Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 108) (1886 06 15)
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ted, 1886, VoL. IX, by BEADLE AND ADAMA, $2,50 a Year. PUBLISHED W. ERKLY BY BEADLE “AND ADAMS, No, 98 William Street, New York, Riess Five Cents, wa. NO. 108, 408, SHE GAZED LONG AND EARNESTLY UPON THE SLUMBERING GIRL, A PERILOUS PLEDGE: Or, MAD “EF OR-TO VE. BY GEORGIANA DICKENS. CHAPTER I. A DEATH-BED PROMISE. Ir was on a summer’s evening that a strange and touching picture presented itself in a room of one of the best hotels in Buffalo. Seated in an attitude of the deepest Saint was a young and handsome man of gentleman- ly appearance. Near him stood a girl in the first bloom of womanhood. She was of medium hight, of fair hair and complexion, and had a simple, gentle look upon her that spoke of nobility eof person and tenderness of heart. She had very regular features, and, although
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2 ; A PERILOUS PLEDGE, not bewildering in her beauty, if was impossible, in gazing ut her, not to feel an attraction begot- ten of deep sympathy and admiration. She was weeping bitterly, and vainly strove to re- press the sobs which seemed to convulse her whole being. Not a word was spoken between the two, and whatever the bond of grief may have been, it was apparently, at tha moment, too deep for words. The entrance into the room of a mo- therly-looking woman attracted the eager at- tention of both, and although no question arose upon either of their lips, the almost painful in- terrogation of their eyes was eloquent of ex- cited interest. ; “Oh, my dear Miss Maynard,” said the new- comer, with a sympathetic sort of garrulity, “‘whata night have we not passed! J have not closed an eye; not that I think of that, but our dear patient!” The young man looked up on hearing the earnest tones of the speaker, appeared to have recovered partially from his stupor, and found words which relieved his surcharged feelings, “Poor Mary!” he exclaimed—‘‘ my poor cousin! The doctor has given us no hope. So oung! so beautiful! What shall we do? Ought Tavs to inform my uncle of her sad state? He little thinks of the suffering we now undergo— of the peril of our poor darling! I am almost mad when [ reflect upon the probable end! Have you no good news, Mrs. Harmond?” The woman thus addressed, who was tho nurse engaged at the doctor’s suggestion, shook ber head sadly in reply. Alice, mastering her emotion as best she could, then spoke: ‘ What does the doctor say this morning?’ “Not a word, miss; but he looked very sad as he went out, as though he had lost all hope; and for the last few hours, you know, he has not given us any encouragement.” ‘Oh, it is really dreadful to lose ber thus, at the very moment of her returning home!” And the speaker again sunk into his former state of reverie, ‘Cannot we go into the room, nurse? It will not excite her, [am sure. We shall both be as quiet and composed as we can be,” . ‘Well, miss, I will go and see how she is first. It would be very wrong to prevent the or young lady from seeing both of you, but ‘ll go at once and see.” 3. Harmond stole softly from the room into the one adjoining; nor was she long ab- sent. “Poor Miss Taylor is very quiet now,” said she, in alow voice, “and she has asked to see you, Miss Maynard, and her cousin also.” “Let us gol” said the young man, as, sup- porting Alice, he and she followed the nurse, who remained in the ante-room. The invalid, whose state of health so serious ly and justly alarmed the fears of the persons who have been named, was the only daughter of a rich and much-respected New York mer- chant, Mr. James Taylor, senior member of the firm Taylor, Jewetson, and Co,, wholesale linen dealers, ad Mary Taylor, who had lost her mother many years ago, had been brought up, owing to her delicate health, with which the Eastern climate did not agree, by an uncle residing on the Cali- fornia coast. The gentleman had been at one time a junior member of her father’s firm, and managed the San Francisco branch of the business; in which city for one or two years after the loss of his wife, Mary’s father resided, and where he met and married his second wife, a lady of great personal attractions, put with a despotic will. Mr. Taylor’s life, after his second marriage, proved anything but happy; and he determined, in order to give Mary a chance to grow stron- ger, and to save her the unhappiness of being, like himself, subject to the tyranny of the mis- tress of his house, to leave her to be brought up and educated in the West by his brother, This trust the younger Mr. Taylor, a bache- lor, executed to the best of his ability. His housekeeper, Mrs, Jerdon, was as kind asa mother to her; and the ebild, well nourished and well looked after, yee promise of out- growing all ber youthful ailments and weak- ness of constitution, and becoming a strong, healthy woman, The sudden death of Mrs. Jerdon, followed by the equally sudden death of her uncle, destroyed these hopes with fearful rapidity, and the shock laid Mary upon a bed of sickness, undoing the careful work of years, and replacing the once rosy bue of health by the false and deceitful hectic glow of consumption. Her uncle’s friends, too surely foreseeing the sad end, hastened her departure from Califor- nia, under charge of her cousin, who had gone there on business, and accompanied by her dearest friend, Alice Maynard, an orphan, forced to seek ber own livelihood, Miss Maynard, happy to be of service to her friend, and without ties to bind her to the West, gladly accepted the responsibility, knowing tbat the East and West were alie to one forced to labor for her living. The trip across the continent had proved a particularly enjoyable one, and the hopes of Alice and her friend’s cousin revived so much that thoy did not deem it necessary to inform Mr. Taylor of the state of Mary’s bealth, since their departure from San Francisco bad been so burried that nothing more then a telegrapbic message had _ been sent, announcing his brother’s death and Mary’s speedy return, All bad gone successfully until they reached Chicago, when owing to having to make a change of cars in the night, during a violent storm, Mary took a severe cold which settled on her lungs, and grew worse so rapidly that when they reached Buffalo they were com- pelled to forego the remainder of the journey and remove her to a hotel until she should re- cover sufficiently to resume her travels. In the mean time, in order that her father should not be alarmed they telegraphed him that they had decided to stop over for a few days to get rested and take a trip to the falls. Mr. Taylor, not having seen Mary for so many years was naturally anxious to clasp her in his arms, but, fearing his wife's reception of
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t A PERILOUS PLEDGE. b her, was very glad to hear that they would not reach home as soon as he had expected, as it would give him time to prepare her step-mother for Mary’s coming, and insure for her, if pos- sible a cordial, or at any rate, a polite greeting. Each day the little party had hoped that Mary would be sufficiently recovered to resume her journey, and it was therefore with inex- pressible alarm that her cousin saw her sinking condition, and heard the doctor’s sad words of misgiving. As he had. forborne to send a let- ter which he had written when Mary was so evidently worse, he now saw himself placed in a terrible position of responsibility. He was the son of Mr. Taylor’s second sister, and had been educated for a mercantile career for the avowed purpose of ultimately becoming a partner in his uncle’s house. ith a strong sense of duty, Phillip Rosston (such was his name) had a siucere regard for his uncle, whose kindness had been unvarying, and to this feeling was added an attachment toward Mary. Pity, more than love, was the real feel- ing be entertained toward her, although he believed that the more powerful passion was paramount. It is no uncommon thing to entertain such a delusion,» Our sympathies are enlisted for the suffering, especially when borne with uncom- plaining courage and.resignation, and the object not unfrequently appears to be the sole one which responds to love, whereas it is the mind, and not the heart, which is enthralled. Firm, however, in the belief that he loved Mary, and was in turn beloved by her, he bad confessed it to her; and she, too grateful for kind commiseration, and weak in body, yet calm in intellect, had permitted, if not-encour- aged, his respectful homage, fearful by any word or. act. of causing. bim unhappiness, although perfectly. aware how vain his hopes would prove. Perhaps with the prescience of one whose steps were’ turned’ from earth, the devotion of a strong and healthy being was not devoid of consolation and peace, | In a large easy-chair, which had been turned toward the window, through which the rays of the setting sun fell with arare and beauteous glow, the poor invalid reclined. 7 She seemed, sitting thus, almost rosy in health, It was, however, the redness of that insidious disease, which, having laid its clammy hand upon its victim, sent a false hectic beacon flashing o’er the sunken cheek, the more cruelly to mask its fell progress, _ Mary’s lips were parted as if she were speak- ing, although she uttered no word; while her eyes, bright and sparkiing by the same false- hood of disease, seemed looking into the future, not sadly, but hopefuliy; not despairingly, but with the calm, bright courage of a noble nature, What visions she saw, how far the portals of an unknown world were opened to her gaze, none can tell, - Nothing, however, seemed to pain the breast of this gentle girl, for a smile of radiant bappi- ness wreathed itself. upon her lips, and she nodded her head softly, as if to confirm a thought, or answer some question that had arisen in her mind, Alice and. Phillip, entering on_tip-toe, stood spel'bound at the sight. A gentle pressure of Phillip’s hand restrained bis companion from advancing.. The caution was, however, need- less; for the invalid, with that preternatural delicacy of sense peculiar to the sick, had heard their entrance, and with a motion of ber thin hand summoned them to her side, Phillip quietly and noiselessly fell upon his knees before her, while Alice, placing her hand very gently on Mary’s bead, smoothed her hair and kissed ber forehead. For some monients the grouping was unchanged, and a strange thought would have passed through the mind of any casual looker-on, had the picture command- ed, as it could scarcely fail to have done, his earn est attention. This was the remarkable resemblance which appeared between the two girls, They were, apart, most unlike each other; and yet together, and inseparable through’ affection, a similarity of expression and general character became astonishingly evident. No reason could be assigned for this, for in- Fai none but that of a physiological nature ex- isted. Both girls were fair, both had blue eyes, and they were of almost the same age; beyond this the likeness did not go, yet they were alike when near each other, although Alice was taller than Mary. Pbillip, mastering his agitation, spoke in a tolerably firm voice, “You appear much stronger, Mary, than when I saw you yesterday. ou will soon re- gain your health.’ ‘“Oh, yes,” answered Mary, in a low, sweet voice tinged with deepest melabcloly: “T suffer less than I did, and—very soon I shall be free from all suffering.” “You say that very sadly, dear Mary,” re- plied Alice. ‘* We shall be very glad when you are free from pain.” “ Alice!—oh, pray believe me, darling!—it is for you that I suffer now.” “For me?’ exclaimed her friend in astonish- ment—‘for me? If you were well I should be ~~ from all care, and as happy as the day is ong. : “Thanks, oh, thanks!” And the invalid drew her friend toward ber bosom, and ‘pressed her thin and wasted arms around her neck, For a short time that position was unchanged, and it was Mary now who, with ‘gentle kind- ness, smoothed the bair over Alice’s brow and kissed her cheeks. Then, as if fatigued even with this slight exertion, she ceased, and Alice crouched on a low footstool at her side, and put her bead on Mary’s bosom. ‘* Alas!” thought the invalid: ‘she does not understand me! But, erbhaps, all is for the best.” Then, in a voice, which was almost firm, she addressed her friend:—‘‘ Poor Alice, what will you do, alone in the world, in a new part of the country, without relations or friends?” ‘* Are you not more to me than either?” “But -you must not reckon upon me,” mur- mured Mary, with a gentle sigh. “‘ flow cruel of you, darling, to talk in that way!” said Alice, scarcely able to command ker voice or to restrain her tears,
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4 A PERILOUS PLEDGE. “And do not forget, Mary, that I am to be counted on; nor you either, Alice. You must not overlook my existence,” There was a gentle insistence in Pbhillip’s voice, which seemed very grateful to the in- valid, for she smiled and pressed his hand when he had spoken. “Ob, yes,” she said; “we must not forget Phillip. Remember, cousin, what you have just said. Promise that you will be her guar- dian, her cousin, her brother, and that you will never—never abandon her!” Her appeal was earnest and touching, and Phillip, moved deeply by it, exclaimed: ‘‘Dear Mary, I give youmy word, Iswear never to desert Alice, come weal, come woe!” The poor girl smiled sweetly at her cousin’s warmth of reply. “Now, tell me, cousin,” continued Mary, “have you written to papa?’ And two large tears rose to her eyes as she pressed her hand upon her heart, “T wrote a few hurried lines the day we reached here, and then I received his letter tell- ing us not to hurry our trip on his account,” “Tn your letter did yousay anything about Alice?” “No; I wrote so hastily that I gave him no news, not deeming it wise to alarm him about ou. Itis welll did not tell bim how ill you ad been, now that you are so much better.” A tremor shook Mary’s frame at ber cousin’s words, and she was glad of the entrance of the nurse, Mrs. Harmond, who quietly and thought- ts handed her a glass of some reviving cor- ial, She drank a little, and then telling her that she wanted to speak to her cousin and Alice, Mrs. Harmond left the room as noiselessly as she had entered it. ‘‘ Well, cousin,” said Mary, ‘* what about the second letter?” “T have just finished it, but delayed sending it until IT had seen the doctor, Uncle would naturally be anxious to hear how you were get- tig, on, and when we intend tostart for New ork,” «Show me tbat letter, cousin.” Alice whispered to him: “No, no; do not let her see it,” But the quick hearing of the invalid caught the words. “ Ah, you cruel girl! Don’t you know that I have sharp ears?” “‘T assure you, Mary, that it is not necessary for you to see the letter. It might upset you, and in your weak state we must have no undue excitement. Believe me, it is for the best.” But he spoke vainly, as, gently taking it from his hand—for be had instinctively drawn it out of his pocket—Mary by an effort raised herself slightly from her pillows, opened the missive with trembling fingers, and gently putting aside her cousin’s hand, in a low voice read the following: “Our dear Mary isin great danger.”’ (‘Poor fellow, what it must have cost him to write that!’) “<7 dare not tell you yet to hope.’” ( “No; that must not be.”) ‘* But we are happy in the posses- sion of a dear, kind, compassionate friend, whose goodness and whose attentive solicitude have com- forted us very greatly. Dear Mi is strongly at- tached to her» F god siti She suddenly ceased reading, and paused a few seconds, as if in thought, then hastily scan- ning the rest of the letter, quietly tore it into quanto fragments which she threw upon the oor. Phillip and Alice who had watched her with intense interest, were powerless to arrest the destruction of the letter, so quickly and decided- ly had it been accomplished. “Mary, what have you done?” asked her cou- sin, when he could find words to express his as- tonishment. ‘*T have torn up one letter, but I will dictate another, which I wish you to send.” ‘““What can you mean?” a suspicion crossing his mind that Mary’s bodily ailments had af- fected her intellect. ‘ Besides, dear,” said Alice, ‘remember that the doctor imposed perfect quiet upon you. To attempt to dictate a letter in your present weak state might be attended with very grave conse- quences.” “It would give me so much pleasure. Do not deny me, if you Jove me!” Her voice trembled, and she looked so implor- ingly at her cousin and at Alice, that they had not the beart to refuse her. So Phillip rose from the feet of the invalid, where till now he had been kneeling, and whis- ered to Alice as he drew near the table where ary’s desk lay: “It is the passing fancy of the sick; let us not deny her.” After he bad seated himself, and had prepared the writing materials, he turned with affected geyety, saying: ‘The scribe is ready; let him hear and per- ies the words of wisdom falling from your ips. Macy ressed her hand upon her forehead as if tocollect her thoughts, and then, in a low, distinct voice, dictated to Phillip,who faithfully wrote what she said: “Drar Uncte:—Having finished our sight-seeing, we are about prepared to resume our journey—” Alice uttered an exclamation of surprise, which Phillip checked by a motion of his hand as his cousin continued: “I another week, I trust you will hold your daughter in your arms.” “his is indeed a joyful surprise,” said ker cousin, “Go on, dear Phillip; do not stop until the letter is finished.” Her voice grew suddenly faint, and it was some minutes before the spasm of pain which oppressed her had passed. Phillip and Alice were much alarmed, but at length she seemed to collect her force, and motioning to her cousin to resume his seat, she continued, in a low voice, her dictation: , “T need not say how glad I know you will be to see her—” But again she paused, and turning piteously to her cousin, made a sign for him to come quickly to her side, and to bring Alice near her also: and they lost no time in obeying her.
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 5 When on either side, they bent over with anx- ious solicitude. She grasped Pbillip’s right hand within her own, and taking Alice’s placed it in that of ber cousin and held both with hers, while her voice, now very weak, could only be heard by the two anxious listeners bending closely toward her, ‘‘Listen, Phillip; the moments are precious; already my voice fails me. Phillip, 1 wish—L wish—I insist—I implore that Alice shall as- sume my place within your heart, and take my place in our family!” ‘* Mary, Mary, say no more!” tearfully ejacu- lated Alice. The almost speechless girl continued in a whisper: “Listen, both of you. I give her my fortune and my name. I bequeath both to her, It is my last wish upon earth!” She paused in ex~- haustion, but resolute to accomplish her pur- pose, mustered her forces to conclude her strange desire. ‘ { wish my dear father to look upon and receive Alice as his own child. ‘She must bear my name—be my other self. Swear, Phillip, to do this—respect my dying wisk!” “Dying!” he groaned, as in agory. He gazed upon his cousin, An imploring look in her eyes could not be resisted, for after an in- stant’s pause, he added: ‘Mary, 1 swear to fulfill your wish!” “And you, Alice—oh, my darling Alice, hold me to your beart! I am cold—my eyesight fails me—give me your hand, and yours, Phillip. Alice, sister,”—and the poor, weary bead sunk heavily upon the terrified girl’s shoulder—‘*‘ you cannot refuse me—you cannot pain the heart which loves you so dearly at the very moment it has almost ased to beat!” Alice, in an agony of terror, whispered in Mary’s ear: ‘No, no, darling; whatever you wish shall be done, Oh, Heaven! why cannot I give up mee to save yours?” ary, by some strange effort, seemed, on Alice’s promise, to recover a little power, for her voice, though still low, was not broken or faltering. “That is very good of you—so good! I am happy now—so happy! Thus, your dear faces near me—united by me, never to be parted! [ bless you both! Remember, Phillip, what I have said; and, Alice, do not forget! Bless you— bless—” And with a praver of blessing on her lips, Mary laid her head more closely to the busom of ber friend, and, still clasping Phillip’s hand, passed away from this world, to be forever at rest. CHAPTER II. A MODERN COUPLE. Mr, Taytor’s residence in New York was neither on Fifth avenue or any of the adjoining fashionable avenues, but on Twenty-third street, in a locality which, while it had once been the hight of aristocracy to own a house in “London Terrace,” bad long since been aban- doned to boarding-houses and residences of the non-fashionables, to whom comfort was the chief consideration. | To this class belonged Mr. Taylor, and if his wife had a grievance—and she did have many —the pertinacity of her husband in continuing to reside in this no longer fashionable locality was the greatest. The precise merchant very frequently yield- ed to his wife’s remonstrances or commands (they were very much alike, by the way), but when a change of domicile was canvassed by her, as very frequently happened, he positively refused to listen, and pertinaciously declined to give any reason for his unalterable affection for the house in which he had passed the greater, and also the happiest, portion of bis life with Mary’s mother. Mrs, Taylor, prompted by visits of ultra- fashionable friends, had periodic attacks of de- testation for her residence, and, as she was al- ways met on this particular matter by her bus- band’s resolute demeanor, her anger attained a hight utterly disproportioned to the question. It was just at the time of bis daughter’s ex- pected arrival from California that Mrs. Tay- lor, for perbaps the twentieth time, was expos- tulating with her husband on the folly, the ob- stinacy, of continuing to reside inso undignified a locgtity. ne much-vexed merchant, determined never to give way to his wife’s wishes ov this point, appreciated the difficulty he would encounter if he spoke of his daughbter’s advent in New York, and like a weak man, as he was in man things, put off the announcement and the arri- val, boping that Mrs, Taylor would soon re- cover her equanimity. Hence the word he sent to bis nephew at Buffalo, little conscious of the possibly sad_ter- mination of a journey he had followed, in imagination, with great interest and much im- patience, He had no knowledge of how bis daughter looked, as be had not seen her since she was a little child just able to walk and talk; but his heart was full of projects for her happiness, He had no knowledge either of her friends or acquaintences, nor did he, indeed, know much about his deceased brother. They had been attached to each other wher boys, and later, when both were young men, the same good brotherly feeling existed, The cares and anxieties of a Risttees life are, however, very apt to blunt such kindly feeling, and almost certainly preclude its utterance; so that beyond the usual cold commercial cor- respondence, very few letters passed between the brothers, Mr. Taylor, through a pardcnable weak- ness, originating in a desire to live at peace, forbore to do more than mention to bis wife his brother’s death, with a passing remork that the proper place for Mary now would be her father’s bouse. The response to this communication was so exceedingly cold that Mr. Taylor did not renew the conversation, He now perceived, however, that if his daugh- ter was to become a resident in bis house, be must take a decisive stand—ignorant, poor man, of the tragic end of the watcbed-for journey. Afier turning the matter over in his mind, he
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6 ‘A PERILOUS PLEDGE. ERE aD determined to write to Phillip to tell him to bring Mary bome, and in the mean time sug- ested, and finally persuaded bis wife not to el- ow the season to terminate without giving a dinner-party, with a ball to follow. This ingenious but expensive idea fell upon Mrs. Taylor’s ears with wonder; but asit grati- fied a wish she had cron 4 formed, she adopted it, but was careful not to betray the fact that it was according to her desires. Mr. Taylor, pleased to find that he had gained his wife’s good-will, set about the preparation for the festivities, very greatly aided by bis partner, Mr. Jewetson, a middle-aged fop, whose only interest in the firm censisted in what he enritially drew from the concern where he had invested bis small capital, which, by the judicious management of Mr. Taylor, yielded enough to enable this obscure member of society to lead an easy club life, and to talk largely about affairs in the city, as if he were a veri- table Rothschild. The father, under the dominion of a second wife, was thus seen preparing festivities for the return of a daughter who not long before had been laid in her grave, away from home, yet mourned sincerely by a cousin and a- friend. CHAPTER III. ALICE MAYNARD’S PAST. Parr Rosston was half-crazed with appre hension when he realized the promise he had made to the dying girl, and would have shrunk from its fulfillment had not her solemn adjura- tion constantly haunted him. He seemed al. ways to hear her sad entreaty; he repeated his own oath to obey her wish as an excuse when- ever he thought of what he had promised to do, and of its accomplishment. His was a firm and steadfast nature, however, and he would not even to himself admit the possibility of evading his obligation to the dead. Moreover, he argued within himself that, in fulfilling his oath, he in- jured no one, but signally served a woman whom he regarded as second only to his lost ary. Tiss feeling of admiration for Alice, and the sophistical reasoning that he would be serving her worldly interests, grew stronger as he felt that she possessed every day a greater hold up- on his imagination. He argued also that his uncle, to whom Mary was so little known, could not fail to be deeply interested in Atice, and, believing her to be his daughter, would lavish on her all the affectionate tenderness which Mary, had she lived, would have re- ceived, } And, in addition to all this, was the fact— which, if he realized, he did not admit—that he was already in love with Alice Maynard. Yes, the gentle spirit of Mary seemed to bave brought about this feeling, and Alice herself had fallen under the same benign influence, for Phillip Rosston was ia ber nt the man of all men whom she could, and whom she did, love. Tbe decisive moment at length arrived. Mr. Taylor having gained, or rather secured, his wite’s silence, wrote to Phillip to hurry home. Poor Alice suffered the severest agony upon She had passed through so many exciting scenes since her departure from Chicago, that she was but ill prepared to commence a difficult and ar- duous assumption like that which her dead friend had imposed upon her, Hers was a peculiar and romantic life. From childhood she had known none but strangers. After the War of the Rebellion she bad lived with an old tarmer and his wife in the northern part of Missouri. They were very homely, simple folk, but kind and charitable in every way. For some years Alice almost ran wild in this western home of hers, She could ride a bridleless horse without a saddle, could fire a rifle and paddle a dug-out. It was lucky for Alice that when she was still young she attracted the attention of a traveling naturalist, who was then compiling a book con- cerning the Fauna and Flora of Missouri. His introduction to the maiden was accom- plished in rather a startling manner. Intent upon examining a beautiful specimen of one of the wild flowers so abundant in the forest, he had stretched himself at full length among the ferns, when he was startled from his scientific pursuits by the whizzing of a bul- let close to the rim of his'spectacles, and by the leap into the air of a rabbit in its death-throes close to his shoulder.” This dramatic incident in the professor’s life was accentuated by hear- ing a merry laugh at the result of the shot, and by perceiving on the bank immediately above a childlike creature grasping a small rifle, the barrel of which still emitted smoke. If he was thunderstruck the girl seemed para- lyzed on perceiviug him. The laugh instantly ceased, the large blue eyes became distended in amazement, and the mouth, ina sympathy of surprise, opened and revealed a set of pearly teeth. The situation was entirely changed when the child began to laugh with the most joyous hilarity, provoked by the professor’s expression of countenance; and so contagious was this burst of merriment, that the savant sat up, and joined in it with all his heart. Then, rising, he presented the victor with her spoils, in theshape of the rabbit, and after man questionings, discovered her name, her resi- dence, and just as much of her life as aided bim very quickly to ‘ill up all the blanks with tolerable accuracy, This professor, of German origin, as his name —Van Oppen—indicated, was not only a clever scientist and a lover of his chosen pursuits, but he was a man with a full and expansive heart, who loved his own species, so that Miss Alice Maynard’s ingenuous air and manner won his heart, and he resolved to adopt her, He deemed itashame that’ such a beautiful specimen of Nature’s handiwork, with sucha quick, bright ‘intelligence. should grow up so like one of the wild flowers by the wayside. At his request, Alice took the professor to her home, and there introduced him to the worthy farmer and ms wife; and it may be very much questioned whether the learned man regarded the child with more wonderment than she, who knew no more of the world than the prairie the arrival of this letter, and very seriously | showed her, regarded bim, alarmed Phillip by her sudden indisposition. The intuitive bonds of union, those of protec-
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, an? A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 7 tion by him and gratitude by her, soon con- vinced Alice that she bad made a happy ex- change from the guardianship of the kindly, rough farmer to the pleasant, highly-cultured man of science. Professor Van Oppen, having duly obtained the consent of her only friends, took ber without delay to St. Louis, placed her in the best school in the city, and commanded that no expense or trouble might be spared in her education—all of which instructions were implicitly followed by Mrs. Silsbee, the bright Yankee schoolmistress domiciled in that ultra-Southern city on the Mississippi. Alice did not take to mental exercises and educational calisthenics with the same ardor that she had followed the chase or her meander- ings amid Nature’s haunts; but she was too bright, too honest, to neglect any means by which she might make up for the lost years in an educational sense, In nine years from the date of her entrance into the St. Louis Scholastic Institute it would have been impossible to recognize in the hand- some, self-possessed and graceful Alice May- nard, the wild, bonny child who bad shot the rabbit over the professor’s spectacles on the Missouri prairie. But her heart was the same —open, generous and true—and she had made friends with every one. At this time a sad event occurred, which cast a gloom over her hitherto joyous spirits. Worthy Professor Van Oppen, in the too ar- duous study of certain licbens, took cold. He neglected his physician’s advice to lay up, but went wandering off, exposed to fresh dangers of the same kind. ‘Truth to say, the society of Mrs. Van Oppen was not so genial to the worthy professor as was a new fungi, or a par- ticularly fine specimen of the rattlesnake; for the one might be edible and the other might be annihilated; but with Mrs. Van Oppen nothing of either kind could be accomplished. This lady, very much the professor’s junior, was a Cana- dian by birth, who lived for pleasure alone, and was inreality jealous of Alice. Being so, she tried, but in vain, to make the professor alter his decision about her, so nothing remained but to utterly ignore the girl’s existence. When, bowever, the professor was laid up in his last iilness, Alice, heedless of the jealous conduct of Mrs. Van Oppen, insisted upon see- ing her kind protector. It was a great bhappi- ness to her that sbe had been thus persistent, for her visit appeared to have gratified the last earthly wish of the dying savant, who, unseen by the nurse or his wife, pressed into the girl’s hand, a little packet containing five hun- dred dollars, The next day he died, avd a few days after, Mrs. Van Oppen notified Mrs. Silsbee that all responsibility for Miss Mayoard, bith- erto chargeable to Mr. Van Oppen, must thence- forth cease. c Alice, with her very little fortune of five hun- dred dollars, was left alone in the world, CHAPTER IV. THE COMING HOME. Tu library of Mr. Taylor’s house was the scene of an anxious interview. Miss Maynard and Phillip Rosston had just arrived. It was late in the afternoon when they alighted from the hack, and they had been in- formed that Mr. Taylor would soon be home from his business. ‘*Come, Mary,” said Phillip, when the servant had quitted the apartment, ‘do not beso ner- yous. Remember, Mary—” But the poor girl cowered down where she sat near him, and putting her hands to her ears, cried out: “No, no; do not call me by that name!” Phillip looked at her pityingly, but with a mc: sternness of voice, not of manner, said: “TItis absolutely necessary that the step we have taken should be maintained. To draw back now would he cruel to my uncle, and most fatal to ourselves. Heaven is my wit- ness how gladly I would disclose all and ask forgiveness; but it would entail misery where now there is happiness, and I cannot do it. Moreover, remember our solemn promise to the dead!” Alice patiently listened to all that Phillip had to say, but was little comforted. To an honest nature, a falsehood is ever repugnant; and even when policy or kindness prompt the concealment of a fact, the deceit is to oe regretted She answered: “*T have thought of all that must be endured and I shudder with apprehension. It will, i fear, be beyond my power to sustain the decep- tion.” And she betrayed very plainly the ex- citement under which sbe iborce. It was with difficulty that Phillip, who was himself nervous and anxious, could quiet the alarm of the young girl. “T feel, Alice, as you do, that we have under- taken a fearful task, Let us, however, think of my dear cousin, and go through with it. Her - last prayer and her last imploring look is ever before me.” ‘But bow can [ reconcile myself to deceivin your uncle, The discovery of our falsehoo wil] be a sad blow to him. Of myself 1 do not er my sympathy, all my thought is for im. ‘ “With such feelings,” replied Phillip, I be- lieve that when my uncle knows you, under whatever name you may bear, you will so fa- vorably impress him that he will forgive an deception— especially this, which, aiter all, hurts no one.” “You say that to reassure me, and I thank you from my heart, but still I dread the ordeal. How will Mrs. Taylor receive me?” ‘“That is a question I have repeatedly asked myself, but cannot find an answer. My aunt— by marriage only, you know—is of a strange nature; not eee unkind, but very impericus; not at all the kind of a woman my uncle ought to bave married, He does not know how to ex- ercise any influence over her, for she is one
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8 A PERILOUS PLEDGE, whom the slightest contradiction provokes to anger.” “Ts she a New Yorker?” ‘«T believe not. She lived when young in the West somewhere; it was there my uncle met and married her. But Iam glad to see that you are better now—more composed; so again I say, Mary, be of good courage, All is for the best!” A tremor passed through the irl’s frame as she heard this name, and it cost her a powerful effort to appear calm. b With many encouraging assurances, Phillip strove to reconcile Miss Maynard to her task, and in the end he succeeded in giving her sufli- cient courage to meet bis uncle. Shortly after this conversation, Mr. Taylor reached home, His reception of his supposed daughter was marked by the utmost feeling and tenderness, and helped very greatly to cover Miss May- nard’s confusion, for her embarrassment had the appearance of natural emotion at the meet- ing. Nery fortunately, too, for her, Mr. Taylor was deeply anxious to know every particular of his brother’s illness and demise, and plied his nephew with innumerable questions thereon. Phillip eagerly seized the chance of sparing Miss Maynard’s feelings, and very circumstan- tially narrated all the incidents of the deceased gentleman’s later life, adroitly giving many turns to the conversation, more especially such as related to the business of the San Francisco branch of the house. His panegyrics upon the character of the dead merchant were truthfully given, for he had felt a sincere affection for his many estimable and noble qualities. . In a short time after this strange meeting a material change in the position of affairs had been effected. Miss Maynard recovered her self-possession; Phillip lost much of the fear which had possessed him, and Mr, Taylor was charmed by the unassuming, excellent qualities so apparent in her whom he looked upon as his daughter, and felt assured that they would win the regard of his wife, A servant having announced that Mrs. Tay- lor was in the drawing-room, all three rose and proceeded to dress for dinner in obedience to the summons. Before their arrival, the lady of the house had been entertaining Mr, Jewetson and a couple of bis aristocratic friends, who were that day to dine with the family, Mrs, Taylor, very elegantly dressed, sat in an easy- ebair, near the fire-place, in which, to counter- ‘act. the chilly atmosphere, a cheerful fire was burning. She was a bandsome woman, some- what past the grand clim:.cteric, but exceeding- ly well preserved. She was rather above the average hight of women, had finely-chiseled features, an elegant fournwre, and a command- ing presence. Her voice was exceedingly musi- eal; and the only remarkable characteristic ap- parent to a casual observer was a certain de fiance of look, begotten, as it seemed, of a dread of being taken at a disadvantage. Mr. Jewetson, an excellent specimen of an old-young man or & young-old fop, was very pleasing in manner and speech. He had acer- tain air of refinement, much shorn of dignity through vanity, mingled with an airiness al- most amounting to frivolity. His friends, Mr. Wildermoss and the Honor- able Cecil Hewitt, were men of position and breeding, without the slightest trace of that blemish of the age among aristocratic flaneurs —slang or persiflage in conversation; added to which, both were very good looking, “T assure you, Mrs, Taylor,” said Mr. Jewet- son, ‘nothing could have been more delightful than Mrs. Earle’s reception. The selection of the company was marked by her usual good sense,” “She has excellent taste and judgment,” re- marked Mrs. Taylor, “And nota particle of jealousy, which ina pretty woman is charming and nota little re- markable,” added Mr. Wildermoss, ** She would be pleased if she could hear such praises from you,” said Mr. Hewitt. “Yes; that I am sure she would be,” con- tinued Mr. Jewetsou, ‘‘for she is appreciative of all praise from the right quarter. You know, Mrs. Taylor, how small her Lexington avenue house is, and yet so clever is sbe in all she does that it seemed spacious enough to accommodate the very large number that came, It was a most delightful reunion,” These sentiments were echoed by his friends and by Mrs. Taylor, although the lady had not the advantage of knowing Mrs. Earle, except by sight, and knew no more how the Lexington avenue house looked than she did about the in- terior of the great pyramid; but she was equal to all society’s calls for assumed knowledge. The conversation proceeded much in the same manner for some time, and nearly all the on dits, a few of the milder scandals, and the sev- eral events of the season now drawing toa close, were discussed by Mrs. Taylor with ap- parently absorbing interest, and by the gentile- men with the usual languor with which fash- ionable conversation is carried on, in which the listener is principally occupied, not so much on what the speaker is saying, as upon the words which shall constitute the reply, Mr. Taylor came into the door at the very moment when Mr. Hewitt wasdescribing an en- tertainment which some of the very creme de la creme of fashion had organized and carried out for the benevolent purpose of securing a home for lost and strayed—dogs. ‘*T assure you, Mrs. Taylor,” said the calmly- excited speaker, ‘‘it was a perfect marvel to see Miss Pomeroy take the part of Tilly Slow- boy in one of the tableaux, and to see the hand- some Jack Pinkthorn as a cowboy from the Western Wilds was a sight to be remembered. Ab! how d’ye do, Taylor?” he remarked, as the merchant approached; and then rattled on about this, that, and everybody with any sort of name not beneath remembrance, until he bad exhausted the subject after his usual feeble fashion. Mr. Taylor was delighted to observe that his wife looked pleased with her present company, and he inwardly confessed an admiration for her admirable aplomb of manner toward her three aristocratic guests. A few minutes after- ward, Phillip entered the room; and after due
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a) A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 9 presentation to the visitors, and a rather cordial greeting by Mrs. Taylor, sat down by her side at her express invitation, “I suppose, before leaving St. Louis, Mr. Rosston, you had traveled up the Mississippi from New Orleans?” The lady’s voice was gently modulated, so as to be unheard except by the person whom she addressed. **T only stopped at a few places—at Vicksburg —at Nashville.” “ How long were you at Vicksburg?” “A week. It was from there that I was summoned by telegram to San Francisco to settle up my uncle's affairs.” “How sad!” murmured Mrs: Taylor. Then added, ‘‘Do you know any of the residents—I mean, at Vicksburg?” “A few. I have generally been there on business only.” “T think, when I was a child, I must have visited the place,” said the lady, in a half-mus- ing manner. “Is it not a straggling city, standing on a high bluff?” “Yes; and covering a ground.” ‘Indeed! Do you remember the names of any of the leading families there?” “Oh, yess there were the Clarkes, the Rou- silliers, the Jobnstones.” “‘T seem to recail that name,” remarked Mrs. Taylor, looking earnestly at Phillip’s face as he spoke, ‘‘ Are they old residents?” ‘Yes; they belong in hele to the city—one of the old noblesse, or the F.F.’s—first families, you know.” “Yes; of course. I remember now. They were considered very rich, were they not?” “Not exactly rich; but very well off. They did not all, however, do credit to their name.” ‘* Indeed |” And again the lady’s eyes seemed fain to pierce the speaker’s inmost mind. Phillip, utterly unconscious of the scrutiny, proceeded: ‘‘ In large families, you know, there are always black sheep; but I knew so little of the Johnstones that I cannot now even retail the Vicksburg tag? about them.” o not tax your memory, Mr. large area of And with a sigh, whether of weariness or re- lief it was impossible to say, the speaker turned to converse with Mr. Wildermoss at the very moment of the entrance into the room of Alice Maynard. rs. Taylor instinctively arose as the young lady approached her under the escort of her supposed father, and for an instant seemed to pa her very soul into her eyes in reais of er face, figure, dress and deportment, all of which was unknown by Alice, whose eyes eae downcast, and who felt almost ready to ‘aint. The examination proved eminently satisfac- tory, for taking Miss Maynard’s hands in her own, Mrs. Taylor drew her toward herself, ot a motherly kiss upon her fore- ead, This act, yery simply #2d naturally perform- ed, was an immense relief to Miss Maynard, while Mr. Taylor, scarcely crediting his senses, was delighted beyond measure. Dinver was at this juncture announced, upon which Mr. Wildermoss offered bis arm to the hostess; Mr. Hewitt conducted Alice; Mr, Tay- lor and Mr. Jewetson went down together, and Phillip went down alone. He was not the least pleased one of the fam- \ily to think that, so far, the serious step had been successfully taken, and the distressing mental strain of the two conspirators thereby somewhat relaxed. CHAPTER V- A NEW LIFE. Wuat was Mr. Taylor's surprise to discover, in a few days, that bis wife and Alice had be- come inseparable and fast friends! All his alarms had been needless, and the many delays he bad himself interposed to their meeting had been futile, Futile, alas! in the one sense that the real Mary bad never been clasped in her dear father’s arms, nor had known, ere she died, a father’s kiss. But of that he was happily ignorant, and it was a mercy that the knowledge did not reach him then, or his heart would have been broken by vain regret and just indignation at | the deceit practiced. | Time, which softens all griefs, bas also the power to create new joys and sympathies, In the interest of the merchant and of Alice, time was a blessed comforter, for it caused the kind man to regard her with tender affection, while | it made the girl very happy in his love, allayed her remorse, and awoke the tenderest feelings of her really noble heart. To Phillip Rosston there was comfort in the calm progress of events, and he was daily more and more fascinated by the amiable character- istics of his so-called cousin. Mrs. Taylor, too, found in Alice a gentle com- panion, in whom she constantly discovered new charms, and for many weeks the little family circle was truly happy. The grand dinner party and ball with which the season concluded came off in due course, and was a great success. Never had the Tay- lor mansion held so many really aristocratic visitors, while more millions, in the shape of rotund and stately magnates, were present than upon any occasion, since Mrs. Taylor had en- tered society as one of its leaders, A few days after these festivities the whole family left town to enjoy a visit to the seaside, and as the weather happened to be rather chilly, apts from its sheltered position, was se- ected. A well-appointed cottage had been hired for the season, servants were sent down in advance, and everything looked auspicious for a pleasant holiday. A day or two sufficed to settle the new-comers in their marine residence, and Alice, to whom such a life was entirely new, was delighted with all she saw. Mrs. Taylor preferred the usual formal bathings, promenades, and hone | receptions, to the numerous excursions, picnics,
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10 A PERILOUS PLEDGE, and impromptu festivities planned and carried out by the younger members of their friends and acquaintances, Neitber Mr. Taylor nor Phillip permanently remained in Asbury, the exigencies of a large mercantile house necessitating the frequent lanai in the city of both uncle and nephew. hey managed, however, to spend two or three days each week at the seaside, and enjoyed to the full even this limited relief from the cares of commerce. In a very short time Miss May- nard, finding that she was left very much to her own devices, began to take long walks into the surrounding country and upon the sea- shore. These lonely excursions were gradually in- creased in distance until she bad very nearly explored the whole district within a radius of ten or twelve miles. So strong, too, is early habit, that with this indulgence in wandering, some of her old Missouri habits returned, Nothing delighted her more than to wander along the sea-shore, far from the town and re- moved from all contact with human beings. There, throwing her hat down on the sand, she would, taking off shoes and hose, delight to walk into the sea, watching its coming and re- ceding waves, and, with little screams of de- light, running away from the ever-recurring larger billow—a race between her and mighty ocean. If, miscalculeting her distance, the wave, with its quick-sliding movement, threat- ened to dash itself over her dainty dress, tucked up though it were, she would laugh, would scream with pretended fear, and then clap ber hands in cbildish glee at her narrow escape from complete submersion. This Jittle natural comedy was played with- out witness or audience, and, therefore, it made her happy beyond measure to think that she, who had entered society, with all its established rules of propriety so absolutely laid down, could yet, by her own free will, shake them all off whenever she pleased to take a healthy walk, and then find one corner in the world where she could be alone with nature, Many a time had she enjoyed these excur- sions, and she often laughed to herself at the thought of them when, at the stately dinner-table, sbe found herself listening to fash- jonable talk or dull platitudes—very much alike. Not that her home was anything but cheerful, but life has so many tedious conventional rules that her escapades were keenly reli-hed by ber both in action and remembrance, and she always looked forward to her escape from stiff formali- ties with eager anxiety. At this period she was really happy. If fora brief moment the recollection of the part she was playing crossed her mind, the thought was readily appeased when she reflected how truly she loved both the merchant and his wife. Of Phillip, too, she often thought. After her wild outbursts of merriment, with old Neptune as her coadjutor, she often found herself tired with the sport, and she would then select some sheltered spot and, throwing berself down upon pe ir would geze into sea and sky, and hio Visions of the past at such times would fly across her brain, far more quickly than the traveling clouds traversed her visual senses, She would weary and perplex herself about the past no less than the future. Much of what had transpired in her childhood was clouded and obscure. She knew that the bonest old Missouri farmer, Jake Maynard, and bis wife were not her parents, although she bore their name, and she remembered that she could never get the otherwise kindly old fellow to give her any information about either her father or her mother. “Don’t ask no questions, my dear,” was his invariable answer, ‘‘and you won’t be told no lies. As long as there’s a 'tatur in the fields or an ear of corn in the cob, on this old ranch, you sha’n’t want. No, nor when both on’em fail you shall bave enougb and to spare, if old Jake Maynard has strength enough left to pull a trig- ger. There's deer and fish, darling, in this free land of ours, to give you food enough and to spare, and you shall have it. So don’t ask no questions, but eat and ax a blessing on the food afore you eat it; that’s all you have to think on.”” Old Mrs. Maynard was equally reticent and equally clever in putting aside all her childish questionings, therefore she was content to love them dearly and troubie them no farther. But when, launched into life at Mrs, Silsbee’s school in St. Louis, she met girls belonging to all the best Southern families, this ignorance of her parentage caused her much distress, and she was obliged to use all her motier wit to avoid exposing her want of knowledge upon so mate- rial a point as her birtb, well aware that the feeling about such matters in all classes was sensitive and often unjust in the extreme. How- ever, with rare tact she escaped this and other difficulties which her wild bringing up might bave exposed her to, Mr. Van Oppen’s protec- tion greatly helped her, and ber sudden depart- ure from the school spared her any possible in- sult and degradation which might have been inflicted by indiscretion, not unkindness, on the part of her late school-fellows. From the past, ber thoughts in these day- dreams by the sea-shore were directed to the present, but she did not long entertain their troublesome presence; events ‘vere too recent, her fears too vivid, for her to find anything but painful alarm in their contemplation—so she shut the door of that cabinet in memory’s store- closet with fear akin to that with which the door of Bluebeard’s closet would have been closed bad its herrid contents been known in time by his inquisitive spouse. Of Phillip she thought; and what wonder if, when her thoughts turned to him, as they often did, the sky put on a roseate hue, the murmur- ing ocean seemed to lap her into a semi-sleep of contentment, and all nature appeared to attune itself to her tender thoughts. She did not de- ny to berself, although neither by word nor ik did she betray it to him, that she loved im. Sbe watched eagerly for his coming, and it was to him alone that she confided the secret of her wanderings, where often they paced up and down, or sat pretending to read, but uttering no word of love, nor daring to trust the lan- guage of the eye,
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE, lu They returned as they went, calmly happy, conscious of their affection for each other, but never breaking the promise they bad inwardly made to themselyes not to betray their se- crets, One name was never spoken, though it lay upon their bearts with a softened, gentle influ- ence. Mary was dead to the world, except under the the guise of Alice, and nothing could tempt them now to breathe her name between themselves. They deemed the grave had sanc- tified her memory, and within their own hearts her monument had been erected never more to be disturbed, but to remain forever perfect and beautiful. Thus the lives of these two young people sped on, They were, when together, happy; but when separated they were nervous and anxious lest some mischance might betray their com- mon secret and involve them both in ruin, CHAPTER VI. AN UNFORTUNATE ENCOUNTER, Onz lovely day Alice had wandered along the ocean road for a long distance, and had finally descended to the beach, just where a little inlet formed a cosey sort of harbor, shut out from all sight from the public path and looking out only upon the ever-moving sea, The girl was very tired, for it was late when she had left the house, and she had walked rap- idly in order to have as long atime in her soli- tude as possible before the return to dinner, at which r. Wildermoss was expected. Mr. Taylor and Phiilip were also coming down for acouple of days, and were to arrive at the same hour. Rather flushed with the unusual exercise her walk had imposed upon her, she threw off her hat, let loose her fair hair, and sat upon her favorite couch, allowing the cool sea-breeze to play through her tresses in a very luxury of en- joy ment. A drowsy feeling soon came over her, the far- off horizon grew softly dim, the light clouds seemed to fall gently down upon the ocean’s bosom, the wind seemed lulled, and she slept. How long she slumbered she knew not at the moment she was awaked; but it was with a start of alarm that she heard a voice, and became conscious of a presence. An instant showed her who it was, and the danger in which she was placed by the speaker, although the speech was very common-place. “Dear me, if it ain’t Miss Maynard!” Such were the words uttered by Mrs, Har- mond, the Buffalo nurse, as sbo stood open- mouthed in wonder at her discovery. “Dear me, it is Miss Maynard!” was her sec- ond exclamuiion. ’ Terror held Alice speechless. This worthy person, utterly unconscious of the alarm her appearance inspired, and prompt- ed by naturally kindly feelings, came down the declivity leading to the shure, and very com- fortably disposed herself upon the sand to rest and have a chat, To Alice, the whole scene seemed to darken; a mist rose up, if not from the ocean, at any rate before her eyes; the sea, till now gently murmuring, appeared to roar with myriad voices in her ears, and the very word they ub- tered thrilled her with alarm, for it sounded like “Impostor!” Yes; she who had but now deemed her secret safe from discovery—whbo had put back all thoughts of the past, with a certain assurance of present suecess—now saw all her foolish bopes shattered by one blow, and the innocent destroyer of the carefully built-up fabric, the inevitable cause of future agony and grief un- told, sat complacently smiling, as if awaiting the cordial recognition of an old acquaintance. What fools she and Phillip had been not to think of this person! How mad, how blind, they had been to enter upon such a task as they had ventured on without taking cognizance of this Mrs. Harmond, who held their tate within her hand! Where were now.the roseato dreams of love and confidence? The future looked, as did the present, to her blurred sight black as night, behind which stalked disaster to ber and Phillip, and heart- breaking to the poor father. Again, she thought bow mad, how blind they had both been not to have thought of all this, and, if thinking of it, not to bave planned some way out of the terrible dilemma ber very ex- istence involved. A way out of it? That thought rose up simultaneously with the fear which Mrs. Harmond’s presence caused. But, think as sbe might about any way of escape, her mind was so tempest-tossed that she could not concentrate her thoughts, nor even know how to address her unwelcome intruder, All she pec do was to gaze at her as before, in amazed orror, Mrs. Harmond, thinking pride of station held Alice silent, bastened to apologize for appear- ing so glad to see her; but her very attempt at excuse lacerated the girl’s feelings more and more deeply. “Pm sure I must apologize, Miss Maynard, for addressing you,” said the good creature, ig- norant of the agony the other endured; “but the sight of you recalled the memory of that poor dear soul, Miss Mary Taylor, now in heaven, Ah, I shall never—never forget her patient endurance during her illness! She was a sweet-tempered angel, if ever there was one in this world, and many a time I tbink of her uow she’s gone. And I have thought a deal about you and Mr. Rosston. How is he—a nice, pleasant-spoken a gentleman as ever lived?” Fortunately for Alice, the woman did not wait for any reply, but continued the couversa- tion. ‘Just before I left Buffalo, miss, I went out to the cemetery to look at Miss Taylor’s grave. The flowers youavd Mr. Rosston planted looked fresh and pretty, for all the world as if they bad only just been put there. Ab! it is a com- fort, when we are gone, to think that there are loving folks who will remember us. That's what I always say to myself when I’m in trouble, and don’t a where to look for con- solation.” Srill, Alice sat spellbound while Mrs. Har- mond talked. Her words were heard and some of their meaning understood, but all in a vague and confused mavner, for the listener’s thoughts
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12 were filled with matters so fraught with terror that she could not realize that the gossiping nurse sat before her any more than she could silence the awful word that rung in her ears, — on the now turbulent waves—‘‘ Impos- or! ‘But I’ve left Buffalo now, and come with a patient to Asbury; a very kind lady she is, but a little light in the bead, you know. Not ex- actly mad, but with fits of violence, miss, that need constant watching. This is the first time I’ve had an hour to myself since I came here, and to think that I should come upon you so sudden-like, not knowing that you were here!” Why did not the sea rise up and swallow the speaker, who by every word she uttered inflict- ed agony upon the listener? “The house where we live, miss, is just at the top of that road there. The family has taken it for the season, and I’m very comfortable— that is, as comfortable as a person can be having a violent patient to look after constantly. But you seem rather poorly, miss; you're as pale asa ghost. What has been the matter? I suppose the shock of poor Miss Taylor’s death was too much for you. I thought you’d lay yourself up, attending: so close to her as you did. But she was so good and patient that no one could grudge her anything.’ At length the torture of this woman’s talk eould no longer be borne by Alice Maynard. She saw that the woman must be silenced, and she braced herself to the task. It cost her a mighty effort, however, to converse, even in ordinary tones; but she accomplished it. “Tam much obliged to you, Mrs. Harmond, for the very great kindness to—to our dear friend. We—that is, Mr. Rosston and myself— are very sensible of it, a1d—” bere she paused, not knowing in what way to enlist the woman’s interest— ‘‘but the fact is, we did not know how to recompense you for your—” “ Recompense, miss? Who was talking of that? NotI! There’s nothing I want, thank goodness, that I can’t get by working for it. ‘You paid me—leastways Mr. Rosston did—very Jiberally for what I did, and I was grateful for it; but I don’t want to be recompensed beyond being paid my wages for doing my duty. But I’m not an unfeeling woman, miss, and I did take a deep interest in that poor, dear young lady, but that’s no reason why there should be any talk of recompense—” How much longer Mrs. Harmond’s anger would have prompted her to resent in speech the unfortunate remark which so offended her it is impossible to surmise; but Alice luckily ar- rested her in the full tide of her eloquence by gently laying her hand upon her arm, looking up at her face, and simply saying: ‘Oh, forgive me! I did not intend to wound your feelings.” “ There’s no harm done, miss, so long as none was meant; but we poor people, although we do take wages and are servants, have our feelings. But there! — no more, Miss Maynard, I was, maybe, a little too quick myself to take offense, and tending a lunatic patient isn’t apt to sweet- en one’s temper, you must confess.” Alice had now regained enough courage to see that she ran the risk of exciting Mrs, Harmond’s A PERILOUS PLEDGE, animosity if she did not bring back her wander- ing thoughts, and listen to, or appear to heed, what the nurse was saying. It was, therefore, with great gentleness that she replied: “Yes, it must be a sore trial to be always near any one with perverted reason, 1 pity the friends and those who take care for thee far more than I do the patients, for they are, let us hope, unconscious of their own infirmity.” “ My very sentiments, miss, but most beauti- fully expressed. Ah! we nurses see many things in this life that don’t bear to be spoke of too loud!” **T have no doubt of it.” “Ves, miss, there are romances in many families that if they were printed and published wouldn’t be believed. But are you all alone here, Miss Maynard?” ‘*No,” stammered Alice; ‘* we—that is, I am here with friends,” * Ah,” sighed Mrs. Harmond, ‘‘ that must be very nice. I used to have friends and relations myself here in this very place. I must hunt them up, and bearall the news, for, you know, miss, these sea-bathing places are rare spots for gossip.” Yes, Alice knew that—had,indeed, found it out very sbortly after her arrival, for, stranger as she was to the ways and manners of fashionable life, she knew that she herself was the ot ject of much comment by their neighbors, Indeed, one morning when standing at the window of the breakfast-room she overheard the servants of the adjoining house canvassing not only the affairs of Mr. and Mrs. Taylor and Mr. Ross- ton, but very freely debating about herself, her looks, expectations, and her possible marriage. At the time she smiled at the idle curiosity which prompted such doings; but now it flashed upon her that here was a new and most alarm- ing danger to be guarded against—more alarm- ing because Mrs. Harmond was sure to dis- cover the whereabouts of her relations, to hear from them all the news of the latest comers, and add to’ them her own share of adventures since she bad last seen them. Her life at Buf- falo would be certain to furnish material for narrative, and there the greatest danger lay. Should ber relatives be in possession of any in- formation, however slight, of Mr. Taylor and his family, any casual allusion to the name and to Mr. Rosston before Mrs. Harmond would lead to comment, questioning, and to exposure. Dangerous as the presence of the nurse in Asbury was, it was still greater if she was al- lowed to pass out of sight and knowledge. Safety, or, at any rate, vigilant watchfulness could only be secured by apo knowledge of where Mrs. Harmond could be found. With her mind now clear upon this point, she continued the conversation: “Well, Mrs. Harmond, I am very glad to have met you. I donot know how long I may remain h+re; but I should very much like to have your address, so that I might see you again before I leave, if 1 have the opportunity.” “Certainly, miss; and I shall be pleased to see you, and anything that I can do for your own sake and for the sake of that dear dead young lady—” “Yes, I know how you feel; but, oh, spare
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me! Tecannot bear to speak of her. Give me your address.” “ Here’s the card of the gentleman where I’m living now. You can put my name on the back of it when you get home. But might I ask for your address, miss, if not too bold?” “Yes, I will send it. I bave not a card with me, and have no means of writing it down, I will send it.” “Oh, thanks, miss! et.” And the good woman, after courtesying deep- ly, slowly mounted the beach. When she made a movement to leave the spot Alice felt re- lieved, and watch her departure with alightened heart. After reaching the top of the roadway she turned to courtesy once more, and, asif prompt- ed by some evil genius, again spoke. ‘* You'll not forget to send me your address, will you, Miss Maynard?” And then turning round for the last time, al- most ran into the arms of a gentleman, to whom she offered an apology, and then disappeared ia the turn of the road. Alice, who had watched her every movement, beheld with dismay that the gentleman whom the nurse encountered, who must bave over- heard her last speech, and who stood smiling and bowing to the terror-stricken girl, was none other than Mr. Wildermoss. How she reached home she never knew, but she was conscious that sbe had not refused to accept the arm of tle gentleman who had so strangely witnessed Mrs, Harmond’s departure, and who she felt sure must have overheard the voluble woman’s last remark. But here again she was at fault, for neither by word nor look did he betray that he had heard or seen the nurse. He chatted pleasantly and lightly on the road home; that she remembered, although she was equally sure that her replies must have been strangely misplaced, for, indeed, ber thoughts were not with what he said or what she an- swered, She reached home in a most unhappy mood whereas she had started out with a light and cheerful heart. I hope you won’t for- Her reception of Phillip, who had arrived be- | fore she got home, was embarrassed; while his greeting to her became cold and restrained | when he saw her coming toward the house lean- ing upon the arm of Mr, Wildermoss, who was in the best of spirits, and declared that he had never enjoyed a walk so much as the one which | had been honored by Miss Taylor’s company. Was there an accentuated pause when he said ‘*Miss Taylor?’ Surely not; and yet her ear was delicately sensitive for any slight, or any | evidence of suspicion, If, on the contrary, he had overheard Mrs, Harmond’s last speech, why had he not ques- tioned. her? The circumstance of ber being called by any one by a name different to that by which she was known would have been war- rant for inquiry. She thought this over all the way as they walked homeward, but he made no sign of hav- ing any doubt upon his mind, and she was forced to put the dread that he heard and A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 1 noted the nurse’s speech aside, and tried to as« sure herself that she bad nothing to fear apon that score. But even while she was comforting herself with this, all her doubts recurred with increased force when she remembered the glit- ter of bis eye as if fell upon her when Mrs. Harmond was lost to sight in the bend of the road. It was, however, useless to endeavor to arrive .with certainty at a knowledge of how much or how little Mr. Wildermoss knew, and the gong warned her she bad not more than sufficient time to dress for dinner, The truth is, that Arthur Wildermoss was a marvel to not a few clever people who thought they knew him well; and to no one was he a greater puzzle than to bis own father, the pomp- ous, but very clever Banker Wildermoss. ‘This | worthy gentleman was much troubled at not being able to read the character of his own son oe the fashion with which he read a printed ook. In the first place, the banker was a perfectly honorable man, who hated all manner of deceit; | and if he was somewhat prosy in the house, he was exceedingly quick-witted in all dealings in affairs of business. He liked to know ali about everything, and he detested mystery of any kind, His son, Arthur, was perfectly obedient in everything proper for ason to be obedient in; he was not a horse-racing or a gambling man; he observed all the rules of decorum laid down for due observance, and transgressed none of those obligations which fashionable society has imposed for its own protection. He was very good-looking, dressed faultlessly, and never gave vent to any but the most ele- vated sentiments. What, then, was it that annoyed his father? What was it that made most men salute him gravely and politely, and then turn from him, glad to be relieved of his presence? Why did his equals, to whom he was invariably courteous, dislike bim? And why did dependants, to whom he gave freely largesse, despise and sneer at him even when accepting bis. bounties? The mystery was not deep, nor was it difficult of solution, although it was never solved by the worthy banker, his father. The fact is, that Arthur Wildermoss was ut- terly devoid of feeling—in other words, he had no heart, His equals felt it without knowing it, and his inferiors knew it without feeling [its want. AH the convenances of life were rigidly observed by him as far as outward show de- manded, but his life had been, and still promised to be, an utter failure, owing to the want of that single attribute of human sympathy which makes the whole world kin, Such was the man into whose hands Alice Maynard had so unfortunately fallen, for she felt that she had lost liberty, and had to endure | the thralldom of mind which a dangerous secret imposed upon her when its power was held by such a man. Woman-like, she had a delicate appreciation of the finer lights and shadows of character, and she knew she could not be mistaken in the estimate of this cool, collected, but heartless gentleman. Had she needed assurance of the fact, the recollection of the one baleful look he
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gave her would have convinced her beyond all doubt. The dinner was but a dull one, after all. Mr. Taylor had been much worried in business be- fore leaving the city, and was too tired to talk. Phillip was taciturn and sad; and Mrs, Taylor seemed worried, and was little inclined for con- versation, The only person who appeared thoroughly at ease was Mr. Arthur ilder- moss. He seomed not only pleased with every one, but was evidently happy with some odd faucy, known only to himself, However, even dull dinners must terminate sooner or later; and it was with a sigh of relief that Alice obeyed Mrs, Taylor’s hint to rise. When she reached the drawing-room she sought out a secluded corner, and, biding her face from Mrs. Taylor, shed a few comforting tears after the excitement of the last few hours. When the gentlemen came up stairs—for they did not linger over their wine—Phillip took a seat near by, and, idly turning over the leaves of a book of travel, addressed her in a low tone, while Mr. Taylor and Arthur sat down to a game of chess. “What has happened?” almost whispered Phillip. ‘‘ You appear to be very unhappy!” ‘“No, not unbappy; but I am tired. I must have walked too far. The sun was really hot, you know, and the sea air seems always to fatigue one. Don’t you think so?” “| think that something has happened which you do not wish me to know. But tell me,” be added, almost sternly, ‘‘ has that man anything to do with your unhappiness?” And his eyes fell upon Mr. Wildermoss with no very great admiration as he spoke, That apparently unobservant man chancing to look up at the momont encountered that look, which he returned with a gracious smile and_a slight inclination of the head, which might be read either as a warning that he was vigilant, even of looks, or that be accepted the unfriendliness in the same manner in which it was offered, Phillip vainly strove to draw from Alice the cause of her sadness, and failing in his attempts, he turned at last regretfully away. She seized the opportunity of gliding from the apartment and retiring to her own room, The game of chess between Mr. Wildermoss and Mr, Taylor did not exhibit any marked strategic skill;so, the guest, perceiving that his host’s mind was more upon affairs of commerce than upon the safety of his queen or the dignified security of his king, quietly made a “draw ” of the game, and then arose and took his depar- ture. Carefully lighting a cigar, he strolled very leisurely in the direction of the hotel, and evidently found much matter for deep thought, Arriving at his temporary home, be drew a chair into the deap bay-window, and sat smok- ing till long after midnight. His eyes were di- rected seaward, but his thoughts were else- where, for he did not seem to notice the strange- ly beautiful sight the ocean presented, dazz'ing and sparkling under a rich, full, bright moon, He did not heed the passage of the ships, the rogress of the steamers as they crossed the orizon, any more than he heard the creaking of the timbers and cordage of the fishing-boats 14 A PERILOUS PLEDGE. as they were gently swayed to and fro by the waves, . His thoughts must bave been very worldly, for his face betrayed no softness in its expres sion, but seemed to harden as he pondered. Whatever may have been the subject of bis meditations, he at length arrived at a conclusion apparently satisfactory to bimself, for with a gratified air he got up irom his seat and sought his bed, there doubtless to take up the thread of his reverie, CHAPTER VII. FRIEND OR FOR, Mrs. HARMOND was seen no more by Alice Mayuard, and the alarm she had caused was passing away when afresh source of annoyance, very serious in its character, assailed her. She had resolved to take no more solitary walks, being fearful of meeting the garrulous purse, and therefore reduced her exercise to a daily visit to the pier in company with Mrs, Tavlor. Tbat lady chose the spot as most convenient for the meeting of friends and acquaintances, for, as everybody made a point of promenading there daily at the fashionable hour in the after- noon, the interchange of greetings. was easily effected. Whenever she found Mrs. Taylor deeply en- gaged in gossip with some of her aristocratic friends, Alice quietly excused herself and sought a more retired spot, where, between readirg and thinking, she spent ber time. As Mrs. Tay- lor allowed ber perfect liberty of action, she only expected her when the bour for returning home arrived. When, offering the elder lady her arm, the two went back to the house, Mrs. Taylor retailed just as much of the news sbe bad heard as she thought would interest her companion, * Two weeks after Alice’s meeting with Mrs, Harmond, and when the event itself was fading away from her memory, she left Mrs. Taylor one afternoon upon the pier, according to cus- tom, and crept to her favorite seat in a booth near by. Resolved to finish the book she bad commenced two days previously, and being really much interested in its contents, she en- tirely abstracted her thoughts from anything but the open page before ber. So absorbed was she in what he read that she did not notice the approach of the person whom of all others she least desired to see, and it was not until he be- gan to speek that she was aware of his pre- sence, “T presume your book is very entertaining. May I ask its name?” She raised ber eves, and perceived that the speaker was Mr. Wildermoss, who again ad- dressed ber as be politely and with a courteous bow took the book from her listless hand and looked at its title. ‘*One of George Sand’s works, I perceive,” he said, smiling. Alice had by that time recovered from her surprise, and noting the exemplary politeness of the speaker, answered cheerfully: “She isa favorite author of mine, Do you like her writings?”
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 18 *T think they are delightful. There is always such a vein of deep thought and studious in- quiry into motive in all ber works, Her char- acters are never commonplace, even when drawn from the lower classes, They have indi- viduality, and that is always charming.” “Those,” said Alice, “are the very qualities which I admire, Have you read her ‘Consuelo,’ and its sequel?” “Yes, twice. Some of her comedies are grand—too grand for the American stage. We have no actors now.” ‘* Indeed!” He sat down by her side as he handed back her book, and then, with a very deliberate but perfectly polite air, replied: ‘‘No, we have no great artists on the stage who can interpret the higher class of comedy, Our best actors and actresses are to be found, not on, but off, the stage.” “What can you mean? Surely you do not allude to amateurs? They.are generally con- sidered very poor artists.” **T do not allude to amateurs, I point my re- mark to people in our every-day world, who, without the delusive glamour of the theater, act a part with arealism of effect which is astound- ing!” ay presume such people were intended by na- ture for the stage, but somehow missed their vocation?” “ Well, not exactly.” “Then I am at a loss to understand you.” And Alice reopened her book to read, anxious, without knowiug why, to close the conversa- tion. “Your pardon, Miss—Taylor; but may I claim a few moments of your valuable time?” “Oh, certainly, if you desire it!” “Tdo, Itis for your own sake, Miss—Tay- lor, that I ask it.” “Wor my sake? Iam really quite at a loss to comprehend you.” “Tet me hasten to explain. Isaid just now, in the course of an idle chat, that some of our best artists were those who played their parts not upon the stage, but in private life,” “Well?” The word was uttered proudly enough, but the terrified girl was nearly fainting with ap- prehension. “Tt bas been my exceeding good fortune to meet one of the cleverest in the person of Miss Taylor.” “Mr. Wildermoss, you forget yourself, I can no longer listen to you.” ‘Excuse me, my dear young lady. Nothing could be further from my thoughts than to offer an insult to you. I respect your talents so much that I would fain be enrolled as one of the humblest and most devoted of your admirers.” Alice’s indignation conquered ber fear, and rising from the seat on which her persecutor had placed himself, she was about to seek Mrs, Taylor, when Mr, Wildermoss, speaking very quietly, but very distinctly, said: ‘Why should you suspect me, Miss Maynard of desir- ing to ne you?” e had, then, heard the name spoken by Mrs. Harmond. Did he know all, or was it only a ruse to entrap her into confession? Why had he been silent for more than two weeks? These questions flashed across her brain with fearful sae ig he had been so long ey tie just such a blow, that now, when it fell, it was not so hard to bear as she had feared, Her courage was (oe enough to look into her enemy’s eyes, and read the triumph which gleamed and sparkled there, If nothing else encouraged her to meet such cruelty by her own art, that look would have given her strength for the contest, It was with acalm voice, as she stood looking down upon him, that she an- swered, ‘* You have possessed yourself of a name addressed to me by a woman whom I met by the seaside, and it would be folly in me to attempt to deny that I was so addressed. But why you revive the occurrence by uttering that name I have yet to learn.” “Excuse me, Miss Maynard—I mean Miss Taylor—it was only from a desire to serve you that [ recalled the incident. Pray listen to me,” he added, asshe was about to interrupt him. ‘When a young lady, known in society by one name, is addressed out of society by another name, there must be good reason for her per- mitting such a thing to be done unchallenged. The act is an insult, and where such an offense is perpretrated without punishment, there must be a mystery.” ‘* Well, sir,” she said, as he looked up, as if expecting her to speak, ‘*I await the close of your remarks,” “I was about to add, if there isea mystery ” —and his tone was impressive—‘if there is a mystery, there is also danger; and it isto guard against or avert danger that I offer my serv- ices, Will you accept them{” She looked at him long and earnestly, not boldly, but with the keen, searching look of a pure woman trying to read the inmost thoughts of a man that she felt was dangerous, and whom she now knew to be treacherous, Look as she might, she could not fathom his thoughts, far less divine his motives, although her woman’s instinct told ber both were bad; nor could she tell by ber scrutiny of his face how much or how little he knew about this mystery. 3 is was a face which betrayed few emotions, since he never felt a generous impulse, and his eyes were as cold and shallow as his feelings, so that looking into them was like gazing into a clear but shallow pool which did not even re- flect surrounding objects. She resolved, however, not to pe and with quick intuitive skill she settled her plan of ac- tion; hence her reply: “T am very greatly obliged Mr, Wildermoss for your offer, and I gladly accept it. What ii require to aid me in my present difficulty, as the only means of avoiding that danger you speak of, is your word, as a gentleman, never to repeat to a living soul the remark you overheard addressed tome. Have I your promise?’ He saw he was caught in his own trap, but, like a clever tactician, he accepted defeat with a smiling countenance, resolved to lay his anger aside, and allow it to increase until the moment of revenge should come, “Of course, my dear Miss May—I mean Miss
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16 Taylor, I give you my word of honor not to mention it to a living soul.” “Oh, thanks, I am very much indebted to you for your promise.” “T may, then, hope that your gratitude—” “Will be very constant, [ assure you,” said the clever girl, well knowing to what he would fain lead the conversation, “But I see my step-mother is looking for me, and I must not keep her waiting. Good-day; so much obliged! No—pray do not trouble; I can find my way alone;” and she was gone, He sunk back into his seat with what sounded very like a muttered oath; and his friends who encountered him that day noticed kow particu- larly out of temper be appeared. Alice was nearly giving way, and had she not escaped from Mr. Wildermoss’s presence she must have swooned, but she arrived by the side of Mrs, Taylor without attracting the notice of that lady. So far, the victory was with Miss Maynard. How long would it remain so? CHAPTER VIII. DREAMS. A STRANGE drama revealed itself that night inadream to Mrs. Taylor. A thick forest in the Southern States. Time—autumn. The leaves of the maple, which here abounded, turn- ing from a delicate crimson into blood-red, ty- pical of the daily events passing in a country where a fratricidal war was raging, and where hundreds of thousands of men were imbruing their hands in blood; where the fiercest passions found vent in slaughter; where homes were laid waste, and helpless women and babes were driven forth, not sure of a crust of bread, or a roof to shelter them. The tide of -war swept over field and forest, down mighty rivers, across once smiling home- steads, on through prosperous cities, across prairies, past hamlets, into bright little country towns and villages, up into bayous and moss- lined creeks, scouring through ship-lined har- bors, devastating, destroying, and maddening the buman race in its progress. Fathers, sons, friends, brothers—a]l fiercely contending against each other in blind fury, and immolating, on the shrine of war, those whom they had once dearly loved. There was neither pause nor pity in the acts of men mad- dened by war’s passion. Destruction of life, of property, of hope, of sentiment—of all that should be cherished and preserved—was the one only idea which war fostered, and those who bad learned its lesson grew emulous of distinc- tion in the horrid purpose. From north to south, from east and west to south, thousands rashed, eager to take part in the dreadful work, while the wails of deserted women, the screams of the maimed and wounded, and the cries of little children, were drowned in the rattle of mus- ketry, the beat of drums, and the roar of can- non. Old men were driven from spots where they had dwelt from childhood, and feebly endeav- ored to lead forth with them delicate women and infants, seeking to find homes where homes there were none, and many finally lying down to rest never more torise, while past and around A PERILOUS PLEDGE, them, still increasing in numbers and in fury, swept the warlike hosts, intent upon the one great act of destruction of all things that could be Resinowed which possessed their frenzied souls, The crops grew, and ripened and rotted be- cause there were none to gather them, while, all around, misery and gaunt starvation increased, and finally went to swell the great number of the dead with which war was fed and nourished into dread proportion. In this Southern forest, where the din and roar of battle had but lately resounded, a group of badly uniformed, gaunt and savage-looking men surrounded one wretched creature, who searched in vain among the fierce faces for a trace of pity or a show of human interest. He saw none, and groaned aloud in his agony as he heard the short sharp sentence which was, a few moments later, to rob him of life. It was no uncommon picture which this group presented, for at any hour, almost any moment, similar scenes might have been wit- nessed throughout the length and breadth of this once fair Southern country, while war beld high revel, and death and agony had ceased to terrify all, save their victims, A guerrilla band of patriots (so called) held in their circling midst one whom they deemed a spy. Of what use were the poor wretch’s pray- ers for mercy, oaths of innocence, and sbrieks for a hearing?- None! The word had been spoken, the sentence had been passed, Clutching the miserable creature by the throat, two of the more burly of the troop dragged him across the open space and planted him against a hemlock tree, while five others, with coarse jests upon their lips, loaded their rifles and sauntered off a little to the other side. The two had dragged their victim from the circle, finding that he could not stand erect, pulled off his blue blanket coat, tore it into rib- bons, and slipping one around his body close beneath his arms, passed it around the tree. Another bandage they placed across his fore- head, also around the tree, so that his bead, sup- ported by these, gave a horribly grotesque show of courageously facing his murderers, while the sweat-drops on his pale brow betrayed his agony. The two executioners then retired. The five, who bad looked to their arms, then advanced, and taking cool, deliberate aim, amid jokes and bets between themselves, pulled their triggers, and a man was dead, riddled with balls and saturated with blood, The five, looking neither to right nor left, nor at the corpse, wheeled awkwardly, and soon re- joined their company along with the two sub- ordinate murderers, and a)!, with yells of laugh- ter and with brutal jests, marched stragglingly out of the forest across the clearing on to the high-road, and there and then joined another cohort bound upon the same bloody errand of glorifying war and all its attributes. With a shriek of more than mortal agony, Mrs. Taylor awoke from ber sleep in which this dream of ruthless murder bad been enacted, She sobbed convulsively, and looked around as if to assure herself that what she had so vividly seen was not reality. =
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE. nv No; the room, dimly lighted by a candelabra with colored globes, was luxuriously appointed. Easy-chairs and ottomans and all the elegant furnishings of a wealthy home were around her, and the full, rich moon shone through the open window, and was reflected in myriad ripples by the restless sea, the lepping of whose waves upon the beach came murmuringly and faintly on her ears. She arose, and hurriedly putting on a wrap- per, crossed to the casement and gazed cut upon the ocean, fearful for a time of even look- ing back into the room where tbese horrors of her dream seemed to have been more than pictured. The scream alarmed. Alice, who slept in the adjoining room, and as Mr. Taylor was not ex- pected at. Asbury for several days, he fesred that sudden illness or some dire catastrophe had alarmed the elder lady, and hastily entered the apartment, “ Ab, Mary,” said Mrs. aeyict, “thank you for coming! I was so terrified that 1 must have alarmed you with my scream. But how is it, dear, that you are up and dressed at this late hour?” ‘“‘T was not sleepy, and the night is so beauti- ful that I sat by the window looking out upon the sea,and I really did not know the hour. But what alarmed you?” “Nothing but a dream. Pray to Heaven, child, that you may never have such a one, for it was so dreadful that even now I shudder when I think of it.” “Then I will stay with you if you will allow me. Iassure you I am not tired, and if you will let me lie here upon this couch I may even sleep for an bour or tee 9-7 vou will fea} more confident. “You will let medo so, will you not?” “Certainly, child; and I thank you for propos ingit. I am better now, but not quite myself. Dreams have a strange power over us, have tLey not?” “T never dream.” “ You never dream? Are you sure of that?” “Not in my sleep, I mean.” “When, then, do you dre.m, my dear? Tam curious to know.” “When Iam awake. That is what they call day-dreams. I often have those.” “Yndeed! You must tell me all about them,” “Ob, I have not much to tell!” answered the girl, as she leaned her head upou the arm of the chair where Mrs. Taylor sat. ** Yet I have one day-dream which is not all a dream, but seems rather the revivifying of some old memory of an event that may or may not have happened, of which I have no knowledge except when my day-dream comes upon me,” “ And what is this old memory or more than half-forgotten fact?” asked Mrs. Taylor. “Tt is about some great trouble, There seems to be mixed up in my recollection the movement of vast numbers of men—angry men. der, only sharper, clearer—perhaps like artil- lery; but T have never heard that Then [ seem to have been wandering across fields, to have slept under trees, and then more strange faces—” Then there is a noise not unlike thun- | Well, child, what then?” ' And Mrs. Taylor gazed eagerly at the girl by her side. “Well, then it all seems to occur again, and again; and then J lose myself, and become confused in trying to follow out this story,which is nostory, or, rather, this day-dream, which is more like a fading memory.” “ What you tell me is strange—very strange!” re Mrs. Taylor, more as if to herself than to ice. So strange was it to her thinking, that she could not, although she tried, dismiss it from her mind, but sat gazing at her companion, who, having recovered from the temporar fright which Mrs. Taylor’s scream had caused, gradually yielded to the influence of sleep, being—without, perhaps, knowing it—really fatizued, She had extended herself upon the couch with her right arm beneath her head and her face turned partly toward the elder lady. As she lay thus, Mrs. Taylor flung a rich, warm mantle over her limbs, and smoothed her luxuriant tresses, which, truth to say, were sadly disordered, and streamed over the sofa- cushion in rich profusion, Then returning to her seat after wrapping a cloak around her own shoulder, the merchant’s wife sat for some time in silence, The strangeness of Alice’s day-dreams she could not dismiss from her mind; and ever and anon she turned her head.in the direction of the sofa, only to see the large eyes of the girl dually disappearing beneath their richly- ringed lidsin the very luxury of languor and coming sleep. Only once did she disturb the quiet, by say- ing: a Is that all you ever see—I mean in your day-dreams?” “Yes,” answered Alice, softly; “that is nearly all, yet it is sometimes more full of detail. Let me think! Oh, yes; I seem to seea house with a wide, long veranda, with climbing vines running up its columns and arching across the opening, and upon this wide porch there are sometimes figures—two or three old people and some young ones; I do not mean children. Yes, and near this house there are large trees, and apes them a great field, and—that’s all, that is all!’ And, with a gentle sigh, the girl fell asleep. When ber low, quiet breathing indicated that she slumbered, Mrs. Taylor softly rose, crossed the room, took alighted lamp from the dress- ing-table, and noiselessly returned to the side of the sofa. Then, holding the light above Alice’s head, ae ae gs long and earnestly upon the slumber- ng girl, When her scrutiny was ended, she as softly replaced the lamp, and resumed her seat near the open window, The gray ashen hues of morning had streaked the distant horizon, and the golden light of day seemed just ready to burst into brilliancy as the watcher crept softly from the window and sought her couch, the while the girl slept on in acalm and eA sleep. Phillip, when he came down to Asbury two
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18 ' A PERILOUS PLEDGE. ‘days later at his uncle’s request, determined to take the first opportunity of speaking seriously to Miss Maynard about Arthur Wildermoss, her ‘seeming intimacy with whom he considered most detrimental to her. Not that he knew or had heard anything against bim, for, from ail whom he met that knew Arthur Wildermoss, he had received just such a high character as a gentleman moving in good society should possess, Of course, Mr. Rosston not being a member ‘of any New York club, did not hear the opinion of clubmen who knew Arthur. This was a pity, for a true clubman is always able tosum up a fellow elubite in the briefest and most analytic ‘manner. He does it apparently without utter- ing balf a dozen words, but they are conclusive; ‘and woe betide the man, socially, whom his fellow members do not like, for he shall lead a life of torture almost too great to bear, without the smallest chance of remonstrance or even ex- planation, This test of character among gentlemen is a very valuable one, for it draws the line so sharply and definitely that he must either be a fool, or a good deal of a knave, that can fly in the face of a judgment from which there is lit- erally no appeal. Among those who knew Arthur only as Ar- thur Wildermoss was known, there was nothing valuable to be gained, for unless they were bis equals they feared to say anything against him, while any detraction would fall to the ground for want of circumstantial proof. Toey might say, ‘‘ Yes, he’s a very nice fellow, but there are many who do not like him;” or, ‘‘ Well, I don’t like him, but so many speak highly of him that I would rather not express an opinion;” and so on, indefinitely. Mr. Cecil Hewitt, however, happening to travel in the same smoking-cur with Mr. Ross- ton from the city, the conversation oddly, or naturally enough, it is hard to say which, turned, after many subjects bad been discussed, upon Mr. Wildermoss, ‘He's a very nice fellow, indeed, is Arthur,” said his friend; ‘a very nice fellow. Only he’s such a puzzle to most people; even J don’t un- derstand him!” As Mr. Wildermoss’s méntal caliber was very greatly superior to Mr. Hewitt’s, that gentle- man’s ignorance on the subject was not to be wondered at. “You see,” continued Mr. Hewitt, as he puffed contemplative rings of cigar smoke, and watched their ascension into nothingness, ** Ar- thur is so close about some things, and so very open about others. Among women he doesn’t make much headway, although he is very par- ticular in desiring to impress them with his un- deubted respect for the sex.” ““T think there can be no doubt about that!” remarked Phillip. “ Not the slightest! Nobody ever doubted it, except the ladies themselves; that’s the singular part. The old gentleman, his futher, doesn’t doubt it, although he doubts a great deal about Arthur; but then, you see, he doesn’t under- stand bim, and never will. As I told you, even Ido not comprehend him!” “What aré his weaknesses? Does he bet? Is he fond of whist, or—” “ Hasn’t a vice—not even a petty one; that’s another of the strange things about him. I don’t believe he would take or lay the odds en a dead certainty, or touch a card if a pany was the stake! He’s the very picture of good- ness, as far as those things go. He’s not close- fisted, either. I know a good many men he has helped with money—men he did not like— that’s the marvel; and yet he never speaks of what he has done, nor, for the matter of that, of what he has not done. I do believe that he doesn’t allow himself to know anything about himself.” At this conceit of his own about bis friend, Mr. Cecil Hewitt laughed heartily, and then puffed his cigar-smoke in such thick clouds that the air coon became half filled with it. Had it not been for this semi-obscurity, he would have seen how eagerly and impatiently Phillip Rosston leaned forward and listened to everything about Arthur Wildermoss, The good-tempered gentleman did not, how- ever, see this, but rattled along very agreeably about men and things after bi- own fashion all the way to Asbury, neither requiring nor ex- pecting any answer or comment from his now silent companion. The first person they encountered upon the platform as they alighted from the carriage was his friend himself, not in the most agree- able of moods, and evidently not much pleased with himself or mankind, “4 He was particularly displeased with Miss Maynard. Bhe had outwitted bim, and placed him in a false position, and the slight she had inflicted upon him caused a wound which not all his wealth or bis philosophy could heal. If he could but tame ber haughty spirit! If he could only cause her to fear him enough to acknowledge his superiority! If he could do more than that, and make her love him! Ah, that would a noble revenge! But it seemed hopeless. nd yet not, perhaps, quite hopeless. More extraordinary things had happened than that of a woman who began by bating a man—and he knew she hated bim—ending by loving him. It had been told in poem and story, and be had yay it often. Why should it not happen to er? But then, again, why should he so torment himself about this girl? A mere nobody—only a merchant’s daughter, if all wastrue. Nothing but an adventuress, if all was false. What did she mean by baving two names? Why did she go about with an alias to worry him and to torment his soul? Why should he be worried about her? Why not let her practice her deception, and do what she pleased without let or hindrance from him? Why? Because—and when he answered all these questions to himself, he felt how weak and insignificant he became in his own estima- tion—because he Joved ber. Yes, there was no doubt about it. He knew it—had known it—but never confessed it to himself. From the moment he first saw her he loved her,
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE, 19 When he thought of that, and of her triumph over bim at the moment he thought he had her at his very feet, he was ready to curse the love he felt for her, to curse ber, and to lay violent hands upon bimeelf, and end it all. This cold-hearted, calculating man had proved false to his own teachirgs. Bis utter indiffer- ence to the world’s griefs or sympathies, of which he was secretly proud, was upset, and he knew that it was an in posture upon himself, He resented this, in his mind, upon the one who had universally upset the cynicism of bis life, and had utterly demolished all his sophisti- cal arguments tbat the world did not contein a thought or a sentiment which a clever man need respect or do more homage to than such lip-service as society looked for and «expected. He felt that he could not endure tbat she should enjoy the triumph over kim; but he could see no way cut of the bonds in which she bad placed him. She had tied his tongue so se- curely, that he almost feared by accident to betray ber secret; for although be bad no inner respect for bis promise when bis angry love for her flashed across his mind, and made him feel hot, and cold, and angry all at the same mo- ment, yet he had lived so much the Jife of a gentleman, and had been so schooled, and bad so scbocled himself into the prcprieties and their observance, that it never once suggested itself, even in bis angriest mood with her, to break his word. Thus far she bed read his character aright, and bad secured her own safety from Lim by that reading. If she bad been less observant, or Jess quick, he would have held her at his mercy—and she knew what that meant, and shuddered at the thought—whereas it was he was bound to obey her orders, and to guard her secret with perfect faith and loyalty. All that she knew of this was.also known to bim, and again he was cut to the quick by the reflection. It was by pure eccident that he had strolled to the railway station, and it was with no great friendliness that he bowed to Phillip. while he shook the hand of bis friend, Mr. Ceci] Hewitt, whom he was glad to see, if for no other resson than he knew that gentleman could talk with- out expecting answers, end he was disinclined to do anything just now but listen. He there- fore, with another and more distant bow to Phillip, drew his friend away from that gentle- man, and jumping into bis T cart with him, gave the hcrse a fierce cut, and drove ata ter- rific pace away, not in the direction of the town. Phillip walked slowly toward the sea, for hav- ing arrived by an early train, he did not care just then to go straight to the house; besides which, be half hoped to find Alice either on the sands or at her favorite seat near the pier. He did not find her on the beach, which was covered by housemaids and their charges, oc- cupied with the usual seaside amusements, of which gossip and sand-digging were the prin- cipal. Not a few invalids, in their chairs, had been moored in sheltered spots, to gaze with sack luster eyes out upon the sea, There the white caps, very plentiful this morning, danced and sparkled as they chased each other in very wantonness of movement, while the iain flying overhead now and again darted into their midst, to seize some specially attractive morsel of food, which, once aun, they with arrow- like swiftness bore away. Resisting the pressing requests presented by tho half shore-going mariners to “‘ Have a sail this mornin’? Beautiful mornin’ for a sail!’ and heedless of the many appeals to buy the thousand and one useless things always upon sale at seaside resorts, and even declining to have his ‘‘ pboto took” by an artist unfamiliar with soap, and deeply dyed in nilrate of silver as regards his fingers, Phillip quitted the beach, and sought Alice upon the pier. She was not, however, there, although in his search for ber he attracted a good deal of at- tention, and had to run the gantlet of greeting from several friends and acquaintances, to al of whom be was bound to show some courtesy. At last he reached the shore again, having gone out to the extremest point, and returned without encountering her. He felt disinclined to seek her at the house at that time, so he turned his back upon the rapidly-filling pier, and a deaf ear to the band, which had just be- gun operations with selections from Tannbauser, and wandered along the sea-road. By some strange perversity of fate, he pur- sued in bis walk the very path which Alice had traversed, and paused to rest, as she had done, at the little inlet, even reclining in the very little nook, where she had fallen asleep, lulled by the busy waves, How was it that Mrs, Harmond, who had been away from Asbury ever since the day after Alice had seen her, traveling with her mad patient, had only returned on the very day selected by Phillip for his wanderings? By what evil chance had she selected the very hour that Poillip bad chosen for bis visit, and having so chosen, why bad Arthur Wildermoss, in his ‘T cart, with his friend, Mr, Hewitt, dreadfully alarmed by his friend’s furious driv- ing, dashed past at the very moment of her recognition by Mr, Rosston? Rapidly as the horse was traveling, Mr. Wildermoss’s quick eye had recognized her as well as Phillip, and noted, too, the start the latter gave at the meeting, Here was food for bitter thought. Both, then, knew the woman. She and Phillip had a secret in cammon, which his folly in making that promise did not allow him to discover, How he hated that Phillip Rosston, and hating him, how cruelly he lasked the noble horse he was driving, as if he had made the cut across that gentleman’s face—as he would dearly like to do—and thus set his disapproving mark thereon. When Mr. Hewitt entreated bim to spare the oor horse, he held his band foratime, and aughed a bitter laugh; meanwhile the T cart dashed on, and was soon far from the spot where Mrs, Harmond and Phillip stood watching the retreating vehicle. Along and interesting conversation passed between the two who had thus strangely met; and Phillip, without betrayal of his motive, very clearly showed the nurse how any allusion to the events at Buffalo, at that Particular time,
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20 A PERILOUS PLEDGE. would be the cause of great trouble to Alice and himself, Inthe course of this conversation he learned, very much to his relief, that the very day Alicé had encountered Mrs, Harmoud was the one on the evening of which he had noted Miss Maynard’s abstracted manner. His sus- picions tbat Arthur’s attendance upon the young lady in her walk home had been the cause of her apparent coldness to him were. re- moved, and he reproached himself for enter- taining them, Mrs. Harmond, although possessed of a full share of inquisitiveness, had too much respect for the young people not to assure him that she would be guarded in all she said; and Phil- lip left ber with greater peace of mind than the first sight of her seemed to promise, and turned his steps back to the town, eager to see Alice, and offer apologies for his doubts, and acquaint her with all that had passed. While he was proceeding thither by one road, Mr. Wildermoss was approaching the same by another, having made a complete cir- cuit at breakneck pace, much to the alarm and discomfort of Mr. Hewitt. That gentleman no sooner saw himself near the more thickly-popu- la'ed part, than he entreated his friend to allow him to alight, which request was at last sullenly acceded to, Mr. Hewitt resisted a pressing invitation te dine with his excited friend, and jumpingintoa passing carriage made straight for his own lodgings, vowing never again, under any cir- cumstances, toride in a T cart of which Arthur Wildermoss was charioteer. This defection of his friend, whom he would fain have kept near him for that evening at least, annoyed him very much, coming as it did so closely upon his other adventures; and he had nothing else to do than to drive to his ho- tel, and there, after finding fault with every- thing and every one, sif himself down in soli- tary grandeur to nurse his wrath. CHAPTER IX. AN INQUISITIVE STRANGER, “Tr is an immense relief to me, Alice, to have discovered your meeting with the nurse .that day. You know how vexed I was about your walking with Arthur Wildermoss.” ‘+ It would be as well, perhaps, to say no more on that subject.” ° “But you forgive me, do you not?” “Tt isnot for me either to judge or to for- give.” They were upon the pier; the night was beautifully calm, but there was no moon, and the place was, where they stood, almost deserted, ‘ ; Phillip spoke next, and his voice was very low and earnest. He took her hand in his, but her eyes were downcast, and she did not turn her bead in his direction. “T have been thinking,” said he, ‘‘ how fate- fully we have been brougbt together! Till a few short months ago we were utter strangers, yet think how inextricably our lives have been linked together. That dear girl, whose parting breath joined us in word and thought, must surely have realized how strong the bond must prove, cemented, as it has been, by her death.” “Ob, do not speak of her! It wrings my heart to reflect upon what I am, and how basely I have stolen intoa home to which I have no claim.” “T think, Alics, that everything that Mary ordered must be right. She had an insight into much that to us seems dark and unfathom- able. In the supreme agony of fast-approach- ing death, I believe it is given to the sufferer to speak with judgment almost more than mortal, h, listen 'to me, Alice! I have so longed to say to you bow much I love you!” “Oh, for pity’s sake, say no more! Such words from you are terrible!” “Terrible! And wherefore? You must have known long. ere this how deeply, how de- votedly—” ‘Mr, Rosston,” said the girl, in a voice broken with emotion, “I must ask you to be silent.” “You cannot be so cruel! What harm do we do in speaking of a love like mine—like ours? Oh, let me say like ours!” “Tt were madness even to think of it. But stay, Phillip; I do owe you some explanation, because I would not have you think me either cold or false. Were circumstances different, I could say, ‘I love you; but I should be wanting in candor and truth if I said those words now.’ ‘But you can say them—believe me, you can!” He was very eloquent in his pleading; but she was not to be swayed by his entreaties then. “You must listen to me. It is for honor’s sake, You know meas Alice Maynard. Others know me, alas! by the name of that dear dead girl. I have no claim to either.” “What do you mean?” “That Ido not know my name; that I never knew my parents, and that I am an impostor under a false name, no matter what I may call as oats because I know nothing of who or what am. ’ “The dearest girl in the whole world!” he ex- claimed, as he attempted to pass his arm around her waist—a movement from which he at once desisted upon a look from her. ‘*No; there must be no weakness on my part. If I indulged in the hope that some day I might be happy in the Jove of an honest man, that hope is denied me, for Iam without that which the world demands from all who would enter the sacred domestic circle—a family and a name, I have feared this meeting, because—” “ Because what? Speak, Alice!” “Because I loved you, Phillip. No, no; do not heed that now! I bave looked into my heart, ‘You are there enshrined as the only one [ can ever love; but I know that I can never wed you.” ‘* Alice, this is to be over-sensitive. Your love sanctifies all. What does if matter to me whence you spring? How does your parentage affect me? As for the world, I despise it!” “I do not, Phillip, because I must live or perish by its judgment, You, as a man, may almost fearlessly despise many worldly judg- ments; we poor women must respect them ail, or we are lost.”
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a A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 21 «But I would wed you as Mary Taylor—the name bequeathed to you by one J Joved.” “That would be crime upon crime. Ob, no, Phillip! do not rob me of my courage. We can never wed!” “Will you not listen to my entreaties?” “To what end? That they may change my resolution? ‘You cannot ask me to do tbat, knowing what I think—remembering what I have said. Let us now go home.” . Without another word, she passed her arm through his; and he, scarce knowing what he did, turned and Jed her away. He knew ‘hat all she had said wastrue. He knew that her noble womanly instincts were correct and could not be denied, and he also knew that he was an unbappy man. About this time, the out-of-door population of Asbury became very much interested in the do- ings of an individual who daily fre quented all the public resorts of that fashionable and rather prim watering-place. He was first noticed by the boatmen, with whom he soon made friends, by his perfect free- and-easy bearing, and by the amusing charac- ter of bis conversation, They welccmed his coming after his second stroll amorg them with every mark of pleasure;and eltbcugb bis yarns wers sometimes of the toughest, they were narrated with such apparent simplicity that it was impossible to throw any doubt upon their veracity. One or two of the hardier beachmen ventured to demur toa few of his narrations, lut they were so overwhelmed with otber and more marvelous tales, that they acknowledged their defeat, and became converts to the power of invention possessed by the stranger. The men and women belonging to the public bath-houses, with whom he also conversed very freely, were equally pleased witb him, and it was curious to notice how they abandoned their peculiar industries in the clothes-drying line when they saw him very leisurely strolling to- ward them, with a huge cigar at an angle of thirty degrees in his moutb, and bis hands buried meditatively in his trowsers pocket. The individual in question was of such a peculiar type that he might have beep put down of any age and of any occupation, or none; he might have been a journalist, a farmer, an engineer, oa advertisement agent, a detective or a mere idler. He was tall and thin, and had a loose, sham- bling gait, a sallow complexion, with rather prominent cheek-bones, a pair of small, piercing gray eyes, a pleasant mouth, and neither beard nor mustache, He spoke in a clear, rapid man- ner, and seemed to have visited every quarter of the glabe, and was quite at home wherever he found himself, He understood several foreign languages, but never spoke any other than English, and that apparently without any pecul- jarity of speech which might identify him with any particular locality. He was very cosmopolitan, and had plenty of “assurance, but was not lacking in courtesy of manner or speech. Two days after Mr. Rosston’s interview with Alice, the individual described sauntered on the pie. and when near the sea-end appeared to ecome deeply interested in the piscatorial pur- suits of some excursionists who were trying !0 insnare the wary finny tribe with fine whaling lines and small sbark-hooks. Oddly enough, a like interest in the fishing was evinced by Mr. Hewitt as he sat smoking bis cigar and inhaling the ozone, “A very artful game that, isn’t it? said the stranger, edging up close to the smoker, Mr. Hewitt looked up, took the measure of the speaker with his eye, and perceiving that he was neither a dead-beat nor a peddler, ventured to sav: “Yes, very.” “They ought to read up their sea-fishing a mite, Those lines are big enough to hold a whale or at least a blue-fish, which 1 consider the finest species of the finny tribe, to be bad in perfection only at Newport, Rhode Island. Better than most any other kind, and only ex- celled in quality by the New Orleans Pomponeau, and that isa morsel fit for the gods.” “You appear to be a bit of a gourmand.” “Tam a gourmet, sir, and am not ashamed to own it. A gourmand would eat a whole turkey, stuffed with oysters, at one sitting, while gourmet would linger over a reed bird as long as the limpid lusciousness held out,” “ Pardon my mistake, I see the difference, thanks to your way of putting it.” “Don’t mention it; the error is a very com- mon one, Ihave observed it even in buffalo- hump-eating and in dining off roasted mon- keys.” “Roasted monkeys?” “That surprises you, So it did me, but I soon got used to it. [am not quite so particular since [subsisted four days on the cover of a French dictionary, It saved my life, but did not give me a Parisian accent.” “You have been a traveler?” inquired Mr, Hewitt, much amused and interested, “T have traveled a ‘few.’ Yes, I am consider- able of a traveler; butI have not yet visited oither of the poles.” “The poles?” “Arctic and Antarctic. Very interesting, I am informed, but rather cold and sloppy. I incline more to the tropics. A roam over the pampas with Guachos—abominable feed- ers those butchering fellows are!—or a trip up the Amazon are much more agreeable than whaling in Greenland, I tried that once, but infinitely preferred turtle-hunting at Ascen- sion. ‘You must have seen a great deal of the world?” ‘* Yes, considerable; and I hope to see more of it before I pass in my checks,” “Pass in your checks?” “A Californian mode of alluding to death. It is not considered polite to speak of it in any other way in that awfully healthy coun- ry. ‘ ate Pig why?” ecause they say that when people get ve old there, and won’t die, they ake thea vod grate. It_is the only way_to insure elbow- room for the young ones, Ever been on the Pacific?” “ Never!” “Take my advice—don’t go. It is such a
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22 A PERILOUS PLEDGE, magnificent country, that if you do not: admire earth, sky, sea, and the gold-miues, and nature and art at every turn, the inhabitants dislike you. Icouldn’t keep my rapture up to Fr’isco mark, and they asked me to ‘go East.’” “How very odd!” exclaimed Mr. Hewitt, staring in great amazement at the speaker, un- certain which to admire the more, his mendac- ity or bis fluency; for all was said without a smile upon his face, and with a simplicity of manner perfectly marvelous. “Ever been in the West, sir?’ asked the stranger. ‘ Never; Lintend to go someday. Iam told there is good shooting. Iam fond of game.” “They have plenty of that, from a guizzly toa ’possum, and no end of prairie chicken, and, in fact, every kind of animal down to a skeeter.” ‘A ’skeeter?” “ A mosquito, Ishould bave said. It is one of the creatures, sir, in this world that blows its own horn, very much tothe annoyance of other people. Are you staying at a hotel?” ** No; I have rooms in town.” ‘Ah, a deal more comfortable and much more expensive. Curious people — seaside lodging-house keepers are—very like octopi. Once get within their deadly grasp, and they won’t leave you as long as you are worth hold- ing on to.” *“ Have they ever fleeced you?’ No; but they have tried. I’m 9. mere bird —odd bird, you think, I dare say—a mero bird of porsaze, here to day, gone to-morrow—gen- erally gone to-morrow, though. If ever I stay- ed long enough in a place to care where I lived, Tu hire a house.” * Just what a friend of mine has done. He’s a New York man, and an uncommonly nice fellow. He took a cottage and lives very com- fortably that way.” “City man! Perhaps I know bim—know most city men worth knowing. Let’s see; there’s Smith, and Brown, and Rothschild, and Taylor, and—” “That is the gentleman’s name.” “ What, Rothschild?” “No, Taylor. He lives over there.” The stranger followed with bis eyes the direc- tion of Mr. Hewitt’s index finger, and smiled as he answered; * Ah, that’s it, is it? The Taylor I know is something in the dry-goods busiuess—linen, I believe.” “That is the very gentleman I alluae to. But I have never met you there—I mean at his town-house.” “Have you not? Well, that is odd, because if I had been there you ought to have met me. But the fact is, I never was at his house.” “Ah, indeed!” replied Mr. Hewitt, all at once withdrawing every show of cordiality which had been gradually developing itself in him. ‘Does not visit the house,” he thought. “Phen he’s not up to much”—a conclusion often arrived at, but not always correctly. The talkative stranger perceived the change of manner in Mr. Hewitt, and as quickly un- derstood the reason, He was not long in an- swering; ‘No, we met abroad—have never had the time to look him up in New York. Met him in Paris—that’s no place to meet a friend in— there’s so much gadding about that one never gets rest, and rest is what f like.” No one would have thought so to look at bim, for he seemed strung upon wires, so excitedly did he move about while talking, Mr. Hewitt recovered a little of his suavity of manner after this explanation, and deigned to ask the stranger if he was going to remain long in Asbury. “LT really don’t know. I wanted to run over to Norway for some fishing or take a tour round the Diamond Fields at the Cape, but perhaps I sball only go up the Nile, and have another peep at the Pyramids, or hunt up Stanley on the Congo.” The listener to such a discursive programme opened his eyes very wide indeed as be looked at this modern Wandering Jew, and he puzzled himself to think what and who he was. The stranger seemed gratified that he had excited Mr. Hewitt’s curiosity, for he continued: “Tsee you think mea little erratic. Perhaps Iam, but I cannot help it, Ailow me to pre- sent you with my card!” And with these words he gave My, Hewitt a neat piece of paste- board, on which was engraved in German text characters: ** Ezra L. Peckham.” “Thanks!” he said, after reading it; and then Seawane his own card, he offered it with a sinile. “* Cecil Hewitt!) T used to know a Hewitt once—met him at Melbourne or Singapore, I really forget which, A most agreeable mau— I know he was agreeable, for he saved my life from—yes, from a tiger—therefore it must have been at Singapore. Tigers are very abundant out there. And how is Mr. Taylor?—I hope he is well?” ** Quite well, when I last saw bim. He comes down here occasionally. Only bis wife and Miss Taylor live here, you know.” “To be sure! His wife and daughter, did you say? I did not know he hada daughter—that is, I didn’t remember her.” ‘Oh, yes, he had a daughter. She came not very long ago fronr a part of the country you know very well—California.” ‘*Indeed! Oh, yes, of course, now I do re- member—she came from Frisco, didn’t she?” “Yes, I think she did—that is to say, I’m sure she did,” - * Let me see; a dark girl, isn’t she?” “On the contrary, she has fair hair and blue eyes. ‘“*To be sure! I was thinking of the daughter of the Monte Video Taylor,a banker. Ever been to Monte Video?” ** Never.” **It is not worth going so fartosee. Istayed a month there before I went to Madagascar; but I didn’t like the place,” “What part of the known world, my dear sir, have you not visited?” “The poles! I mentioned just now I had never been to either, And how does Miss Tay- lor like New York?” “Ske says very little about it, or any other place.”
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 23 ‘Reserved, eh? How singular! Most people who have lived in the West are communicative. | I almost caught the babit myself; but I checked it in time. It does not do to say too much. How glad Mrs, Tavlor must be to have her daughter back again!” “But she is not Mrs. Taylor’s daughter; she is | voly her step-daughter.” “To be sure! My memorv must be failing me not to remember that. Her step-daughter to be sure, for Mr, Taylor has been twice mar- ried. That would make Amanda Mrs. Taylor’s step-daughter.” “Amanda? Her name is Mary!” “Mary, I mean. Are you sureitis Mary” ‘ ca wes; at any rate that is what they call er. ‘And of course they know. It is a wise father that knows bis daughter’s name, is it not? And so Mary, having returned from Cali- fornia, lives here with her step-mother. How disagreeable that must be for both!” ‘On the contrary, they love each other dearly.” “Before company, you mean? Women al. ways do that,” ‘“No; they have a sincere affection for each oa 7 assure you, and Mary is a most lovable ir ‘* Ah, is that the way the wind sits? Excusc me, but a handsome man like yourself canuotl help admiring a beautiful woman.” he flattery was not very delicately adminis- tered, but Mr. Hewitt accepted it graciously, although, with a sigh, be replied: “Oh, dear, no! Lam not a marrying man; in fact, I shall never marry; but a friend of mine is very much smitten with Miss Taylor, and would be only too glad to marry her if she would have him.” “ Why will she not accept him?” “T do not think—in fact, I know that he has not asked her.” ** Ts he so bashful?” “No; Arthur Wildermoss is not sfflicted thai way; but he is cynical.” “In other words, he’s so proud of himself that he despises every one else?” “Tf you put it in that way, yes; but there’s another reason in the shape of one she pre- fers. “This is really interesting. I have such a re- spect for Mr. Taylor, that anything concerning bis household interests me deeply. Whom does she prefer?” A As he said this, Mr. Peckham looked anxious- ly at Mr. Hewitt, awaiting a reply. ‘“‘ There’s a cousin, you know—Mr. Rosston. He traveled with her from San Francisco, and I suppose the journey developed a sort of attach- ment to each other.” ‘* And I was forgetting Mr. Rosston all this time; Iam sure my memory is failing me. oo really ashamed of being so stupid and dull.” He looked neither dull nor stupid as he said this, but rather sharp and clever, He had not, however, quite done with Mr. Hewitt, and he continued: “Well, there’s no great harm in cousins lov- ing each other, is there? But it is rather hard on your friend, Mr. Wildermoss. It must be confessed he has not much chance.”, “No; that troubles me.” “Troubles you? You are not his brother, or his sister, or his aunt. Why shculd bis disap- pointment trouble you?” * Because his temper is so flerce, although few people know it, If be and Rosston were ever to quarrel over the girl, it would be a seri- ous matter.” Mr. Peckbam was silent for a moment, as if in thought, and then said: “Tf your friend. has such a bad temper as that, he’d better take a leaf cut of my book, and go upon a little excursion—say to Teneriffe, or to Cabul, or—apy where!” “7 wish be would, for I do not like the chance of their meeting when Arthur’s temper is roused.” “* As bis friend, my dear sir, I think it is your duty to whisk him cff to some place far enough to prevent their meeting. ButJ see igjs getting on for luncheon-time, hope I shell have the pleasure of meeting you egain. Good-morn- ing.” ‘“Good-morning. Glad to have met you!” When Mr. Peckham turned away, Mr. Hewitt thought bim an idle chatterer to allow his pri- vate business to be laid bare so easily, and he drew a mental comparison between such loqua- city and bis (Hewitt’s) own well-governed taci- turnity. CHAPTER X. MAD FOR LOVE. As Mr. Peckham walked toward the hotel he- laughed quietly to himself at the successful re-- sult of bis pumping experiment upon Mr. Cecil’ Hewitt, who had literally stocked him with in- formation without receiving anything but a name upon a card in refurn. If Mr. Hewitt was not a marrying man, his sister Adelaide was a marrying women, She was his junior by several years, and was an at- tractive girl of the modern type, very fond of dress, of admiration, and very desirous of hav- ing an establishment of her own, with a bus- band on whom she could place her affections, and who would reflect credit upon her choice, She met her brother on bis return to bis board- ing-place after his interview with the talkative stranger, having secured apartments in the same house. She was certainly handsome; and as she rosa to meet Cecil, and with calm dignity gave bim sisterly kiss, even he was impressed with her eauty. She was a brunette, with well-marked fea- tures, graceful carriage, and a reposeful man- ner, quite in accordance with the rigorous de- mands for repression of all emotion, which high life imposes. “My dear Cecil, Tam so glad to see you. I feared that Ishould have been Jeftall alone in this lace until dinner-time. How have you been? amma sends her love, and is so sorry she can- not come, but you know papa’s gout has forced them to go to tbe mount’ins. I cannot bear be- ing home alone, sol ran down to spend a few days with you.” ‘IT am delighted to see you, Adelaide; but
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ai A PERILOUS PLEDGE, sey is only sisterly affection that brought you ere? “What can you mean?” she asked, slightly blushing under his glance. “T thought you might have had some other attraction to allure you.” “You musé really explain yourself, for I am quite unable to guess your meaning.” ‘* Arthur Wildermoss is here. I suppose Jewetson told you; he generally tells you all the news.” ‘He certainly did tell me Arthur was here, but I do not know that his movements interest e.”” ‘Well, well, I suppose not; but lam glad you have come, for you may be able to direct his somewhat erratic course. I really think he does pay some deference to your opinions.” ‘You may lay claim to that discovery, for indeed I was not aware of it.” This spggch of her brotber’s afforded her, how- ever, very great satisfaction, for she had long looked upon Mr. Wildermoss as a very desir- able person to assume the mastership of that house of hers, which she was so anxious to S8eSS, She did not love him—that would be too com- monplace—but she liked him, and she and her family could not but approve of him, for his social position was undoubted, The inforced trip of her father and mother gave her the very chance she had seized of quietly looking up Mr. Wildermoss, and she relied upon her brother’s assistance in the pleasant task. Adelaide’s visit was not altogether an agreeable one for Mr. Hewitt at this juncture, as he was very much troubled about Arthur’s conduct, which did not seem to hold out any immediate prospect of success for his sister’s matrimonial projects. It may seem somewhat unmaidenly on the part of Miss Hewitt to appear to run after any one; but the beau monde is very lenient in such cases, and rather approves a little enterprise in affairs of the sort, provided always that they are undertaken and carried out strictly en regle, Miss Hewitt’s prospects did not, however, look very bright, although she and Mr, Wilder- moss met on the following day upon the pier and exchanged greetings apparently of a very cordial character. The girl’s quick preception saw at a glance how distrait bis manner was, and she could not deny to hersel? that he had evidently no thought of continuing a flirtation from which she had hoped till now an offer would result. t was a cruel blow to her vanity, and she at once concluded, woman-like, that a rival had attracted his thoughts. The intuitive reeptions of the female mind in this and kindred subjects is truly mar- velous, She determined, however, not to yield her purpose without a struggle, and consequently employed her brother, who was really fond of her, to bring Arthur very often into their com- pany. She planned, and Cecil arranged several picnics, drives, excursions and dinners, at which their friend duly attended, although his mind constantly wandered to matters other than those in which he was supposed to be in- terested. But Adelaide Hewitt finally realized that her chance was hopeless, and she began ser- iously to speak of joining her parents at the Catskills, Cecil encouraged her views, for he was rapid- ly becoming fatigued with Arthur’s strange be- havior. If anything delayed Miss Hewitt’s departure, it was the strong desire she had of becoming acquainted with the unknown rival who had foiled her schemes, Chance aided her in this wish. Afew days after her preparatory notes of flight from Asbury had been sounded, she ard her brother were invited to dine at the Taylors’, the head of that house having made arrangements for a few days’ continued resi- dence at his sea-side home, and having also provided for Mr. Rosston’s absence from the city. Mr. Jewetson had preceded them, after assuring such of his club friends as he could find in deserted New York, that the Banks, the Stock Exchange, and the centers of trade and finance would have to get on without him for a brief period, and hinting that any hard-up foreign country would have to sus- eo their monetary negotiations until he got back, These warnings uttered, the old dandy prepar- ed himself for conquest and enjoyment, The dinner was eminently successful, if re- garded only as a feast. The chef from the New York mansion was fully equal to the occasion, and the viands were of the rarest, while the wines were remarkable for variety and value, Mrs. Taylor was a charming hostess, Mr, Taylor a genial host, and Alice and Phillip aid- ed them in every way to give eclat to the en- tertainment, In addition to Mr. Wildermoss, Cecil, his sis- ter, and Mr. Jewetson, there were several of the most distinguished personages then resident in Asbury. The meeting between Adelaide and Alice was unmarked by any outward show of dislike upon the part of the former; while Miss May- nard, anxious to please the sister of Mr. Hewitt, whom she liked, was cordial and sincere in her grecting. The disappointed girl could not find it in her heart to repulse Alice’s friendly overtures, so much was she struck by the open honesty of her manner; and before long they found themselves conversing very affably together. The fact is, that Adelaide quickly perceived that it was Arthur who loved, or who thought he loved, Miss Maynard; while she seemed totally indifferent to his attentions, which were very marked throughout the evening. After dinner, the company, encouraged by the fineness of the weather, determined upon an excursion to the shore; so, after the usual cere- monies of cloaking, shawling, and putting on of wraps by the ladies, and the lighting of cigars and cigarettes by the gentlemen, had been com- pleted, they left the house. Mr. Wildermoss was still constant in his at- tendance upon Alice, but was much annoyed to ey »—
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A PERILOUS PLEDGE. 25 find that Adelaide Hewitt pertinaciously re- mained by her side, and that, moreover, she managed to retain Phillip near them both. It may be readily imagined that thisarrange- ment was particularly disagreeable to him, who had counted on having an opportunity of es- corting Miss Maynard, and who had in reality determined to make a serious offer of his hand that very night, having, indeed, only accepted the invitation to divner with that object in view, He could not get over the mortification he suf- fered at having heen so completely subjugated by the girl’s ready tact; and turn the matter in his mind as he might, be felt himself dominated hy an unconquerable passion, which, knowing its hopeless cbaracter, nearly drove bim mad. The more he struggled egainst this feeling, the greater hold it appeared to take of him, un- til at last be felt that to possess her no sacrifice | b would be too great. Thus loving her, almost to the point of hatred for her greater power of mind, be determined, rather than lose her, to make her Mrs, Wildermoss. The secret which enveloped her, instead of causing him to hesitate or draw back, seemed to urge him forward, Once his wife, he would compel her to dis- | close her history—force her to love him by an adoration on his part almost servile. What mattered it to him what she was called | —whence she came—who she was? If he loved her—if he raised her to the position of Mrs. Wiidermoss, would not all be atoned—all for- gotten? The thought of his father, proud old man, ob- truded itself: but in his mad love he thrust that aside. Of what account was family pride com- pared to the possession of ruch » woman? What cared he if the blord of all the Wildermosses flo- ed in his veins? If it did, that blue blood was stirred now—and to madness—for love of this adventuress; and as he thought of it, he set his teeth and clinched bis hands, almost cursing her for her power over him, exclaiming: ‘‘ She piust be mine!” Such feelings—so near akin to insanity—made him no very attractive companion to the two | young girls, while to Phillip the presence of Arthur was particularly irksome. The rest of the company who lingered bebind Alice and her companions soon after retraced their steps to the house, the night having be- | come very dark by heavy clouds which arose se» ward, and soop obscured the moon, Miss Maynard then perceived that they had goue very far indeed away from the house, and she immediately proposed to return, as she was | apprebensive that Mrs, Taylor would be anxious | about them, To the relief of Adelaide, Alice and Phillip, | Arthur, no longer hoping for a chance to speak to Alice alone, announced bis intention of con- tinuing bis walk under some shallow excuse, and constrainedly taking his leave, he walked hastily | away, and was soon lost in the darkness. The others at once retraced their steps, Ade- lside leaving Miss Maynard at the door, and going bome with her brother, who was waiting jor ber, As she and he walked side by side not a word | was exchanged, Miss Hewitt being too busied | with her reflections regarding the destruction of |her hopes, and in her beart absolving Alice | from any willful share in ber disappointment. Cecil was tired, having been much bored by Mr. Jewetson’s city talk, which compared unfavor- ably to the conversation of Mr. Taylor, who never by any chance alluded to business, and he decided that the old dandy was, like many men, most disposed to speak of what he knew least about, Phillip was not encouraged by Alice’s manner to say one word about what was always upper- most in his thoughts, but was inwardly at peace, | for he felt that his patience had every hope of being rewarded, He left her, therefore, after rather a formal good-night, and turned toward the pier, with the intention of taking a waik before going to ed. He strolled up and down the deserted prom- enade, wondering much what the future would bring forth, and just as he was upon the point of quitting the place, he found his passage barred by Arthur Wildermoss, whom he believed far off at the time upon the beach. ‘‘One moment, Mr. Rosston, if you please; I want to say a few words to you.” “T am quite at your service.” ‘“‘May | ask you, Mr. Rosston, if you have known Miss Taylor for any length of time?” “You may ask that question Mr. Wildermoss, and there is no reason why I should not unswer it; but before doing so will you permit me, in return, to ask you why you desire to know?” Phillip’s voice was not raised, nor did his manner betray anything except slight annoy- ance; yet his interrogator eagerly seized upon such a trifling pretext to reply sharply, and almost rudely, ‘‘I do not recognize your right toask that, but I may say that it is for Miss Taylor's benefit that I should be informed.” Rosston mastered his anger at the tone the other had adopted, and very quietly responded, “T bave known Miss Taylor for rather more than four months. I met her first at San Fran- cisco, traveled with her from there to Buffalo, and from Buffalo to this place. Have you any other questions to ask?” “Thave!l” was the fierce, abrupt answer. “Do you love her?” “Mr. Wildermoss, you forget yourself!” “You think so, do you? Not at all; Ido not forget myself, and if ever I should do so, it will be when I remember you!” His locks, voice, and manner were so offen- sive that Phillip pesca naa lg fearful of say- ing anything to compromise lice, or to still further irritate Arthur, whom he sup correctly, of course, to be intoxicated, “You seem to bave lost your voice, Mr, Rosston,” the excited man remarked. “Or is it only your inability to answer my question that keeps you silent?” Phillip, disdaining to answer, made a move- ment toreturn by the way he had come, but Arthur again barred his passage by standing exactly in front of him; seeing which, Mr, Rosston came also to a stand, yet resolved to | keep silence if his patience would endure the” i posed, in-
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25 A PERILOUS PLEDGE. He had not long to wait before it was severely tried by Arthur, who volubly poured forth his reproach and invective. **T asked you if you loved Miss Taylor, but you have either not sufficient courage to declare your love, or you are cupningly trying to evade my question. But I will have an answer. Do you hear? I will have an answer! Why man, it she despised you, scorned you, heeded you no more than the dust beneath her feet, you might, if you loved her, be proud to pro- claim that love aloud to the whole world!” “T pray you let me pass,” said Phillip, seeing sade wildly Arthur looked, and how madly he spoke, “*No; you shall not leave me in doubt as to our sentiments for the lady! Do you think hat I will allow you to love her, and—what is ten million times worse—permit her to love you? Why, you would do nothing to prove our love; you would not value the priceless »o0n of such alcove as hers! .No, don’t speak, for I know what it is to love. Look at me; she hates—despises me, looks on me with contempt, and—ob, dreadful thought!—she pities me! Well, I love her!—I love her, 1 tell you! - Knowing how she loathes the sight of meand the sound of my voice, I love her! I would for her sake, and to win one such smile as she be- stows on you, do auything that man dare do! I would sacrifice duty, honor, and life for her! And yet you—you, cold and calculating as you are, dare not tell me that you love her! It is water, not blood, that flows in your veins!” And he paused for sheer exhaustion. Again Paillip, making a movement to pass, spoke, although it cost him a mighty effort not to break out into anger with the man who faced him, and whose eyes gleamed in the half-dark- ness with a demoniac glance upon him. “T have told you, Mr. Wildermoss, that I will not allow myself to enter into a discussion of any question which, in my opinion, does not become a gentleman to speak of. Good-night.” “JT tell you,” thundered the other, ‘‘ that you must listen to mo, and you shall!” “ And I say to you,” exclaimed Rosston, now thoroughly enraged at the other’s pertinacity and insolence, ‘that I will not hear another word! You shall not drag me into an unseem- ly quarrel, nor cast a doubt by such a proceed- ing upon the noblest and bestof women! Stand aside, and let me pass!” A loud derisive laugh was the only answer he received, and as he attempted to move away, Artbur Wildermoss sprung upon and seized him by the throat. Tn an instant the dreadful truth flashed upon Phillip that it was a madman whom he had to contend with, If any doubt of this for an in- stant oppressed bim it was resolved by the sav- age clutch with which the insane man held him. The dark clouds which bad been traveling across the moon seemed to Phillip’s senses now to be literally racing—all grew black before his gaze, and he became insensible. Meanwhile the maniac, for such he was, at- tempted to drag the man whom he held in bis unrelaxing grasp toward the railiog of the pier with the full purpose of casting him into the ocean, which, with the rising winds, beat and dashed and broke in spray with furious might. He had succeeded in putting the unresisting form clcse to the edge, when, slipping upon the saturated planks, he himself fell over the rail, and, with an awfui yell of foiled revenge and maddened agony, fell into the boiling waves and disappeared, CHAPTER XI. THE END OF IT ALL. How long Phillip was insensible he knew not; but he awoke from a heavy sleep to find himself upon a sofa before a blazing fire, with Mr. Ezra Peckbam, in his shirt sleeues, looking anxiously at bim. “Where am I?” said Phillip, staring in amaz- ed semi-consciousness around him, and particu- larly at Mr. Peckham, who, the moment he beard Rosston’s voice, laughed heartily, rubbed his hands in glee, and then began furicusly to poke the fire. “Where are you?” he at length said, when he had completed these performances. ‘t Why youre there—right there—upon the sofa in front of a good fire—that’s where you are!” “How did I come here? Where did I come from?” “ Almost out of the jaws of death, young man, that’s where you came from! But first, before we get interested in any talking, take a long drink of this!” “This,” which was in a huge tumbler, was a spiced drink of very grateful flavor and of very potent strength; and Phillip, supported by the thoughtful Ezra, after taking a generous draught acknowledged its virtue by immediately declar- ing that be felt much better. “ That’s egg-nogg, a very pretty kind of bev- erage, and good for almost any complaint. Does it brace you up, and put life into you?” “It is wonderfully restorative, But tell me— how is it that I am here?” “ Well, I took you off the pier last night, sent for a doctor, and he and I liave brought you round—thanks to his giving you nothing but attention, and to my keeping you warm and quiet; those are the best medicines for almost any complaint.” Phillip Jay quite still while Mr. Peckham was speaking, and as be thus lay, all that happened came back to his memory. The “ good-night” to — the meeting with Wildermoss—he knew it all. When he had mastered the whole detail in his mind, he turned bis eyes upon Mr, Peckham, and that gentleman, rightly guessing the nature of the unspoken question, answered, briefly, “Dead! Fell over the side of the pier trying to throw you into the sea. The body was found the first tide this morning. His friends know all about it; but there’ll be no inquest, on ac- count of the family.” Another look of Phillip’s was answered with equal promptitude, ‘‘ Mad as a March hare— mad through love! That’s always the worst kind of insanity.” For a long time no word was spoken between Phillip and bis friend—the one lost in thought and grief at the untimely end of a man whom
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A PEKILOUS PLEDGE, 27 he knew must leave many sorrowing friends behind him, and who, though he had attempted murder, was saved even from reproach by mad- ness. Then he thought with generous kindness of the poor fellow who had gone mad through love for one he loved so dearly, Mr. Peckham, at last broke the silence by saying, ‘‘ You don’t remember me, do you?” *‘T have been looking at you, and it seems to me we have met before?” “ Where?” “In Illinois—at the town of Cairo, where the Missi sippi and Ohio rivers commingle.” ‘““At a trial concerning some goods lost on their way toSan Francisco—” “Consigned to Taylor Brothers of that city. You've guessed right this time, too.” ‘You were on our side.” “T was, and I am happy to say I won the case. How do you do?” And Mr. Peckham rose and formally shook hands with Phillip. “‘ Well, itis a lucky chance that I am here at Asbury this very minute—that is, lucky for you.” ““Whatdo you mean?” “ Are you strong enough to heara little news? Take another sip of egg-nogg. No? That’s all right. Then listen!” *‘T am strong enough to hear anything now —I am almost well,” “ That’s hearty! Well,the old lady knows all!” Phillip sat bolt uprigit on the sofa, and stared at Mr. Peckbam to seeif be had also gone mad; but that gentleman baving resumed his whittling, continued, without noticing Rosston’s astonishment, “The old lady knows all, This is how itis, I have been up to Mr. Taylor’s house, have seen Mrs. Taylor, told her about the property in Tennessee left by her late husband —shot asa spy, although be wasn’t one—and she’s well fixed as regards cash for the rest of her days.” “ But I never first. husband.” “No more did your uncle. It was a mar- riage contracted hastily when she was on a visit from New York State toa sister living in Nash- ville, The man she married was a wealthy planter, who fell heai-over-heels in love with her at first sight. They were as bappy as man and wife could be until the Rebellion broke out, and he went on the Union side of the question. Well, that r’iled his relations, who were all bigh- toned Southerners, and when he was shot by a lot of blackguard guerrillas they swore he was a traitor, and that bis rig oh yhad been confis- cated to the Federals, to keep her from getting it. “You amaze me!” “Not more tian IT amazed Mrs. Taylor, I reckon; but we both agreed to say nothing about Mr. Destouches—that was her first hus- band’s name—for that and other reasons.” “Other reasons?” “*- Yes: one of them concerns Miss Mary.” Phillip started, and was on the point of say- ing something to divert the conversation until he could recover his presence of mind; but Mr. Peckham, in the most busivess-like way, pro- cecded; knew that Mrs. Taylor hada ‘“When I say Miss Mary, of course I mean Miss Alice Maynard, I know all about it— pumped the old nurse after I had pumped Mr, Cecil Hewitt, and it wasn’t five minutes before Iscented out the whole plot. It was an inno- cent kind of one, after all; but it might have turned out an awkward affair if I hadn’t found out who Alice Maynard really was.” Phillip lay back in speechless wonderment listening to this Mr. Peckham, the Illinois law- yer, laying bare the secrets of a New York home at a New York fireside. It was amazing! But when he spoke of Alice Maynard in the way he did, Philip felt hot and cold by turns, and could scarcely whisper, “For heaven’s sake, tell me all!” “Just what 1 am about to do; bat keep quiet, or I shall have to telephone for the doctor. Well, the Jong and short of itis, that when you brovgbt Alice Maynard, as you thought ber, to your unele’s house to be loved by him as bis daughter, you were bringing Annette Destou- ches right straight into her mother’sarms. That was another plot of ber father’s precious rela- tives, They stole ber child, put ber under cbarge of old Jake Maynard, a Missouri farmer and pretended to Mrs. Destouches that she liad been Jost during the war. They did that so that neither mother nor daughter sbould ever claim the property. Artful, wasn’t it? But I reckon they'll have to own up now, for we've got a clear record of the nefarious scheme, thanks to some inquiries which that good old soul, Pro- fessor Van Oppen, started before he died, and which we coaxed out of his widow's hands and completed up to date. Whatd’ye think of itall?” Phillip didn’t just then know what to think, sv he said nothing; but sat looking at Mr. Peck- ham, who went on: “T needn’t tell you that was good news for Annette, alias Alice, alias Mary. She was the bappiest girl I ever saw, and she fairly laughed and fainted and cried for happiness when Mrs, Taylor hed her in her arms, all right now.” “ And this all oecurred—” “Not two bours ago, while you were lying there in a sort of uneasy sleep, with the doctor holding on to your pulse so that you shouldn’t slip through his fingers. I bad to hurry up the news to the old lady, for fear you might take the wrong turning between life and death.” “You are indeed a kind friend!” “ Wait until you see my bill of costs before you say that; but there! I know. I’m all right upon the dollars and cents question; but I’ve not told you all.” “Every word you utter is full of wonder.” “hat’s very complimentary; but, mind, this is all in the way <f business, for I and my part- ner are the agents for the Destouches Estate, and we shall make a good thing out of all this, But now for the sentimental part of my brief, After Mrs. Taylor and Miss Annette bad kissed and hugged each other as only a mother and a Gaugbter can do, and after they had shed lots of tears of joy, as ny women-folks can do, they both thought that it would be cruel to un- deceive Mr. Taylor about her not being Mary after all, since the old gentleman had got tolove her so much. §So they are not going to tell him
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28 A PERILOUS PLEDGE. FD SR Se RS Dr Ee Te NS POE ae eH EVES anything, except that I found a fortune for his wife; that won't displease him. We are to say aothing about that first husband, and we are sot going to make Miss Annette out to be a Destouches, but leave her for your old uncle to love and caress as Mary Taylor, provided—” “What?” “That you consent!” said a pretty, gentle voice; and in another moment Annette Des- touches was claspedin Phillip’s arms, while Mrs, Taylor, radiant with happiness, stood contem- plating them. And it was so settled. For many months old Mr. Taylor enjoyed the society of the good, amiable girl whom he be- lieved to be his Mary; and even when she left him to become Mrs. Phillip Rosston, his heart was not broken, for he often had her and her husband’s society. Mrs. Taylor seemed, when the trouble and suspense of the past had been lifted, to gather new life, and her existence was doubly blessed in the secret love of a daughter, and the thor- ough esteem of a husband, whom she now right- ly appreciated. Miss Adelaide Hewitt did eventually secure a cich and aristocratic husband; and the house she had pictured so often to herself was establish- ed, and there the Taylors and Mr. and Mrs, Rosston were always welcome visitors, Cecil Hewitt still declares that he is not a warrying man; but a certain Miss Blanche Onderwood is very much in bis thoughts. Mr, Ezra L, Peckham left New York highly ‘elighted with what he had accomplished, and Ye promised faithfully to return soon, if his Illi- ois partner would permit him, to witness the climax of his good work; and as he is literally the moving spirit of the firm, he will most like- ly keep his promise, THE END DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. 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Dramas and Readings. 164 12m Pages. 20 Cents, For Schools, Parlors, Entertainments and the Am- ateur Stage, comprising Original Minor Dramas, Comedy, Farce, Dress Pieces, Humorous Dialogue and Burlesque, by noted writers; and Recitations and Readings, new :nd standard, of the greatest celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof. A. M. Russell Hand-EBooks of Games. Handbook ef Summer Sports. Book of Croquet. Yachting and Rowing. Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving. Cricket and Football. Book of Pedestrianism, Guide to Swimming. _ Handbook of Winter Sports—Skating, etc, Joke Books. Pocket Joke Book, Jim Crow Joke Book, Paddy Whack Joke Book. (2 The above books are sold by newsdealers everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any ad dress, on receipt of price, ten cents each. BrapLE AnD ApAms, Publishers, 98 William st., N. Y
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HALF-DIME SINGER'S LIBRARY. --— tee - 1 Whoa, Fama! and 59 othe: Songs. 2 Captain Curr and 57 other Songs, 8 Tue Garnssoro’ Hat and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Moraan and 60 other Songs, 5 T’ut Srrme You Wire A FreatHer and 62 others, 6 GrorGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. 7 Tae Betis or Rockaway ond 52 other Songs. 8 Youne Fevian, You're Too Fres# and 60 others Say Youne Giri and 65 other Songs, I’m THE GoverRNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs, 11 R 13 14 Oty Doe Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 16 My Fan and 65 other Songs. Comin’ Toro’ Tur Rye and 55 other Songs, Tue RoLiickinG IrtsHMAN and 59 other Songs. Wuoa, CHaruie and 59 other Songs. In THIS WHEAT By anv By and 62 other Songs. Nancy Lee and 58 other Songs. I'm THE Boy THat’s Bounp To Biaze and 57 others, THe Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs. WHAT ARE THE Winp Waves SayIna, ‘SIsTer? and 59 other Songs. INDIGNANT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 Tne OLrp ArM-Cuair and 58 other Songs. 23 On Conry IstAnp Beacu and 58 other Songs. 24 Otp Sr1on, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others. THE Sunnyside Library. 1 Latta Rooxn. By Thomas Moore........ ae ee 7100 2 Don Juan. By Lord Byron 8 Parapise Lost. By John Milton 4 THe Lapy or THE Laxx. By Sir Walter Scott. 10c - 10c 6 Unprne; orn, THE Warer-Sprritr. From the German of Frederich De La Motte Fouque.. 10c. 5 Lucimz. By Owen Meredith,....... .. For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, postage paid, on receipt of twei.e cents for single numbers double numbers twenty-four cents, ADAMS, VICTOR & CO., Publishers, 98 William street, N, Y. 25 I'w my Love and 56 other Songs. 25 PARADE OF THE Guarps and 56 other Songs, 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs. 28 "I'wiLt NEVER po To Gis rt up So and 60 others, 29 Buur Bonners Over THE Rorper and 54 others, 30 Tart Merry LAUGHING MAN and 56 other Songs. 81 Sweer Forart-me-Nor and 55 other Scngs. 82 LeeTLe Bapy Mine and 53 other Songs. $3 De BANJO AM DE INSTRUMENT FOR Mz and 53 others. 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Jusr To PLEASE THE Boys and 52 other Songs, 86 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GuTTER and 52 others, 37 Kotorep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 38 Ni Desperanpum and 58 other Songs. 39 Tae Girt I Lerr Beninp ME and 50 other Songs 40 "Tis sur A LarrLe Fapep Ftower and 50 othere 41 Prerry Warinetata and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE Barn and 63 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. Prnarors, COMPLETE, and 17 other Songs Sold everywhere ty Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on ree ceipt of Six cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PuBLISHERS, 98 Witu1am Srreet, New York, VI.—Daniel Boone. VIII.—Israel Putnam. X.--Tecumseh, XI,—Abraham Lincoln, XIL.—Pontiac. X1i.—Ulysses 8. Grant. I.—George Washington. TI,-—John Paul Jones. TII.—Mad Anthony Wayne TV.—Ethan Allen, V.—Marquis de Lefay ette. Song Books. Brapue’s Dime Sona Boors, Nos. 1 to 34, containing the only popular collection of copyright songs, Melodist, School Melodist, Music and Words. Joke Books. Pocket Joke Book. Jim Crow Joke Book, Paddy Whack Joke Book. The abov® publications for sale by all newsdealers or will be sent, post-paid, on receipt of price, tem cent; each, by BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 Wruxia2 Street, N, Y, LIVES OF GREAT AMERICANS.
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THE DIME DIALOGUES, Dime Dialogues, No. 29. Who Shall Have the Dictionary? For six males and two females, The Test of Bravery. For four boys and teacher. Fortune’s Wheel. For four males. The Little Alsthetes. For six little girls, The Yes and No of Smoke. Yor three little boys. No References. For six gentlemen and three ladies. An Amazing Good Boy. One male and one female. What a Visitation Did. For several ladies. Simple Simon. For four little boys. The Red Light. For four males, two females, and several subsidiaries. The Sweetest Thought. For four little girls. The Inhuman Monster. For six ladies and one gen- tleman. Three Little Fools. For four small boys. Beware of the Dog! For three ladies and three “Dodgers.” Bethlehem, For a Sunday-School Class Exhibition. Joe Hunt’s Hunt. For two boys and two girls, Rags. For six males, Dime Dialogues, No. 30. Invisible Heroes. Yor five.y ung ladies. A “Colored” Lecture. For four males, Wishes. For five little boys, Look at Home. For three little girls. Fisherman’s Luck. For two mwles and three females. ve He Didn’t Hire Him. Fer several characters. A Fortunate Mistake. For sic young ladies, one little girl and a little bo An Alphabetical Meonauevie, For a whole school. The Hizher Education. For eight boys. The Vicissifudes of a Milliner. For six females. Catand Dog. For two little ones The Alsthete Cured. For two Jacies and three gen- tlemen. Jim Broderick’s Lesson. For two boys. The Other Side of the Story. For tive females. The Test that Told. For five males Wooing by Proxy. For two ladies and three gentle- men, Learning from Evil. The Teacher’s Ruse. For ten,boys and three girls. Colloquy of Nations. For eleven personators. Additional Persunations for ‘‘Goddess of Liberty.’? A scenic piece in IMalogues No. 24. For five boys. Dime Dialogues, No J1. Barr's Boarders. For various characters. A Lively Afternoon. For six males. A New Mother Hubbard. For six little girls, Bread on the Waters. lor four females, iorninst the Scientists, For two males. Sloman’s Angel. For two males and one female, What Each Would Do. For six little girly, Twenty Dollars a Lesson. For eleven males. moe Betsey’s Ruse, For three females and one male, The Disconcerted Supernaturalist. and audience ‘t voices.” Grandma Grumbleton’s Protest. and several gir] grandchildren. Nothing Like Training. For a number of males. The Bubble. For two little gi Is. Modicine for Rheumatiz, For two ‘*‘ eullud pussons.” ‘That Book Agent! For three males and oe female. Tne Well Tavght Lesson, For five little boys. A Turn of the Tide. For three male and three fe- male characters, A True Carpet-Bagger. For three females. Applied Metaphysics. For six males. aa Humphrey Did. For flve males and three fe- males, For one male For a “ywrandma’’ — en ot Dime Dialogues, No 32. A Persecuted Man, Yor various characters, Too ae for Comfort, For two males and twy females. Under False Guise. dren. A Sure Guide. For seven males. The Hight Little Boys from Nousense Land. How They See the World. For five little girls, The Doctor’s Office, For several characters mae and female. Too Much Side Show. For a number of boys. ‘eed Mrs. Ponderous Was Paid. For four young adies. Poly wog Versus Wolypog. For numerous citizens. Tongue and Temp-r. For two ladies. The Flour of the Family. For three ladies and one gentleman, Middleton’s Mistake, For five males. A Valuable Neighbor. For one lady and one boy. The Man of Cheek. For two males, Mr. and Mrs. Blizzard at Home. For man and wife. Morgan’s Money. _ For five males. The Nana of Miles Standish. For School Festi- val, For several females ané uni! Dime Dialogues, No. 33. The Wrong Trunk. For several male characters and one female. Saucy Jack Lee. For four males and four females. The Pretty Preacher. For two young ladies, A Contrast. For two little girls. Only Joe. For five ladies and one gentleman, The Tables furned, For several males. Why Did You Do It? For a school of little children, She Had Him There. For 1 lady and 1 gentleman. A Report of the Affair. For two gentlemen, Mrs. Araold’s Misconception For two gentlemen and three ladies. The Year ‘Round, Defending the Caste. A Perfectly Veracious Man, female. Sympathetic Sympathy. For 3 males and 2 females. Ananias at Home. For one male and three females, The Man from Bangor. For one gentleman and three ladies. Casabianca in Two Versions, For twelve impersonators. For 2 males and 2 females. For one male and one For two boys. Dramas and Readings. 20 cents. DRAMAS, For five characters. For fifteen characters. A Moonlight Masquerade, For fourteen ladies. Matches Made in Attics, For five characters. Dandelions. For seven characters. Lottie’s Leap Year Victory. For four characters. The Friend in Disguise. For six leading characters and several subsidiaries, READINGS AND RECITATIONS. Parrhasius and the Cap- | The Last of Little Nell. tive The Raven, How to Practice Medi-! Mary’s Lamb. cine. William Brown of Oregoy Ramon, the Hero of El | Larry O’Leary’$ Ghost, Refugio Mine. The Bridge of Sighs. Which Shall Tt Be? Go Feel What I Hav, A Lecture on Matrimony. A. Ramble in the Wood. Felt. Hamlet and Ophelia. Grandmother’s Notions. Naming the Baby. Scene in a Mad-House. The New Baby. Address to the Comet, Red Riding Hood. For sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent, post- paid, to any address, on receipt of price, ten cents. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PustisHers, 98 William Street, New York The Hypochondriac. The Retrieved Name.