 
 it she could fancy what such an idea the bare 
 possibility would have been to her in her early 
 youth. She wondered if she had become hard- 
 ened, her nature coarse, that she had no such 
 shrinkings now. 
 
 Pity that was her only sensation : pity for the 
 wretched, nameless outcast ; a readiness to help 
 her ; a will to aid, to raise her up. At least she 
 was not to be blamed. However the sins of others 
 might look, there were pleas for this creature 
 which Elizabeth knew the angels themselves 
 must heed. 
 
 She went one day to visit an old lame man and 
 his paralytic sister, who had lately fallen under 
 her notice. There is nothing picturesque,.noth- 
 ing romantic, to offer in the way of description. 
 A couple of bare rooms ; an old man bending 
 over a shoemaker's bench, his poor limbs dis- 
 torted by the tortures of rheumatism, toiling com- 
 posedly, as if each breath were not an effort, each 
 movement a pain. A woman, almost as old, ly- 
 ing on a bed where she had lain for fourteen years, 
 where she must continue to lie till the strange 
 vitality which supported the half-dead frame wore 
 out. The paralysis left the upper part of her body 
 untouched ; she could talk, use her hands, man- 
 age bits of sewing. As she lay propped among the 
 pillows, her lean fingers moved deftly along the 
 seam, and she was humming a hymn in her weak 
 voice, which had a touch of youthful sweetness in 
 it, just as certain flowers will retain a breath of 
 perfume even after they have grown withered 
 and sere. 
 
 This was the picture that met Mrs.Vaughan's 
 eyes as she entered. Nothing to make a dramat- 
 ic scene of or write poetry about, as men do in 
 regard to the old-time martyrdoms, which lasted 
 for a few hours only but God knows ! There 
 shall be others than Peter and Paul, others than 
 Catherine and Agnes, and all the shining throng 
 whose history the world has kept, whom we shall 
 see wearing the martyr's palm up yonder in the 
 light ; men and women among whom we moved 
 daily in our blindness here, and caught no gleam 
 of the saint's halo which encircled their patient 
 brows. 
 
 " It's nothing but good news to-day, ma'am," 
 old Richard said, with a smile that lighted up his 
 wrinkles like sunshine, as he hobbled after Eliza- 
 beth toward the bed. 
 
 " Nothing but good news," repeated old Mir- 
 iam, looking up at her visitor with eyes that were 
 sweet and solemn as a prayer. They had re- 
 ceived a letter from a nephew long supposed to be 
 dead. The patient couple had taken care of him 
 during his childhood and early youth ; he proved 
 a wayward, disobedient fellow, and finally disap- 
 peared shortly before Miriam's paralytic stroke. 
 But whatever errors lay in the past he desired to 
 redeem. His wanderings had ended in Califor- 
 nia ; his business was thoroughly established, and 
 he promised that, if it continued to prosper, they 
 should have a visit from him in the course of the 
 ensuing year, and gave the assurance that tangi- 
 ble proofs of his gratitude and affection would 
 not henceforth be wanting. 
 
 "I never could believe he was dead," Miriam 
 added, wiping away her happy tears. "He had 
 a good heart always, if he was a bit wild." "Al- 
 ways a good heart," echoed Richard. They had 
 a habit of repeating each other's statements, as 
 if there were only one will and opinion between 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Vaughan must read his letter such a 
 beautiful letter ; it had only come two days be- 
 fore a bank-check with it ; but welcome as that 
 was, the affection and tenderness were still more 
 to the foolish old pair. 
 
 "And a newspaper, with a notice of his busi- 
 ness quite grand," Richard said. "Where is 
 the paper, Miriam ? Show it to Madam ; she'll 
 , like to see it, I know." 
 
 "Of course I shall," Elizabeth said, smiling. 
 The sight of the two old bodies' happiness 
 came like a ray of light to the desolate woman. 
 She was groping in a darkness so profound, life 
 had reached a pass so dismal, so positively loath- 
 some, that to watch their faces and listen to their 
 thankful words was like having a new prop sud- 
 denly steady her tottering faith. 
 
 Miriam drew the journal from under her pil- 
 low, and pointed with pride to her nephew's name 
 among the advertising columns. Elizabeth sat 
 absently turning the paper in her hands while 
 the pair talked. Its pompous title, The Call-
 
 170 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 fornia Clarion, sent her thoughts back to the 
 dreary round in which during the past days they 
 had circled aimlessly like frightened birds. 
 
 A paragraph upon the first page caught hei 
 eye just the heading and the opening lines. 
 She dared not look again. She could only gripe 
 the sides of her chair with both hands, and strug- 
 gle with all her might not to shriek. She heard 
 the two voices still ; they seemed to come from 
 a great distance. A gray mist gathered before 
 her; she could see nothing distinctly save the 
 half-open journal which had fluttered into her lap. 
 
 Presently she found strength to rise, to speak 
 a few words bid the brother and sister a kindly 
 farewell. 
 
 "I'm afraid the room is close," Miriam said ; 
 "the Madam looks very pale, Dick, old man." 
 
 "Only a headache," Elizabeth heard herself 
 reply. "I would like to take the paper, if you 
 have read it ; there is an article I want to look 
 at." 
 
 She was out of the room going down the 
 stairs so dizzy that it was like descending a 
 precipice. Her carriage waited at the door; 
 she had taken her seat. 
 
 "Where to, ma'am?" the footman was asking. 
 
 " Home." Oh, the awful mockery of that 
 word ! 
 
 The journal was in her hand still ; she thrust 
 it out of sight among the folds of her dress ; she 
 could not trust herself yet to examine it. The 
 carriage reached her house; it seemed to her 
 she had been making an interminable journey. 
 She was up-stairs in her own room, the door fast- 
 ened, the dizziness and confusion gone, a chill 
 like that of death locking her senses in an apathy 
 which deprived her of the power to feel acute- 
 ly only a dull horror and fright struggling up 
 through the arctic coldness that froze her soul. 
 
 It was all clear at last not a link wanting in 
 the dreadful chain of evidence. She read an ac- 
 count of the pardon which had been granted to 
 the woman called Milady. 
 
 Another specimen of the manner in which 
 justice was administered in our land, said the 
 journal. What motive the Governor could have 
 had in his decision was beyond the journalist's 
 conception. But it was the same old story. 
 The law condemned a guilty woman, and a mis- 
 taken sympathy, a morbid sentimentalism, set 
 her free to begin n new course of crime. A re- 
 capitulation of Milady's trial followed : the charge 
 against her, a description of the jewels, Mr. Car- 
 stoe's name, Darrell Vaughan's evidence. 
 
 The whole was briefly told, but when Eliza- 
 beth finished the paragraph there remained no 
 secret. She understood every thing, from Mr. 
 Carstoe's resignation of the agency to Vaughan's 
 mad passion of the morning. 
 
 An hour passed ; some one knocked. Eliza- 
 beth hid the journal, rose, and unbolted the door. 
 There arc blows so terrible that they leave us 
 
 outwardly calm ; they deaden the soul as a mor- 
 tal wound does the body. She felt as if walking 
 in her sleep found herself wondering if she 
 should soon awake. 
 
 Prudence Anderson entered the room. She 
 had come to the town mansion this winter as 
 housekeeper. 
 
 "I'm right sorry to trouble you," she said; 
 ' ' but I want to ask for a little laudanum. Jo- 
 anna's been bad all night with cholera morbus, 
 and still has so much pain she can't sleep." 
 
 Joanna was a chambermaid, as good as she 
 was ugly, with a fatal propensity for devouring 
 things that agonized her interior. This time 
 she had overdone the business with stale lobster- 
 salad, to which she had been treated on the pre- 
 vious evening while visiting a friend with cor- 
 morantish propensities like her own. 
 
 "Had she not better have a doctor?" asked 
 Elizabeth, able even in this moment to be 
 thoughtful and sympathizing. 
 
 "No, ma'am; there ain't a bit of need the 
 laudanum will set her all right. I'm sorry for 
 her ; but the way she will make a cupboard of 
 her stomach to turn every thing into she can lay 
 hands on is too much for a body's patience," 
 Prudence averred. "I expect every day I'll 
 find her eating a brass door-knob, just out of 
 curiosity." 
 
 "I will go and see her presently," Elizabeth 
 said. 
 
 ' : Yes, ma'am," returned Prudence; but she 
 still lingered. She looked so anxious and troub- 
 led that Mrs. Vaughan added 
 
 "Is there any thing else the matter?" 
 
 Prudence shifted one foot, then the other; 
 turned red and pale, and finally said 
 
 " Excuse me, do excuse me, Miss Elizabeth." 
 (She often used the old familiar name when ex- 
 cited). " Don't take it for a liberty ; I ought to 
 tell you. We've been deceived in Mary Lis- 
 com ; she ought to leave the house." 
 
 For the last three weeks Elizabeth had given 
 employment to this young girl as seamstress. 
 It is no matter about the story. She was friend- 
 less overworked to support an invalid mother 
 and a brutal step-father, until she fell under the 
 notice of the lady who had recommended her to 
 Mrs. Vaughan. A pretty creature; educated be- 
 yond the station in which they found her ; look- 
 ing positively elegant in her simple dress. A 
 man-el of delicate contours and wonderful col- 
 oring, such as only an American girl can be ; 
 with graceful ways, a merry laugh in spite of her 
 hard fate, and sly, mischievous black eyes that 
 brightened her whole face. 
 
 Mrs. Vaughan and Prudence invented a quan- 
 tity of needs in the matter of bed-linen and 
 the like to give the girl occupation. Elizabeth 
 would not even allow her to take a room in the 
 sen-ants' quarter. She had quite a luxurious 
 little retreat assigned her, with books and a
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 171 
 
 pleasant view from the windows. Elizabeth 
 could not sufficiently sympathize with the girl's 
 pathetic tale. During her father's life she had 
 been comfortably off, petted and loved. The 
 vicious habits of her mother's second husband 
 had dragged them rapidly down, lost a school 
 she had been teaching in Tarrytown, and ruined 
 any hope of her obtaining more congenial em- 
 ployment than that of a needlewoman. Eliza- 
 beth trusted later to find her a position as com- 
 panion to some solitary lady who would be kind 
 to the unfortunate creature. 
 
 Within the last week an odd change had come 
 over the girl. She had answered Mrs.Vaughan 
 petulantly, and was more than insolent to good 
 Prudence, and overbearing with the servants. 
 
 Just as Mrs. Anderson had begun this com- 
 plaint, Margot appeared. There were two gen- 
 tlemen down-stairs who wished to see Madam. 
 No ; not gentlemen Margot had ever before seen 
 at the house ; there was the card. 
 
 "Dr. Street," read Elizabeth aloud; then an- 
 other name written in pencil. As Prudence An- 
 derson heard the name, she turned very pale, 
 and went unceremoniously out of the room. All 
 the while Margot was continuing her voluble ex- 
 planations. The gentlemen were sorry to in- 
 trude, but they came on business important to 
 themselves ; they ventured to trespass upon Mrs. 
 Vaughan's well-known kindness. 
 
 Elizabeth left Margot still talking and de- 
 scended the stairs, glad to escape reflection a lit- 
 tle longer. As she entered the reception-room 
 the two visitors rose one an elderly gentleman 
 with white hair, who introduced himself as Dr. 
 Street ; the other, less pleasing, less gentlemanly 
 in appearance. 
 
 " You wished to see me," Mrs.Vaughan said, 
 too cold and apathetic still to wonder what their 
 business might be. "Pray be seated." 
 
 She sat down in an easy- chair; they placed 
 themselves near her. She was conscious that 
 they botli watched her very intently, but could 
 not give much thought. The doctor began a 
 long, rather rambling explanation. He was the 
 medical adviser of a private hospital on Long 
 Island ; his companion was the manager. Mi's. 
 Vaughan's goodness was so well known ; Mr. 
 Vaughan's philanthropy a virtue so widely ad- 
 mired, that they had ventured to come, hoping 
 to interest the lady in their undertakings. The 
 doctor talked as volubly as Margot herself. He 
 asked questions too a great many managing 
 with much tact to bring them in somehow, even 
 while going on with his account of the hospital, 
 and always Elizabeth was aware that the silent 
 man watched her furtively but keenly from un- 
 der his bushy eyebrows. 
 
 And still the doctor talked ; he contrived (it 
 seemed to Elizabeth, still thinking in the same 
 dull, uncomprehending fashion) to mingle every 
 imaginable subject in his fervid periods and yet 
 
 the hospital was the basis always. He told 
 amusing stories. It would have been difficult 
 for a human creature to be more fascinating in 
 conversation. Elizabeth found herself listening 
 with interest, chill and numb as she felt. Mrs. 
 Vaughan's fondness for music, Mrs. Vaughan's 
 love of painting uo trifle in the room which 
 could bear evidence as to her tastes escaped the 
 physician. Then some words in regard to her 
 health a remark that she looked pale lack of 
 exercise, perhaps. The doctor regretted that 
 his countrymen so often failed in that duty ; no 
 hope of keeping mind and nerves in proper or- 
 der without due attention to it. Then, before one 
 could think him impertinent, or remember that 
 he asked odd questions, he was back at the hos- 
 pital again a hospital for nervous patients. 
 Mrs.Vaughan would be interested, he knew, if 
 only he could persuade her to visit it. 
 
 Always the bushy -eyebrowed man watched 
 her furtively, and had little to say. The doctor 
 now and then brought him into the conversation, 
 but talked too fast for the silent man to take ad- 
 vantage of the opportunity if he wished. 
 
 After all, what was the motive for the visit ? 
 Elizabeth began to ask herself this as the doctor 
 talked on. He had darted off on a little excur- 
 sion to Italy, and was waving his plump white 
 hands over the ruins of the Roman Forum, when 
 Elizabeth got to that inquiry in her mind. Did 
 he want money ? The affairs of the hospital ap- 
 peared to be in a wonderfully flourishing condi- 
 tion ; but all this eloquence, this circumlocution, 
 this effort to please, must mean money. The 
 doctor returned from Italy, stopping at West- 
 minster Abbey on the road. But what was he 
 saying now, for still it was an effort to keep her 
 thoughts fixed any length of time upon his 
 words ? Her father, the late Mr. Crauford 
 nervousness peculiar habits what could he 
 mean? 
 
 ' ' Did you know my father ?" she asked. 
 
 The doctor had never enjoyed that pleasure 
 that great pleasure ; he regretted it deeply ! He 
 was fond of studious men ! More compliments, 
 more pretty speeches, and yet, as well as she 
 could understand, he seemed somehow to be 
 building up a theory which connected her pallor 
 and her father's nervousness the transmission 
 of mental ills ; then leagues off in generalities 
 and the silent man watching ! 
 
 She had had enough of it, agreeable as the 
 doctor was ; one could not think of calling him 
 impertinent, and yet his conversation would have 
 been an intolerable presumption in another. If 
 he would not in his delicacy come to the pecu- 
 niary matter, which must be his real errand, she 
 would broach the subject and be done. She had 
 uses enough for more money than she could con- 
 trol ; a new duty had just opened Marguerite. 
 Then a quick impatience came over her. Would 
 he never go never leave her free to try for a
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 ray of light, some means, some way to set about 
 the solemn task which had devolved upon her ? 
 
 Before she could speak, Vaughan's name was 
 on the doctor's lips again. lie knew her hus- 
 band ! He got away from the fact with the 
 speed of lightning ; it had been an accidental ad- 
 mission the doctor's one blunder; she felt in- 
 stinctively that he had blundered. 
 
 "You are acquainted with Mr. Vaughan," 
 she said the words were a statement, not a 
 question. 
 
 The doctor with another wave of his white 
 hands put Mr. Vaughan away off almost be- 
 yond acquaintanceship ; but he had seen him, 
 he was forced to admit that. Elizabeth saw the 
 glimmer of a smile upon the silent man's lips 
 gone instantly ; but she was in the dark no long- 
 er. So far as personal peril was concerned, she 
 knew that never in her whole life had she stood 
 in so black a strait as this present crisis not 
 even on that morning when her husband's mur- 
 derous gripe seized her, and his eyes, threatening 
 death, looked into her own. She felt that her 
 face did not change nor her eyes betray, even to 
 the doctor's keen gaze, a glimpse of the discov- 
 ery which had struck her. 
 
 Now he was back at the hospital ; his plans, 
 his arrangements, the beautiful grounds ; this, 
 that, and the other no matter what it afford- 
 ed Elizabeth an opportunity to say 
 
 " You interest me very much ; I should like 
 to visit the place exceedingly." 
 
 While the doctor burst into eloquent thanks 
 rushed at the clinching of the business by asking 
 her to set a day Elizabeth, smiling at him, was 
 able with a woman's quickness to study the silent 
 man. She saw a gleam of satisfaction just as 
 she had seen the passing smile. 
 
 Elizabeth Vaughan was physically a brave 
 woman. Her health had always been so perfect 
 that even the suffering of the past years had 
 failed to shake her nerves. Once in her girl- 
 hood she had been on a Mediterranean steamer 
 when a fire burst out in the middle of the night. 
 She had been firm and composed as the strong- 
 est man on board had given aid and counsel 
 when most of the passengers and sailors alike 
 were mad with fear. 
 
 Just as she had felt at that moment she felt 
 now, and she knew the danger she had run then 
 was less terrible than the present peril. She did 
 . not try any more to hurry the doctor. She 
 talked asked questions too was cheerful and 
 affable to the last. Very soon she hoped to be 
 able to gratify herself by a visit to the hospi- 
 tal. Name a day ? "Well, yes ; it would be a 
 disappointment if she should miss the doctor. 
 This was Tuesday say toward the close of the 
 next week. Would the Friday but one be a 
 convenient time for Dr. Street? All days and 
 hours of the doctor's life were at Mrs. Vaughan's 
 disposal. Next week, Friday. Mrs. Vaughan 
 
 would take the rail at Brooklyn no journey to 
 speak of. At Longwood the doctor would meet 
 her himself with a carriage only half-an-hour's 
 drive to the Retreat. Pretty name, was it not ? 
 Suggestive of quiet rest all that sort of thing, 
 so pleasant to contemplate by us of the busy 
 nineteenth century, with our high-strung, over- 
 tried, nervous organizations ! 
 
 "I have no doubt Mr. Vaughan will accom- 
 pany me," Elizabeth said, after she had duly ad- 
 mired the fitness of the title, looking full in the 
 doctor's face with a smile. 
 
 This was positively blissful to hear a reward 
 to the doctor for the earnest labors of a whole 
 life. He should dream like a poet, prosaic as 
 work had rendered him, of the day which would 
 bring Mr. and Mrs. Vaughan to the scene of his 
 duties. Next week, Friday ? 
 
 "Next week, Friday," said Elizabeth, still 
 smiling. 
 
 The physician went out of the room a perfect 
 feu dejoie of pretty speeches, and the silent man 
 followed, dull and dark as the smoke in the train 
 of fireworks. 
 
 Elizabeth hurried into the next room, which 
 gave a view of the street ; she wanted to look 
 out of the window and obtain another glance at 
 her visitors. A door that opened into the hall 
 was ajar the two men were passing it she dis- 
 tinctly heard the silent man whisper, " Who'd 
 have thought it would be so easy to manage!'' 
 and the doctor's whispered response, "A clear 
 case, a perfectly clear case. Worn-out nerves 
 at the bottom. Sad, very sad. But Mr. Vaugh- 
 an is right ; repose guidance all she needs. 
 Yes, yes." 
 
 A short laugh from the other they were gone. 
 
 As Elizabeth stood there motionless the par- 
 tially open door was swung to ; from behind 
 came Prudence Anderson, pale and trembling. 
 
 "I have been in this room all the while," she 
 said, in a choked, frightened voice ; " I've been 
 listening. Do you know who that man was?" 
 
 Dr. Street ! Elizabeth had recalled her asso- 
 ciation with the name before the interview end- 
 ed. The scene of the doctor's labors was a pri- 
 vate mad-house on Long Island. Darrell Vaugh- 
 an did not wish to murder his hated wife, he only 
 meant to confine her to the physician's parental 
 care amid the retired haunts of the Retreat. 
 
 ' ' Do you know ?" repeated Prudence. 
 
 "Yes," Elizabeth answered. 
 
 " But you can't understand what his coining 
 means; you couldn't be so quiet!' 1 cried Pru- 
 dence. '^Didn't you hear what they whispered 
 as they went out ?" 
 
 She caught Elizabeth's dress, as if to protect 
 her. 
 
 " I know I heard," her mistress replied. 
 
 "I remembered him the minute I heard Ins 
 name," continued Prudence. "I knew what it 
 meant I listened. He couldn't take you off,
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 173 
 
 but I was scared all the same. Oh, Miss Eliza- 
 beth, get away send for help do something ! 
 Oh, don't you understand what is afore you ?" 
 
 "I understand," Elizabeth returned, calmly 
 as before. 
 
 " And you promised to go to the place !" 
 
 " That gives me time, at least. I must think 
 I don't know what to do. " 
 
 "You must speak out at last!" exclaimed 
 Prudence, with a flash in her old eyes. "You 
 have borne enough; you must save yourself! 
 Oh, don't be angry ; I can't keep quiet ; I don't 
 mean to be impudent. Oh, Miss Elizabeth, Miss 
 Elizabeth, no woman ever stood in a blacker 
 danger than you do now." 
 
 She began to cry and wring her hands. 
 
 "Hush, Prudence, it is useless to be fright- 
 ened ; I am not." 
 
 "You will go away you will?" 
 
 "I should be no safer; he could follow me," 
 she said. 
 
 Prudence was past remembering the difference 
 in their positions ; she could only recollect that 
 they were both women ; that this unfortunate 
 creature must be made to save herself. 
 
 "You've got to speak out!" she exclaimed. 
 "You've got to appeal to your friends to the 
 law. I tell you there's a worse danger than mur- 
 der close by there's a m;id-house waiting for 
 you ! Oh, Miss Elizabeth, my deaiy, my best, 
 don't wait don't waste a minute ! " 
 
 In the agony of her appeal she fell on her 
 knees before her mistress, still holding fast by 
 her dress. 
 
 "Let me sit down," Elizabeth said. "Get 
 up, Prudence. Hush, there's no danger yet ! I 
 can't, I can't ! I have said there is only one 
 cause that can give me a right to free myself 
 not suspicion either, not circumstantial evidence 
 proofs." 
 
 She had sunk into a chair. Prudence, still on 
 her knees, held her fast and looked up at her. 
 
 "I can not tell the world it is bad enough to 
 have even you know, dear soul," pursued Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 "You won't go you won't save yourself?" 
 cried Prudence, in an altered voice. 
 
 "I shall tell him that I know that I am on 
 my guard." 
 
 " What good will that be ? You'll be carried 
 off shut up in a mad-house do you hear, a 
 mad-house !" 
 
 " I think not ; I shall do my best." 
 
 "There's only one way the law, Miss Eliza- 
 beth the law !" 
 
 " Man's law, Prudence!" she groaned. "The 
 Bible only holds one permission ; other causes 
 do not give it." 
 
 Prudence sprang to her feet. 
 
 " Then I'll tell !" she cried. " I've held my 
 peace for a week, but I've known !" 
 
 At this instant Mary Liscom's voice sounded 
 
 at the farther end of the hall ; she was calling 
 Margot to ask Mrs. Vaughan if she might go out 
 for a while. Prudence stopped speaking at the 
 tones ; when they died she drew closer to her 
 mistress, and added in a choked whisper 
 
 ' ' Hark ! You heard her ! Ma'am, ma'am, 
 I've known for a week even the Bible won't sup- 
 port you in clinging to that man any longer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 OUT OP HIS REACH. 
 
 THE iron gates opened with a discontented 
 murmur, as if loth to admit visitors ; the car- 
 riage passed on up the winding road, and stopped 
 before the house a fine old mansion, surround- 
 ed by spacious grounds, but so solitary, so neg- 
 lected, that one would have needed to be either 
 very happy or very miserable to tolerate exist- 
 ence there any length of time. 
 
 It was toward sunset when Elizabeth arrived. 
 She had left town by an early train, and trav- 
 eled all day for many hours amid the gloom 
 of mountain scenery, round dizzying curves, close 
 to the edge of precipices, through black tunnels, 
 up grades so steep that it seemed wonderful the 
 ingenuity of man could have contrived the track, 
 amid the shadow of pine forests odorous with 
 the scents of early spring, musical with the voice 
 of birds and waterfalls on and on, the way grow- 
 ing more tortuous, the engine groaning like some 
 living thing tasked beyond its strength. At last 
 the summit was reached, and the road plunged 
 down the descent toward the beautiful valley 
 which lay sunny and bright among the lofty hills, 
 with the Susquehanna winding slowly through 
 its midst, in the very heart of the great Penn- 
 sylvanian mountains. 
 
 The train stopped at the village station. On 
 the previous day Elizabeth had announced her 
 arrival, so the carriage was waiting. She drove 
 through the bustling streets, across the bridge, 
 and on toward the shadow of the hills where the 
 old house stood. This was Tanglewood Miss 
 Janet Crauford's place. In her loneliness and 
 desolation Elizabeth had come hither to seek 
 refuge, at least for a time. Miss Janet was the 
 only relative she possessed in the world, and her 
 home seemed the most fitting haven. 
 
 Three days had elapsed since into the misery 
 of Elizabeth Crauford's life came the crowning 
 degradation which caused her to fling down her 
 burden throw off the weight of the galling chains 
 she had worn so long. 
 
 She could fix her mind on but one thought 
 that determination to get away, to flee and 
 cleanse her soul from the impurity about her ; 
 as a wretch suffocated by the stench of a noisome 
 pit might employ the last remnant of his strength 
 to struggle out. To get away that was the one
 
 174 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 thought. She could not even pray. For the 
 time, though she did not realize it, she was al- 
 most as far from the possibility of Divine help as 
 if she had given voice to anathemas and cursed 
 God and man. To go to flee ! She had reached 
 the point where even the Bible admits that duty 
 ends. 
 
 Perhaps the hardest thing of all was the ne- 
 cessity of confiding to human ears the hitherto 
 jealously guarded secret of her married life. 
 Even in that hour of supreme suffering it was a 
 terrible humiliation to her great pride ; but there 
 was no possibility of avoiding it now. She sent 
 for Sir. Howland she told what was necessary 
 to tell in Darrell Vaughan's presence. It was 
 the first intimation the bad man had received of 
 her full knowledge of his guilt. The case was 
 perfectly clear if Vaughan offered the least op- 
 position, the law could be called in to protect 
 her. Utter disgrace to him would follow upon 
 exposure, and the circumstantial evidence there 
 was of his having contemplated carrying out that 
 most awful treachery against her with the assist- 
 ance of the mad-house doctor would, he knew 
 well, in the hands of an eloquent counsel, make 
 a tale that must blast him forever. 
 
 The scene was quiet enough. I do not de- 
 scribe it I see no good purpose that such de- 
 scription could serve. Vaughan was sullen, but 
 he could refuse nothing that was demanded, and 
 Mr. Howland's claim went beyond what Eliza- 
 beth would have asked, though perfectly just. 
 Mrs. Vaughan's fortune must be restored to the 
 last penny. This was a hard thing to Darrell. 
 During these past years he had become very 
 rich, as we know; his dealings with the Ring 
 had absolutely thrown millions into his coffers ; 
 but it was as hard to give up what belonged to 
 his wife as if it left him poor, though in reality 
 he would scarcely miss the amount from his dis- 
 honestly won treasures. 
 
 Elizabeth left the two men together, and the 
 matter was arranged before they separated. Mr. 
 Howland remained perfectly cool ; but he would 
 hear of neither compromise nor delay. Vaughan 
 had his choice between restoring the money at 
 once, signing a confession which would render 
 him powerless in any way to trouble his wife for 
 the future, or to stand a trial by law. 
 
 "She'd never do that," he said; "she's too 
 cursedly proud. Come, come, Howland, you're 
 going beyond your instructions." 
 
 " She will do it if there is no other way to 
 gain her liberty," the other replied. "And I 
 may as well tell you honestly that if she faltered, 
 I should send for Miss Janet Crauford, and she 
 would commence a suit as Mrs. Vaughan's near- 
 e-t relative. You know enough of that old lady 
 to be certain she would not hesitate." 
 
 So the man yielded, signed the necessary pa- 
 pers, and Mr. Howland went out of the room to 
 find Elizabeth, carrying the warrant of her free- 
 
 dom in his hand. There would be no exposure, 
 no gossip even. Mrs. Vaughan would go to her 
 aunt nothing more natural than that she should 
 be required, considering Miss Crauford's age and 
 feeble health. Later she could visit Europe; 
 Mr. Vaughan's business and political duties would 
 serve as an excuse in the eyes of the world for 
 his remaining behind. If gossip and hints did 
 at last arise, at least there would be no scandal. 
 Vaughan need fear nothing so long as he left his 
 wife unmolested ; but that he must do. Not 
 even so much as a word or an insinuation could he 
 permit himself. The instant that should happen, 
 Mr. Howland assured him every detail would be 
 made public ; and Vaughan knew the man with 
 whom he had to deal. 
 
 He hated to give her up ; love of power was 
 as strong as his greed for wealth. He hated to 
 see her slip from his hands to know that he 
 could never torture her again, never visit disap- 
 pointment or ill-temper upon her. "With it all 
 he was faithfid, like the rest of humanity, to his 
 inconsistency. Even with a mad passion for 
 another woman burning in his soul, this pale, 
 worn beauty of Elizabeth's looked suddenly pre- 
 cious again, now that she had passed out of his 
 reach forever. 
 
 So the end had come. Darrell himself spoke 
 of the visit, and Society thought the proceeding 
 natural and wise. Miss Crauford Avas old and 
 ailing, and veiy rich, he said ; of course a per- 
 son to be cared for and cherished, even at the 
 expense of a temporary separation between hus- 
 band and wife. 
 
 Prudence Anderson was going away too ; she 
 had no mind to remain in the house, and long 
 years of service had given her a competency 
 which enabled her to seek repose. 
 
 Neither she nor Elizabeth forgot the weak, 
 miserable girl who had fluttered to ruin like a 
 moth toward a candle. They did the best pos- 
 sible for her, hoping, or trying to hope, that her 
 anguish and promises were the result of contri- 
 tion, not merely the effect of shame at discovery. 
 
 The end had come ! Elizabeth said that over 
 and over to herself during the days of hurried 
 preparation. Liberty was not precious to her 
 she had no use to make of it. The future could 
 hold nothing not even a hope. There would 
 be a round of little duties, years of quiet without 
 rest. Life was so long, and she was young yet ! 
 She had often pitied the old for having to sit pas- 
 sive and see others live no interest, no strong 
 inducement left ; and this fate had come upon 
 her, and she was in the fullness of youth and 
 strength. 
 
 Oh, it was hard, hard ! God was cruel to her 
 existence a curse! She knew at length that 
 faith itself was slipping from her, and she could 
 not hold it fast, she was too frozen and apathetic 
 even to pray. 
 
 All over the journey accomplished she had
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 175 
 
 done with the past. The sound of the carriage- 
 wheels brought old Thomas and Jane Flint, 
 her aunt's chief adherents, upon the veranda. 
 Elizabeth had paid a yearly visit to Tanglewood 
 since her return from Europe, so her arrival ex- 
 cited no surprise in their minds, though she had 
 naver before come so early in the season. 
 
 It was March now. The sheltered valley was 
 already beautiful with promises of spring. The 
 trees were in leaf, the young grass green upon 
 the lawn, the crocuses and hyacinths brightened 
 the garden walks. Elizabeth paused for a few 
 seconds on the veranda and looked about. The 
 house stood upon an eminence; she could see 
 for miles down the narrow vale. There was a 
 sweep of pasture-lands, groves, and cultivated 
 farms. Pleasant homesteads peeped out here 
 and there. Tiny villages nestled along the val- 
 ley's length, the river wound like a silver mist 
 through its heart, the blue hills shut in the far 
 distance on every side, and the soft spring sky 
 bent toward them, bright with sunshine and 
 white fleecy clouds. The whob formed a pict- 
 ure of tranquil loveliness, which struck on the 
 confusion and coldness of her soul like an added 
 pain. Thomas and Jane Flint were busy super- 
 intending the removal of her luggage into the 
 house nobody had time to notice her. She had 
 sfiome quite alone she could not bear, for the 
 present, to see a single face that had been about 
 her in the desecrated home from which she had 
 fled, so even her maid was left behind. The sun 
 was setting ; the amber and pink clouds billowed 
 up in the west ; the breeze brought the voice of 
 the rh%r and the murmur of the pines ; a thrush, 
 perched in the topmost boughs of an acacia, sang 
 his evening hymn ; from the distant farm-yard 
 came the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep 
 all the pleasant sounds of country life which 
 had once been so sweet and full of poetry to 
 her. 
 
 It was inexpressibly sad and dreary now, the 
 whole scene. She felt a vague surprise at the 
 .beauty and freshness about ; the new life and 
 growth of spring. It seemed wonderful that the 
 earth could remain so fair under its burden of 
 human wretchedness. She passed into the en- 
 trance-hall, and walked on through the solitary 
 apartments toward a room where her aunt al- 
 ways sat, opened the door, and entered. 
 
 Every thing looked as she expected certain- 
 ly there was no brightness here to vex her weary 
 eyes. The windows gave a view of the shrub- 
 beries, which grew neglected and wild ; rose- 
 bushes and woodbines trailed over the casements, 
 and helped to shut out the light. For years Miss 
 Crauford had suffered greatly with her eyes, and 
 had chosen this gloomy nook for her special 
 haunt, just because it was shadowy and dark. 
 
 Nothing in the cold rigidity of the place had 
 altered, from the old-fashioned chairs ranged in 
 a solemn row against the wall, to the figure that 
 
 sat in the centre of the room knitting mechan- 
 ically, yet as assiduously as if a human fate were 
 being woven into the web. Upright and stiff she 
 sat a tall, gaunt, pale woman, dressed in dull 
 gray, without a speck of color to relieve its som- 
 breness, hair of the same hue as her dress, a 
 face which looked taciturn and cold, almost grim. 
 There were traces of pain and suffering in every 
 feature, but suffering borne in silence, and with 
 a fortitude which came as much from obstinacy 
 as patience. This was Elizabeth's aunt, old Miss ' 
 Janet Crauford, who had lived here alone among 
 the shadows for more than thirty years. " Is 
 that you, Elizabeth?" she called as the door 
 opened and the visitor paused upon the thresh- 
 old. " I heard the carriage, so I supposed you 
 had come. I can't get up it's one of my blind 
 days. " 
 
 The voice was not even fretful ; there would 
 have been a humanity somewhat refreshing in 
 that just cold and emotionless, as if a stone or 
 something entirely beyond the reach cf sympathy 
 with this world had spoken. 
 
 "Yes, Aunt Janet, I have come," answered 
 Elizabeth, going toward her. " How do you do ? 
 Will you kiss me ?" 
 
 "How do you do, Elizabeth? But I shan't 
 kiss you you know I never do kiss any body. 
 You are at home now you know what to do 
 with yourself. Jane Flint has got rooms ready 
 for you here is mine when you want to see me. 
 Make yourself comfortable in your own way. 
 Don't expect me to listen to any complaints. 
 From first to last you have chosen for yourself. 
 You married I suppose to please yourself. Now 
 you have left your husband, to please yourself 
 too ; so there's an end of it. George Howland 
 wrote me all that was necessary for me to know, 
 and there's never any use in talking over what's 
 inevitable." 
 
 She spoke without the slightest change of tone 
 or emphasis, her fingers never pausing in their 
 task. 
 
 " No use whatever," Elizabeth answered ; " I 
 am not likely to trouble you with complaints." 
 
 ' ' No ; that wouldn't be your way ; you're a 
 real Crauford. More than one could say for 
 your father, who liked nothing so much as to get 
 hurt and cry over it," resumed the passionless 
 tones. " I dare say your husband was as bad 
 as possible ; he wouldn't be a man if he hadn't 
 been." 
 
 " I told you I did not mean to complain, Aunt 
 Janet." 
 
 " It's possible you were not perfection, though 
 you would hardly be a woman if you did not 
 think you had been. Just fancy we have droned 
 on for the past few years as we shall do till you 
 are tired of staying, and we shall do well enough ; 
 there's no good in looking back." 
 
 "Do well enough!" repeated Elizabeth, me- 
 chanically.
 
 17G 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 " Oh, there's worse in life than that, dull as it 
 sounds," said Miss Janet. 
 
 " Yes, there's worse than that," replied Eliza- 
 beth. " I will go up-stairs now." 
 
 " Jane Flint will have dinner for you. I dine 
 early, you know." 
 
 " I only want some tea," Elizabeth said ; " I 
 am afraid I have kept you waiting for that." 
 
 " If my hour had come I shouldn't have wait- 
 ed," returned Miss Janet ; " it's not half-past 
 six yet." 
 
 Elizabeth went close to the upright woman and 
 kissed her forehead ; Miss Janet permitted the 
 caress, but did not return it. As her niece was 
 moving away, however, she touched her arm with 
 one of her lean, cold fingers. 
 
 " I dare say you endured more and longer than 
 most women would have done," she said, in a 
 voice that had softened slightly. "You were 
 never a coward, and you were never weak. But 
 knowing you were right won't make you happy, 
 and my sympathy won't; so things must just 
 stay as they are. " 
 
 A stranger would have thought her utterly un- 
 feeling, but Elizabeth knew her better. For 
 thirty long years Miss Janet had been an inva- 
 lid and a misanthrope, but she was not a stony- 
 hearted woman. She believed in few people 
 professed to doubt all. She simply could not al- 
 low herself the luxury of being sympathetic and 
 demonstrative. If she had given way in the 
 least she would have suffered a whole night's 
 physical agony, and she had learned to breathe, 
 eat, move, and sleep by rule, as the only means of 
 avoiding or rendering less frequent the terrible 
 paroxysms of nervous pain to which she was sub- 
 ject. Almost her first words, "It's one of my 
 blind days," possessed full significance .to Eliza- 
 beth. She. understood that the reading of Mr. 
 Rowland's letter the brief explanation neces- 
 sary had shaken Aunt Janet out of her enforced 
 composure, and brought on the usual result of 
 agitation. 
 
 " When the old place gets unbearable youll 
 have to go away," Miss Janet added, picking up 
 her work again. " There's little company to be 
 had in the neighborhood, and if there were I can't 
 bear noises. I'm a nuisance, of course, but as 
 long as this old machinery insists upon working, 
 out of order as it is, I can't help that. You must 
 endure it while you can, and then go away. " 
 
 "I have no doubt it will do very well, Aunt 
 Janet," said Elizabeth. " There'll be peace at 
 least." 
 
 " Hum !" returned the old maid. " There'll 
 be quiet enough and dullness enough. Well, 
 well ! Now go and see what Jane Flint has done 
 for you in the way of chambers, and come back 
 for some tea. " 
 
 Elizabeth met that important personage, Jane 
 Flint, in tho hall, and Jane told her of the dread- 
 ful day and night Miss Crauford had passed. 
 
 " The least thing upsets her ! The very idea 
 of expecting you, I dare say, was enough. But 
 she's been better since yesterday. I'm glad vou've 
 come, ma'am, and I hope you can stay a good 
 while ; she oughtn't to be so much alone, it's my 
 opinion." 
 
 So even in the first hour of her arrival Eliza- 
 beth was able to see that a duty had opened be- 
 fore her, neither dignified nor heroic, but one 
 that needed to be fulfilled petty, wearisome, as 
 it might sometimes appear, just as important as 
 the framing of monarchies or freeing of peoples ; 
 the plan of the universe holds no trifle. 
 
 Elizabeth's days settled at once into an un- 
 varying monotony. She rose early, walked in 
 the grounds or rode on horseback, breakfasted 
 with Miss Janet, and devoted as great a portion 
 of the time to her as the spinster would permit. 
 
 " I'm not used to being coddled, and too much 
 of it would give me an indigestion," she said, and 
 by that Elizabeth knew she liked her companion- 
 ship, found pleasure in her ministrations. Life 
 seemed ended, so far as personal hopes and aims 
 were concerned, but there was still something to 
 do for others not always a pleasure, not always 
 easy, but she did what she could. She would 
 not sit weakly down and lament. She must 
 struggle through the night and find daylight be- 
 yond. At least she might gain such reliefs as 
 come to age resignation and faith ; patience to 
 wait till her existence, so blighted, so dwarfed, 
 should find its resurrection in the sphere beyond 
 this. 
 
 Not long after her arrival at Tanglewood she 
 sent for Jean Murray and little Meg. There 
 was a pretty cottage on Miss Crauford's estate 
 which the old lady placed at her disposal, and 
 here she installed the two. The child must be 
 henceforth her care ; and without revealing the 
 truth to the Scotchwoman, she put the matter in 
 a light which showed Aunt Jean she' had no 
 right to oppose a determination that would offer 
 the girl a future so different from any thing her 
 love or care could hope to effect. 
 
 Elizabeth waited with great anxiety to receive 
 news from Mr. Carstoe, but no letter came. She 
 knew he would not neglect her mission ; it could 
 only be that he failed so far to find any trace 
 of Marguerite, and was postponing his answer 
 until he had some certain information to give. 
 
 She had been a month at Tanglewood ; it was 
 the close of an April day. Elizabeth had been 
 far up the river in a little boat which she rowed 
 herself, drifting along among the mountain 
 shadows, trying to forget mental weariness and 
 pain in physical fatigue. Lame Dick was not 
 in sight when she rowed her boat to the landing 
 near a gate which gave admittance to her aunt's 
 grounds. Some one was standing on the shore 
 a gentleman. He approached as a sweep of 
 her oars sent the light bark up on the sand it 
 was Launco Cromlin.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 177 
 
 He had spoken her name, uttered common- 
 place salutations, and helped her out of the boat 
 before she could decide whether the meeting 
 were a pleasure or a pain. 
 
 " You are surprised to see me," he said ; "but 
 I hope not too much so to be glad." 
 
 "I supposed you away in Germany or Italy," 
 she answered. ' ' When did you come back from 
 Europe ?" 
 
 "I did not go, Mrs. Vaughan," returned he. 
 " I have been in California." 
 
 "Then you have seen Mr. Carstoe," she said, 
 quickly ; " you can tell me " 
 
 He interrupted her by a smile and a gesture 
 of his hand. She looked in the direction he in- 
 dicated, and saw Mr. Carstoe coming toward 
 them round a point of the shore. Elizabeth 
 hurried forward to meet the old man with both 
 hands extended. She had not believed any 
 thing could give her a sensation of such pleasure 
 as did the sight of his ugly, honest face lighted 
 up with emotion. The three stood there and 
 talked for a few moments. There were no 
 questions asked her no astonishment was man- 
 ifested. She comprehended that in some way 
 both men had become acquainted with the change 
 which had taken place in her life. She shrank 
 from the idea of publicity, but at least their 
 knowledge would spare her interrogatories diffi- 
 cult to answer. Though both avoided any re- 
 mark which could trouble her, they talked freely 
 enough of themselves and the affairs which had 
 brought them into her neighborhood. 
 
 A distant relative of Cromlin's, on his father's 
 side, had died a few months previous, and left 
 Launce a valuable mining property near the 
 village. 
 
 " As I am not a business man," Cromlin said, 
 "I persuaded Mr. Carstoe to leave California, 
 and come East with me." 
 
 "Which means," Mr. Carstoe explained, 
 " that he has offered me a partnership, and a 
 chance to realize a competency in my old days." 
 
 Cromlin had accompanied his friend into the 
 valley to see him fairly established in the busi- 
 ness, and later in the spring meant to start upon 
 his long-deferred journey to Europe. They were 
 living at a house which belonged to Launce, not 
 far from Tanglewood. The place would con- 
 tinue to be Carstoe's home, and it was pleasant 
 to Elizabeth to think she should have the kind 
 old man's companionship. It was dusk before 
 she remembered that Miss Janet would be wait- 
 ing for her tea. The two gentlemen walked 
 with her through the grounds, and she invited 
 them to enter the house. She left them in the 
 drawing-room, and went to tell her aunt what she 
 had done, though scarcely expecting that she 
 would see the visitors. But during their con- 
 versations Elizabeth had often spoken of Mr. Car- 
 stoe, and the old lady chose to break over her 
 rule of seclusion and receive him. 
 M 
 
 " Who's the other ?" she asked. " Oh, yes 
 Launce Cromlin Vaughan's cousin ; not much 
 in his favor that. But he can come they can 
 both come if they like ; I shaVt go to the draw- 
 ing-room. Ring for lights first, unless you want 
 them to break their necks." 
 
 So Elizabeth conducted them to the apart- 
 ment, and Miss Crauford received Carstoe with 
 a nearer approach to cordiality than she often 
 vouchsafed any one. Then Elizabeth presented 
 Cromlin. 
 
 "Hum!" said Miss Janet. "How do you 
 do, sir? If you choose to shake hands with a 
 half-blind old woman, you can. I knew your 
 father long before you were born ; he was an 
 honest man, and that's saying a great deal. I 
 don't suppose you can be like him, for two honest 
 men would be too much to expect in one family." 
 
 Launce laughed at the odd speech, took the 
 cold hand she extended, and said 
 
 "I hope you will try to believe a little good 
 of me for my father's sake." 
 
 "I never believe any thing," returned Miss 
 Janet. " Just now I want my tea, and so do 
 you, I dare say." 
 
 "Yes," Cromlin answered; "I have been 
 sketching all day, and ate a cold dinner, so I lay 
 claim to a very unromantic appetite." 
 
 " So much the better ; I hate romance. Why 
 didn't you turn peddler instead of artist ?" 
 
 " On account of the difference in the pack I 
 should have had to carry," he replied, laughing 
 again. 
 
 " How old are you ?" demanded the unscru- 
 pulous spinster, suddenly. 
 
 " I am thirty," he said,quietly, as if the ques- 
 tion had been the most ordinary one in the 
 world. 
 
 "Thirty, and you can laugh like that! So 
 could your father. Well, it would be odd if you 
 turned out a decent man too." 
 
 " At least you will like my laugh ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I have forgotten how, and Eliza- 
 beth's " 
 
 "Oh, never mind me, aunt," she interrupted. 
 
 "But I do mind!" retorted Miss Janet. 
 "Elizabeth's laugh sounds like thorns crackling 
 under a pot ; the only consolation is, I don't 
 hear it often. " 
 
 "Shall I ring for the tea, aunt?" asked her 
 niece. 
 
 " No ; Jane Flint has been punctual for fifteen 
 years ; we'll see if she fails at the end." 
 
 But, faithful to the moment, Jane just then 
 appeared with the tray. 
 
 As a rule, Miss Janet hated to be helped in 
 any manner, doing every thing for herself that 
 her glazed sight would permit ; but Cromlin 
 managed to pull the table toward her, and make 
 her comfortable in a variety of little ways, with- 
 out calling forth the reproof which Elizabeth 
 momentarily expected.
 
 178 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 He talked pleasantly ana well, and made 
 Elizabeth and Carstoe talk also. If Miss Janet 
 did not speak much, she at least refrained from 
 any of the frosty sarcasms wherewith it was her 
 habit to congeal the blood of such luckless vis- 
 itors as she admitted to her presence. 
 
 After a time, Mr. Carstoe found an opportu- 
 nity to speak alone with Elizabeth. 
 
 "I received your letter," he said. " I should 
 have answered it, only I knew that I should reach 
 New York as soon as my reply." 
 
 " And have you any news for me ?" 
 
 He had not yet heard from Mrs. SimpsCn of 
 Milady's disappearance. 
 
 He told Elizabeth that Marguerite had a com- 
 fortable home ; was overlooked by a trusty wom- 
 an. He thought it better to leave her where she 
 was, at least for the present. 
 
 "God bless you!" whispered Elizabeth. 
 "You do not know what a weight you have 
 lifted from my mind." 
 
 He looked at her with a great pity in his face, 
 stretched out his hand, drew it back, and lapsed 
 quickly into one of his shy, awkward moods. 
 Elizabeth knew the signs. 
 
 "You have something else to tell me," she 
 said. 
 
 "Yes I think I ought ; we shall all go on 
 easier it seems to me," he said, hesitatingly. 
 
 "Tell me." 
 
 "Only that Cromlin saw his cousin in New 
 York. Mr. Vaughan chose to explain to him 
 that that your absence was likely to be a long 
 one ; in fact, that " 
 
 "I saw you both knew," Elizabeth hastened 
 to add. " Yes, it is better." 
 
 "You you feel how sorry I am how I 
 would give my right hand if it could serve 
 you " 
 
 " I know," she said, as he broke down again. 
 " You are a good, good man I thank you. But 
 do not be troubled or unhappy about me ; at 
 least I have peace and quiet here. Life looks 
 dark and confused. I seem to be of no use, to 
 have no place ; but I try to be patient." 
 
 "And there's all the life beyond," he said, 
 softly ; " it must come right there it must." 
 
 Then they went back to Miss Janet and Crom- 
 lin ; the subject was at an end. 
 
 At last Jane Flint appeared to conduct the 
 old lady to her chamber. The clock was on the 
 stroke of ten, and nothing short of an earthquake 
 would have prevented military punctuality on 
 Jane's part. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe was horrified when he discovered 
 how long a visit they had made, but Miss Janet 
 put his excuses unceremoniously aside. 
 
 "If I'd wished you to go, I should have told 
 you," said she. " You'll always find our tea- 
 table laid at the same hour, and you'll be wel- 
 come at it just as often or as seldom ns you 
 choose to come. That invitation is for Mark 
 
 Cromlin's son too. Good -night, every body. 
 Jane Flint, give me my stick and your arm, and 
 take up the line of march." 
 
 Elizabeth walked to the door with the two vis- 
 itors, and stood absently looking out into the 
 moonlight as they passed down the road to the 
 gates. Once they turned to look at her, but she 
 did not see them. They spoke very little of 
 her, confidential as they were on most subjects. 
 Neither had expected to find her here neither 
 had known where Miss Crauford's home was. 
 This new glance into her desolate life, this sight 
 of her pale, beautiful face, with such unrealizable 
 capacities for happiness still visible through its 
 pain, tore both their souls with pity and grief, 
 which it seemed a desecration to mock with 
 words. 
 
 The next evening but one Launce called at the 
 house again ; Mr. Carstoe was occupied, and 
 could not come. Cromlin understood that the 
 one kindness possible was to rouse Elizabeth out 
 of herself. He talked on every subject which 
 could touch her old enthusiasm for beauty and 
 art, and appealed so frankly for sympathy in his 
 own pursuits that she could not fail to listen. 
 Miss Janet let him converse as unreprovedly as 
 she had done before, and even asked a question 
 now and then, which showed that she was inter- 
 ested. 
 
 " Have you no piano here, Mrs. Vaughan ?" 
 Launce asked. 
 
 " Yes," Miss Janet answered for her; "there's 
 one in the drawing-room that she sent a couple 
 of years ago." 
 
 " It must be sadly out of tune," added Eliza- 
 beth. ' ' I have not opened it since I came here. " 
 
 "There's a tuning-key in that table-drawer, 
 if Mr. Cromlin knows how to use it, " said Miss 
 Janet. "Only, if yon drum, don't do it loud 
 enough for me to hear. " 
 
 Launce promised not to disturb her, found the 
 key, and insisted on being shown the piano at 
 once ; so Thomas was ordered to take lights into 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 "I am starved for music," Launce said. " I 
 have not played for weeks, and bits of the ' Songs 
 without Words ' have been haunting me all day." 
 
 Elizabeth led the way to the drawing-room- 
 in perfect order, thanks to Jane Flint's care, 
 though seldom used, and a degree more old- 
 fashioned in its decorations than Miss Janet's 
 apartment. V 
 
 "Now go away, please," said Launce. "I 
 don't wish to torture your ears by the tuning 
 process." 
 
 Elizabeth left the room, and wandered out of 
 the house, walking for a long time in sight of the 
 moonlit river. As she approached the dwelling, 
 a delicious melody made her pause. Cromlin 
 was playing a strain of Beethoven's a wild, spir- 
 itual movement from one of the sonatas, which 
 sounds as if some spirit newly freed, and still op-
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 17'J 
 
 pressed by the shadows of this world's troubles, 
 were questioning and receiving consolation from 
 a mighty angel. 
 
 The chord was struck. Elizabeth sat down in 
 the shadow of the veranda and wept ; blessed 
 drops, which refreshed her as tears had not done 
 for months, flowed from her eyes. "When she 
 grew calm again, she entered the drawing-room. 
 Cromlin had turned down the lamps and opened 
 the windows wide. The moonlight flooded the 
 apartment, and in that heavenly radiance he 
 awakened the hidden life in the cold, white keys 
 till Elizabeth's pulses throbbed in new harmony. 
 
 For a while he neither noticed nor addressed 
 her. At last he turned round from the instru- 
 ment, saying gently 
 
 " Has it done you good ?" 
 
 " Thanks," she answered. 
 
 "And to-morrow will you try for yourself?" 
 he continued. " Will you sing for me then ?" 
 
 She bowed her head. 
 
 " I must go now, ;) he said. " I hope I have 
 not disturbed Miss Crauford." 
 
 " Miss Crauford is here," replied a voice from 
 the door. 
 
 There she stood, upright and grim, leaning on 
 her stick. Jane Flint appeared in the back- 
 ground, with the moonbeams weaving a silvery 
 tracery across her black gown. 
 
 " You must be the devil," observed Miss Ja- 
 net. " I haven't listened to any body's music in 
 twenty years." 
 
 'With those words she turned about, took Jane 
 Flint's arm, and marched away. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ' ' WHAT GOD HATH JOINED TOGETHEE. " 
 
 Six weeks passed ; spring was deepening into 
 summer. There are no words to paint the love- 
 liness of those charmed days, the glory of those 
 azure nights, the weird melodies the river sang 
 as it hurried away beneath the shadow of the 
 cliffs, the marvelous beauty which wrapped the 
 mountain valley in its glow. 
 
 Launce Cromlin still lingered, though the time 
 he had set for his departure had come and gone. 
 Mr. Carstoe was greatly occupied, full of interest 
 and enthusiasm for his new business delighted 
 to keep Launce 's society as long as he might. 
 
 Cromlin's daily presence at Tanglewood had 
 become a matter of habit. Miss Janet herself 
 seemed to think it the most natural thing in the 
 world to see him there. He wandered with Eliz- 
 abeth among the hills ; he talked to her while he 
 sketched ; read sweet poets when they paused to 
 rest ; and evening after evening made the piano 
 talk inspiringly to her tired spirit. He persuad- 
 ed her to sing in her rich contralto voice till her 
 own pain was hushed under the harmony, and 
 
 his soul floated, all unaware, further and further 
 into a charmed realm. 
 
 No tidings from the world without came to 
 rouse them; there was nothing to break the 
 quiet. Even in the man's mind there was not 
 a breath of consciousness ; the sympathy which 
 bound them had no sex. It was the free com- 
 munion of two kindred souls, who had put earth 
 aside as may happen to certain natures for a 
 brief season and met without restraint in the 
 beautiful land whither their feet had unwittingly 
 strayed. 
 
 So time went on. 
 
 One evening he did not appear at the usual 
 hoar. Elizabeth walked up and down the long 
 veranda, sat for a brief space at the piano, play- 
 ing snatches of the melodies she had caught from 
 him, oppressed by a vague restlessness which was 
 not pain oh, as unlike the Elizabeth of these 
 later years as if her soul had gained its resurrec- 
 tion, and stood, too bewildered and entranced to 
 think, upon the shore of the Infinite. 
 
 A step aroused her. Old Miss Janet stood by 
 the piano, peering into her face with those dim 
 yet watchful eyes. 
 
 "I am going to bed," were her first words. 
 "My back aches. It will rain in just two days. 
 I shall keep my room till it is over." 
 
 " Can I do any thing for you, aunt ?" Eliza- 
 beth asked. 
 
 " Nothing but let me alone. My back is mine, 
 and I'm my back's ; if it wants to ache, it must 
 and shall." 
 
 Elizabeth's white hands strayed idly over the 
 keys. 
 
 ' ' Humph !" said Miss Janet, suddenly. ' ' Eliz- 
 abeth Crauford !" 
 
 " Well, aunt ?" 
 
 "Have you made up your mind to do what 
 another woman would have done long ago ?" 
 
 " I don't understand, "Elizabeth said, puzzled, 
 yet startled by the odd speech. 
 
 "Have you decided to get a divorce ?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? How dare you ?" she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 " I neither say I would nor wouldn't," pursued 
 Miss Janet ; " the law permits, and other people 
 do it. I only asked if that was what you meant. " 
 
 Elizabeth's hands dropped in her lap ; a ghast- 
 ly pallor spread over her face. 
 
 " Aunt Janet ! oh, Aunt Janet !" she moaned. 
 
 Reproach, sudden consciousness, an awful ter- 
 ror all these emotions were in her voice. 
 
 "If you don't," continued the spinster, " play 
 no more Beethoven, and show your painter the 
 way out of the valley. Now my back and I will 
 go to bed." 
 
 She left the room, closing the door behind her. 
 
 Elizabeth slid slowly forward in her seat till 
 her head rested upon the keys. These words 
 bad been a lightning flash which showed her 
 soul where it stood.
 
 180 
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 A voice called" Elizabeth !" 
 
 She looked up. In the open window stood 
 Launce Cromlin. One glance at his face was 
 enough. He too had heard. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" he repeated. The tone was 
 nearly a whisper now, trembling with emotion 
 akin to the terror which shook her, but a great 
 joy quivered through it. 
 
 He came slowly toward her. She could not 
 move ; could only look into his face with dumb 
 perplexity and fright. 
 
 "God is my witness that I never thought," 
 he went on, "never once not a feeling in my 
 heart that you could blame ; and I thank Him 
 for it." 
 
 He stood leaning heavily on the piano, and 
 looked down at her. 
 
 "I seem to have lived a whole life since she 
 spoke," he went on : "a whole life. It all looks 
 so different. I was so used to seeing you bound, 
 shackled, helpless in the purgatory where you 
 had been dragged, that I forgot you were free 
 free !" 
 
 The wild joy lighted his face anew, and made 
 a heaven in his eyes that gazed straight into her 
 own. 
 
 Then through her confusion and blindness she 
 heard his voice still. He was telling the story 
 of their first meeting, when she had not seen his 
 face telling the story of the treachery which 
 had separated them so long. After the first in- 
 stants of pain and fright there was a season she 
 could never tell whether it lasted minutes or hours 
 during which the whole material world passed 
 out of sight, and no sound or {bought save that 
 man's voice and his glowing words could reach 
 her. 
 
 "In the sight of God you are already free; 
 man's law will make you equally so before the 
 world. Oh, Elizabeth ! you do care you know 
 it now ! Ah, let us be happy. Have pity on 
 yourself as well as me. Think of all you have 
 suffered. Do not reject the happiness which 
 opens before us at last. " 
 
 The solemn words of the marriage service 
 rushed to her lips, not from any direct volition, 
 but as if some unseen influence had uttered them 
 through her 
 
 '"What God hath joined, let not man put 
 asunder.'" 
 
 "It is not yon who have done it, Elizabeth. 
 That man has wrought all the sin ; but his acts 
 leave you as free as though he had never cast his 
 shadow across your path. The sin would have 
 been in continuing his wife after he had broken 
 every vow, and made marriage void and null. 
 But his wrong-doing can not wreck your whole 
 life : that would be bearing punishment for him. 
 You are more widely separated than if death had 
 parted yott free to choose your own path, free 
 to claim the happiness which every human being 
 has a right to expect." 
 
 "I can not think," she moaned. "All the 
 old landmarks are swept away. God help me, I 
 have no guide, nowhere to cling ! " 
 
 "Take my hand, Elizabeth trust yourself to 
 me. My great love could not misguide ; believe 
 in it, cling to it, and it shall be a light to show 
 us across these mists into a new world." 
 
 It had come upon her so suddenly it was as 
 if she had been lifted bodily into a new sphere ; 
 she could not think. He was telling her of the 
 future that lay before them he was opening his 
 heart, and revealing the treasures of love hidden 
 there. He employed every argument which his 
 eloquence could furnish to prove to her that in 
 the sight of God and man she was free. 
 
 Verily there was reason, there was a show of 
 right under it all. 
 
 Heaven itself could not demand the sacrifice 
 of a whole life to a bond which sin had deprived 
 of sacredness. It was only a broken shackle 
 which galled her heart and held her a prisoner 
 by her own weakness, since with a single effort 
 she might wrench it away, sweep every trace of 
 the past aside, and enter a future as completely 
 separated from it as if she had indeed reached a 
 new cycle of existence. 
 
 It was not these arguments which moved her 
 most. She listened, and tried to believe when 
 he told her that God gives every human being a 
 right to happiness ; that the blind superstition 
 which could make her still cling to the wreck 
 from which every hope, every living thing had 
 gone down, was madder, more fanatical, than the 
 frenzy which induces the Indian woman to cast 
 herself upon the funeral pyre of her husband 
 it was none of these things that touched and 
 swayed her. 
 
 But when he talked of her as his wife, painted 
 their future as it should pass, honored by the 
 world's sanction, and rendered so beautiful by 
 their love, it seemed as if heaven opened to her 
 sight, and she had but to extend her hand to bs 
 raised forever into its glory. 
 
 And she loved him she realized this too. 
 Not the affection a young girl gives, which is 
 half from the necessity of loving that belongs to 
 extreme youth, half made up of dreams and ideal 
 imaginings ; but the love of a soul matured by 
 suffering. The love of a heart gentle and wom- 
 anly in spite of all thwarting influences, which 
 recognized its likeness in the man beloved, and 
 sprang up eager to grasp its long-delayed bliss. 
 
 What wonder if her first impulse was to snatch 
 at this promise of peace, crying out with him that 
 she had a right a right to claim it. Think 
 what her life had been. Kemember how the 
 dream of her girlhood was torn away not dis- 
 pelled slowly, but rudely crushed without warn- 
 ing every heart-chord strained, every good feel- 
 ing shocked ; vice and sin bared to her shrinking 
 gaze, forced ruthlessly upon it, till the last trust 
 in humanity died out, and she flung herself down
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 181 
 
 among the ashes of her ruined offerings, and 
 called upon the desecrated altars to crush her. 
 
 Remember the horrible years and now their 
 contrast ! A contrast offered so suddenly, so 
 utterly without warning, that she had no time 
 to steel her soul by a thought of former creeds, 
 of doctrines held sacred, even by a prayer God 
 help her ! 
 
 The old life, with its clouds from spent tem- 
 pests, its ruins, its pale corpses, its charnel-house 
 odors not alone securely shut out, but hurled 
 resolutely into the tomb of the past, as far be- 
 yond any possibility of contact with her future 
 as that existence which we sometimes fancy was 
 ours before this sphere claimed us. 
 
 Was it strange that she faltered ? was it un- 
 natural ? Was it to be wondered at if she caught 
 at the theories which possess much reason and 
 weight, in regard to the carrying out of which we 
 have no right to judge where individual instances 
 are concerned, however we may disappro^/e of 
 them in the abstract ? 
 
 And he was saying 
 
 " Let me think for you trust yourself to me ; 
 put your hands in mine, and let me lead the way." 
 
 Many women in this strait would have done 
 so blindly, and perhaps have reproached tho 
 man afterward. Elizabeth could not act thus. 
 As in the future, if she accepted this new destiny, 
 she would take courageously a full share of the 
 blame, if blame there were, so in the contempla- 
 tion of that act she must exercise her own judg- 
 ment, and walk side by side with him, supported, 
 not led. She could remember this, confused as 
 her brain was. 
 
 "The acts necessary to free you from your 
 trammels are no more in reality than a law proc- 
 ess to enable you to procure any other property 
 withheld from you ; and what you claim is your 
 freedom, your life !" 
 
 It was strange, but his very arguments brought 
 up with new force the beliefs which had always 
 been hers. 
 
 " ' What God hath joined, let not man put 
 asunder,' " she repeated. 
 
 "But the bond is broken you are free. You 
 do not consider that man your husband ?" 
 
 "No, no!" 
 
 "You would not, under any circumstances 
 no matter if he repented, if he tried to atone 
 believe it right to return, and live with him after 
 his sin has annulled your marriage ?" 
 
 "No, never!" 
 
 "Then you are free! The scruples which 
 would make you hesitate are dead, without pow- 
 er in the mind of any liberal man. The very 
 warning pronounced by Christ against the of- 
 fending husband or wife the injunction that he 
 or she put away for sin is forbidden to many 
 proves that the innocent one is free in every re- 
 spect." 
 
 Then he ceased to argue. He was telling her 
 
 again of the life that should be theirs the sweet 
 haven of rest the new day ! There was his 
 stronghold ; more potent far than all his argu- 
 ments. 
 
 " We would travel, Elizabeth not among the 
 ruins of the old world we are sick of men and 
 their follies. Such journeys into the far West 
 out on the boundless prairies, and farther on, 
 the healing wind of the mountains! And the 
 tropical scenery you love so much. Oh, we will 
 find that out first ! Don't you remember that 
 description we were reading the other day of the 
 old Chilian city? We shall have one of those 
 picturesque houses at the foot of the hills, with 
 the sea in front just we two in the world 
 alone." 
 
 It was no longer as a possibility that he spoke 
 of these things it was the present time in his 
 excitement. 
 
 " Think of the long golden days the nights 
 with such moonlight as they saw in Eden shar- 
 ing every pleasure, every task our lives growing 
 always more closely into one, till even death could 
 not separate us, but needing either, must claim 
 both." 
 
 Could she think? was reflection possible? 
 She only looked into his face, and in all the world 
 there was no sight but the glory of his eyes, no 
 sound but the music of his voice. 
 
 " You will go, Elizabeth ! Think every day- 
 wasted is so much happiness lost ! Eternity it- 
 self can never give back an hour of neglected 
 bliss you will go !" 
 
 The scent of the tropical wind seemed to diz- 
 zy her brain ; she heard the waving palm-trees 
 whisper of peace and rest. The low rush of the 
 sea bade her follow him. 
 
 " Come, Elizabeth, come !" 
 
 The very words the blessed palms and the sil- 
 ver sea had uttered " Come, come !" 
 
 And her whole soul was lost in a wild longing 
 to float away over the molten billows into the new- 
 world, the fadeless Eden ! Only one thought, one 
 feeling: that overwhelming wish to be gone at 
 once ; not to have time for fear or doubt away 
 into the shadow of the palm-trees, and within 
 reach of the siren voice of the silver sea. 
 
 It had grown very late. The house was so 
 still that it seemed as if they were solitary in 
 the world. The full radiance of the moon lay 
 about them like a promise of peace, and still 
 Launce Cromlin talked with the force and pow- 
 er a man possesses when heart and conviction in- 
 spire his words. 
 
 And it was so ; for the time every argument 
 was truth to him. 
 
 Elizabeth was torn and weak from emotion ; 
 a thousand diverse thoughts tugged at her soul 
 and left her powerless. 
 
 ' ' Only go away to-night, " she pleaded. " Give 
 me time only a little time." 
 
 He saw how pale and worn she was, and took
 
 182 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 pity on her. He did not even offer to touch her 
 hand. 
 
 " Good-night," he said, softly, and was gone. 
 
 She did not know how she reached her cham- 
 bercould not tell whether the hours that inter- 
 vened had brought sleep or insensibility; but 
 when the early summer dawn flashed into the 
 sky she was lying on her bed, gazing straight be- 
 fore her ; every sense stupefied, every limb rigid, 
 as if she had just awakened from a cataleptic 
 trance. 
 
 Then a dull, cold pain stirred at her heart, like 
 a benumbed snake warming into vitality and 
 slowly uncoiling itself grew sharper and hotter, 
 till every fibre of her frame responded with phys- 
 ical agony to the suffering in her soul. 
 
 Through the closed curtains brighter gleams 
 of daylight shot in, and troubled her by their 
 curious glances. She shrouded her. face in the 
 counterpane, and tried to sleep, but there was no 
 Eastern drug which could have lulled her to re- 
 pose. 
 
 At last Jane Flint's niece Hannah knocked at 
 the door, as she had been bidden to do each morn- 
 ing. Elizabeth had just sense and strength 
 enough to answer that she was unwell, and should 
 not leave her room that day. Then she was left 
 to herself once more. 
 
 Without sleep to bring forget fulness, without 
 a tangible thought on which to steady her mind, 
 the morning dragged away. Later, she heard 
 steps on the veranda. Her room was at the 
 front of the house, and every nerve had become 
 so overstrung that her hearing was painfully 
 acute. She knew that Launce had come ; she 
 heard his voice in parley with old Thomas, then 
 his retreating steps. 
 
 More hours of mad restlessness. At last her 
 soul fastened upon one word Launce had spoken, 
 and clung to it as if it had been an anchor. His 
 wife his wife ! Only that ; but the words were 
 a spell which deadened pain and raised a magic 
 barrier against thought. 
 
 At length the nervous tension gave way, and 
 she sank slowly to sleep with those blessed words 
 upon her lips. 
 
 The sun was setting when she awoke. Han- 
 nah had entered the room, and stood near the 
 bed ; she and Jane Flint had grown alarmed. 
 
 "Are you better, ma'am ?" the girl asked. 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her wonderingly. She 
 could not recall her dreams, but it seemed as if 
 her soul had been absent from her body, and that 
 it was with a struggle it returned. 
 
 Hannah opened the curtains and shutters, and 
 the dull red of evening, precursor of a storm, 
 streamed across the chamber. 
 
 Elizabeth arose and began to dress slowlv, 
 wearily like a person recovering from a long 
 illness. 
 
 I shall bring you some tea and something to 
 eat," Hannah said. "Miss Crauford's in bed 
 
 too ; she won't get up, though there ain't much 
 the matter." 
 
 By the time Elizabeth was dressed the girl 
 returned with the tea and such edibles as Jane 
 Flint thought might please her. 
 
 It was growing twilight when she descended 
 to the drawing-room. Thomas had only lighted 
 the lamps in the hall, and they cast just radiance 
 enough into the apartment to make a pleasant 
 gloom. Elizabeth lay down on a sofa, and re- 
 mained listening to the rising swell of the wind 
 and the angry murmurs of the river. 
 
 For a long time there were no other sounds, 
 but the outer door opened at length. The rush 
 and whirl began anew in her mind, and the phys- 
 ical pain responded to it as before. 
 
 Launce Cromlin entered, and stood for a mo- 
 ment looking about among the shadows. He 
 saw her, and hurried toward the conch. She 
 put up her hands, as if in sudden fear. 
 
 " You are not afraid of me ?" he said, sadly. 
 " You are ill ; how wrong I have been ! Let me 
 sit here ; I'll not distress you by word or look ; 
 at least accept my companionship in your loneli- 
 ness." 
 
 He drew a chair close to the sofa, and sat 
 down, talking kindly and gently, till gradually a 
 sensation of delicious rest stole over her tired 
 soul. It was not until he rose to go that he 
 made even an allusion which could disturb her. 
 Then he said, " We will not think ; we will not 
 question. For a few days let us be quiet here, 
 away in this charmed land where the world can 
 not reach us." 
 
 She accepted his verdict for the time ; rest and 
 sleep came that night. 
 
 She only saw her aunt for a few moments dur- 
 ing the next day. Miss Janet still kept her bed, 
 though the storm had passed, and she confessed 
 that her back was no worse than usual. 
 
 " I'll get up to-morrow," she said. " Let me 
 alone, else I shall turn rusty and cross." 
 
 Toward sunset Launce came to the house and 
 persuaded Elizabeth to walk a little way. They 
 stood by the river, and watched the gorgeous 
 lights pale on the mountains. The twilight float- 
 ed down : that glory which is neither of night 
 nor day rested on all things ; and amid its quiet 
 they returned to the old house, standing up un- 
 der the gloom of the cedars. 
 
 Launce talked ; he played her favorite melo- 
 dies ; and distinctly through both, so blending 
 witli his words and music that each seemed to 
 grow out of the other, she heard the soft whis- 
 pers of the palms, the tender murmurs of the 
 Southern sea. 
 
 " Elizabeth !" he said, suddenly. 
 
 There was a tone of inquiry in his voice that 
 brought her wholly back to the present. The 
 question which rose in her mind was the impulse 
 of the moment she had not been thinking, had 
 not meant to ask it, but it was on her lips.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 183 
 
 "Have you always believed iu divorce?" 
 were the words. 
 
 Cromlin grew a little pale. 
 
 " I have always believed that, under certain 
 circumstances, it became a sin for a woman to 
 remain in bondage for a man to hold to the 
 unfaithful wife," he replied. 
 
 "Have you always believed it right for the 
 injured husband or wife to marry again ?" 
 
 "I had never thought it clearly out," he said, 
 tremulously; "nothing had ever brought the 
 matter home to me." 
 
 " One creed or the other you must have held," 
 she replied, slowly, and her voice was low and 
 firm. " You never did believe it right ; you 
 have answered me." 
 
 "But I do!" he cried. "I have no doubt. 
 The Romish Church has again and again grant- 
 ed divorce our own Church permits it. Ask 
 the best friends you have Mr. Carstoe, your 
 aunt. They " 
 
 She interrupted him by rising from her seat. 
 Her face was like that of a dead woman. He 
 could scarcely believe it her voice which an- 
 swered. 
 
 "I must ask my God," she said. "I had 
 forgotten oh, I had forgotten !" 
 
 She was gone before he could speak or move. 
 
 Elizabeth was alone in her chamber. The 
 moon had been shut out the lamp lighted. 
 The commonplace aspect of the spot seemed to 
 bring her back from the world whither she had 
 wandered down into the finite again. 
 
 She was on her knees by the table. The open 
 Bible lay before her. As if some unseen agency 
 guided her hand, she turned the very pages that 
 held such counsels as might befit the strait 
 wherein she found herself. 
 
 It was an altered face now which bent above 
 the sacred volume ; out of it looked a soul that 
 the angels must have pitied and pleaded for. 
 
 Up through the stillness went a low sob, which 
 bore a breaking heart on its tone, and Elizabeth, 
 groveling on the floor, tugged at her breast in 
 blind agony, as if to tear out the crushed heart 
 which murmured so. 
 
 The spasm passed. Tears came prayers ; 
 but the angels must hare guarded her still, or 
 she could not have escaped with both life and 
 reason from that awful night. 
 
 It was almost daylight when Elizabeth sat at 
 her table with the letter to Launce complete un- 
 der her hand. There were no tears now, no 
 struggles they belonged to the life that had 
 died this night. 
 
 I have told you all briefly. You will ask me 
 what helped her? what gave strength for the sac- 
 rifice ? Neither human reason nor a conviction 
 of right or wrong ; only faith in God and help 
 from the Saviour, whom every one of us, at some 
 crisis of existence, has been tempted "to crucify 
 anew." 
 
 This was the close of her letter : 
 
 " If I obtained my freedom only to marry one 
 I love, how would my sin be less than that man's ? 
 I should only be trying to give to my acts a law- 
 ful covering which might show fair to the world 
 and hide my guilt. 
 
 " I have said that I can not argue upon this 
 point. I do not even say that, to those who can 
 believe, divorce may not be pardonable in the 
 sight of God as it is in the eyes of many good, 
 just men and women. For myself, I can only 
 cling to the one way open to me. Life is forever, 
 the suspense here a brief one. I can not cloud the 
 happiness which may be ours in some existence 
 our spirits shall reach at length. I think to 
 save your soul I could give my own oh, I know 
 I could ! I can not lose my soul and yours. I 
 must go. 
 
 " I am calm, calmer than I have been in years. 
 Another man would upbraid think harshly of 
 me not you. Oh, Launce, you know it is right 
 the one way ! Somewhere in eternity Christ 
 himself will tell us why it had to be." 
 
 In the gray of the early morning Janet Crau- 
 ford was awakened by a cold hand laid upon her 
 arm, and a voice like that of the dead crying 
 
 . ' ' Wake up, wake up ! " 
 
 There Elizabeth stood, prepared for a journey. 
 It needed but a few words to tell her story. 
 
 "I am going away at once. He will obey 
 me he will not stay here. When he is gone, I 
 shall come back. Try to love me a little. Help 
 me to reach toward the light. Aunt Janet, 
 Aunt Janet ! Oh, my God, my God !" 
 
 Then a brief silence, then her voice again 
 
 " ' Out of the deep have I called unto thee, 
 Lord! Lord, hear my voice.' " 
 
 It was the cry of her breaking heart going up 
 to God out of the darkness. 
 
 Then Aunt Janet was alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 KO HOPE. 
 
 IT was Mr. Carstoe who received the letter 
 Elizabeth had written to Launce. The old 
 gentleman had breakfasted alone this morning 
 Cromlin did not appear. Mr. Carstoe was 
 standing on the porch, smoking a matutinal pipe 
 before setting out for the mine. His horse had 
 come up Cromlin insisted on life being made 
 easy and comfortable in every way to the good 
 man. 
 
 But these last days had been full of unrest to 
 Mr. Carstoe. Like most reticent people, he was 
 observant of the persons dear to him ; and old 
 Miss Crauford, with all her shrewdness, had been 
 less quick than he to discern the secret which so 
 long remained unsuspected by Launce and Eliza- 
 beth themselves.
 
 184 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 Like many of our generation, even among the 
 good and wise, Mr.Carstoe believed in the justice 
 of divorce on the grounds permitted in the Bi- 
 ble ; believed, too, that the sentence pronounced 
 upon the guilty husband or wife implied a per- 
 mission to the offended one to form new ties. 
 
 He had known persons who had done this 
 men and women whom he liked and honored ; 
 and had never disapproved or even thought 
 much about the matter. Yet when his mind 
 suggested the possibility that Elizabeth Crau- 
 ford might thus act, he was filled with pain and 
 regret. In his estimation she ranked so far 
 above ordinary humanity that a freedom of 
 action which he would have considered justifi- 
 able in another seemed unworthy her. But it 
 was hard he said this over and over to himself, 
 with a tender pity for both Ltiunce and her. It 
 seemed a horrible thing that the sin of a bad 
 man should wreck two lives still in the freshness 
 of youth and vigor. Vaughan's crime had so 
 completely cast him out of all possibility of con- 
 tact with Elizabeth's existence, as if the gulf 
 that yawned between them were the black eter- 
 nal sweep beyond purgatory and heaven. If he 
 were to repent to atone so far as in him lay 
 Elizabeth could never be his wife again. Even 
 if his cruelty had not tired her heart out before 
 that crowning guilt separated them, the guilt 
 would remain the same impassable barrier. If 
 she had loved him still, she could not have gone 
 back, as she valued her soul's safety, as she be- 
 lieved in the teachings of her religious faith, save 
 as a sister, to guide him, help him, hold him up. 
 
 But the man had not repented. There was 
 no hope, humanly speaking, that he ever would 
 wish to turn from the slough and the mire ; and 
 she did not love him. In her girlish purity, ig- 
 norance even, she had been attracted by an ideal 
 to which she gave this man's semblance noth- 
 ing more. Mr. Carstoe understood the whole 
 history as well as if it had been put in words. 
 Had Darrell Vaughan not broken the bond which 
 bound them, Elizabeth would hare struggled on 
 to the end of life with patience and resignation, 
 her heart so crushed and shut in under its heavy 
 load that the possibility of happiness with another 
 would never have crossed her soul. A thought, 
 a dream, which would then have been wrong, 
 would never for an instant have shadowed the 
 whiteness of her spirit. She was incapable even 
 of feeling the temptation which God help them ! 
 has come close to more than one wretched 
 husband or wife, sunk in the most horrible soli- 
 tudethat of a marriage which possesses neither 
 affection nor sympathy. 
 
 But she was free free in the eyes of God and 
 man, Mr. Carstoe considered. She had no hus- 
 band. He was gone, lost swallowed up in a 
 hell black as ever Calvinistic doctrine devised 
 for the world beyond this. She had a right to 
 call upon the law to cancel the shattered bond. 
 
 Had physical death overtaken Vaughan, the law 
 would have commanded her to let it certify there- 
 to before his burial. She had a right now to 
 command the law to give witness to his moral 
 death. She was a widow ; no more doubt of 
 her privilege to marry again, if she so willed, 
 than in the case of any other widow. 
 
 Yet, after Mr. Carstoe had gone over and over 
 the whole round of argument acknowledging 
 its justice, perfectly convinced of its utility the 
 pain at his heart remained when he thought of 
 Elizabeth thus acting. She was like a haloed 
 martyr, a saint something fairly superhuman 
 in his eyes. He could not bear to have the spir- 
 itual height whereon she stood troubled by a sin- 
 gle earthly shadow. 
 
 So, as he lingered this morning, absently 
 watching the beautiful landscape, and musing 
 upon these matters, old Thomas came up the 
 garden walk, and gave him a letter. 
 
 Carstoe asked after Miss Cranford and her 
 niece. He never uttered the other name which 
 still clung to her if he could avoid it. 
 
 Miss Janet was well, Thomas said. Miss 
 Elizabeth had set off on her journey by the earlv 
 train. Thomas hoped she would riot stay long 
 with her old governess, whom she had gone to 
 visit, for the household needed her sorely, and 
 Miss Janet most of all. 
 
 Not a question did Mr. Carstoe ask ; in no 
 way did he betray that this departure was a sur- 
 prise. His heart gave one mighty bound as he 
 turned in-doors. He comprehended what her 
 going meant. In another instant he could feel 
 only pity for her and Launce. He understood 
 Gremlin's restlessness during these past days. 
 Every thing was clear. He knew that Elizabeth 
 had made her decision had won her martyr's 
 palm. ''Whoso loseth his life for my sake shall 
 find it again." 
 
 Still the old man could have wept from sym- 
 pathy and tenderness. It was so hard so hard ! 
 They were both young still, and they deserved 
 happiness. Then, inconsistent as humanity al- 
 ways is, his loving heart cried out that it could 
 not be right ; God could not desire such sacri- 
 fice. But Elizabeth's face rose before him in its 
 patient beauty, and the yearning and rebellion 
 died. 
 
 He opened the envelope. It contained a sealed 
 letter, and a few lines addressed to himself. 
 
 "Give him this," Elizabeth wrote, "and oh, 
 comfort him, dear friend ; he will need it. I 
 have no necessity to explain to you ; but you 
 will help him, I know you will." 
 
 If ever a human being sent his whole soul out 
 in prayer for those dear, it was Sheldon Carstoe, 
 as he stood in the darkened parlor holding those 
 papers in his hand. 
 
 He bade a sen-ant take the letter to Cromlin's 
 
 room, and went away. His innate delicacy 
 
 ! taught him that this was no time to intrude
 
 MB. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 the first agony must be borne without mortal 
 aid. 
 
 It was dusk when he returned to the house. 
 Mrs. Clement, his housekeeper, informed him that 
 Mr. Cromlin had just come in and was up in 
 his room. He had been out all day, she said. 
 She was afraid he had walked too much, for he 
 looked very pale and tired. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe mounted the stairs, knocked soft- 
 ly at Cromlin's door, and was bidden to enter. 
 
 Launce sat by a table, his face buried in his 
 hands. He raised his head as Mr. Carstoe ap- 
 peared, and said, with a ghost of his pleasant 
 smile 
 
 "She has told you she says you will help 
 me, and I must let you try, for it is all I can do 
 to prove that her every wish is my law." 
 
 A very foolish old man was Sheldon Carstoe, 
 when one remembers that he had lived fifty-five 
 years in this most realistic of centuries. He 
 went up to Launce, laid both hands on his friend's 
 shoulders, and the great tears streamed down 
 his withered cheeks. 
 
 "I can't feel it, I can't be satisfied!" Launce 
 exclaimed. "But I don't blame her now. I 
 have been fighting all day with a legion of dev- 
 ils, but I don't blame her now." 
 
 Mr. Carstoe patted his arm, and fondled his 
 cold hands as if he had been a child, this white, 
 stern-faced man, with the impress of an unutter- 
 able agony on every lineament. 
 
 "I know she is right," he continued, "but I 
 can't feel it. I think if I live to be a hundred I 
 shall never feel it ; but all the same she is right. 
 You must tell her to come back she will not 
 find me here ; we shall never meet again in this 
 world oh, Carstoe, Carstoe 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 TOGETHER. 
 
 TEX days had passed. It was a lovely June 
 afternoon. 
 
 Little Meg sat on the grass beneath the wal- 
 nut-trees in front of the pretty cottage where she 
 and Aunt Jean lived. 
 
 Below the house the tall chimneys of Tangle- 
 wood rose among the trees ; beyond spread the 
 sweep of the valley. Above the dwelling the 
 road curved suddenly down toward the river ; 
 great cliffs towered frowning and dark, crowding 
 themselves almost to the water's edge. 
 
 It was a fair, peaceful spot, and in her childish 
 fashion Meg fully appreciated its beauty. The 
 country air had already done her much good ; 
 she looked fresher, her color was brighter, and 
 she was growing tall. 
 
 She had seated her dolls on moss thrones at 
 the root of one of the great walnuts, put their 
 table and tea-things before them, and they were 
 
 supposed to be enjoying a ceremonious feast; 
 and Meg was certain they understood the whole 
 matter just as well as herself. She talked to 
 them, and confided her small secrets, and they 
 talked yas, indeed, and laughed too! Com- 
 monplace grown-up mortals might perhaps have 
 watched the waxen ladies carefully and caught 
 no word or smile ; but Meg was not so stupid : 
 she understood their language without difficulty. 
 
 The birds sang; the butterflies flitted past-, 
 the rabbits scuttled away through the grass ; the 
 bees hummed by ; the white clouds cast long 
 shadows over the lawn ; the river murmured 
 softly the whole made up an enchanted scene 
 of whose marvels Meg never wearied. 
 
 She left the queens at their tea, and wandered 
 off down the winding path, to watch a troop of 
 little yellow butterflies that were circling about 
 in the sun, looking like flecks of sunlight them- 
 selves. Meg, with her head full of a fairy story 
 Elizabeth had told her, was inclined to believe 
 the winged creatures the very knot of elves 
 which, according to Elizabeth's legend, trans- 
 formed themselves into the bright-hued insects 
 during the hours when mortals are awake and 
 watchful. 
 
 But the butterflies floated away on a sudden 
 breeze that sighed down from the mountains, 
 fragrant with the odor of pine-trees and wood- 
 flowers, and Meg was next attracted by a great 
 sweet-briar which grew close to the gate, and 
 had burst into full blossom since the previous 
 day. 
 
 While she stood there, looking out from the 
 thicket of flowers, a woman came along the road 
 which led from the village, past Tanglewood and 
 the cottage, and curved here toward the river, 
 following the course of the stream for miles and 
 miles above the valley. 
 
 Meg made a lovely little picture framed among 
 the shining green leaves and pink blossoms. 
 IShe was singing, in her clear, childish voice, just 
 from sheer happiness, a melody that had no rule 
 or words, yet was musical and sweet a chant 
 such as one often hears from childish lips, making 
 one marvel if it be not a memory of the strains 
 the angels used to sing to them in some brighter 
 world than this to which their tiny feet have 
 strayed. 
 
 The woman caught sight of Meg standing 
 there, and paused. She was thin, wasted, and 
 worn, but there were traces of wonderful beauty 
 in her face still. She stood and watched the 
 child, and a great eagerness and longing bright- 
 ened the sullen gloom of her eyes. A kind of 
 awe, almost a fear, struck her too, one would 
 have said ; for she made a movement forward, 
 then checked herself, and sat down upon the 
 grass, hiding her face in her hands not weep- 
 ing, though her whole frame shook with the con- 
 vulsive sobs that heaved her bosom. 
 
 Meg looked out, and saw her sitting there
 
 186 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 among the daisies. She had been too kindly 
 treated always to know any tiling about shyness. 
 She pushed open the gate, which happened to be 
 unlatched, and went close to the woman, who 
 had not noticed her approach. "Don't cry," 
 she said, softly ; " don't cry." 
 
 The woman raised her head the eager, yearn- 
 ing expression swept over her face again the 
 look of awe, of dread, appeared too. She pressed 
 her hand against her heart. Her breath came 
 and went in gasps. Her pallor took a livid, bluish 
 tint, and she leaned heavily against the trunk of 
 a sycamore by which she had seated herself. 
 
 "Don't be frightened," she managed to say. 
 "I'll be better in a minute." 
 
 She was better before Meg had time really to 
 become alarmed. 
 
 "Don't you want something?" the child ask- 
 ed, with the practical common-sense which was 
 already one of her strong characteristics. "I 
 could call Aunt Jean, or fetch you some water." 
 
 The woman caught her dress, and held it fast. 
 
 "Don't call any body," she said; "I'm bet- 
 ter now." 
 
 " You might go into the house and rest," Meg 
 suggested. 
 
 " No ; I like to sit here. Will you sit down 
 too ?" Her voice had grown veiy soft and sweet. 
 As Meg looked at her again she wondered why 
 at first she was a little startled by the stranger's 
 eyes ; they did not flash and bum now they were 
 misty and sad. 
 
 Meg sat by her, quite ready to be communi- 
 cative, and entertain the lady to the best of her 
 ability. She was dressed in black, Meg's quick 
 glance noticed Aunt Jean had told her that 
 was a sign people had lost friends. 
 
 " Maybe you had a little girl once," said Meg, 
 putting her thought into words at once, and point- 
 ing to the stranger's gown. The child could not 
 have explained her fancy to herself; but she 
 comprehended, without understanding, that the 
 eager, yearning expression of the pale face bent 
 upon her spoke the language, of pain and regret. 
 
 The woman turned away her head for an in- 
 stant. 
 
 "Yes, I had," she answered. 
 
 " And you've lost her ?'' 
 
 " Yes I've lost her ; yes." 
 
 " I'm, so sorry," said Meg ; " so sorry." 
 
 She put out her little hand, and slipped it into 
 the stranger's. The woman let the dainty fin- 
 gers lie on her palm, looking down at them with 
 a sort of wistful wonder. 
 
 "You're sorry," she muttered; "you're sor- 
 ry!'' Then aloud "Will you tell me your 
 name?" 
 
 "Oh, I'm little Meg, and I live with Aunt 
 Jean in the cottage, and Elizabeth lives in the 
 great house yonder." 
 
 "Who is Elizabeth?" asked the woman. 
 
 " Oh, she's so beautiful I love her so !" cried 
 
 Meg. " She's got another name I can't think 
 she said I might call her Elizabeth. It was 
 she brought us here to this place to live it's a 
 nice place^ isn't it?" 
 
 " Yes, very nice," the woman answered, ab- 
 sently. " And and you haven't any mother ?" 
 
 " No," said Meg; " but I've always had Aunt 
 Jean. Don't you think you'd better go into the 
 house, and see Aunt Jean ?" 
 
 "No; I like to sit here. I am going away 
 presently." 
 
 "Do you live near?" Meg asked. 
 
 The stranger shook her head. 
 
 "That's why I've never seen you," said Meg. 
 "But I really think you'd better go and see 
 Aunt Jean you don't look well. She's got all 
 sorts of things to take. I help her gather the 
 roots, and she always knows just what to do for 
 people." 
 
 " She couldn't do any thing for me," sighed 
 the woman ; " I'm past help past help." 
 
 Meg looked at her, troubled more by the tone 
 than the words. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said again, with her beau- 
 tiful childish eyes full of pity. " Are yon going 
 back to your home is it far?" 
 
 " My home ?" said the woman. " Oh, yes 
 very far ; I'm going toward it, though, fast 
 enough," she added, with a bitter laugh. 
 
 "I'm afraid you ain't happy," sighed Meg. 
 "I wish Elizabeth was here." 
 
 "I don't want to see any onp but you," re- 
 plied the woman. 
 
 " I wish I had my white frock on ; I've a beau- 
 tiful one Elizabeth gave me for Sundays," said 
 Meg ; " but it's only Wednesday now." 
 
 "You're very fond of that Elizabeth," re- 
 turned the woman, with a kind of irritation in 
 her voice. 
 
 " Oh my, yes ; and so is Aunt Jean ; she's so 
 good. But she's not home now ; she's gone away 
 for a while, and there's nobody but Miss Crau- 
 ford. I'm afraid of her. " 
 
 "Who what was that name?" asked the 
 woman, quickly. "Is Elizabeth's name Crau- 
 ford ?" 
 
 " Yes, but something more ; she's married, 
 only I don't know where her husband is." 
 
 The stranger pressed her hand hard upon her 
 heart again, and fought against the new spasm 
 which seized her. 
 
 " You'd better come and see Aunt Jean. How 
 pale you look again !" Meg said, watching her. 
 
 The woman shook her head. She could speak 
 presently. 
 
 "I can't, child ; I can't. I am going away. I 
 want to take the next train, and it leaves soon." 
 
 "Yes, I know ; it's the six o'clock oh, what 
 is the word ? Express !" cried Meg, with pride. 
 " Mr. Carstoe told me the name." 
 
 "Great God!" exclaimed the woman. "Is 
 Mr. Carstoe here too ?"
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 187 
 
 "Oh,tobe sure, "said Meg; "andMr. Lannce 
 was here, but he's gone. I like him, but I like 
 Mr. Carstoe too ; he took me up to the mine in 
 his wagon." 
 
 " They're all good to you, and you love them 
 all?" returned the woman. "You'll not miss 
 me." 
 
 "Oh, I'd like to have you stay, and so would 
 Aunt Jean, I know," said Meg. "But perhaps 
 you'll come back again soon ?" 
 
 "I don't know; I've something to do ; I must 
 go and do it," said the woman, looking away 
 from Meg, while the sombre fire blazed in her 
 eyes again. "I must do it, and I will." 
 
 Meg did not hear the words ; but the voice 
 was so fierce, low as she spoke, that the child 
 shrank back. 
 
 "Oh, don't be afraid of me don't!" cried 
 the woman, passionately, sinking on her knees. 
 
 " No, I won't ; I'm not," faltered the little 
 girl. 
 
 "It's no use to stay ; I've seen her. I want- 
 ed to see her," said the woman, under her breath, 
 with her great eyes intently studying Meg's feat- 
 ures. "There's no curse on her; maybe it'll 
 not fall if I keep away. I'd like to come back 
 and die here just here." 
 . She sat down on the ground, and buried her 
 head in her hands, rocking herself to and fro. 
 Meg touched her shoulder. 
 
 "You'd better let me call Aunt Jean," she 
 said. 
 
 The woman lifted her white face. 
 
 " I wish sometimes you'd think of me, and say 
 ' Poor Marguerite ' will you ?" she asked. 
 
 "Every night when I say my prayers," said 
 Meg. 
 
 The woman shuddered, and rose slowly from 
 the ground. 
 
 ' ' Good-bye, now, "she said. ' ' I'd like to kiss 
 you ; it couldn't do you any hurt." 
 
 " Oh, kiss me, please," sobbed Meg ; " I'm so 
 sorry for you!" 
 . " Don't be sorry ; don't mind." 
 
 She stooped, pressed the child to her in a pas- 
 sionate embrace, then hurried away, looking back 
 once as she went down the road. On she walked, 
 round the curve, past the cottage, the woodlands, 
 and close to the gates of Tanglewood. 
 
 Elizabeth, who had this morning returned, 
 came out of the grounds, and took the road toward 
 the cottage. The woman looked hard after her, 
 half paused, and then hastened on. 
 
 " Who is that lady ?" she asked a man who 
 had stopped his cart to light a pipe. 
 
 "That's Mrs.Vaughan," said he. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Mrs. Darrell Vaughan ; old Miss Crauford's 
 niece." 
 
 The woman groaned aloud, and hurried on. 
 The man puffed meditatively at his pipe, and 
 glanced after her. 
 
 "Wrong in the head; that's what ails her," 
 he said to himself: chirruped to his horse, and 
 went his way also. 
 
 Elizabeth and Aunt Jean found Meg still seat- 
 ed near the gate ; she was weeping softly, and 
 saying 
 
 " Poor Marguerite ! poor Marguerite !" 
 
 A few days after, Mr. Carstoe came to Tan- 
 glewood late one evening with a telegram he had 
 just received from Launce Cromlin : 
 
 ''Bring Mrs. Vaughan to town. Must be here 
 to-morrow. Darrell needs her." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 NINA'S GHOST. 
 
 Ir was twilight. Nathalie La Tour stood at 
 the window and watched Darrell Vaughan drive 
 away from her house. He was obliged to go to 
 Albany would return the next day. Early in 
 the following week Nathalie was to sail for Eu- 
 rope he would join her there. 
 
 It was a warm evening, and the window was 
 open. Nathalie still stood there after the car- 
 riage disappeared. A woman who had been 
 walking up and down the pavement during the 
 whole time of Vaughan's visit stopped suddenly 
 under the casement put up her veil, and looked 
 full at Nathalie. 
 
 Nathalie saw her, and shrank back in a terror 
 that had no name. In spite of the difference in 
 years, it was her mother's face the same deadly 
 pallor, the same hard, reckless mouth, the same 
 sombre fire in the great eyes. 
 
 " Open the door," said the woman ; " open the 
 door, Madame La Tour ; I want to speak wish 
 yon, and I will!" 
 
 Nathalie could no more refuse than if her 
 mother's ghost had halted there demanding ad- 
 mittance. She dragged herself across the hall, 
 opened the outer door the woman was on the 
 steps. She entered quickly, closed the door be- 
 hind her, and motioned Nathalie back into. the 
 parlor. 
 
 They stood there face to face the wom- 
 an wrapped in her black garments, Nathalie 
 dressed in white, flowers in her hair, pearls on 
 her neck and arms. She could not speak the 
 eyes that looked into hers seemed turning her to 
 stone. 
 
 " Young and handsome," said the woman slow- 
 ly; "covered with jewels and flowers; but you're 
 going the same road. Look at me! I'm the 
 ghost of what such women as you become look 
 at me !" 
 
 " Who are you ? what do you want ?" moaned 
 Nathalie, struggling against the conviction which 
 smote at her heart. 
 
 "I want to see Darrell Vaughan's mistress 
 his last love : I'm looking at her now."
 
 188 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "It is false !" exclaimed Nathalie, in sudden 
 anger. 
 
 "Hush!" said the woman. "I know all 
 about you ; I know how you have paltered with 
 your soul. But you're going to Europe to meet 
 him ; you have yielded at last. " 
 
 Nathalie sank into a chair, putting tip her 
 hands, trying to close her eyes ; she could only 
 stave in a fascinated horror at the face before 
 her. 
 
 " Will you tell me your name ?" she asked, in 
 a frightened voice. 
 
 "I told you I was a ghost ghosts don't have 
 names," returned the woman. 
 
 " Man Dieu! mon Dieu!" moaned Nathalie. 
 
 "Oh, Lord, you're French," exclaimed the 
 other. ' ' What can one expect of you ? French ! 
 That's what my mother was who sent me off 
 sold me got rid of me." 
 
 " Who was she? what was her name?" de- 
 manded Nathalie. 
 
 " Oh, let her alone," cried the woman, impa- 
 tiently. "I don't remember her." 
 
 " You must tell me. Was it Nina?" 
 
 The woman nodded. 
 
 " Nina de Favolles," she said. " How did you 
 know ?" 
 
 ' ' She was my mother too ! Marguerite Mar- 
 guerite I am your sister ! " shrieked Nathalie. 
 
 She fell on her knees, shivering and sobbing. 
 The woman showed no emotion not even sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Two days ago," she said, "I saw another 
 sister of mine ; I'm rich in relations all of a sud- 
 den." 
 
 " Do you mean Elizabeth ?" groaned Nathalie. 
 
 "Yes, Elizabeth. Stop crying get up ; I hate 
 such a noise." 
 
 Nathalie managed to rise and get to a sofa 
 near. 
 
 "You saw Elizabeth?" she asked. 
 
 "Didn't I say so? My sister Crauford's 
 daughter Darrell Vaughan's wife," returned 
 the other. 
 
 Nathalie shrieked again. 
 
 "What did you say what ?" 
 
 " Darrell Vaughan's wife. What do you make 
 a racket about that for ?" 
 
 "Who said so? who told you?" 
 
 "Lord!" exclaimed her sister, impatiently, 
 paying no attention to Nathalie's face and voice 
 of horror, " what a row you do make about ev- 
 ery thing you're so French." 
 
 "Elizabeth Vaughan's wife!" repeated Na- 
 thalie, in a strangled tone. 
 
 " Any body would suppose you had made a 
 discovery," retorted the other. 
 
 "I never knew never mon Dieu ! mon 
 Dieu! It can't be I don't believe it. Who 
 said so ?" 
 
 " Here's a case !" said the woman, with a little 
 laugh. " Never knew ?'' 
 
 " No. no ! I tell you it can't te. 
 
 " Darrell Vaughan's wife, I say," repeated she. 
 " They told me out there where she lives ; no 
 mistake whatever Crauford's daughter, Dar- 
 rell's wife. " 
 
 "0 mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" groaned Nathalie 
 again. 
 
 She fell back half fainting ; hysterics followed ; 
 but her companion stood looking on with a cer- 
 tain cold wonder in her face, not offering the 
 least assistance. 
 
 "You needn't cry now," she said at length, as 
 Nathalie's sobs began to lessen ; " it's rather late 
 for that." 
 
 " I tell you I never knew !" moaned -Nathalie. 
 ' ' Years ago she was my friend, and I loved her 
 so oh, Elizabeth !" 
 
 "Oh, Nina de Favolles' daughter Nina's 
 daughter!" exclaimed the woman, with another 
 low, dreadful laugh. 
 
 " Don't ! stop !" cried Nathalie. " Bring me 
 some water. I'm choking I shall die!" 
 
 ' ' Not a bit of it dying's not so easy, " was 
 the answer. " I'll find you some water though, 
 for I want you to get your senses back. Oh, 
 here's some wine on the table ; drink this. " 
 
 Vaughan had asked for wine, and it had been 
 brought. The glass held to her lips was the one 
 from which he had drank. Nathalie pushed it 
 away, a sudden wrath springing up under her 
 terror and confusion at the thought of him. 
 
 "Never waste good drink," said Marguerite, 
 as the wine splashed over the floor. ' ' I can't 
 touch it myself ten drops bring on the spasms : 
 they're not like hysterics, I can tell you. " 
 
 "Water give me some water!" cried Natha- 
 lie. 
 
 She drank a little, had a recurrence of the hys- 
 terical sobs and suffocation, Marguerite standing 
 by as unmoved as before. 
 
 " Sister Elizabeth," she said at last, "Darrell 
 Vaughan's wife ! I do think that completes the 
 thing and you didn't know ! " 
 
 These words brought a hotter flash of anger 
 into Nathalie's heart, and restored her strength. 
 
 "No; he deceived me, lied to me. Oh, the 
 base wretch !" 
 
 " Why, of course he did," came the contempt- 
 uous reply ; " what else would he do ?" 
 
 "Oh, Marguerite, Marguerite!" 
 
 "Don't you call me that I'm Milady; he 
 gave me the name." 
 
 "Oh, she must be crazy, she must be !" moaned 
 Nathalie, unconsciously thinking aloud. 
 
 " No," said Milady, perfectly unmoved. " Some- 
 how even my devils seem to let me alone. I 
 came to see what you were like, and you're my 
 sister. Now I've my work to do ; you can help, 
 if you want to." 
 
 " Help in what ? Oh, I never hated any body 
 before. I want my revenge, my revenge !" gasped 
 Nathalie throngh her set teeth.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 189 
 
 "Do you? Oh, yes you love him! I nei- 
 ther love nor hate I'm a ghost. I have my 
 work to do, and I must do it." 
 
 " Oh, I can't believe I can't ! Elizabeth his 
 wife oh, my presentiment that she laughed at. 
 No, I don't believe it !" 
 
 "Well," said Milady, indifferently, "I don't 
 see that it matters to me whether yon believe 
 it or not. I suppose I may as well go. I 
 don't know why I wanted to show you where 
 your road ends by the sight of such as me ; but 
 I did. It won't do any good you'll keep 
 on." 
 
 She made a movement to leave the room 
 Nathalie caught her dress. 
 
 "Don't go 111 not let you go!" she cried. 
 " I promised our mother she was sorry ; when 
 she came to die, she told me " 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind about her," interrupted 
 Milady. " Hell must be a largish place Nina 
 and I sha'n't interfere." 
 
 " She repented she was sorry, I tell you ; 
 don't say such awful things!" returned Natha- 
 lie. 
 
 The expression of dull surprise came back to 
 Milady's face. 
 
 "Why, you're afraid of it," she said. "Are 
 you hoping to get out of the business by a death- 
 bed repentance too ?" 
 
 " I'm not a bad woman !" exclaimed Nathalie, 
 stamping her foot. " I never had a lover ; oh, 
 I was going away with him I own that." 
 
 Milady broke in with another laugh. 
 
 " You'll go yet," she said. " I'll wager what 
 you like he'll make you believe black's white ; 
 you'll go." 
 
 " I'd have given up every thing for him !" cried 
 Nathalie. "But he has deceived me : he knew 
 how I loved Elizabeth." 
 
 "I suppose his setting me on the road to hell 
 doesn't count," said Milady, calmly. 
 
 " You didn't say you didn't tell me he " 
 
 "It's such an old story now. I was the girl 
 he fooled and ruined ; I'm the woman he shut up 
 in prison ; and I've just been to see my child 
 mine and his." 
 
 " Oh, I shall go crazy, I shall !" 
 
 But Milady checked the hysterical outburst at 
 once. 
 
 "If you keep that up, I'm off," she said, " and 
 you'll not see me again. I can't bear a noise ; it 
 hurts me here," and she laid her hand on her 
 heart. 
 
 "I won't, I won't," whimpered Nathalie, mak- 
 ing, in this terrible crisis, the strongest effort at 
 self-control that she had ever done in her whole 
 life. "I hate him; oh, how I do hate him!" 
 she exclaimed, rushing from grief and horror 
 into a passion which seemed childish and weak 
 beside Milady's stern composure. "What did 
 you mean about work and my helping ? He shut 
 you up in prison. Oh, he shall suffer " 
 
 " Stuff!" interrupted Milady. "What could 
 I do, or you either, against this rich, respectable 
 gentleman ? If we had nothing better than that 
 to go upon, you might whistle for your revenge, 
 as you call it. " Then she stopped to laugh 
 that dull, cold laugh, which still had something 
 so savage in it that Nathalie trembled. " You 
 wanting revenge ! It sounds so droll! You're 
 only a miserable, weak little butterfly, if you are 
 Nina's daughter and Milady's sister." 
 
 Neither grief nor anger nor horror, though 
 Nathalie was shaken to the very soul as nothing 
 but her mother's death had ever moved her, could 
 prevent her feeling the sting to her vanity which 
 those words gave. 
 
 "You know nothing about me," she said, 
 proudly; " I am a very famous woman. I have 
 written books " 
 
 "Oh, yes," interrupted Milady, "I know. 
 When I first saw you, the night before last, with 
 Darrell Vaughan , I asked about you. So yon had 
 to show your relationship to Nina and me by some 
 sort of wickedness, though you're too childish to 
 half understand. " 
 
 "I don't know what you mean ! Don't talk 
 to me like that, Marguerite." 
 
 "Don't you call me Marguerite again," said 
 her sister, with a look in her eyes which made 
 Nathalie's blood run cold. "Mean? Nina ra- 
 ined all the men she could, and I once kept a 
 gambling-house ! But, bad as we were, I don't 
 suppose we did the harm you have by your 
 wicked books ; and never knew they were wick- 
 ed you ridiculous moth !" 
 
 "Oh, that's what Monsieur La Tour said, and 
 Elizabeth," shuddered Nathalie. "I don't be- 
 lieve it ! I don't believe it !" 
 
 " Well, well," returned Milady, wearily. "It's 
 of no consequence a little wickedness more or 
 less in the world ; and probably nobody ever read 
 your trash after all." 
 
 Nathalie would have expostulated further, but 
 Milady held up her hand. She had seated her- 
 self, and was gazing straight before her, thinking 
 deeply. She looked so like a representation of 
 some merciless, passionless Fate, that Nathalie 
 was more afraid of her than ever, and shrank 
 into a corner of the sofa. Her eye was caught by 
 a photograph of Vaughan that lay on the table. 
 First she sobbed and moaned a little over her 
 broken heart, then she snatched up the picture 
 and tore it into fragments, with a passion which 
 for an instant gave her childish face a painful 
 resemblance to her mother's, and the stern, fixed 
 countenance of Milady, who paid no attention to 
 her outburst. 
 
 " Don't sit there like that don't look so ; you 
 frighten me," cried Nathalie. "What are you 
 thinking about ?" 
 
 "Do you know Launce .Cromlin, his cousin?" 
 asked Milady. 
 
 " Yes no," returned Nathalie, coloring. She
 
 190 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 had met Launce once at a private exhibition of 
 pictures in the Academy, and he had declined an 
 introduction to her. " lie's a brute," she added. 
 " He was very rude to me.'' 
 
 " Wasn't anxious to know the famous book- 
 writer and Darrell's friend," sneered Milady. 
 " Well, it is he who must help in the work too." 
 Then her voice changed. "A good man! a 
 good man ! And the other, Carstoe ; why, see- 
 ing them almost made me think there might be 
 a heaven, and a God in it ; I can believe in the 
 other place easily enough. They took me out 
 of prison. Launce Cromlin shall have his rights ; 
 yes, he shall. When is the other man coming 
 back ?" 
 
 " To-morrow night." She began to cry again, 
 but very quietly ; Milady's eyes kept her from 
 giving way further. " Oh, I was to have sailed 
 on Saturday he was to follow ; and to think 
 of you and Elizabeth ! It's too dreadful too 
 dreadful !" 
 
 "It is rather a mixing np of family affairs," 
 said Milady. " You needn't snivel though. From 
 your own account, you've escaped." 
 
 "I've told you the truth indeed I have," 
 pleaded Nathalie, humbly. 
 
 "I don't doubt it you've no blood in your 
 veins. Maybe you'd be a better woman if you 
 were worse." 
 
 " Oh, how hard you are !" moaned Nathalie. 
 
 ' ' Hard ?" repeated Milady. ' ' I've drank gall 
 and fed on stones for a good many years now, 
 ray pretty authoress ! Oh well, when one has 
 been loved by a man, and had a mother who 
 repented " 
 
 " She did repent," broke in Nathalie. " Oh, 
 let me tell you I promised her to tell if I ever 
 found you. She said she'd haunt me unless I 
 did." 
 
 "She won't come while I'm here," replied 
 Milady, grimly. 
 
 " You were with rich people. She was poor 
 jnst then " 
 
 "You don't tell it right," said Milady, as Na- 
 thalie paused. " Nina sent me to a foundling 
 hospital. Mrs. Rivers had a baby born dead. 
 She'd lost so many, they knew she would die if 
 she was disappointed then. Mr. Rivers went to 
 the hospital and got me Nina's cast-off child. 
 Till I was seventeen I never knew I was not their 
 own never knew." 
 
 " Yes, yes," Nathalie said, eagerly. " Mam- 
 ma kept track of yon she was so content to 
 know you were happy, rich. Then, after all those 
 years, she heard Mr. Rivers was dead, and you 
 had quarreled with his wife, and were gone. Oh, 
 she never had a moment's peace after that." 
 
 "They had a daughter born to them less than 
 two years after they took me," said Milady. 
 " But he loved me yes, he did ; loved me bet- 
 ter than nil his silly wife's children, for she had 
 three. How she hated me ! I wondered why 
 
 she was so different from other mothers ; but I 
 had him I didn't care. " 
 
 " She knew you weren't her child ?" 
 
 "Yes; she found it out hunted np every 
 clew got letters that fool Nina wrote Mr. Rivers 
 about me. She held her peace, waiting for him 
 to die ; she knew he couldn't live many years. 
 She had the whole story Nina, Crauford's name. 
 So I was seventeen, and he died. He never knew 
 how she hated me ; she was always artful as the 
 devil, and I didn't complain." 
 
 " Ah man Dieu !" sighed Nathalie. 
 
 " Then I had my part in his will his daugh- 
 ter Marguerite. She flew at me before he was in 
 his grave; told me who I was that I should 
 not have a penny ; told the whole story out to 
 any body that would listen. That's what came 
 to me when I was seventeen." 
 
 Nathalie could only shiver and weep, motion- 
 ing her to go on. 
 
 " Oh, the rest doesn't need words," said Mi- 
 lady. " Darrell Vaughan was their frier d: I 
 loved him. He took me when madame turned 
 me out to starve. Every door was shut in my 
 face not a soul to help ! He took me he took 
 me I loved him." 
 
 There was something appalling in the cold- 
 ness and unconcern of her speech ; it frightened 
 Nathalie past the relief of tears. 
 
 " A year of heaven how a body sticks to that 
 word ! " laughed Milady. " Another year of be- 
 ing let gradually down into hell. He struck me 
 once ; that was just before the baby was born 
 we were in New Orleans. The night she was 
 born he left me left me without money even, 
 for he'd been gambling, and had sold the jewels 
 he had given me. He went away with another 
 woman that's all. Can you understand, you 
 butterfly ?" 
 
 " mon Dieu ! man Dieu!'" 
 
 " Deafer than a stone, my dear, even if He's 
 any where about deafer than a stone," said 
 Milady. 
 
 " Ah, don't, don't ! And where did you go ? 
 What did yon do ?" 
 
 "She's interested!" sneered Milady. "It's 
 like a novel to her ; she'd put it in a book, if only 
 she had the power. You must drink fire and 
 live among devils before your dainty pen can 
 write my history, pretty dear." 
 
 " You frighten me so ! Let me call Susanne ! 
 Don't you want to lie down ?" sobbed Nathalie. 
 
 "No, my poppet, " replied Milady, with anoth- 
 er smile of woful derision. " I must be up and 
 about my work." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 " Only to tell," said Milady, drawing a paper 
 from her bosom, and replacing it before Nathalie 
 could move. " I want Launce Cromlin ; I've 
 found where he lives." 
 
 " Don't go ; let me send for him ; you're not 
 fit."
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 191 
 
 Milady had risen, but a spasm seized her. She 
 sank back on the sofa, her face livid, her eyes 
 closed. 
 
 Nathalie thought she was dead, and shrieked 
 till she brought in Susanne. The old woman 
 caught sight of the figure lying on the couch 
 the room was dim with shadows, but a last ray 
 of light flashed through the window, arid fell upon 
 the death-like countenance. Susanne shrieked 
 louder than Nathalie had done, and dropped upon 
 her knees. 
 
 " Madame's ghost ! Madame's ghost !" 
 
 Nathalie started up in wilder alarm, glanced 
 about, half expecting to see some phantom shape 
 arise. Then she saw that Susanne's eyes were 
 fixed on the prostrate form, and understood what 
 had caused the exclamation. 
 
 " It's Marguerite. I've found her," she cried. 
 
 Susanne knew the history ; had heard of Na- 
 thalie's promise, and understood the whole. 
 
 "Is she dead?" the old woman asked, in an 
 awe-stricken tone, as she struggled up from her 
 knees. ^ 
 
 At the same instant Milady roused herself 
 the cramped hands relaxed, the features lost their 
 convulsive rigidity. 
 
 "Who ever dies?" said she, answering Su- 
 sanne in French. " Get me some water some 
 opium too. What a pair of fools you are, al- 
 ways expecting Nina's ghost ; you must wait till 
 I'm gone to see that. Nina de Favolles 
 Nina !" She began to laugh, to mutter more 
 broken words. She seemed to realize that her 
 mind was wandering. "Get the opium, you 
 idiots !" she exclaimed. 
 
 The voice was so like the voice of her mother, 
 the face tortured by pain so like Nina's face 
 as they had seen it time and again in her par- 
 oxysms, that even Susanne was nearly out of 
 her senses with fright, and Nathalie cowered 
 down into her chair, and hid her eyes, utterly 
 helpless. But Susanne recollected there was 
 opium in the house Darrell Vaughan had sent 
 her for it one night with a physician's prescrip- 
 tion that he always carried about him. Susanne 
 had put the bottle away in case he should some 
 time ask for it again. She ran up-stairs to fetch 
 it the necessity for action made her helpful 
 once more. 
 
 She came back with the drug, and began to 
 measure a spoonful into a tumbler in which she 
 had put some water, but Milady snatched the 
 flacon as Susanne stood by the sofa, and drained 
 nearly the whole contents. 
 
 " Sacr nom tfun cliien !" howled Susanne; 
 "she's poisoned herself ;" and started for the 
 door, with a half-defined intention of seeking 
 doctors and stomach-pumps. Nathalie dared 
 not even look up ; she only slipped out of her 
 chair at Susanne's exclamation, and lay huddled 
 on the floor. But a stern command from Mi- 
 lady stopped the old woman in her flight. It 
 
 was Nina's voice again just the words Nina 
 would have employed. 
 
 " Stay where you are, Jille d'un serpent .'" 
 
 " Won't it hurt you?" asked Susanne, creep- 
 ing timidly back she who had never feared any 
 body till now. 
 
 " Hurt me ? I shall need another such dose 
 before morning," said Milady. " Where's that 
 moth that Nathalie ?" 
 
 "Here I am here," replied Nathalie, sitting 
 up on the floor, fairly stunned by her varying 
 emotions. 
 
 "I want Launce Cromlin I can't go out 
 send for him," said Milady. 
 
 " Susanne will go. Where does he live ?" 
 
 Milady gave the name of his hotel. 
 
 " Tell him Milady wants him," said she ; "and 
 be quick about it, old woman, for the opium may 
 make me sleep. Entends-tu, vieille sorciere ? Ne 
 me regardes pas avec tes yeux hbetes fa m'en- 
 nuie." 
 
 " She speaks French as well as we," muttered 
 Susanne. 
 
 " Of course I do," returned Milady, still speak- 
 ing in that language. " I was brought up to be a 
 grande dame more than you can say for Nina 
 or your Nathalie either." 
 
 Then she reiterated her commands, and Su- 
 sanne hastened away. 
 
 Milady lay back on the sofa, and spoke no 
 more. Nathalie dared not stir nor address her. 
 The room was quite dark, but she was near 
 enough the sofa to catch the glare of Milady's 
 eyes as she stared into the gloom. Nathalie rec- 
 ollected that she was absolutely alone in the 
 house with the woman. She had intended to 
 dine out, and the servants had taken a holiday. 
 She pressed her hand hard against her mouth to 
 repress a scream ; she was afraid to anger Mi- 
 lady by a sound. 
 
 The room grew darker the muslin window- 
 curtains rustled in the breeze the sound was 
 like phantom footsteps in Nathalie's ears. If 
 her mother's ghost should appear! She could 
 see that face always on the sofa such a ter- 
 rible likeness to Nina's ! She could not bear it, 
 she should go mad ! 
 
 "Marguerite!" she whispered. "Marguer- 
 ite!" 
 
 There was no response, no sign that her call 
 had been heard; she could see the great eyes 
 staring always. If she only dared light the gas ; 
 but her fear of her companion, a horrible sensa- 
 tion that something supernatural was in the room 
 with them, coming closer, closer, deprived her 
 of all power to move. She heard the clock strike, 
 then a silence and waiting that seemed endless, 
 and still Susanne did not come. The clock beat 
 the half-hour, and the slow stroke was like a 
 heavy weight falling on her brain. The moon 
 came up over the opposite houses, cast a long ray 
 through the curtains, and lighted up the sofa and
 
 192 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 the motionless figure thereon, leaving the rest of 
 the room in deeper darkness. 
 
 The window draperies rustled more like ghost- 
 ly footsteps than before ; the sigh of the low 
 wind was like a ghostly voice whispering some 
 terrible menace in an unknown tongue. If she 
 could get away only out on the steps, and sit 
 there till Susanne appeared. But she could not 
 move. She must cry out no matter what Mar- 
 guerite might do, her anger could not be so ter- 
 rible as this stillness. She tried to shriek her 
 voice was gone ; even in her own ears there 
 sounded only a hoarse murmur which seemed 
 no effort of hers. 
 
 And now memory after memory came up, 
 stunned as she was. Her mother's death-bed 
 her husband's warnings. Oh, was she dying? 
 was this hell already the hell in whose exist- 
 ence she had hitherto been certain she had no 
 belief? Terrible, denunciatory sermons her 
 mother had made her read drifted through her 
 mind the awful papistical warnings to heretics 
 and reprobates and she was both. Elizabeth's 
 face, like that of an accusing angel, rose. Her 
 own mad theories, the absurd creeds which she 
 had believed in and helped to promulgate, 
 haunted her. Passages from her own books, 
 that she had admired as brave and fearless to 
 fling in the face of the world's prejudices, rang 
 in her ears like a knell of doom. 
 
 She was dying, dying, and the warning her 
 husband had uttered was being fulfilled ! 
 
 " Darrell Vaughan ! Darrell Vaughan !" 
 
 It was Milady's voice that broke the stillness. 
 She had not moved ; the lids had dropped par- 
 tially over the dull glare of her eyes ; the power- 
 ful narcotic had begun its effects. 
 
 "Marguerite ! Marguerite !" called Nathalie, 
 but it was only a strangled whisper still no an- 
 swer came. 
 
 Was Marguerite dead? had she died with 
 that name on her lips? Oh, would Susanne 
 never come back ? If she could only shriek for 
 help ; she heard some one passing along the 
 street, singing as he went. With one last mighty 
 effort she got upon her feet, and staggered toward 
 the door, but the momentary strength gave way, 
 and she fell senseless. 
 
 Half an hour later, old Susanne, entering the 
 drawing-room, followed by Launce Cromlin, 
 stumbled over Nathalie's prostrate form. 
 
 They lighted the gas, and looked about. Mi- 
 bily lay on the sofa in a deep lethargic slumber, 
 from which no efforts could rouse her ; and when 
 Nathalie was brought back to consciousness, she 
 was only capable of hysterical bursts of anguish, 
 flight, and rage, by which Launce gathered 
 enough to know that retribution was guiding two 
 merciless women on Darrell Vaughan's track, 
 and that he must act quickly if he would save 
 the man from utter ruin and disgrace. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE MILL OF THE GODS. 
 
 THE night has passed another day gone the 
 twilight has come again. 
 
 Darrell Vaughan rings at the door of Natha- 
 lie's house is admitted, and hastens into the 
 drawing-room. He has sent word of his arrival 
 he has come to dine. Nathalie is waiting for 
 him, beautifully dressed ; her neck and arms 
 bare ; the plume of jewels that he gave her shin- 
 ing among her yellow curls. 
 
 "My beautiful my star !" he cries, and hur- 
 ries forward, bending on one knee to kiss her 
 white hands, knowing how she likes effective 
 scenes and exaggerated gallantry. " Why, you 
 are superb ; one would think you were dressed 
 for a royal ball !" he adds, laughingly. 
 
 " Hasn't the king come again ?" returns she, 
 with easy playfulness, leaving her hands in his 
 clasp. 
 
 "And you are glad to see me you missed 
 me?" 
 
 " I never missed you so much," she replies. 
 "I never was so glad to see you never !" 
 
 He wants to take her in his arms to kiss the 
 lips for whose sweetness his passionate soul is 
 hungry. But Nathalie has never permitted that, 
 so her repulse neither surprises nor angers him, 
 only increases the wild tumult in his heart. He 
 pours forth anew the story of his love, and Natha- 
 lie listens. She makes him \o\v and swear ; she 
 is teazing and capricious, tender and coquettish, 
 all at once ; and Vaughan declares that even if 
 he had to relinquish his whole future, it would 
 be well lost for her sake. He has forgotten the 
 weary numbness which has oppressed him for 
 days making pleasure an impossibility, busi- 
 ness a maze. Wine and opium have failed in 
 their effects, but he has had recourse to hash- 
 eesh, and is full of life and nervous vitality to his 
 very finger-tips. 
 
 Desperate, shaken as Nathalie is, sick and 
 frightened by remorse, the details she has this 
 day heard of Marguerite's life shuddering at 
 the very sight of this man she finds a certain 
 pleasure in acting the scene. She is waiting 
 for Launce Cromlin she knows he will come. 
 Launce has been too wise to oppose the implac- 
 able women careful not to awaken their suspi- 
 cions, lest they should expose Vaughan before he 
 can bring Elizabeth he has no hope save in her. 
 
 But Launce does not appear. The dinner- 
 hour has arrived Vaughan will wonder ; be- 
 sides, her anger rushes up again, and she longs 
 to begin the work. 
 
 " Do you like surprises ?" she asks. 
 
 " Any you could give me would be pleasant," 
 he replies. 
 
 She laughs ; he sees her eyes glitter oddly. 
 
 " You are not well, I do believe," he says. 
 "You are nervous ; not like yourself, somehow."
 
 ME. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 193 
 
 " Quite myself quite !" and her laugh fairly 
 ias a ring like Milady's ; but Darrell Vaughan 
 3oes not think of that. "About my surprise," 
 she continues. 
 
 "You shall tell me at dinner. I have eaten 
 nothing all day." 
 
 He might have named a longer time than that, 
 for his appetite oT late has entirely deserted him. 
 He has lived almost wholly on stimulants for a 
 iveek past, but to-night the thought of food does 
 not bring back the sickness and abhorrence he has 
 been suffering from, and he wants champagne too. 
 
 She laughs and jests, and he goes on his knees 
 again beside her. Then Nathalie, laying her 
 hand on his shoulder, says 
 
 "You shall have the surprise first," lifts her 
 voice, and calls, " Come in !" 
 
 The door of the apartment at the back of the 
 drawing-room opens a woman dressed in black 
 moves swift and noiseless as a ghost close to 
 them, and Vaughan starts to his feet with an in- 
 articulate cry. 
 
 "This is my sister this is Milady!" he 
 hears Nathalie exclaim, and then Milady's an- 
 swer 
 
 "A family party, Darrell Vaughan." 
 
 And both women laugh. 
 
 He makes one grasp at his reeling faculties, 
 and says 
 
 " Where did you pick up that mad woman, 
 Nathalie ? What crazy stoiy has she been tell- 
 ing you ?" 
 
 Nathalie's wretched nerves are so near giving 
 way after the force she has put upon herself to 
 bring the scene to a climax that she can only 
 sink back in her chair and fight against hysterical 
 screams ; his very composure adds to her ex- 
 citement. 
 
 As he glances from one to the other, Vaughan 's 
 thought is not that which would come to most 
 men at a crisis like this. He does not think of the 
 possibility of Milady's having some actual proof 
 which may ruin him before the world does not 
 think of danger or disgrace. He only realizes 
 that after all his waiting, his patience, Milady 
 has lost him this bewitching creature, for whom 
 he has been ready to sacrifice so much. One of 
 his cold rages seizes him ; his impulse is to spring 
 forward and fell the woman to the floor. 
 
 "Yes, I see it in your eyes, "says Milady, 
 quietly. " I'm a ghost, Darrell Vaughan ; you 
 can't murder me again." 
 
 He turns his back impatiently upon her. 
 
 "Nathalie !" he cries, "she is a' mad woman 
 she has been in an asylum in California ; you 
 can't heed any story she may tell. Send for 
 somebody to take her away." 
 
 "Back to prison, perhaps," says Milady. 
 " No, no ; you can't play the same game twice ; 
 there are no diamonds to steal in my name now." 
 
 " Nathalie, Nathalie, listen to me !" he ex- 
 claims. He can only think of her of his love, 
 N 
 
 of his wild passion, which has never had its first 
 fever slaked. 
 
 "I don't want to look at you, to hear your 
 voice," sobs Nathalie, unable to be either heroic 
 or dramatic. "I hate you! I hate you! The 
 whole world shall know liar forger thief!" 
 
 The coarse instincts inherited from Nina de 
 Favolles break out in Nathalie as they have nev- 
 er done in her whole life. She finds pleasure in 
 screaming these denunciations in his ear. Com- 
 pared to her, Milady's frozen impassibility is 
 dignified and feminine. 
 
 But Vaughan does not half take in the sense 
 of the added imprecations which Nathalie pours 
 out in Nina's voice and with Nina's very gest- 
 ures. She looks diabolically beautiful in her 
 fury ; he can only think of that that and his 
 desire to murder MilAdy and stifle Nathalie in 
 his arms with hot kisses. 
 
 He makes a step toward her. Nathalie shrinks 
 back, crying 
 
 "I'll kill you if you touch me; I'll call the 
 police." 
 
 ' ' Nathalie !" he groans. " I love you ! I love 
 you! I never loved any other woman I care 
 for nothing else in the world. Don't mind her 
 I tell you she's mad ; I'll not give you up, I'll 
 not !" 
 
 Furious as she is in spite of her horror, of 
 the newly awakened remorse for the errors of 
 her life which have this day beset her Natha- 
 lie is touched by the plea. He looks so hand- 
 some too like- a god, she thinks. No man can 
 talk like him, no man's love be worth the having 
 and he is lost to her ; a gulf, black as the hor- 
 rors of the eternity in which she has sudden- 
 ly begun to believe, looms between them. She 
 loves him she loves him : no, she hates him ; 
 but the excitement has gone from her life the 
 drama is played out ; she is afraid of him her- 
 self; the very fame of which she has been so ab- 
 surdly vain has grown loathsome and abhorrent. 
 
 So Nathalie can find nothing better to do than 
 to go into strong hysterics, struggling, fighting, 
 striking at Vaughan as he tries to get to her, 
 with some mad intention of carrying her off be- 
 fore she can get sense to resist ; and Milady's icy 
 voice rises again, making itself audible alike to 
 Nathalie in her spasm and Vaughan in his in- 
 sane whirl of resolve. 
 
 "What a family party!" she repeats. "Be 
 quiet, both of you; I've had enough of this." 
 
 That cold, passionless voice it has a power 
 which stills them both, even at this instant. 
 She looks so like a ghost, the voice is so dead. 
 Had she indeed come back from the grave, they 
 could not regard her with deeper horror. 
 
 Before either of the three can stir or speak 
 again, the door opens. A carriage has driven 
 to the house unheard by them ; now the draw- 
 ing-room door opens, and Elizabeth enters, fol- 
 lowed by Mr. Carstoe and Launce Cromlin.
 
 194 
 
 MR. VAUGIIAN'S HEIR. 
 
 " I am not too laic oh, I thank God for it !" 
 are the words that fall from Elizabeth's lips. 
 
 She walks directly up to Milady, who stands 
 dumbly staring. Nathalie has retreated to a 
 sofa. Darrell Vaughan's eyes wander from Car- 
 stoe to Launce with a look of murderous hate, 
 then remain fixed by a kind of fascination upon 
 the face of the woman who was once his wife. 
 
 4 'Marguerite, "says Elizabeth, softly, "do you 
 know who I am ?" 
 
 "Yes, I know," replies Milady, in her defiant 
 voice. " Crauford's daughter! There's Nina's 
 girl yonder! Here's Milady, with the blood of 
 both in her veins !" 
 
 "Marguerite my sister!" 
 
 Elizabeth's tone is low, but it does not falter ; 
 it strikes with unearthly sweetness on the ear of 
 every listener there, and her pale face is lighted 
 with a look of tenderness and patience which 
 renders its loveliness more than mortal. 
 
 " Marguerite sister !" 
 
 Milady's defiant head droops ; she sways back 
 and forth, drops on her knees, and stares up in 
 Elizabeth's face as a lost soul in purgatory might 
 stare at an angel suddenly descended into the 
 midst of the darkness with words of heavenly 
 comfort. 
 
 "Don't!" she gasps, in an awful whisper. 
 "Pretty soon you will make me believe in God 
 Almighty." 
 
 None of the others utter a sound even Na- 
 thalie is dumb. As for Darrell Vaughan, the 
 numbness in his brain, the ringing in his ears, 
 has returned. He can only support himself 
 against the table, and wonder vaguely what is to 
 come next. 
 
 "You will believe," Elizabeth answers; "it 
 is for that He has brought us to this hour." 
 
 Milady gazes from one to another, pointing 
 at Elizabeth with her wasted hand. Her face 
 has lost its icy coldness : it is troubled, shaken. 
 She looks as she used in the prison, when won- 
 dering if she were indeed mad. 
 
 "Crauford's daughter," she says, in a diffi- 
 cult, broken tone. 
 
 "And your sister," adds Elizabeth. 
 
 Milady struggles up from her knees, and looks 
 round the group then her eyes go back to 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 "Would you take me home? would you not 
 l>e ashamed you that are grand and respectable 
 not like her, she's nothing to lose " (pointing 
 to Nathalie) " would you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Again Milady's eyes wander to the faces about 
 her, with the same expression of troubled won- 
 der come back once more to Elizabeth with a 
 wistful eagerness that makes her whole counte- 
 nance look younger. 
 
 "I wouldn't go," she says, abruptly. "I'm 
 not human, but I seem to have a touch of hu- 
 manity about me I wouldn't go." 
 
 She tries to shrink away ; Elizabeth tikes her 
 hand, and holds it fast. 
 
 "Marguerite," she says, "you have a paper 
 that I want you to give me." 
 
 Milady wrenches her hand free, the dull fire 
 kindles anew in her eyes, the look of dogged res- 
 olution hardens her features. 
 
 "I had forgotten every thing, "she mutters. 
 Then she points to Darrell Vaughan, and adds, 
 in a louder tone " Yes, a paper ; he and all of 
 you shall hear." 
 
 The strange numbness is growing stronger 
 through Vaughan's whole frame; only some- 
 thing in his temples seems to beat and turn like 
 the roll of a noisy wheel. He feels about for a 
 chair, and sits down. 
 
 "So this is a plot !" he exclaims, " and you're 
 all in it ; much good may it do you." 
 
 "Marguerite," continues Elizabeth, regard- 
 less as the others that he has spoken, "give me 
 the paper we don't want to hear it." 
 
 Milady looks confused and troubled ; her eves 
 wander toward Cromlin, and her face grows de- 
 termined again. 
 
 "I must tell," she says. "I don't want 
 vengeance ! I'm a ghost, but I must tell." 
 
 " How much longer is this little scene with 
 that mad woman to go on?" Vaughan breaks 
 in. "Carstoe, you used not to be quite a fool ; 
 you must know this is nonsense ! As for my 
 precious cousin there, of course I understand his 
 little game." 
 
 Neither of the men appears to hear. Vanghan 
 clenches his hands over the arms of his chair to 
 hold himself still. He can not even venture to 
 go on speaking ; he feels his utterance become 
 thick, and that remorseless wheel turn faster and 
 faster in his brain. 
 
 "You're fond of calling people mad, Darrell 
 Vaughan," cries Nathalie, with a hysterical langh 
 and sob. "You were going to shut your wife 
 up ! He was, Elizabeth ! He told me his wife 
 was a monomaniac, and needed to be confined. 
 Oh, I didn't know it was you I didn't know it 
 was you!" 
 
 "Hush, Nathalie," returns Elizabeth. 
 
 The wretched creature cowers back into her 
 place, and weeps silently. For the first time in 
 her life a sense of shame oppresses her she is 
 positively afraid to meet Elizabeth's eyes. 
 
 " She's only a silly little moth," says Milady : 
 " she's not even what they call wicked, you 
 know." 
 
 " I know," replies Elizabeth. 
 
 " She believes me she believes me !" shrieks 
 Nathalie. " Oh, I can die contented now." 
 
 Vaughan laughs. Nathalie's sobs redouble, 
 and she moans incoherent words of grief and 
 passion. 
 
 "Be still!" orders Milady, sternly, and the 
 weak, half -made creature buries her head in 
 the sofa pillows, and presses her handkerchief
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 against her mouth, frightened into a fresh effort 
 at self-control. 
 
 "Give me the paper, Marguerite," repeats 
 Elizabeth, in the same low, gentle voice, which 
 has such a ring of command in spite of its per- 
 suasiveness. 
 
 " No !" answers Milady. " It must go to the 
 lawyers I can't give it up I must do my 
 work ; it has been set for me I must do it." 
 
 " There is no need now, Marguerite." 
 
 " Yes, there is ; you don't know ! It is the 
 will the will Darrell Vaughan thought he had 
 burned : it gives all the fortune to him " (point- 
 ing to Launce) ; "he must have his rights." 
 
 " You set of infernal liars !" exclaims Vaugh- 
 an, starting out of his chair. "Pretty instru- 
 ments you choose, Madame Elizabeth a street- 
 walker, a convict to help you and Launce to 
 my money. Launce, who is your " 
 
 Cromlin strides forward Mr. Carstoe pushes 
 him back, and himself stands over Vaughan. 
 
 "One word more, and I'll call in the officers 
 myself," he says. "That angel yonder is try- 
 ing to save you one word, and I will take your 
 punishment into my own hands. I tell you it is 
 of no use to struggle all is exposed." 
 
 The old man positively looks grand in his 
 stern indignation. Vaughan falls back ia his 
 chair not from fear he can stand no longer ; 
 the beat, beat of that wheel leaves him half deaf 
 to Carstoe's words. 
 
 " I'm just what he says," pursues Milady, 
 looking at Elizabeth; "he made me so. I've 
 been a convict he shut me up he stole the 
 jewels he came to my room drugged me " 
 
 " We know, Marguerite," breaks in Launce. 
 
 " But you must have your rights," she goes 
 on, in the same passionless tone. " The fortune 
 is yours " 
 
 " I have had moral proof of that for years," 
 Launce interrupts again ; " it does not matter." 
 
 Elizabeth has not once glanced toward her 
 former husband. Now she turns it is with a 
 great effort, as one can see and walks toward 
 him. Even the horror and dread leave her face 
 as she looks into his, altered greatly in these 
 weeks, and comprehends as none of the others 
 do the possible effects of this scene upon his 
 broken frame. There is nothing save pity in 
 her eyes now. He tries to meet her glance, but 
 when he sees that look his eyes sink. 
 
 "Mr. Vaughan," she says. "Marguerite is 
 right. You must make over to your cousin the 
 fortune left by your uncle ; it is his." 
 
 "I don't want it; let him keep the whole," 
 cvies Launce. 
 
 Elizabeth silences him with a gesture. 
 
 " Will you do this, Mr. Vauglian ?" she asks. 
 
 He gathers up the remnants of his failing 
 strength in a mad passion, that for a moment 
 avercomes the weakness, the intolerable phys- 
 ical agony. 
 
 " No !" he fairly shouts. " Oh, you devil ; if 
 I had only murdered you long ago !" 
 
 Nathalie shrieks aloud at his face and voice, 
 but the others are unmoved. 
 
 "Madam," says Mr. Carstoe, addressing Eliz- 
 abeth, " you must allow Marguerite to tell her 
 story ; nothing else will convince that wretched 
 man of his madness in hesitating." 
 
 " Tell it, then, Marguerite," rejoins Elizabeth, 
 wearily, and she moves away from Vaughan's 
 side. 
 
 Even in the excitement of this moment, Mr. 
 Carstoe and Launce are both conscious of think- 
 ing it is like seeing a good angel turn from a 
 sinner's presence, warned that intercession is no 
 longer possible. 
 
 "I knew he forged Launce Cromlin's name," 
 says Milady, slowly. "It was before he took 
 me to New Orleans. He was tired of me ; he 
 struck me once, but I couldn't tell of him. I 
 have the papers where he used to practice writ- 
 ing the name. Long afterwards, in California, 
 Jem Davis, the man that helped, confessed when 
 he was dying; it's all written down." 
 
 She speaks in a chill, mechanical fashion, 
 without the slightest trace of emotion. 
 
 Vaughan has to make a great effort to listen 
 and understand. The numbness increases the 
 wheel turns faster in his brain. 
 
 "Youfools!"he calls, hoarsely. "Thatthing's 
 chatter is no evidence ; you can't make a wit- 
 ness of her." 
 
 "But the written documents in her posses-' 
 sion, with signatures which can be sworn to, are 
 evidence you know that," replies Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 "She has none !" cries Vaughan. 
 
 " Davis's confession is in my hands," returns 
 the lawyer. " She gave it to your cousin last 
 night. He tried to get the will, tried in every 
 way to save you, but she would not consent. 
 You intercepted the check your uncle sent to 
 Cromlin ; you altered it to fifteen thousand dol- 
 lars forged Cromlin's name. Davis presented 
 it at the bank ; the teller was your accomplice. 
 Davis had three thousand dollars for his share ; 
 he was in difficulty, and wanted to get off to 
 Mexico. He swore to all this on his death-bed. 
 You see we know every thing." 
 
 " You are an old villain ! you are their tool !" 
 thunders Vaughan. 
 
 "As a last resource," pursues Mr. Carstoe, 
 " that much-injured lady, who was once your 
 wife, has come to plead for you and with you. 
 For God's sake, don't render her interposition 
 useless don't force the rest of us to act. " 
 
 " I don't want any preaching !" cries Vaugh- 
 an, shaking his fist aimlessly in the air. "I'll 
 fight it out! I'll fight it out! It is a plot a 
 trick ; the woman is hired by my wife and my 
 wife's lover. " 
 
 But even Launce can not be roused beyond 
 pity now. ,
 
 196 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 "Marguerite," says Mr. Carstoe, " let me look 
 at the signatures to that will." 
 
 She hesitates. 
 
 " You can keep it in your hands ; I only want 
 to asture this man of the folly of more words." 
 
 Milady draws the paper from her bosom 
 three fragments rather. 
 
 " He tore it," she explains. 
 
 Mr. Carstoe examines the pieces ; fits them 
 together ; Milady not trying to prevent his tak- 
 ing them. 
 
 " I can swear to the signatures," he says. " I 
 can bring twenty men in Moysterville to swear 
 to that of Mr. Vaughan. The witnesses, Mrs. 
 Simpson and Anthony Turner, will swear to their 
 own. Mrs. Simpson always assured me that she 
 signed three documents ; one was the codicil 
 made out to go with the other will." 
 
 "The other will!" repeats Vaughan, with a 
 laugh. " You're a fool after all, Carstoe ; how 
 many could there have been? I don't suppose 
 you, at least, will attempt to deny that the will 
 we found in my uncle's desk, giving me the fort- 
 une, was a genuine one ?" 
 
 The sudden loophole which has suggested it- 
 self clears Vaughan's brain enough for him to 
 speak collectedly. It is a tremendous effort, and 
 in spite of himself his head sinks back against 
 his chair as he ends. 
 
 " It was a genuine document," Mr. Carstoe 
 replies ; " it was a will made long before his 
 death ; the codicil, I suppose, was added when 
 he learned that Cromlin was innocent in the for- 
 gery matter." 
 
 "There," mutters Vaughan, "you have up- 
 set the plot yourself." 
 
 "The codicil was drawn up," continues Mr. 
 Carstoe, " when Mr. Vaughan's lawyer discov- 
 ered that Launce Cromlin could not have forged 
 the check, because proof had come that, for six 
 weeks before its date and six weeks after, he was 
 unable to use his hand. He had had a compound 
 fracture of the right arm ; that came out in a 
 chance conversation with the physician who at- 
 tended him : you all know that as well as I. 
 Now I had supposed that Mr. Vaughan then 
 made a will dividing the fortune equally be- 
 tween his two nephews ; but I found the codicil 
 attached to the will drawn up long before, when 
 he first believed Cromlin guilty the will by 
 which you, Darrell Vaughan, inherited the prop- 
 erty." 
 
 Vaughan is too dizzy to speak, but his face 
 lights with triumph. His head is so confused 
 that every thing still seems secure to him. 
 
 " I can tell," says Milady ; " do you want me 
 to?" 
 
 "Yes every thing," returns Mr. Carstoe. 
 " When Jem Davis made his confession," she 
 begins again, in the same slow, methodical fash- 
 ion, "I took the paper he had signed in the 
 presence of a clergyman, and went to Moyster- 
 
 ville. I was alive then, and I wanted my re- 
 venge" she looked at Elizabeth as she said 
 this " but I'm a ghost now: I don't hate him ; 
 but I have to tell." 
 
 " Yes, Marguerite," Elizabeth whispers. 
 
 "I went to old Mr. Vaughan," pursues Mi- 
 lady. " He was ill, but he was in his library. I 
 gave him Jem's confession ; then I told him all 
 about myself. He was very good to me " 
 
 Her voice falters slightly, and she breaks off 
 for an instant, then continues as quietly as ever 
 
 "It was a dreadful blow to know about Dar- 
 rell; but he didn't forget to be good to me. 
 When he could talk, he showed a will he had 
 made a few days before, giving the property 
 equally to those two there, and he read me the 
 codicil about Elizabeth ; it was written to go 
 with that will." 
 
 Even Mr. Carstoe looks perplexed now, and 
 watches her narrowly, to see if there is the least 
 sign of mental aberration, and Vaughan laughs 
 again. 
 
 "The codicil was fastened to the will by three 
 seals," says Milady. " Mr. Vaughan broke them 
 off, then he destroyed the will I put it in the 
 fire for him myself." 
 
 The room has teen still enough before ; it 
 grows strangely silent now even Vaughan does 
 not stir. 
 
 " He told me to come back to him the next 
 day he meant to help me- help me! Sol 
 went ; he was in his library again, but very weak. 
 He had had Mr. Smith there ; he showed me the 
 new will, leaving every thing to Launce Cromlin 
 this will," and she holds it up. 
 
 "And therein he tells the reasons," adds Mr. 
 Carstoe. "What more, Marguerite?" 
 
 " He put this will, giving the money to Crom- 
 lin, back in his cabinet," says Milady. "He 
 saved the codicil because he said he had not de- 
 cided how to alter it, but it must apply to Launce 
 alone. He showed me the letter he had that 
 morning written to Elizabeth he called her my 
 sister ; that letter was for Launce to give her. 
 He said that he had put the first will of all the 
 one by which Darrell inherited away where he 
 could not find it. His head was bad, and he 
 could not remember he should hunt for it later ; 
 but it was no matter, because the last one would 
 hold good." 
 
 She has been standing all the while she looks 
 about now wearily Elizabeth draws a chair for- 
 ward, and seats her in it. 
 
 Darrell is trying to speak, to collect his thoughts 
 to find some hope of escape. But he can only 
 lean back, faint under the dull thud in his brain, 
 which Milady's voice pierces like a cold wind. 
 
 "Then, just as he had begun to talk again 
 about me," she goes on, "he fell on the floor in 
 a fit. I ran to call help, and met Mrs. Simpson; 
 Then I went away I had no right to stay." 
 
 " I wonder if she has almost finished ?" theV
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 197 
 
 hear Vaughan mutter not in defiance or scorn. 
 But no one comprehends that it is just bodily 
 pain which wrings out the words her voice hurts. 
 
 " The next day Darrell Vaughan came," says 
 Milady. " I stayed in Moysterville something 
 kept me. I watched the house I watched him. 
 I learned how to get into it day or night by a 
 back door down through the cellar, and up into 
 a closet where they kept the wood for the library 
 fire ; the closet had a door into the library." 
 
 " Oh, that woman !" mutters Vaughan. " I 
 always wondered how she got there why, I 
 thought it was her ghost at- first!" 
 
 "The night Mr. Vaughan died I went to my 
 hiding-place. I'd seen Darrell at the papers be- 
 fore I knew he would destroy the will now ; I 
 thought I could call some one in time. I saw 
 Darrell at the cabinet ; I stood behind him with- 
 out his knowing I was there. He had found 
 both wills, and the copy of Jem's confession 
 Mr. Vaughan had told me to keep the original 
 myself for the present ; he meant to confront 
 me with Darrell was expecting him every day." 
 
 She stops to rest for an instant nobody 
 moves. 
 
 "Darrell fastened the codicil to the old will 
 I don't know why." 
 
 "Because I had read it had told him so," 
 says Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 " He tore the new will, got np, threw it on the 
 fire. I was going to stop him ; but there was a 
 noise overhead he ran out of the room. I 
 picked the will off the coals the fire was al- 
 most out. I hid that and Jem's confession in 
 the secret drawer of the cabinet old Mr. Vaugh- 
 an had opened it when he was hunting for the 
 first will he said nobody knew the secret or 
 could discover it. Then I threw another paper 
 on the fire." 
 
 " Why did you hide them ?" asks Mr. Carstoe. 
 
 "Because I wanted to stay and see Darrell, 
 and I was afraid he might suspect, and get the 
 will away. " 
 
 "Yes; go on." 
 
 " He came back he saw me he did choke 
 me, and drag me about the room ; but he noticed 
 the ashes on the hearth, and thought the will 
 was burned." 
 
 There is a sound from Vaughan, more like 
 the growl of a wild animal than a moan, yet it 
 is a sound of suffering. Every body except Mi- 
 lady starts forward ; he waves them off strug- 
 gles fiercely for strength, and sits upright. 
 
 " Go on, you devil !" he says. 
 
 " I told him it was I who had come to his 
 uncle I who had done the work ; that I would 
 defeat him yet. He beat me he tried to bar- 
 gain with me ; finally, he told me to do my 
 worst, and he opened the glass door that led 
 onto the veranda, and pushed me out." 
 
 "There she was in my hands, and I didn't 
 kill her !" mutters Vaughan's voice again. 
 
 " I was ill for several days he had hurt me ; 
 and besides it was raining that night, and I 
 caught cold. I knew the funeral was over, and 
 the will read, and Darrell had the fortune. The 
 first day I could get out I went to the pawn- 
 broker's to get some money on a ring, for I had 
 none left. I saw Darrell and Mr. Carstoe in the 
 bank door. I meant to tell Mr. Carstoe ; but I 
 dared not then I wanted to get the will first. 
 Then towards sundown Darrell came to my 
 room I had gone to bed again. He talked 
 softly pretended he was willing to help me, and 
 I acted as if I believed, for I wanted to fool him 
 till I got the will. Then he gave me the hash- 
 eesh he had taught me to crave it and I was 
 in great pain. Then I went off off oh, I 
 don't know where ; and when I woke up the 
 officers were in the room and that's all." 
 
 She stops abruptly, and sits quite still. 
 
 Elizabeth looks at Mr. Carstoe ; he compre- 
 hends that she wishes him to finish as quickly as 
 possible what remains to do. He seats himself 
 at the table near Vaughan, and writes rapidly for 
 a few minutes Vaughan watching him with his 
 insane eyes. 
 
 " This is what you have to sign," says Mr. 
 Carstoe ; " then, for the sake of others not for 
 yours this secret remains among us here." He 
 reads aloud : 
 
 " MR. CARSTOE, A will of my uncle's, the late 
 Edgar Vaughan, has been discovered, which gives 
 the whole of his fortune to my cousin, Launce 
 Cromlin, not even excepting the sum named in 
 the codicil. I am ready at once to restore to 
 my cousin the whole property, including interest 
 for the time that I have held it in my possession." 
 
 " I wish " begins Launce, but Mr. Carstoe 
 checks him. 
 
 "I can compound with my conscience no fur- 
 ther than this," says the lawyer, firmly. " Dar- 
 rell Vaughan, will you sign this paper, or will 
 you have the whole matter made public from 
 this night ?" 
 
 Again that sound from his lips, half moan, 
 half snarl, like a wild beast at bay. His glazed 
 eyes wander to Elizabeth, on to Cromlin. Mr. 
 Carstoe holds the pen toward him he pushes it 
 away. A look is exchanged between them, de- 
 fiant on his part, stern and determined on the 
 lawyer's. He snatches the pen, and writes his 
 name. 
 
 " Curse you !" he cries, starting up. " Curse 
 you all. Oh, if I" 
 
 The words die in a fresh groan ; he totters 
 back, slips from the chair before Mr. Carstoe 
 can catch him, and falls upon the floor, still and 
 white, with his glazed, senseless eyes staring 
 blindly upward. 
 
 Before Elizabeth and Launce can reach Mr. 
 Carstoe's side, Milady springs forward, pushes
 
 1U8 
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 him off, and drops on her knees by the prostrate 
 form, moaning 
 
 " I loved him ; nobody else ever did ; I loved 
 him !" 
 
 She believes that the soul has gone out from 
 that motionless shape. Feeling, womanly in- 
 stincts come back in this awful moment, and 
 the wild love of her girlhood conies too. Rooted 
 out as it has so long seemed murdered, for- 
 gotten back it comes now. 
 
 "I loved him I always loved him! No- 
 body else ever did nobody ! Oh, my Darrell, 
 my Darrell!" 
 
 She sways forward till her head rests on his 
 breast ; one convulsive quiver shakes her limbs, 
 then all is still. 
 
 The first thought in the minds of the horri- 
 fied watchers is that the betrayer and the be- 
 trayed lie there dead together. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 FIVE YEAES. 
 
 MANY weeks passed before Marguerite was re- 
 leased, but there were kind friends about her to 
 the last. She died holding Elizabeth's hand in 
 hers, able to trust that He who had pardoned 
 the Magdalene could forgive her. 
 
 " When you called me sister, I believed in 
 Him," she said to Elizabeth ; and Elizabeth 
 felt with tears of thankfulness that she could 
 never again call her life utterly barren of fruit. 
 
 Of course, Nathalie took to her bed at the 
 first, and was as helpless as possible ; but she 
 grew rather ashamed of that, and though a good 
 deal afraid of Elizabeth and Mr. Carstoe, and 
 much in awe of Marguerite herself, she did make 
 an effort ; and the lessons of those days had an 
 effect even upon her frivolous nature. 
 
 While Elizabeth was occupied with Milady, 
 remaining most of the time in Nathalie's house, 
 Launce Cromlin assumed the care of Darrell 
 Vaughan. He had been carried to his own 
 home, senseless, mindless, unable to move. He 
 would remain so, perhaps, to the end. 
 
 So Milady vras buried, and the new duty of 
 Elizabeth's life began. 
 
 She did not see Launce again. He sailed for 
 Europe and the East on the day before her re- 
 turn to that dwelling whose threshold she had 
 thought never to cross again. 
 
 All the business arrangements had been settled 
 by Mr. Carstoe so quietly that the world had slight 
 opportunity even to weave a romance in regard 
 to the newly discovered will. The vast fortune 
 which Vaughan had accumulated during these 
 years of course fell under Elizabeth's manage- 
 ment. She could not dispose of the principal, 
 but the whole income went toward charities it 
 seemed to her that she thus offered a little atone- 
 ment for him. 
 
 Nathalie was going back to France back to 
 Monsieur La Tour. A spasm of repentance had 
 seized her. She rushed into it in the same 
 headlong fashion which had always character- 
 ized her proceedings. 
 
 "I'll buy tip every book I have written, and 
 burn the whole," she said to Elizabeth, and she 
 was encouraged to do so. 
 
 Perhaps it proved a shock to her vanity, 
 crushed as she was, to find this "buying 
 up " a less expensive matter than she expected. 
 The editions of her works had been small, and 
 the publishers did not place any exorbitant 
 value upon the stereotyped plates in their pos- 
 session. 
 
 As the autumn came on there was a change 
 in Darrell Vaughan. He was able to sit up 
 to be wheeled into the air ; but he would never 
 walk, and his mind was hopelessly wrecked. 
 The physicians decided that the quiet of the 
 country would be best for him ; so during the 
 golden October days Elizabeth took him away 
 to Tanglewood. 
 
 " You used to talk a great deal about finding 
 your real work," said Aunt Janet ; " have you 
 found it now ?'.' . 
 
 "It was too plainly shown for me to doubt," 
 Elizabeth answered. 
 
 , For many a day there was a cold wonder in 
 Aunt Janet's eyes as she watched her niece, but 
 she softened gradually under the influence of 
 Elizabeth's example. 
 
 So the months passed grew into years. I 
 shall not tell you that Elizabeth was happy in 
 her sacrifice that she was even content. Often 
 the struggle was almost as hard as in the old 
 days but peace came. 
 
 She had Mr. Carstoe's companionship, and 
 Meg was like a little sunbeam to her. She had 
 constant occupation too, for Vaughan could not 
 bear her out of his sight. During the later time 
 occasional gleams of memory came back, but 
 none that were dark or unpleasant. The doc- 
 tors thought it probable that he would live to old 
 age ; and it was the feeling that she had found 
 the work which might last her whole life that 
 helped Elizabeth to grow patient and settled to 
 feel at last a mournful but serene quiet in the 
 thought that great changes, whether of joy or 
 sorrow, were over for her. 
 
 So three whole years went by ; and when she 
 least expected it, Elizabeth's long watch ended. 
 Darrell Vaughan roused suddenly out of the 
 stupor which usually oppressed him. For a day 
 or two memory and bodily strength seemed re- 
 turning ; then as suddenly he failed, and the 
 flickering gleam of intelligence faded. Mr. Car- 
 stoe and Elizabeth were with him. He died as 
 a child might, vacantly repeating the prayer 
 Elizabeth whispered ; and she could remember 
 that "Our Father," on whom he called at her 
 bidding, is infinite in His mercy.
 
 MR. VAUGHAN'S HEIR. 
 
 199 
 
 Now five whole years have gone, and in the 
 bright autumn weather Elizabeth has once more 
 sought the beautiful Swiss valley, and for a time 
 taken up her abode in the quaint old dwelling 
 where she had spent some of the pleasantest 
 weeks of her girlhood. 
 
 Miss Janet was urgent that she should have 
 at least a twelvemonth's change and relaxation, 
 so Elizabeth has come away. Meg is with her, 
 growing a tall, handsome girl, loving, gentle, 
 and affectionate a constant source of comfort 
 to Elizabeth. 
 
 Darrell Vaughan had few relatives ; they were 
 men upright and just as Launce Cromlin. When 
 Vaughan died, the whole of his great fortune 
 was still devoted to the uses to which Elizabeth 
 consecrated it during the past years; the heirs 
 signified to her through Mr. Curstoe their desire 
 for this. 
 
 Launce Cromlin has won great fame during 
 these years. Elizabeth hears of his success, and 
 is glad ; but even since her freedom no commu- 
 nication has passed between them. 
 
 Elizabeth hears of Nathalie too. Poor Natha- 
 lie ! she can not help smiling when she thinks of 
 her. Excitement Nathalie must have. While 
 Monsieur La Tour lived, she found it by worry- 
 ing him with her penitence and remorse. Three 
 scenes each day and two in the night were the 
 least Nathalie could consent to make ; and Su- 
 sanne grew so weary of so much repentance and 
 goodness that she took her money and went to 
 live in Brittany. 
 
 Nathalie has gone through many phases of re- 
 ligious belief since she was a widow. For a while 
 she remained a fervent Papist on one occasion 
 undertook a pilgrimage in the dress of a Domin- 
 ican nun, with sandals on her feet, and looked in 
 the newspapers to be horrified by a glowing ac- 
 count of her adventures, and wept bitterly when 
 she found none. She wearied of Papacy after 
 that, gave up all idea of entering a convent, fell 
 in with some new sects, and for a season was a 
 prophet and at the head of a society where all j 
 the members worked with their hands, and fed \ 
 on vegetables, and saw visions, and were gener- 
 ally very uncomfortable. Finally, Nathalie had 
 a vision which warned her to set out for Jerusa- 
 lem to convert Jews and Moslems. On the road 
 she encountered some dignitaries of the Greek 
 Church, and became a proselyte at once, and, not 
 venturing longer to believe in visions, relinquish- 
 ed her work of conversion. After that, she 
 thought of becoming a missionary to some Can- 
 nibal island, but recollected the long sea-voyage 
 necessary to reach such a spot, and decided she 
 was not really "called." 
 
 About the time of Darrell Vaughan's death 
 Elizabeth heard from her in Geneva ; she was 
 living in that dull town, and had become a Cal- 
 vinist. She sent Elizabeth several brimstone 
 tracts and threatening Sunday-school books of 
 her own composition. She added warning let- 
 ters, in which she urged Elizabeth to renounce 
 her errors of faith, and follow in Calvin's foot- 
 steps, if she would save her soul alive. 
 
 Elizabeth has lately seen her she stopped at 
 Geneva on her way to Clarens. Nathalie has 
 married a Geneva preacher, one Monsieur Fautal 
 a little, bony man, the ugliest of his race, but 
 an earnest and sincere one. Nathalie wears 
 striped dresses of coarse worsted, has cut her 
 hair short, is prematurely thin and old. She 
 hates the change, and cries over the loss of her 
 beauty, and is terrified at her own regret. Her 
 faith is as full of brimstone as her tracts, and she 
 hates that too, yet is afraid that, in spite of her 
 efforts, her hard work, she is among the luckless 
 wretches "fore-ordained to damnation, "and some- 
 times has hysterics in the midst of the prayer- 
 meetings. But Monsieur Fautal is very patient 
 with her, and she has great influence as the min- 
 ister's wife in her little circle. She is always try- 
 ing to drag sinners into the fold upon one oc- 
 casion absolutely attacking the Roman Catholic 
 bishop on the steps of his own chapel. Poor 
 Nathalie! Elizabeth smiles and sighs as she 
 thinks of her, but hopes the restless soul may at 
 last reach the dawn at least she wants to do 
 right. 
 
 So in the twilight of an October evening Eliz- 
 abeth sits under the great willow by the lake 
 shore, and looks out at the mountains, still glo- 
 rious with heavenly light. Meg, seated in a win- 
 dow of the villa, sings softly as she dreams the 
 dreams of budding girlhood, and her voice reach- 
 es Elizabeth, and mingles pleasantly with her 
 meditations. 
 
 She is thinking of the past, as she may do now 
 thinking a little, too, of the future, but trying 
 to avoid fancies and hopes content to leave it 
 all in God's hands. 
 
 The twilight deepens ; the last glow fades from 
 the mountain-tops. The waters ripple past, shad- 
 owy and dark, till on a sudden the moon comes 
 up, and tinges their sweep with her yellow splen- 
 dor. Meg has ceased to sing ; the low breeze 
 has died ; the very waves are still. Elizabeth 
 thinks the whole scene a type of the great silence 
 and repose which have come into her life ; but 
 she will not be saddened or impatient. A step 
 sounds on the greensward a voice calls her 
 name. She looks up Launce Cromlin is beside 
 her. 
 
 THE END.
 
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