Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 115) (1886 08 03)
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aver VEKLEY Cn »pyrig! ited, 1886, by Brapix \pDaMs. Entered at the i ost Office at Wet York, N. Ys +) 88 =r VOL IX $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, Price, a Year. No. % William Street, New York. Five Cents. No, 115. “aol LEAVE ME, AND DO NOT INTRUDE ON ME AGAIN!” IN HS POWER « to be called, Mrs. Valentine Smith; sat in her ’ beautifully- furnished drawing-room near the Park one ager ieen thinking. sles HE SHAD RIM She had re to go out toa m «On, F ie PF e Asif * ee her beta “Miss Bigs West, | YM. L. FORDHAM. that day, because she felt, as she “worn Foret as to a shadow,” by all the ‘wayeties per the last CHAPTER I. five weeks of the New ei es A BIRD OF PREY. ferred a quiet afternoon wit ey Mas, Sarr, or, as she generally preferred * letters and her pet dog in her r tuvarious, eparts
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ment to listening to the most astonishing trilles and roulades of Madame Stahl, or the most impassioned ballads of Signor Veroni, in Mrs, Vernon’s crowded drawing-rooms on Fifth avenue. She was a pretty woman—a very pretty woman, most people thought—of about six- and-twenty years of age; and, young as she was, she had been a widow for more than a ear. ‘Tall, lithe, and graceful, with a high- red, yet peculiarly winning manner, no one could meet. her without falling a victim to her-charms, which were, perhaps, magnified by a certain sadness, or even gloom in her beautifui eyes, suggesting a secret sorrow or unrest, strangely at variance with her present surroundings. She had been four months or more in her elegant home at the time our story begins. She had come to the city furnished with one or two tolerable introductions and had quite taken ‘society by storm, She was so unlike the usual run of women, and although it was whispered that her late husband had made his money at pork-packing in his early days, and that his déath had released her from ‘an anything but pleasant conjugal yoke, yet her character was spotless, her manners distingue, her beauty undeniable, and her wealth enormous. “‘T shall have people calling, and miss my afternoon alone,” she said, to herself, look- ing at a little jeweled watch she took from her pocket. ‘‘Thomas—Thomas—ah, I de- clare I am too late! Here is somebody, and they have been letin! Am I a fright, [ won- der, or decently presentable?” She turned to the mirror as she spoke, and took a hasty survey of herself; arranged the tangles of bright brown hair, dressed in the latest fashion, on her shapely head; gave a twitch to her lace collar, and settled the folds and flounces of her dress with deft fingers, on which blazed a wealth of costly rings; and then, as the door opened, felt she was ready to encounter any visitor who might arrive, yet she was hardly prepared for the one who was announced, and gave a ight start and compressed her mouth a little as Thomas said: “«Mr. Jorrison, ma’am.” Mrs. Smith drew back as the new-comer approached her, and her face grew stern and set. The visitor, a middle-sized, stout, broad- shouldered man, with smali, cunning eyes, a short, ragged beard, and hard, cruel mouth, perceived her trouble. “Well, Mrs. Smith,” he said, with an un- mistakable twang, ‘‘ guess you didn’t look to see me turn up in these parts?” " “The—the pleasure is an unexpected one, * certainly,” replied Mrs, Smith, coldly. IN HIS POWER. ‘‘ And to thinkI should have been a month in New York and not found you out!” he went on, seating himself in a chair not far from her, “But there are somany Smiths in New York, it was only by chance I found you. I ought it was you and young miss, your cousin, I saw driving away, all plumes and diamonds, from the swell wedding at St. James's church t’other day; and next day I looks in the paper and, sure enough, I sce: ‘Mrs. Valentine. Smith, ruby velvet and duchess lace,’ and ‘Miss Penelope West, cream-colored brocade with pearl ornaments,’ so I say to myself: ‘That’s her,’ and I found you out, and here I am.” Mrs. Valentine Smith bowed her head gracefully, but her lips never relaxed into a smile. ‘“Well, you’re comfortable here, I guess, and quite a grandee,” he went on, looking round the room. ‘‘Do you stay here long?” : ‘““A few weeks more,” she replied, cold- Moana then where do you go--home to Omaha” heasked, eagerly. “To Omaha? No; certainly not!” she answered. ‘Ihave nointention of going far from New York at present.” “Ah, find it too pleasant here—hang it! When I look back ten years and think of Elsie Seagur and look upand see you sitting there—why, my head swims!” “Don’t look back, then,” she answered with a touch of sarcasm in her voice; ‘‘it is quite unnecessary, and very disagreeable. I never do.” ‘ ‘What! Never?” he said, looking into her face with his cunning gray eyes. ; “No. Why should 1? You know, Silas Jorrison, that there is little in my past I could look back on with pleasure; the last year has been the happiest in my life since the days I was a girl on my father’s farm in Nebraska.” “« Ay, when you played fast and loose with Tim Blake, and did your best to break my heart!” he retorted, with sudden anger in his voice, She rose, indignation in her violet eyes. «Mr. Jorrison, you forget yourself strange- ly,” she said. ‘I do not know why you have tracked me here; I do not know why you insist on talking of the past—a past which, as you say yourself, you know was full of sorrow to me.” “‘ Ay, and to me!” he muttered. “Tt was awant of taste on your part,” . she went on, ‘‘to seek me out; but if we must meet, for Heaven’s sake let it be as mere strangers, and let: us, above all, let the past rest.” Jorrison looked at her with a sort of ill-
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IN HIS POWER. concealed triumph in his eyes; he had made her show she felt his words; he imagined his influence over her to be greater than it really was. *“You are wrong, Elsie Smith,” he said, quietly. ‘‘You and I can never be mere strangers or mere acquaintances. | It’s be- cause I wanted to speak to you about the past, and because I, at any rate,” (and his voice grew strangely soft and tender) ‘‘ cannot for- get it; that I came here. You left Omaha very suddenly, Elsie.” “IT did, Silas Jorrison,” she answered, her eyes flashing; ‘‘ but, at any rate,do not re- mind me of that time.” “I would have given a deal to have seen | you before you left, but I was away West,’ and you were off before I could hear of your intention to go.” “And who told you of my intention?” she panted. : ** Ah,” (his little eyes twinkling knowing- ly) ‘‘that’s my secret, Mrs, Valentine Smith, But never mind; say you are glad to see me, Elsie: say you haven’t quite given up your friends as well as your home. By Jove! this is finer than No. 5, Third Avenue, though!” And he looked round the room. ‘‘ Bill was a richer fellow than even I thought—beg pasa, Mr, Valentine Smith, I should have said. “Mr, Smith’s name was Valentine—his | second name—and he left me everything,” replied Mrs. Smith, her lips turning a little white, and pronouncing her late husband’s | name with a sort of reluctance. ‘‘Who doubts it?” replied the other, look- ing significantly round. ‘‘ But I didn’t.come here to see your riches, or to talk about them. I came to see you.” ‘* Well, and you have seen me, Silas Jorri- son,” she answered; ‘‘and, considering that you were always my husband’s- enemy, and —and—” “‘I was never your enemy, Elsie!” he re- turned, quickly. ‘‘ Years ago I loved you, and asked you to be my wife. You kept me dangling on and off, but I would have en- dured any torture to win you, and I bore with you. Ah, you may sneer” (as a smile of contempt passed over Mrs. Valentine’s face); ‘‘I say r bore with you, and then came my ill-luck. I-went to Montana, and when I came back, behold, my pretty Elsie—for I considered you mine—was the wife of old Bill Smith, the pork-packer. A. rich old buffer, I am aware, but— Ah, now I know what you're going to say—your friends made you do it—but that won’t satisfy me.” “Excuse me,” replied only about to tell my servant to show you to rs, Smith, rising — and taking a step toward the bell; ‘‘I was | the door. Who are you, that you should come to my house to insult me, and—” Quick as lightning, he stepped between her and the bell. “*T will tell you who I am, Elsie Smith!” he answered, a look of iron determination coming into his face. “I am your friend, | your lover, _ husband, or your most bit- ter and implacable enemy! Choose!” She started back, and a look of utter as- tonishment filled her beautiful eyes, then she burst into a musical laugh. “What! do you imagine I can for a mo- ment believe you have not forgotten that folly!—for I can call our early boy-and-girl flirtation nothing else. That you—you, Silas Jorrison—think to make me believe you love me, or—” “Yes; I, Silas Jorrison,” he replied, with | a touch of pride, “‘love you; and again I im- plore you, with as great fervor as I implored you once, twelve years ago, to become my wife.” A look of intense scorn curled Mrs. Valen- tine Smith’s beautiful lip, as she looked first | at the shabby, vulgar man before her, and then glanced at her own face and figure re- | flected in a neighboring mirror, and at. her | surroundings. Silas Jorrison saw the look, and inter- preting it correctly, stamped his foot, with an execration. She did not heed it. “After all, I am not so very much sur- prised at your request, Mr. Jorrison,” she said. ‘I am, I believe, considered a prize in the matrimonial market; but I think if I am knocked down to any bidder—which I doubt—it will be to some one who has some- thing, at any rate, to offer me in exchange for what i shall bring him.” “It's not for your money I want you. I’ve money enough! If you'd married me, you'd have been as rich as you are now,” he replied, bitterly. “Tt’s all the same,” she rejoined, in the same voice. ‘‘ Under no circumstances, Si- las Jorrison, would I ever become your wife!” “Why?” he asked. ‘« First, because I do not, and never did, love you.” « That’s false!” he interrupted, coarsely. She shrugged her shoulders. “Tt’s the truth; but”—and her face grew dark—“‘that is not the only reason. You are a scheming, revengeful, spiteful man, Silas Jorrison! Go! leave me, and do not intrude on me again!” She rose with flashing eyes as she spoke. and pointed to the door, Jorrison threw himself into a chair, with a | short laugh,
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4 ek hex IN HIS POWER, “Ym spiteful, revengeful, and scheming, am 1?” he said. ‘Do you know what folk called you when you married Bill Smith?” he said, “T don’t know, neither do I care,” she an- swered. “Oh, maybe; but”—and he lowered his voice—‘‘ do you know what they called you when he was found dead—shot—eh?” “Tt is worthy of you to recall that last in- sult and calumny to my mind,” she replied, firmly, but turning very white. “Oh, I’m reckoned spiteful, you know!” he retorted. ‘‘ Well, do you know what folks said on that head, Mrs. Valentine Smith?” “Yes; lies! swered. “Lies, perhaps—I’m spiteful, you know, Elsie—but what would one of your proud snobbish suitors say if he were told—” “Hush, hush!” she cried, moved at last. “You know—none better—that what they said was a lie!” : “Bill Smith wasn’t a particular good card,” he went on, ‘‘folks said—but maybe that’s lies, too; that he wasn’t so kind a hus- band as might be; that he was jealous, and eruel, and shut up his prety Elsie, and beat her sometimes; and she didn’t take it as meekly as might be; and he was rich, mortal rich; and he was found shot in his own grounds, too, and that after a quarrel with his pretty wife, she being the last person in whose company he was seen alive!” “ And you dare tell me you believe I—I—” “Tf I believed any harm of you, Mrs. Val- entine Smith, I wouldn’t have asked you to become Mrs. Jorrison as I did five minutes ago,” he replied. ‘‘I only said what folks believed. ow let’s cut all this short, Elsie. Again I say, promise to become my wife, and remember if you refuse—” Pere I do, most emphatically!’ she said. «‘Remember,” he went on, without notic- ing her interruption, ‘‘ that lamareven geful man!” “« And what can you do to harm me?” she said, proudly, but trembling from head to foot, “Sniteful, revengeful people can do a mighty lot of harm if they choose!” he re- plied; ‘but don’t provoke me, Elsie; it would go against the grain with me anyhow to hurt you. Be sensible, and say at least you'll think of me?” He came a step or two toward her, held out his hand. ‘Never, never!” she cried, shrinking from him. ‘I do not love you—you are hateful, loathsome to me! Go away, Silas Jorrison, I tell you; you are abhorrent tome! I—” ! I didn’t heed them,” she an- and “That will do; you needn’t put yourself out to abuse me any more, Elsie; it ain't ladylike, and you hurt my feelings!” inter- rupted Jorrison, ina cold, hard tone. “But remember this; I’ve offered you all, the best a man can offer a woman, twice now, and you've played with my feelings and insulted mein return, You said just now I was a revengeful man; take care for the future, Elsie! When you think yourself most se- cure and happiest, then dread my revenge, for you shall feel it with its full force!” So saying, Silas Jorrison walked quickly out of the room, and Elsie, falling back on the sofa, burst into tears. Jorrison’s visit had more than spoiled her quiet afternoon at home. CHAPTER II. THE GREATEST FLIRT. MEANWHILE Mrs. Vernon’s musical after- noon was attracting a crowd of fashionables to her house in Fifth avenue, among whom were Miss Penelope West and her chaperon for the time being, Mrs. Parke Carter, a leader in social circles. As Penelope walked up the stairs slowly behind Mrs. Carier, a stout, florid dame, who found the ascent somewhat difficult, and fol- lowed her into the music-room, many pairs of eyes were turned on her. ‘Who is she—that curious-looking girl with the big gray-green eyes and dark hair? Pretty, do you call her? Odd-looking, I should say. Oh, graceful, very; but do you admire that very dead white complexion? Quite an artist’s beauty. Ah! her smile is charming. Well, yes, she is wonderfully at- tractive, I grant; but who is she?” “Nobody. Only a Western girl—rich, of course. Came with Mrs. Carter. You've heard of Mrs. Valentine Smith, perhaps, Mrs. Poindexter?” replied the young dandy to whom these observations had been addressed. “Well, that girl is Miss Penelope West, her cousin—plays divinely, and dances like an angel; but she’s the most audacious little flirt in all New York!” “Ha, hal threw you over for Jerry St. Ives at the regiment ball—eh, Courtland?” said another, at which the youth looked fool- ish. ‘Depend on it, Miss Penelope West is one of the cleverest girls in the city, if you like!” “ An adventuress, like all those people of whose antecedents no one knows anything, Tl warrant,” remarked a sour-faced matron, Do you know her, Mrs. Poindexter?” «T—oh, yes—charming woman; odd I haven’t noticed the cousin before; but they’ll be at my ‘at home’ on the 12th, I dare say,” replied the other. ‘‘ That sort of people are out of the general run, and it’s quite re-
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IN HIS POWER. ; 8 freshing to meet somebody new; one gets awfully tired of one another in town before the season’s over. There! I’ve caught Miss Penelope’s side-face, and must allow it’s ex- quisite; don’t you think so, Mr. Court- land?” ‘I quite agree with you, madame, but it’s a pity that she—” *«That she isa flirt, and threw you over! Fie! you mustn’t bear malice! Hush! Tres- ca’s going to sing, and neither she nor Mrs. Vernon will ever forgive us if we talk while she is warbling to us.” Tresca, the reigning favorite of the day, treated the company to a long scena from _the last new opera, during which a hush so deep fell on the chattering audience that you might have heard a pin fall; then, at its con- clusion, after a certain amount of hand-clap- ping and bravoes, there went up a sort of sat- isfied rustling from the seated crowd, and tongues began again to wag SA There was an empty chair beside Penelope West, and a tall, good-looking young man, who had been an unwilling listener to the chatter of Mrs. Poindexter, and Mr. Court- land (whom he would have liked to destroy on the spot), moved slowly toward it, and just succeeded in securing it before it was pounced upon by another and somewhat old- er man, who had to content himself with bowing to Miss West, and receiving a sweet smile from her in return, over the bonnets of half a dozen intervening young ladies, while his more fortunate rival seated himself be- side her. “How dreadfully grave you look, Mr. Gower!” said Penelope, after the first greet- ings. ‘Don’t youcare for music? Are you bored? Has any one offended you, or has something or somebody hit against your fa- vorite angle?” “Nothing is wrong with me, Miss West; and in your company how could I be bored?” he replied, gallantly; but in his heart of hearts he felt anything but happy, and Mr, Courtland’s words, ‘She is the greatest flirt in New York,” still rung in his ears. “Very well; I never force confidences, and I am glad to learn I’m mistaken,” she replied, raising her gray eyes to his face for a moment. ‘‘Have you been here long?” *““T came in just as going to Mrs. Poindexter’s on the 12th?” he replied. cr I can hardly tell you. I don’t seem to know till Elsie tells me each morning what are our engagements for the day or evening. Elsie likes Ners. Poindexter, though, so per- haps we may look in,” she answered; ‘‘ and every one will be there one knows.” you did. Are you “‘Except me! I haven’t the honor of the lady’s acquaintance,” he replied, with a m1x- ture of stiffness and regret. “Oh, then, Elsie shall get you a card. I'll manage it for you—that is, if you care to go?” she said, quickly. “Of course | do. If you are to be there,” he said, ‘‘I shall care to go.” She laughed sweetly. “‘Tam avery poor attraction,” she said, and she looked at him shyly, Was she making a foo] of him? he wonder- . ed, and replied with a forced gallantry: **Miss Penelope West is quite one of the attractions of town! New York rings with her praises!” “Indeed! Thank you, Mr. Gower. We Westerners ought to be very grateful to you big folk in New York for taking so much noe of us, | am sure,” she replied, very ryly. 7 Taon't see why. We couldn’t help it if we would,” he answered. ‘But where is Mrs. Valentine Smith to-day?” “ Tired, strange to say, of being viewed by the giddy multitude, and praised or criticised by the elite. Elsie resolved to give herself a holiday and stay quietly at home alone this afternoon! She has been very hard worked of late, poor dear,” returned Edactonie: open- ing and shutting the little ivory fan she held in her hand. ‘* You see, I am insatiable; I prefer gayety and dissipation to staying at home, however tired 1 may be; and I’m going out to dinner, and then to the opera with Mrs. Carter to-night; and as soon as we have got through this programme, and paid one or two visits and called” “Oh, don’t!—don’t—you quite bewilder me, my dear Miss West,” cried Gower, laugh- ing. “You know I am not quite so much in the current as you are, and I declare you make me feel giddy. How can health or head stand it?” ““Well, you see, my health is perfect,” she retorted, gravely. ‘‘ And as to my head, if you mean my mind, why I’m afraid there’s not enough of it to be really spoiled; the atmosphere of the giddy throng suits my frivolous disposition. Oh, dear! how awful— how truly awful it would be to be condemned to a country life, to solitude and poverty, as some are! ow, Elsie is quite different; she wouldn’t mind it—the solitude, at least for six months of the year. Oh, Mr. Sutherland! how do youdo? How glad I am to see you! but I did not know you were a frequenter of musical parties.” And she turned eagerly to a fine-looking man, with clear-cut, handsome features, and dark, keen eyes that looked straight into hers as she spoke, and held out atiny gloved hand to him, quite forgetting,
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as it seemed, Mr Laurence Gower—indeed, almost turning her back on him, as the new: comer dropped into the chair Mrs. Carter had just vacated, and she entered into conversa tion with him. ““Where is your cousin, Mrs. Valentine Smith?” he asked, looking round. ‘‘I don’t see her. But you are not alone, of course?” «‘Oh, dear, no!—nothing so unheard of. I’m under Mfs. Carter’s care, and she has just gone to speak to an old friend, I’m very sorry for you, Mr. Sutherland, but Elsie isn’t here. She was tired, and stayed at home; and—and, like me, I don’t fancy she thought she would find you here. I have found more friends here, though, than I expected; have- nt I, Mr. Gower?” And she turned, with a bewitching smile, to Laurence Gower, who was sitting devoured with wrath beside her, Will Courtland’s words sounding in his ears, He could not resist the smile, however, and returned it, and was presently intro. duced to Mr. Ivor Sutherland, and asked to a small ‘‘at home” at Mrs, Valentine Smith’s next eyening, ‘‘ where we only admit friends —real friends, you know,” as Penelope whis- pered to him, and thus raised him to the seventh heaven of happiness, so that he for- got to hate Mr, Sutherland when Penelope took his arm, and, the music being over, went into the refreshment-room to solace herself with ices and wafers, Mr. Laurence Gower was a young gentle- man of excellent fortune aid family, who had read a great deal and traveled much. He was well received in the best society circles, but although he was fond of society, he never allowed it to engross all his time and thoughts, but gave a good deal still to read- ing and the cultivation of art, which formed one of the greatest of what he termed the real pleasures of his existence. When he had ar- rived in New York from Italy, three months before, nothing was further from his thoughts than marriage; he raved, as most young men do, about beauty and love, vowed that there were no eyes like the dark eyes of the sunny Italy, no complexions like the clear olive, with a rosy tint beneath it, such as is to be met with in the land of the vine and orange- rove; yet ere he had been a month in New ork, a pair of strange, dreamy, yet piquant gray orbs, a complexion pale as alabaster, had put all their beauties into the shade, and Laurence Gower was fain to confess that in all his travels no beauty like the beauty of Penelope West had met his eye; that his heart was no longer his own, and that to marry her he would gladly give all he held most dear and prized most highly in the world, “ He knew that his friends would wonder at him, and his family object; he knew that his uncle and guardian, Henry Gower, had set his heart on his marrying a certain young heiress whom he had picked out asa suitable match for his nephew, and that he, Laurence, had pleaded that he was not a marrying man, as an excuse for not following his uncle’s wishes, and that he should disgrace himself by falling in love with a pretty face—a stran- er, With not even a fortune to recommend er to his family, was the thing of all in the world he least expected to do. “T can afford to pass over all their ill- nature and spite,” he thought, ‘‘ even Anna’s; but shall I ever win her love?—that is the question, I’ve thought at times that she seemed to care a little forme; yet see, even now she has gone off with Sutherland, when she might just as well have gone into the re- freshment-room with me, I never asked her though, fool that I was, and Sutherland is a friend of Mrs. Valentine’s, [know. How on earth can any one say Mrs. Valentine is pret- tier than Penelope? It’s absurd; but she’s pretty, too, in her own way, and very nice. Well, ll be going.” And forthwith Laurence Gower left the house, and proceeded to his room to pass a quiet evening, thinking of the lovely Pene- lope West, and wondering why Will Court- panes called her the ‘‘ greatest flirt in New ork.” . Mr. Ivor Sutherland, after being intro- duced to Mrs, Carter, saw her and Miss West into their carriage, and then walked away to- ward the Park, ‘*T think, if you'll drop me at home, dear Mrs. Carter, and not mind the trouble of calling for me, in an hour’s time, when you have done your visits, I should just like to run in and see Elsie. She had a headache when I left her,” said Penelope, as they drove ‘« By all means, my dear! I sha’n’t be more than an hour; but if Mrs. Valentine Smith wants you, I could call for you later on,” re- plied good-natured Mrs. Carter. ‘* A thousand thanks! How kind youare! But I shall be quite ready when you come,” replied Penelope. *‘Plsie! Elsie!” she cried, running up-stairs after Mrs, Carter had dropped her at her cousin’s housein Madison avenue, ‘‘ Thomas, where is Mrs. Smith? Louise, where is your mistress?” “‘Madame is in her boudoir. She has a terrible headache and looks wretchedly ill,” replied the maid. ‘‘ But, ah! who can feel well in this vile climate? Madame should go abroad or travel.” ‘-Blsie, are you really ill? What is the matter?” cried Penelope, softly, bending over
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—& tN HIS POWER. t the recumbent form of Mrs. Valentine Smith, who lay on the sofa, her face half-buried in the cushion, “Nothing! An awful neuralgic headache, dear. Have you enjoyed your party, Pen?” she answered, in a stifled voice.” “*Plsie, you are really ill. I'll send for the doctor,” cried Penelope, but Mrs. Smith laid her hand on her arm and bade her wait, “‘Tlow white and wretched you look, dear,” continued the girl; ‘‘and you've been crying —I know you've been crying. Has anything —any one annoyed you, darling?” ‘*Nothing’s wrong, dear,” she answered, putting back thehair from her flushed face. ‘*T am a little annoyed, but I won’t talk of it just now.” “* Not with me?” asked Penelope, anxious- y: ‘Not with you? Of course not; and it’s really nothing. I’m a fool to think of it, Who did you see at Mrs. Vernon’s? Make me a cup of tea, darling, and tell me the news!” ‘‘Oh, I saw heaps of people, and I talked to Mr. Gower and your friend, Mr. Ivor Sutherland. What a fine countenance he has, Elsie! He was disappointed that you were not there, I saw.” For a moment a pleased smile flitted across Elsie’s white lips, and then it faded away. “Yes,” she said, ‘Mr. Sutherland is a very good fellow—a very nice man.” “$0 is Mr. Gower, Elsie; only I do tease him so, I make him quite cross; but there is far more in him than in most young men of fashion. Don’t you think so, Elsie?” But Mrs, Smith had not been listening to Penelope’s remarks; her thoughts had gone back to Silas Jorrison and his sayings. What would Mr. Ivor Sutherland think of her could he know what certain folk in Omaha had said of her when her husband had been found dead? That night Penelope West, from her seat at the opera in Mrs, Carter’s box, saw before her a figure that caused a cold shudder to pass through her. There in the dress-circle, sat Silas Jorrison. She no longer wondered what had upset her cousin that afternoon; of course, Silas Jorrison had been to the house in Madison avenue, CHAPTER III. A COWARDLY THREAT. **Poor Elsie! I wager that horrid Jorri- son has been calling on her, and reminding her of all the miseries in her past life I try so hard to make her forget,” said Penelope, as she ran lightly up-stairs after being set down at her own door by Mrs, Carter. ‘‘ That accounts for her headache and paleness. I wonder what he talked about? I can guess some,” But Penelope was far, very far, from guessing all or half what had passed between her cousin and Silas Jorrison. ‘What! gone to bed already, and does not wish to be disturbed?” she said in dismay, as Elsie’s maid gave her the message her cousin left for her. ‘‘Hum! Well, I’m half-sorry I refused that dance at the Leicesters’; it’s not much past twelve now, and I’m not a bit tired. I can’t think what's come over Elsie; I hope she is not going to be really ill. Well, I suppose I must go to bed too—there’s noth- ing to sit up for.” So the young lady walked slowly up to her own apartment, and in half an hour’s time was in bed and asleep, slumbering as quietly and peacefully as if she had been playing in the fields or rambling over mountains or through country lanes all day; and as if nei- ther Elsie, Jorrison, or even Laurence Gower, existed. It was rather late when the two ladies met at breakfast next day. Elsie was down first, and began the perusal of a pile of letters, notes, cards of invitation, and such-like, that lay beside her plate. One after another she threw them aside, till over one written in an ugly, scrimped hand, she paused, and when Penelope ex.tered, hid it under a heap of others. But Penelope was too quick for her, and saw the action. ‘‘From Jorrison,” she thought, but said not a word. “Did you enjoy the opera, dear?” said Elsie, turning with rather a flushed look to her cousin. ‘*I.am so sorry I was not u when you came in, but my head was so b I was obliged to go to bed. I knew it was my only chance of being better to-day.” “And you are better?” asked Penelope. “You look a little flushed, I think, What a heap of notes and letters|—and I have only four. I feel ill-treated!” ‘You needn’t envy me my letters, dear,” she answered, with a sigh, regretting the words as soon as they were spoken. ‘*No?—what’s the matter? They seem mostly invitations. Is your milliner aun you, Elsie; or have you been too lavish o purchases at your jeweler’s or at Sypher’s?” said Penelope with a laugh. ‘No; it’s not money; I don’t spend half T might, child. It’s nothing—only something —a trifle that vexed me, ‘Tell me all about last night, and whom you saw at the opera,” ‘Oh, all the world was there, of course, to hear the new tenor; and really he is wonder- ful, Elsie; but I saw some one, an old ac- quaintance of ours athonie— Oh, how white
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& IN HIS POWER. yon Jhave grown, poor dear!—I saw Silas orrison.” “The wretch!” cried Mrs. Valentine Smith; ‘did he see you, Pen?” “No, I think not. But I tell you what, Elsie; I feel certain he is the cause of all this headache and these pale cheeks of yours, my dear, and I hope you have told Thomas and the other servants not to admit him again.” “Tt is not rong AE Yes, I did see him yesterday, Pen; and he is going away back to Omaha, and leaves the city to-morrow,” she answered. “Did he tell you so yesterday?” asked Penelope, ‘‘No; the truth is, he upset me dreadfully ane , Pen and I’ve got a—a letter from i—where is it?—I can’t find it—which has annoyed me still more!” she replied. “There it is!” said Penelope. ‘* Look un- der those letters, Elsie!” And she pointed to the heap of half-read letters on the table. “Ah, yes! here it is!” said Elsie, begin- ning to put it into her pocket. ‘“Mayn’t I see it, Elsie?” asked Penelope. “Well, there’s no news—nothing you would care to see, You know what sort of aman he always was.” ‘« Elsie, Elsie!” cried Penelope, eagerly; “you are deceiving me—you are keepin something from me! Cannot you trust me? When have I ever failed you? Show me that letter!” “Pen, I am not deceiving you; but, oh! there is a horrible innuendo in that letter—al- most more than an innuendo—that I cannot permit even you to see,” replied Elsie, in a piteous voice. “*Trust me, Elsie,” replied Penelope, hold- ing out her hand. ‘‘Give me the letter.” e read it through, with flashing eyes and white lips. ‘The wretch!—the cowardly villain!—to revive such a monstrous falsehood. Elsie, my darling, it is no new tale to me; but do not be so afflicted by this man’s spitefulness, He cannot harm you!” , “Perhaps not; but he may poison m ee di ond and make my life wretched, Pen,” sobbed Elsie. “T don’t believe it. All he says is cow ardly braggadocio. He makes believe that youare in his power for his own ends; he wants to frighten you into Les jrnin 1 his wife. Defy him, Elsie! treat him with the contempt he deserves; forget his wicked ly- words, and be happy.” enelope flung her arms around her cous- in, and tried by every soothing word and caress she could think of to quiet her grief. She-treated Mr. Jorrison’s threats with even ¥.: t and disdain, and counseled miss them from her thoughts, more her cousin to as being more utterly futile than she felt them to be herself. Elsie must not allow her happiness to be destroyed and her peace of mind disturbed by a wretch like Silas Jorrison, she thought. “But if my miserable story should get befut? red abroad,” said Elsie, ‘‘as it will “‘Your miserable story? Yes, it is a mis- erable story, Elsie!” replied Penelope; ‘ but surely there is nothing in it you are ashamed of? hat wrong there was was not on your side, You were not a happy wife; your a, life was made miserable; your husband died suddenly a violent death. But were you to blame for all this?” ** But do younot see—” «« Answer me, dear; were you to blame for says that happened?” persisted Pene- ope, “No, Pen, no! You know that well, but—” “Then, be brave, and don’t take the hints of this bad man, as he no doubt hopes you will. Don’t let them prey on you, and make ‘ou wretched. You see now what a wretch eis. Perhaps it was he himself who set about the lying report he now wishes you to believe was once current about—about your husband’s death!” replied Penelope. “You are right there, Pen, perhaps. I believe he sent me that—that dreadful news- paper in which it was mentioned; but what should I do if it were to be revived, and whispered about here in New York, Pen? Who would know us or speak to us then? We should be looked on as outcasts—as far, far worse than the most outrageous of ad- venturesses!” said Elsie. For an instant, as she ee Penelope thought of Mr. Gower and Ivor Sutherland, and felt that at any rate there were one or two a their new acquaintances who would not desert them even if such a rumor as Elsie dreaded should get about. “T don’t believe everybody would give us up even then,” she replied, thoughtfully. “‘T am sure Mr. Gower and Mr.—” ««Ah! Mr. Gower loves you, Pen, I be- lieve; but men are so queer, he might think— But why do I like this? It is I the rumors would injure, not you, darling; thank Heaven for that! But I believe any man would think twice before asking a wo- man year taan. whom such a cece . once hung, and might again gather—mar that, Pen—to—to be his wife. As to some men, they would think it a valid excuse for breaking off an engagement, or throwing an unfortunate woman who loved them, over. ‘ ‘ 3
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IN HIS POWER. 9 However, it is no question of love or mar- riage with me, that is one thing. I shall never marry again, Pen,” she replied; and there was a sad ring in her voice as she ut- tered the last words, Penelope looked at her sharply, and then smiled. «« Never?” she said. “Never!” replied Elsie; ‘this horrid letter has decided me.” “This letter? Then you were not quite decided before, Elsie?” she retorted, with a laugh, while Elsie blushed and protested, and vowed it was a shame of her cousin to make fun of her and her trouble. “T don’t make fun of you, dear, as you know; but you make a great deal too much of this mean letter! ere, let me burn it, and think no more about it. Do you know who is coming here to-night to our particular ‘at home?” “‘Oh, dear! I had forgotten our ‘ at home.’ Can't we put it off, Pen?” she sighed. ‘What! when Laurence Gower and Mr. Sutherland have both faithfully promised to come? Ah, hal my pretty Elsie, you are not so anxious to put it off as you were a minute ago,” she laughed. ‘‘ Now, don’t look sad again, or I shall have to scold you.” There was little trace of sadness or trouble on Mrs. Valentine Smith’s pretty face that evening, as, dressed to perfection, she sat in her drawing-room among her guests, her beautiful violet eyes and rosy lips smiling a welcome to each one who entered; while Penelope aided her in entertaining her friends, and indeed, for some, was the at- traction that brought them, even more than the charms of their pretty hostess, to her re- ception. As the evening wore on, Elsie’s eyes wan- dered more and more frequently to the door, and a shade of disappointment might have been discerned in them as, one time after an- other, it opened, without admitting the friend she evidently expected. At length it opened again, and Mr. Suther- land was announced, and she rose with evi- dent pleasure to meet him; then, as he took her hand, a change came over her, and she seemed hardly able to answer his greeting. Penelope’s quick eyes caught what was passing, and she quickly left the group of guests by whom she was surrounded, and came up to where her cousin and Mr, Suther- land were standing. “‘Courage, Elsie! don’t ruin your happi- ness a second time for a vain fear,” she whispered; and then, with a smile and a nod the piano, and seating herself at it, began to play a brilliant piece, | right to ask her about her past, and to a new-comer, hurried across the room to) Diet x e her Longe ety rouble she Seay Elsie had blushed deeply at her cousin's words, but. they had given her pride an popesas, <8 in pees moment Fo Pes a talking with her usual easy grace an to Mr. Sutherland, who Serial too tne wrapped up in the pleasure of being in her society to have eyes or ears for any one else. “You will sing for us to-night, Mrs. Smith?” he said, after Penelope had i anuther piece, and amid great applause left the piano. ‘*Not to-night, I think,” she replied. ‘‘ You know I seldom sing to many people—a number, even of friends, frightens me. . “But sing for me,” he said, in a low tone, Do not mind the others. Won't you?” She hesitated. There was no mistaking the meaning of his low, pleading voice. If she did what he asked, it was giving direct encour- agement to the love she could no longer doubt he felt for her; if she did not, it would certainly be taken as a rebuff. Only a moment she hesitated, and looking up in his face, sawthe pain her hesitation gave him; then she rose, and without a word went to the piano. She had a beautiful voice, and had since her arrival in New York, taken some pains in cultivating it, and never perhaps she sung with such power and intensity of ex- pression asshe did that night. Her audience was entranced, and more than one eye was dim when she ended; and as she rose, a burst of applause greeted her. She did not heed it, however, but looked timidly almost at Mr. Sutherland for his approval. To her surprise, there was a pained look in his face; but when his eyes met hers they were very tender, ‘‘Your song was lovely,” he said, ‘‘and must have touched all hearts. Why did you choose one so sad and pathetic?” **Oh, I don’t know!” she replied, with a light laugh. ‘‘I think I prefer sad songs to lively ones, Mr, Sutherland. But, dear me, I fear I have made yon quite gloomy. I will sing something livelier, or, better make Pen sing one of her little French ballads,” And she glided off to find her cousin. Mr. Sutherland turned away with a sigh. ‘She is not happy. No woman who was happy could have sung like that. There was suffering in every word—ev note. Strange, in all my intercourse with her up to the present I never divined there was any trouble either in her past or present. My poor, beautiful darling, shall I ever a the com- have had to endure or endures now?” And then, while Elsie was submitting to the praises and compliments of her friends,
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“10 IN HIS POWER. Mr. Ivor Sutherland made up his mind that before another month should pass he would ask Elsie to be his wife, and that if she said **No,” he would not take “‘no” for an an- swer, but try again and again until he should succeed in winning her love and her hand. “And if that should never be,” he mur- mured, as he drove home half an hour later, ‘at any rate, I will always be her friend—a friend who would do anything and risk any- thing for her. But she has suffered herself, and will not be cruel to me, I feel certain, Some day she will be mine.” CHAPTER IV. ON THE BRAOH. Carine bitterly at the imperious call from his partners in business that obtiged him to return to his native soil so quickly, and with a heart full of malice and baffled love, Silas Jorrison found himself a day or two later, en route for Omaha. He had passed a miserable time that even- ing Penelope had seen him at the opera. He had recognized her instantly, and had passed the rest of the evening in vainly trying to discover if Elsie were the other occupant of the box. He had seen one or two men come into it and chat in a friendly manner with _ Miss West, and jealousy filled his heart when he thought that perhaps some rival was rven at that moment paying court to his old ove, For his old love—his one and only love— Elsie was, and the sight of her that afternoon in all her beauty and sweetness had stirred the slumbering fire to a flame, awoke old memories, and brought back old dreams, and surprised even. Silas himself by the strange 4 fa) they still exercised on him; and yet e hated her next moment when he thought _ of her proud words and contemptuous smile, and could have beaten all the beauty out of her lovely face had she been with him and in ower. “Tim Blake and I—yes; she made rare fools of us!” he muttered. ‘‘ And when she married old Bill Smith, I thought he would never be his own self again. Lord, how pale and haggard he grew! Never cursed and swore ie did, Inever cared for Tim, but he puzzled me then. Not a word would he say against her, and bade me be silent when I miscalled her, unless I wanted my teeth knocked down my throat! And then, in Omaha, when Bill was found dead there, he knew more than most men, J’ll be bound, but not a word would he utter—not he. Well, as long as Elsie remains Mrs. Valentine Smith, [ll hold my hand; but let her marry or try to marry any one else, and she'll have cause to remember Silas Jorrison. She’s got that pert young woman, Penelope West, with her, but I’m a match for both. “Well, when I get to Omaha, I'll just have a run round, read over those papers I’ve got, and see how the land lies.” When Silas got there, however, the urgent letters he found waiting for him obliged him to set off at once for Montana, and the mys- terious business which he had been intending to see to was never looked after. He took the train northward the day after reaching Omaha, and for many months was lost to the civilized world. The season was well-nigh over, and it be- came a question of grave importance to Mrs. Valentine Smith and Miss West where and how their summer should be passed. They had plenty of invitations to stay with friends, but Elsie seemed to think a little real retire- ment would suit her much better than around of visits; and taking the advice of her friend, Mr. Sutherland, whom she now consulted, much to Penelope’s amusement and delight, on every imaginable subject, she took a pretty cottage for the warm weather on the Long Island coast. «} hope you will come and cheer our soli- tude sometimes,” she said to him a few days before they left town. ‘‘ Penelope and I will both want some one to say to us, ‘How de- lightful is solitude,’ you know.” ‘IT shall be in that part of the Island ver soon,” he said, smiling. ‘‘ You did not think I was going to exile myself from your pres- ence for three long months? No, no; indeed, to tell you the truth, I have some property close to Westham which requires looking after, so that I dare say I may be close to you for some weeks.” “How delightful!” cried Penelope, clap- ping her hands. ‘And Mr. Gower has promised to come down, too. That will bea charming solitude a quatre, won’t it, Elsie?” “Am IJright—am I right?” muttered Elsie, as Mr. Sutherland drove away. ““What are you murmuring in that senti- mental way, dear?” asked Pen, with laugh- Tee waa a etiie lin he ght,’ Pen,” replied “*T was saying ‘ Am I right,’ Pen,” replie Elsie. “ on don't laugh; it is far nite serious than you think it, and if—if—” “Tf what?” asked Pen. “Tf he ever heard a word of that report—if Silas Jorrison were to carry out his threat, I should die, Pen, for I love him, and belieye he loves me!” “Tf he loves you, as I am sure he does, dear, he will care nothing for what a reptile like Silas may say,” replied Pen; “but I did hope, Elsie, you taa forgotten all that non- sense, Take the happiness wherewith the gods provide you, dear, and don’t worry and torment yourself with the saying and do- ings of such as Silas Jorrison, Believe me, a a cA.
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a IN HIS POWER. with Mr. Sutherland, at any rate, he has no power to harm you.” “You always look on the bright side of things, dear, and try to cheer me, as, indeed, ou do; but still, at times I can’t help fear- ing that in some way, by some mysterious means, he may really have it in his power to injure me.” Leigh Cottage, at Westham, turned out to be as cosey a little nook as Mrs. Sutherland had described it, and the beauty of the scenery around far exceeded Elsie’s expecta- tions. From the garden a grand view of the sound, was obtained, and behind the house rose a well-wooded slope, through which led grassy paths to the top, from whence a fine panorama of the country and sea round could be obtained, The cottage was a quaint old building, half-farm, half-villa, and furnished in a queer, old-fashioned style that delighted both the ladies, who, like many of their countrymen and women, rejoiced in any- thing belonging to bygone times, ** And whose is that large house slanting in the middle of a lawn, and half hidden by | trees!” asked Penelope, as, the day after their arrival, she found her way, with the | gardner’s help, to the top of the slope. “That is Crest Lawn, miss,” he replied; ‘one of the finest and most expensive places about. It’s just two miles from Westham, miss, and belongs to Mr. Sutherland.” “Oh, indeed!” replied Penelope, with such surprise that the gardener looked at her in amazement; for had not Mr. Sutherland himself taken the cottage for the ladies, and stocked the garden with choice flowers from | his place? “Dear me!” continued Pen, noticing the man’s look of surprise; ‘‘I had no idea Mr. Sutherland’s property was so near Leigh Cottage! It must be%a beautiful place.” « Ay, that it be, miss, and we be all glad that Mir. Sutherland is coming to stay in it for the next three or four months. Since his mother died, four years ago, he’s traveled a deal, and it’s little we see of him here. He’s a fine young gentleman, miss, is Mr. Suther- land—just one of the right sort; and he’s missed in the place when he’s absent.” “You see, every one speaks in glowing terms of your hero,” whispered Pen to het cousin, as, an hour later, they stood before the house on the lawn, and saw Mr. Suther- land drive in at the gate. ‘I dare say, if you were to ask the groom there, he would tell you he is the best master he ever had, and on the principle of ‘ good masters make good servants,’ I could quite believe it, for I never saw such a well-kept, well-cleaned turn- gut,” s 11 Ivor Sutherland’s dark eyes flashed with delight as he saw the look of welcome and the tell-tale blush, which showed him that Elsie was really glad to see him again. ‘* You like the cottage, I hope?” he said; and his eyes looked quickly over the flower- beds and borders as he spoke, and then ra- ther anxiously toward the house.” ‘Oh, it’s simply delightful!” cried Penel- ope. ‘ Neither of us has ever known what it was to live in a real seaside place before.” “Tt is charming,” returned Elsie; ‘‘and we are so much obliged to you, Mr. Suther- land, for finding us such a retreat.” “Tt is a pretty little place. I’m so glad you like it! Miss West, you used to say, in town, that, you adored everything old-fash- ioned. Now,I believe the greater part of this cottage was built by a great-grandfather of mine; that is partly what made me think of Leigh Cottage as an autumn retreat for you.” “Happy thought!” cried Penelope. ‘‘ Now, !as I am housekeeper, I’ll order tea, and leave Elsie to show you how we have arranged the house.” The tea was ordered, and duly set on the table, but Penelope waited in vain for the jreturn of Mr. Sutherland and Elsie, and ‘after half an hour’s deliberation she sat down and poured herself out a cup of tea. “It’s cold!” she muttered, with a queer smile and a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I suppose I’d_ better send for some more; but yet perhaps it won’t matter; they are getting quite beyond caring for anything so grossly material as teaand toast. I foresee I shall be very lonely here, unless, or until, Laurence Gower comes down; they won’t want me, except when I’m required to act propriety, as English people say. Well, ’ll ring for more tea for them, on second considera- tions.” Scarcely was it on the table, when the truants entered. “My dear Pen— What! you've had your tea!” cried Elsie, in surprise. ‘‘ We've had such a lovely walk!” “‘ Which has made you forget the time,” retorted Penelope, playfully, pointing to the clock; ‘‘ but you'll forgive me, I know.” “‘Dear me! it is much later than I had any idea of! It was wrong of me to take Mrs. Smith so far!” cried Mr. Sutherland. ‘Don't mention it. Yousee, I did not put myself out for you,” replied Pen, her eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘‘I took my tea when I felt I could wait for it no longer,” «And now I must be going, Mrs. Smith,” Mr. Sutherland said, rising. ‘‘ Miss West, I am going to drive you and Mrs. Smith over _ to Crest Lawn to-morrow, if you will come,”
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IN HIS POWER. ‘With pleasure!” replied Pen. And, as he left the room, she laughed quietly. 3 Tntimacies progress far more quickly in the country, as a rule, than in town. In New York, Mr. Sutherland had been wont to see Elsie every day for a short time, either at her own house, or at some party or ‘‘at home;” but here, at Westham, he passed hours daily in her company, either alone or with Penelope as the only interrupter of their tete-a-tete, and Penelope took. care to keep herself as much out of the way as she could. She was more than anxious that Mr. Suther- land should become her cousin’s husband. ‘*He is just the very man for her! She is far too young, and pretty, and soft-hearted to go through life alone; and she has had so very little happiness as yet!” she thought. And, as time passed on, she felt certain her hopes were likely to be fulfilled. Mr. Sutherland and Elsie were taking a walk one evening along the shore, when, to the latter’s terror and surprise, she raised her eyes, which had been cast downward for some time as she listened to Ivor Suther- Jand’s talk, and found that the tide had risen so rapidly that their exit from the little bay in which they had been pacing to and fro was quite cut off. “Don't be alarmed,” he replied to her startled look; ‘the tide has nearly reached its highest. We shall be imprisoned here for a little while, it is true; but it is fine weather, and Miss Penelope will not be frightened about you, as she knows you are with me. Let us sit on the rocks here at the head of the bay; the waves will scarcely reach to them.” “T confess it gave me a fright,” said Elsie, with a shiver, as she looked at the waves dashing around them, ‘‘and, as some one says somewhere, ‘I would fain die a dry death.’” “Do you think I would have brought you where there was danger?” he replied, re- proachfully. No; trust me, I know every turn of the tide, every sign of the weather, every rock, and cove, and cranny in this dear old coast, where I have lived so happily —or did live so happily all the days of my life until—” And he paused. “Yes; I know you had a sad loss,” said Elsie, softly. “Yes—my mother. Her death altered everything, and took all the charm out of my life. ‘Till I came down here, a month agc, I had not seen Westham for four years,” he replied. ‘I can feel for you,” she replied, softly; ‘‘and can imagine what you must have felt on revisiting it for the first time.” He pressed the little hand that lay on his rm. “Thanks for your sympathy, which is in- deed precious to me. ou, too, doubtless, have suffered, and know what it is to have lost a dear friend and companion—for such ean was to me.” Isie’s cheek paled a little even at this dis- tant allusion to her past. ““Yes; I have had my troubles,” she said, in a low voice. ‘‘My father died when I was very young, but it was a terrible loss to me. He and Penelope, and—and perhaps one or two others, are the only people who have ever loved me. It was in Nebraska he died.” “* And your mother?” asked Ivor. “T never knew her—she died a few months after my birth. Her grave is in the meadow close by my father’s farm, for in those days there was no church near the place, but I have not even a picture of her to tell me what she was like,” answered Elsie. ‘‘How sad!” rejoined Ivor, without re- marking that sorrow for the loss of her hus- nape had not been mentioned as among her trials. “You are an orphan, then, like me?” “Yes; and like Penelope,” she replied. “Two nameless waifs, we are, so to speak. from the other side of yon continent,” and she pointed inland as she spoke. “Elsie,” he replied, as he glanced in the direction she pointed, and possessing himself of her hand, ‘‘do you know, only one thing could have induced me to return to Westham again, and that is the hope of inducing you to remain there with me as my wife, for I love you?” CHAPTER V. * SACRED AND SWEET WAS ALLI SAW IN HER.” Hr had spoken the words, then, that she had so longed and yet dreaded to hear. For a moment everything around her seemed to grow dim, the sea and sky to be confounded in one blaze of shining brightness, and the little waves that rippled against the rocks at their feet to murmur with a strange, far-off sound in her ears. Her heart almost stopped beating, and she would have slipped from her seat on the rock had not a strong arm sustained her, “Tell me,” said a voice, so familiar, and yet for the moment so strange~--a voice that thrilled through her very heart—‘‘tell me, Elsie, that you love me in return. You have had sorrows and troubles in your past life, greater perhaps than mine, even, but we both have suffered, Let the future rs =.) ce
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IN HIS POWER. 13 bring us both happiness together. What! have I been too sudden—and have I[ frightened you, Elsie? How pale and troubled you look! Forgive me if I have been too precipitate, and give me an answer to my question. Say you love me and will be my wife!” In vain Elsie tried to reply; her white lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, yet her hand lay passive in Ivor Sutherland’s; she had neither strength of will nor power enough to withdraw it. «Surely I cannot be wrong,” he continued, pressing her hard to his lips, ‘‘ or else you would tell me so?” His words, and the kisses he pressed on her little hand, suddenly recalled her to her- self. She withdrew her hand and strove to release herself from his clasp. Silas Jorri- son’s threat rung in her ears, and seemed at that moment to be the death-knell to her happiness, “T am wrong!—I am wrong!” she cried. “ But do not think—do not imagine— Ah!” asa stern look came into Ivor’s face—‘‘I make you angry; you think I have been trifling with you? But it is not so.” “Then if you have not been trifling with me,” he answered, his brow clearing, ‘‘ why all this agitation, my darling? Say you love me and all will be well.” ‘‘But you know nothing of me—nothing of my history,” cried Elsie, eagerly. ‘‘If you did know—if you had known, you would never have said such words to me as you said just now.” A horrible doubt shot through Ivor Suther- land’s mind. «“ What!” he cried; ‘‘have I been deceiving myself? Are you not free?” ‘‘Free?” cried Elsie, for a moment bewil- dered. ‘‘ Ah! I see—you mean am Ia widow; have I the right to—to marry again? Yes; there is no doubt of that.” And she laid a peculiar emphasis on the last word. ‘““Thank Heaven! Then there is nothing that need separate us, if you only love me,” he cried, taking her hand again. “But you do not know my history—my origin. You are of a proud family, and might not like to know that your wife was the daughter of a Nebraska farmer—a real farmer, I mean, not one of your fine gentle- men who play at farming in this part of the country—and when I was a girl, I had to take my part in the household work—work that Louise or Jansen would think themselves quite above, and—” Ivor stopped her with a merry laugh. “Tf that is all you have to urge against my making you my wife you may save yourself the trouble. It does seem wonderful that these tiny hands should have had any hard work todo. I cannot believe it. But they are none the less dear to me for that. Hon- pcre never yet lowered man or woman, and—” ‘‘But that is only one reason against it— one of many,” cried Elsie, eagerly, her face flushing. ‘‘ You know I married, and—” “Yes; and you lost eee husband, It must have been a sad trial to you, but I will try and make you as happy as—as you were before,” he replied in tones so serious, yet so loving, that they pierced to Elsie’s heart. How could she ever tell him all—the whole truth? She turned away. *‘T did not love my husband. Iwas. not happy with him!” she said. There was a pause. Then Ivor spoke again. ‘‘My poor darling! Then you were forced to marry him, no doubt?” “Perhaps—no—not forced exactly, but circumstances were too strong forme, When my father died I went to my aunt, Pen’s mother. Pen was a child then, and could not help me. My aunt was jealous of me, for she was still a youngish, fashionable, and handsome woman. Mr. Smith was a friend of Pen’s father’s. He thought me in the way—one too many in the house, and my aunt would often reproach me with living on her bounty; and I believe, if it had not been for what the world said, would have packed me off to earn my own living. Pen, the darling! always loved me, and was good to me, but she was but a child; and when Mr. Smith proposed, every one took it as a mat- ter of course that I should accept him.” “Poor child!” murmured Ivor, drawing her toward him. “‘No; don’t pity me. I was very wrong. I ought to have gone out as a common ser- vant rather than marry him, but his riches attracted, or, at any rate, smoothed the way to my accepting him. Well, he was forty years my senior, and I was only eighteen. He might have treated me with some con- sideration when we were married, but it seemed my aunt had made him believe— Heaven knows I was not to blame on that point—that I loved him; and when he found out his mistake, the love which it seems he really felt for me was turned to the bitterest hate, and my life was made more miserable than it could possibly have been had I either stayed with my aunt or gone out as a ser- vant. It was a just punishment to me. I should have been firm, and refused; but I am weak—weak as water. And, oh, beware —beware, if you love me—” “Tf!” he exclaimed passionately, folding
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14 IN HIS POWER. pe in his arms. ‘‘ Elsie, believe me, I do! > ‘‘Hush! hush! Hear me to the end,” cried Elsie, releasing herself again from him by a great effort; for the great love she felt for him, and the true, unfeigned affection he experienced for her, were casting their spells over her, and she longed to say nothing more of her past, but to give herself up without restraint to the happiness of the present, which might be hers if she would but take it. ‘‘Hush! there is more, much more to tell you. My husband was not a gentleman. No; your farm hands—our gardener, James, have more of the gentleman in them thaii had Mr. Smith, rich as he was. He made all his money in pork-packing, I believe, snd was once a common workman, afterward a con- tractor, then a speculator (but that matters little now). Soon he made my-—-our names the talk of all Omaha; our quarrels, the scenes of violence and discord and worse in our house, were common themes of talk in all the billiard saloons and hotels my hus- band frequented, as well as of all the draw- ing-rooms in which I made my appearance. At last things came to a climax. We had a violent scene, more violent than I care to re- call. My husband left me, and the next time I saw him” (and Elsie’s voice grew hoarse, and her manner wild and agitated) ‘*he was a corpse—yes, the next time 1 saw him, he was dead!” ‘*He died suddenly, then?” said Ivor, pained and grieved at her extraordinary agitation. ‘* Yes, very suddenly; he was shot down— murdered! I—I never saw him alive again.” “You poor thing !—how terrible, my poor darling Elsie! It will require all my love to make you forget the past and all its sad associations. What a shock it must have been to you! And all this happened not two years ago!’ replied Ivor, with deep tender- ness in his voice, «Ah! but you don’t know all people said about it—about me! They were cruel— cruel,” she murmured as she felt his strong arm around her again, and felt what a pro- tection against the shafts of the world and her enemies the love of a man like Ivor Sutherland would be, ‘‘I did not love him —nay, I positively hated him at times; but his death—his murder—was a shock—a fear- ful shock to me; but I believe every one thought I looked on it simply asa happy re- lease, at which I rejoiced, and—and—” Her secret—the secret that Silas Jorrison held én terrorem over her—was trembling on her lips. She wished to be quite open, quite honest with this man who was offering her his heart and an honorable unsullied name. Her heart beat quick—a choking in her throat stopped the words she would fain have spoken, and Ivor Sutherland spoke again. . ~«« Nothing more likely, my darling, than the world, which is ever ready to throw!a stone at the unfortunate, should have de- lighted itself by speaking ill of you; but what is all that to me?” “Ah! but—but you don’t know half that was said—how I was blamed—the motives of my marriage held up to public execration, and even the blame of my husband’s death cast on me!” she answered. Her breath al- most failed her, and her vOice sunk to a whisper as she added, ‘‘The murderer was never discovered—the whole thing was very mysterious, and the world made the worst of it.” “As it always does of everything, my love,” he replied. ‘‘And now you have told me all, love, and if you had told me fifty times more, you would not have altered my deter- mination to make you my wife, if only you can give me your lové. Elsie, my poor, ill-used darling, can you not love me? ‘Tell me!” ‘‘Love you?” she replied, dreamily. ‘I have known s0 little all my life of love; but I don’t think any woman could love you bet- ter than Ido. Only—oh, after what I have told you, can’t you see, it would be madness in youto marry me? But—yes, yes—I love you! Now go, leave me. The tide has turned, you can round the point now!” “« Leave you, when you tell me you love me?” cried Ivor, with a happy laugh, clasp- ing her once more joyfully to his heart, and covering her beautiful face with kisses, ‘Elsie, you are laughing at me. Darling, we will never part again. I will never leave you more, till death do us part.” The words made Elsie shudder. It seemed as if, innocent as she was of all evil, that death—a dead man—stood ready to part them. ‘* My over-sensitive darling! to think that because vile, evil tongues have dared to speak ill of Pe gc blight your fair name— that I should heed them—I who would cheer- fully lay down my life and all I hold dear for you! Never look back again to those sad days, my Elsie. Let them be forgotten; trust in me. Who can injure you when you are my wife!” He spoke proudly and confidently, and Elsie’s drooping spirits were cheered by hig words. Perhaps, as Penelope said, she was foolish to think so much of Silas Jorrison’s threat. Once the wife of Ivor Sutherland, what could he do to harm her? Pen was right; Ivor Sutherland would never listen to the insinuations of a reptile like Silas, So the dark cloud passed away, and a oN
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IN HIS POWER. 18 happy, peaceful sense of sccariiy and protec- tion stole into Elsie’s heart as she sat on the rocks with her lover, the little waves rip- pling further and further away each minute from them, as if inviting them to follow and return on their homeward way along the shore. A bright smile played on her lips, and her deep, violet eyes looked up into the dark eyes of Ivor Sutherland, without a cloud to obscure their tender light. She was happy—happier far than she had_been since those early, innocent days in Nebraska— happier a thousand-fold than she had ever believed it possible for her to be again in this world. Soon the sinking sun warned the lovers that it was high time to be on their way home, and leaning on Ivor’s arm, she walked slowly over the shining sand toward the cottage. ‘“‘We are late. ‘What will Pen think?” she said, as she looked at her watch. ‘*Pen will guess; she knows more about us than we imagine, I believe. I don’t believe Pen will have waited tea for us,” replied Ivor, laughing. “TI may tell Pen, of course?” said Elsie, imploringly. “Certainly! If you didn’t, she’d find it out for herself in five minutes,” he replied. ‘“‘But I shall tell no one else; need we?” she went on, Sa “‘Certainly not, if you don’t wishit. I’ve no one I’m obliged to inform of my inten- tions, darling. We will do just as you like about it,” he answered. ‘‘ Here we are, and there is Pen on the lawn.” “Late, as usual,” began Pen. And then she stopped, and looking at the couple, gave a little scream of delight, ‘‘Elsie—Mr. Sutherland! I know it—I know it! Elsie, tell me lam right. Mr, Sutherland, speak!” “Yes, you are right; she has promised to be my wife!” cried Ivor, exultingly. “You dear, dear things!” cried Pen, takin a hand of each, and then kissing Elsie. ‘“ knew long ago it would end in this way!” CHAPTER VI. LOVE AND JEALOUSY. ‘‘Wrut, Elsie,” cried Penelope, as soon as Ivor Sutherland had left them, ‘‘I am more delighted than I can tell you at this 0d news; but you look tired and_ sad. heer up. Are you mourning over Ivor’s departure? To-morrow will soon come.” ‘‘Foolish child!’ replied Elsie, with a rather sad smile. ‘‘No; I was thinking, happy as I feel, and much as I love him, have I done right in accepting him?” «* Always far eed on the old string!” cried | Pen, lightly; ‘‘but—but I suppose you had a rand explanation, a. pouring forth of confi- ences, Elsie; and you told him—” «All about my past life, and our circum. . stances; of my unhappy marriage, and Mr, . Smith’s death; and how—even how people blamed me as being the cause of it; but I could not—I could not bring myself to tell him exactly the form their blame teok, nor to speak of Silas Jorrison’s threat; you, yourself, said no man of honor would heed his words. But you look grave, Pen; you sega I ought to have told him do ou?’ Pen looked uneasy, but Elsie’s face of hor- ror softened her, “Talways advocate perfect openness be- tween lovers, you know, Elsie, but perhaps you were not called upon to mention Jorri- son’s impertinence to Mr, Sutherland.” *‘And he said he did not care what the world might have said of me,” put in Elsie, eagerly, “No doubt he would not, so you might have told the whole story without any fear of alarming him, However, perhaps it was not necessary, 80 don’t look so down-hearted, there’s a dear. I’ve got news to tell you, Elsie,"—and she drew a letter from her pocket. “And you’ve never mentioned it all this time!” cried. Elsie. “Thinking of something else, you see, Well, Laurence Gower will. be here to- morrow; he’s found that the sketching about here is supposed to be remarkably good, and therefore, has taken rooms at the little hotel in Westham for a month. Isn’t that delight- ful? But what's the matter? Don’t you like the idea of his coming, Elsie? Why, it will take me quite out of your way, you un- grateful creature, for I am an artist in my poor way, and mean to do a great deal of sketching, too.” “Indeed, you are wrong; I’m very. glad Mr. Gower is coming; it must often have been dull for you. here, dear, I fear, all alone.” ‘Well, I fear I’ve not acted propriety as T ought, to have satisfied ppesk § 7S udices, and therefore have been a good deal alone; but I haven’t been dull, for all that!” re- torted Penelope. ‘‘ And now I intend to use all my pent-up energies in teasing Mr. Gower.” ‘‘Don’t carry that too far,” retorted Elsie, ‘““Mr. Gower, I can see, does not always understand your chafling ways, Pen.” ‘‘ He'll have to learn to comprehend them some day—that is, if—’ An short and blushed. «<If!—well, I don’t see there is much doubt in the matter; only, in my turn, let me give she stopped *
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16 IN HIS POWER. you a word of warning, Pen. Mr. Gower is sensitive, and wants gentle treatment; he is an excellent fellow, in every way suited to you. Take care and do not let your wit wound him too deeply, nor inflict an injury where you mean only to implant a passing a - **My dear Elsie, what a sermon! — you quite amaze me!” cried Pen, in mock aston- ishment. ‘‘ Poor dear Mr. Gower! fancy my inflicting any serious injury on him, a poor, weak little person like me!” “Go, gol” cried Elsie, laughing; ‘I see you are in one of your incorrigible humors to-night. Here, take your letter, and be sure to put it under your illow to dream on. But stay a moment,” (and a look of anxiet came into her eyes). ‘“‘ Mr. Gower has travel- ed—he has been in the West, hasn’t he?” ‘Well, years agolI believe he went out somewhere ‘in the wilderness, on a buffalo- hunt, with a party of Englishmen, but that’s o. replied Pen, rather puzzled at the ques- 0 mn, “Well, Ivor and I have settled to say nothing of our engagement to any one; at raf rate not at present, so you must not tell r. Gower of it till I give you leave, remem- ber,” said Elsie earnestly—so earnestly that Penelope looked at her inl “Just as you like, my dear, of course,” she replied; ** but ”—with a laugh—‘*‘ I think Mr, Gower will soon find it out for himself.” Oddly enough, when Mr. Gower called next day and found Mr. Sutherland already in the pretty drawing-room of Leigh Cottage, with Elsie sitting on the sofa, working, and Penelope arranging a great basketful of hot- house flowers in an old china bowl on the table, he did not take in the situation at all, and in a moment his heart was wrung with a jealous pang, and all sorts of doubts and suspicions entered his brain. Had not Pene- lope encouraged him in every way before she left town?—and yet here she was arrangin flowers with Mr. Sutherland, that he ha evidently brought her, and there was Mrs. Smith tting all alone on the sofa, acting the part of chaperon to her cousin! Penelope’s smile of welcome and unaf- fected pleasure at seeing him again chased away some of these grim shadows for a time, but as the evening went on they returned. Mr. Sutherland was evidently quite at home in the cottage, much more so than he had been at the city house. Penelope treat- ed him with something almost more than friendliness, and Mrs. Smith looked on quite calmly at her. Mr. Sutherland had evident- ly atolen a march on him, and had been making hard running while he had been idling away his-time at his guardian’s place in Newport, “Do you ever sketch now, Miss West,” he inquired, ‘“‘or have other and more en- grossing occupations taken the place of art in your daily life?” “Indeed, I don’t think Penelope has had any occupation since we have been here. We have literally idled our time away in a delicious dolce far niente, with Mr. Suther- land to show us all the beauties of this lovely place and to take care of us,” put in Elsie; ‘*but now you have come—” “Oh! I beg Miss West will not allow me to interrupt the even tenor of her way,” he replied, sulkily, while Penelope’s dark gray eyes sparkled with a mischievous twinkle. “‘T think I shall be able to spare a little time from my idleness for my favorite oe- cupation,” she said, il “Thad thought of going down to Put-in gs to-morrow, to complete a sketch I began a day or two ago, and was going to ask Mr. Gower if he would accompany me; but perhaps, as he thinks my love of art has waxed lukewarm, he might not care to come. At any rate, Mr. Gower, you'll look at my poor production and give me the benefit of your advice, won’t you? It’s here in the next room, which for the present is my studio, What do you think of that for a view?” she con- tinued, holding up an unfinished water- color. ‘‘ Will not such lovely scenes as this chase away the cloud of care I see on your brow, and soothe your troubled spirit?” “‘Penelope, you are very hard on me,” cried the young man. ‘I have notseen you fora month, and came here expecting to pass an evening alone with you.” “Tt seems to me we are alone!” put in Pen, raising her well-marked eyebrows, and looking innocently into his face. ‘« Nonsense!—with that fellow there in the next room, who’ll be following us in a min- ute,” went on Laurence Gower. “‘T hardly think he'll be rude enough to leave Elsie alone, and I fancy he’s had quite as much of my company this past month as he cares for,” she replied quietly. ‘‘ Come, Mr. Gower, be reasonable; you, who are such @ lover of art, should understand how I am longing for, yet dreading, your criticism on my work, ‘Tell me, do you think it pretty?” “Very nice—very pretty—a lovely piece of coloring!” he replied, «And this?” she went on, popes small finished drawing into his hand. “Excellent!” he cried, really impressed by her skill. : ‘‘ Well, you see, I have not been quite so idleas Elsie made out. Now, are you in- clined to come down to Put-in Bay to-mor- row, my good friend, or no? If youare, I will be ready at ten o’clock.” “Of course Ishall be delighted; but will a
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IN HIS POWER. 1? your other ‘good friend’ be in_attendance too?” he replied, glancing toward the draw- ing-room door. ‘Hardly, at such an early hour. I sup- aime however, if we found he drops in to unch you wouldn’t go off to your hotel ina dudgeon, especially if I beg of Elsie to take him off my hands as much as possible. In- deed, I think I had better make him over to Elsie altogether, as I foresee our celebrated (in the future) series of sketches of the Lon Island coast will not be as successful as intended they should.” She spoke quite calmly, with a little smile on her lips. Gower looked up to her, and won- dered if Mrs. Courtland’s words, “the great- est flirt in New York,” could really be ap- ome to her with justice. Doubtless she had een fooling poor Sutherland to her heart’s content all the last month, and yet here she was at the first word from him, or perhaps only because she thought he might really stand in the way of her drawing plans being successfully carried out, willing to turn the poor man over to her cousin, and dispense with his further attentions then and there! ““Well, won’t you speak? Doesn’t my plan suit you? Is there no pleasing you?” she went on, in a petulant, complaining little voice, ‘From what you said just now I really thought the prospect might have been agreeable to you.” _‘fAnd so it_is,” he replied, recovering himself; “‘ but I wish I knew—I wish | really knew—” ““What colors I used for that shadow across the water?” interposed Pen, with ap- parent eagerness, ‘Tl show you to-mor- row, Mr. Gower, if—if you'll only be good- tempered.” “*Good-tempered!” he cried, ‘‘when you are enough to try the most long-suffering of men. I tell you what, Miss West—” “Good people, are you quarreling?” said Elsie’s sweet voice at the door, while Pen burst into a silvery laugh, ‘‘ Come and have some coffee, and see the moonlight shining on the sea, It is beautiful, and calculated to calm the most ruffled feelings,” ‘*You have tried him dreadfully. Beware, Pen!” said Elsie, a few days after, when such a scene as has just been described had occurred over and over again. But the spirit of mischief had taken pos- session of Penelope, and she was wilder and more wayward than ever, till at last Lau- rence Gower, hurt and harassed, yet loving her more than ever, resolved to bring matters to a climax. “Mrs. Smith,” he said, coming into the drawing-room one morning when he knew Pen was out, and tormented himself with the idea that she was in Ivor’s Molnpany, “er want you to tell me the truth. My happi- ness depends on it, so you must speak out, Is your cousin—is Miss West engaged to Mr. Sutherland?” “Penelope engaged to Ivor Sutherland!” cried Elsie in such evident surprise that Lau- rence saw at once that this was the first time such an idea had been broached before her. “Yes; she is constantly in his company. He is always here. She treats him with as much—nay, more friendliness than she does even me, who she knows loves her, and who once believed—was sure—” “Mr. Gower, believe me,” cried Elsie, eagerly, recovering from her surprise, and seeing at a glance how the jealousy in the breast of the over-sensitive young fellow had been aroused—‘“‘ believe me, Pen is not en- gaged to Mr. Sutherland or to any one else.” * No?—are you sure of that? If I could be so, I should be a different creature. At times I feel half-mad! Often, when I have left here of an evening, I have almost made up my mind never to return—yet I am here still, for I love her; but she trifles with me cruelly, and if she is not engaged—” ** And LI assure you she is not,” interrupt- ed Elsie. “Then why does she treat me so?” he cried. ‘‘ She seems to delight in raising my jealousy and seeing me writhe beneath her sarcasms,”” ‘Her sarcasms! You are hard on Pen, Mr. Gower. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to hurt you; and—forgive me for telling you so— you often take offense at what is never in- tended to offend,” replied Elsie. ‘‘Pen has too good a heart to be really cruel or heart- less, and I believe—mind, I have no right to say so, but it is my belief—cares for you far more than you imagine. For Ivor Suther- land, I know, her feelings are simply those of friendship, and nothing more.” “‘ Dear Mrs. Smith,” cried Laurence, start- ing up and seizing her hand, which he pressed to his lips, ‘‘how happy you have made me!” ‘Am I to congratulate you?” said a meek voice at the door, which made them both start; and there stood Pen, her gray eyes posi- tively sparkling like diamonds and full of fun and mischief, “Pen, for shame!—you should know bet- ter,” said Elsie, laughing and blushing; ‘‘ but Mr. Gower has something to “ay to you, so I shall take my departure.” And she left the room. ““You know very well what I have to say, Penelope,” he said, taking her hand, “Yes, I think se,” she replied, all the fun
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18 IN HIS POWER. and mischief dying out of her eyes and a seri- ous expression taking its place. ‘1 am not to _—- you, and not to make believe to flirt anad-— “More than that, you are to love me as I a you; to be mine forever; never to quar- rel!” ‘*Not even to have the pleasure of making it up?’ she murmured, pitifully, while he went on, without heeding her. ‘‘Never to hide anything from me, and never to make me miserable again, as you have made me this month past.” “‘Oh, if I make you miserable—” began Pen, with a spark of her former mischief. ** Now don’t begin again. Don’t mock me now; you must be serious or I shall be obliged to leave you, Pen,” he said, and his voice was fullof real pathos. ‘‘ Tell me, am I to be the happiest of men, or the most wretched? It rests with you.” “Be happy, then, Laurence,” she said, in alow tone. ‘‘I will never be naughty and mischievous again.” There was a short silence. Laurence had taken her in his arms and kissed her, and they sat side by side, her hand in his, for a few moments. ‘But I do love teasing you,” she whisper- ed, a few minutes later. “*As long as you love me, Pen, I don’t care; but are you sure you don’t care one bit for Sutherland—that all your heart is mine?” ‘Quite sure,” she said; and for the first time for many a day, Laurence Gower felt perfectly contented, and at rest with all the world, The time of Elsie’s wedding had already been fixed. It was to take place quietly in New York, and the bride and bridegroom were to go to the mountains for a fortnight, and then return to Crest Lawn to take up their residence there for good, and’ Penelope was to be there to receive them. ‘*Cannot I tell Laurence of your engage- ment now, dear?” said Pen, a few days later. ‘* He leaves us in a day or two, you know.” ; ‘Nay, wait a little longer,” urged Elsie. «« When he is well away from Westham, then tell him, dear.” ““Why are you so careful to hide your secret, Elsie? she replied. ‘‘ However, it shall be as you wish.” 5 It was two days later that Penelope said) good-by to her lover, and Elsie’s secret re- mained untold. CHAPTER VIL. A RECREANT LOVER. A coupt® of days passed, and no letter came to Penelope from Laurence Gower. The first day she took it easily enough, say- ing that with all men she knew that ‘* out of sight was out of mind;” but the second day she looked anxiously amid the little pile of letters on the cottage breakfast-table,and after a fruitless search, her disappointment. at not finding one from Laurence was so great that for a few moments she could not speak; the third and fourth mornings she ‘was * and at the gate to meet the postman, an when no letter from her lover rewarded her for her pains, re-entered the house with eyes filled with tears and lips trembling. The sixth day, however, as she came into the breakfast-room, there lay beside her plate the long-looked-for epistle; and seizing it joyfully, and giving a happy ‘‘Good-morn- ing!” to Elsie and Ivor Sutherland, the latter of whom had just come in, she strolled out onto the broad gravel walk, to read her let- ter in peace. “Dear child! Iam so glad the letter has come at last. She has been fretting for it, and it ought to have come sooner,” said El- sie, following her cousin with eyes of affec- tion. ‘But, goodness me! I hope it con- tains no bad news!” For Penelope had staggered, and the letter had fallen from her hand. ““What can it be? Oh, I believe it’s all right, after all! She has picked it up, and is reading it through again! We shall soon hear all about it!’ went on Elsie. ‘‘ Come, Ivor, let me give you acup of tea, and tell me what you propose to do to-day?” So they fell into talk; and not till Penelope entered the room again, looking white, and with a strange sarcastic smile-on her lips, did they think of the letter again. “Well, darling, how is he?” said Elsie, hardly looking up. ‘‘Tell us all the news, Your tea is quite cold, I fear.” “The news!” cried Penelope, with a jar- ring laugh. ‘‘T’ll bet you a dozen pairs of Harris’s best gloves, Elsie, you’ll not guess the news this letter contains. I—I don’t even think ” (and her voice faltered for an in- stant) ‘‘ that I quite understand or realize it myself.” ‘Why, what do you mean, Pen? How horridly white you are! And, for goodness sake, don’t tremble like that! Ivor, help her; she is going to faint!” cried Elsie, start- ing ls re ** No, no; I’m not given to fainting. Don’t alarm yourself, Ivor,” she answered, drop- ping into a chair. ‘“‘ One generally expects
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IN HIS POWER. 19 to be a little overcome by a lover’s first let- ter, you kngw; but it is rarely one finds one- self called a traitor, a deceiver, a miserable adventuress, the greatest flirt in New York, etc., in it. Here, read it, Elsie, and tell me what it is I have done to make Mr. Laurence Gower write to me in this strain.” ‘He must be mad—mad with jealousy! It’s all a mistake, Penelope, darling; he will see that soon!” cried Elsie, in amazement. ‘It’s a mistake I don’t like, and I shall find it difficult to forget!” said Pen, ina hard voice, ‘‘ Here, Ivor, read it, too.” It ran thus: *T was a fool to believe you really loved me—the greatest flirt in New York—‘a wretched adven- turess,’ as Courtland and others said. eign twenty-four hours after I had bid you good-by found you faithless to me. I could not believe it at first; but at last I was foreed to, for who can doubt the evidence of their own eyes? I will never see you or write to you, or receive a letter from you again. You have deceived me—lied to me! “When this reaches you I shall be far away, and beyond the reach of any communication from you. I will say nothing of your wretched cruelty to me, I shall suffer from it, perhaps, for life; but as for you, it will doubtless trouble you little, and in a week or two you will forget that such a wretched being exists as “LAURENCE GOWER.” “‘The man must be mad, ora born fool!” cried Ivor, his face flushing with anger and shame for the recreant lover. ‘‘ What can he possibly mean ?—what can he have heard?” “Oh, do not trouble yourself to guess, Ivor,” replied Penelope, with a calm, cold voice. ‘‘A man who could write me a letter like that, who could insult me so cruelly himself, and repeat the insults he has heard others heap on me, is not worth remember- ing or regretting. Give me the letter. There!” —tearing it into a thousand pieces—“let’s forget it! He is right; in a week I shall have forgotten that such aman exists! Give me some tea, Elsie; I feel very thirsty; the morn- ing is so hot and close,” ‘But, Pen, you will write to him?” said Elsie. ‘‘“What I? The wretched adventuress? Never! Elsie, what are you thinking of? Besides, I could not if would. I don’t even know where he is gone to,” she answered. There was a sort of a suppressed sob in her voice as she spoke. “There, don’t talk to me of it again!” she said. ‘‘ Let’s forget—forget, if we can! Now, Elsie, tell me what are you going to do to- day?” AE looked at Elsie, but the latter knew Pen’s humors too well to cross them; and though the tears kept coming into her eyes" now and again, she strove to discuss with her cousin the plans for the approaching mar- riage, “When she has a little got over the first shock she will talk to me about Mr, Gower, Ivor,” she said. ‘‘ Meanwhile, darling, you must try to find out where he has gone. Penelope will soon soften her humor, poor dear; but I don’t think cither I or she will ever forgive him.” But days and weeks went on, and no change came over Penelope. She never wept; she never spoke of Laurence Gower; she went about her usual business in her usual manner. It was only by a certain hardness in her voice and manner, a certain bitterness in her mode of speech, that Elsie could discern how terribly the wound rank- led in her bosom; how deeply she felt the wrong that had been done her, even more deeply than the loss of her love, The wedding-day drew near. Crest Lawn had been all prepared for the reception of Ivor and his bride. The trowsseaw had been ordered, and the few—the very few guests that were to be invited to the marriage had been informed when and where it would take place. Leigh Cottage had been dismantled of the thousand and one pretty knick-knacks the ladies had put into it, and all were removed to the suite of rooms at Crest Lawn Pene- lope was to call her own; and finally the last trunks were packed, and the bridal party started for town. Elsie looked lovely in her simple pearl- gray robe, far more lovely than she had looked eight years before in all the glories of shining white satin and point lace, flowers, diamonds, and flowing vail, Penelope thought. And what a contrast between the bridegroom of to-day and the man Elsie had eight years ago been almost forced to marry! How happy and radiant she looked to-day; how pale and heavy-eyed she had been on that_other occasion! ““We seemed to have changed places,” thought Penelope. ‘I was the happy, thoughtless child, without a care or a sor- row, then; now I have an aching heart which I strive to conceal, as Elsie, who looks all peace and joy now, strove then to hide hers,” As the service went on, Pen had hard work to repress hef feelings. Once she had hoped ere long—perhaps on that very day— tobe one of the principals in a like cere- mony, but all her hopes were shattered, and she felt that for her the bridal morning | would never shine, | ‘**'Three times a bridemaid, never a bride,’ says the proverb, in which case I have done for myself this morning,” she thought, with -a sad smile. ‘ Never mind; I shall take care of Elsie’s children, and she and Ivor
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tN HIS POWER. will let me live at Crest Lawn, and grow old and comfortable along with them; and then every one can point at me not only as being an exemplification of the proverb, but also as a warning to all young ladies—hbeing an old maid after having been the greatest flirt in New York.” ““What are you thinking of, dear?” said Elsie. who, with Pen’s help, was now chang- ng. her wedding for her traveling dress, “* You look so grave. I’m very selfish; but I feel so happy myself, I can’t bear to see any one looking sad; and—and I, Pen, can’t he P being sure your trouble will all come right in the end.’ en shrunk back as if she had been stung. “Don’t! I can’t bear to talk of it yet, Elsie. But you are right time will cure it, no doubt.” ** And you won't be dull when I’m gone?” said Elsie. “Dull, with Mrs. Carter? Impossible!” said Pen, with alaugh., ‘I shall go Pack to my old life, and be as gay as a bird, darling, never you fear,” And with this assurance Elsie was obliged to be content, for the carriage was at the Si and she heard her husband calling for er, “Now, Elsie; we shall be late! Pen, don’t let her linger; the train won’t wait, re- member!” he cried. So, with another kiss, they parted; and for the first time since she received Laurence Gower’s letter, Pen burst into a fit of hysteri- cal crying. ‘* Poor dear—poor dear! how fond she is of her cousin!” said good-natured Mrs, Car- ter; ‘‘but she will soon be back, my dear; and be sure, after a time she will be tired of beat Send herself alive in Westham, and come back to town, like a sensible creature, in the season, and we shall be all comfortable to- gether just as we used to be.” “*Do you think so?” sobbed Pen, trying to control herself, “Yes, indeed I do, my love. I’ve known s0 many young couples begin by hiding themselves away in some stupid old country place. but they get over it, and emerge from it in time, and live like other yeakie By the way, I’ve~a few people to inner to-night—Will Courtland, your old admirer for one. I tried to find Laurence Gower, but I hear he’s off to Colorado or Utah or—no—I think it was Mexico, shoot- g. “Indeed!” said Pen, drying her eyes, and her sobs ceasing at once; ‘‘I believe he al- ways had a craze for slaughtering inoffen- sive animals. As to Will Courtland, of course the world could not afford to spare him, and I presume he has no such propen- sities.” - ‘““No; he is a harmless young fellow enough, only that Mrs Poindexter used to spoil him; and — say he’s taken too much to racing lately. ow, if you are ready, m dear, we will go home,” replied the good- natured dowager. “Quite ready,” cried Penelope, starting up. ‘‘ How foolish I’ve been to cry like this about—about nothing! I hope my eyes won't be red to-night.” “Your eyes are always lovely, my dear— quite — best point, in fact, so you need not tear,” replied Mrs, Carter, gravely. “Now for home, and some tea and a nap, and then you and I will be quite at our best.” Slowly the evening passed by. Mr. Court- land paid much attention to Pentdloués for, in fact, he had just won heavily at tho Jerome Park races, and in her present ex- uberant spirits had almost persuaded himself that it would be worth his while to sacrifice himself for love; but Pen was cold and taciturn, and when the party broke up, Mr. Courtland was not able to flatter himself he hac] made much impression on her. “‘Believe she likes that pedantic ass, Gower, who went off to Mexico in that queer way, six weeks ago. But it don’t much matter; Maud §. is sure to win again next month, and that ought to console me. But she’s pretty—deuced pretty--is Miss Pen- elope West!” few weeks later Mr. William Courtland laid his heart and fortune at Penelope’s feet. Needless to say, they were peremptorily re- jected by her. CHAPTER VIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST. MEANWHILE, Laurence Gower, with a heavy heart and wounded, jealous spirit, was far away in California among the won- derful mountains, mines, and canyons for which that country is noted. For weeks and weeks he had wandered away far from the haunts of the white men, into those parts of the interior, and among the tribes of In- dians, seldom or never visited by travelers, He had hunted and shot, striven to forget the past and all its troubles; climbed won- drous mountains, crossed unknown passes— done everything, in fact, to chase away from his heart the remembrance of Penelope West, but without success. “‘Why did I ever go back that night?” he mused often and often. ‘‘ What bad angel tempted me to? But I doubted her, and [ went back to satisfy my doubts, and they were satisfied! There 1 saw her, she who but afew hours before had made me believe
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IN HIS POWER. 81 she loved me; walking with the man she knew I hated, standing with him in the moonlight by the very garden gate I stood by with her the evening before, when she vowed to be true to me forever) I could hardly believe it at first, but when I saw him wrap the little scarlet cloak around her, as I had done twenty times before, I was forced to! And then—then— But why do I tor- ment myself more with the matter? She never loved me, and maybe she cares no more for Aim than for me—that she is false to us both—the veriest flirt in America!” Yet for all that, he often felt a pang of the bitterest regret that he should have left New York so abruptly without giving Penelope an opportunity of explaining matters, and in his softer moods his heart would smite him when he thought of his cruel letter to her. So he wandered on his lonely way, firmly believing that the two figures he had seen at the gate the last evening he spent at West- ham were Ivor Sutherland and Penelope; his jealousy blinding his penetration to such an extent that it did not once enter his head that it was Elsie, not Penelope, he had seen, Penelope was the only woman in the world for him, and he could not comprehend that, Penelope present, any man could think of any other woman save her. “I'd give a good deal to see her—to know what she’s doing now,” he thought, as he sat in the door of the shanty that served him for a shelter far up in some unfrequented hills; and he threw himself, with a groan, on the short dry turf beside him. ‘« What's wrong, mate?” said a rough voice close to him, that caused him to start to his feet in an instant. ‘‘ You seem uneasy— : hope it ain’t my complaint you're suffering rom.’ ** And what’s that?” asked Laurence, with a keen glance first at his rifle and then at his interlocutor, while his hand felt for the knife he always wore at his side. The man noticed his gesture, and laughed harshly. ‘“No need for that, mate. Tn ® harmless fellow enough, on my way from the mines over there, to home—Omaha, that is—if I ever manage to get there; but I’m famished with hunger and thirst, and worn out with fever and hard work. You're not one of us, but maybe ye can give me a shelter and a meal 0’ some’at.” ‘*Come in, come in; I’ve enough and to spare,” replied Laurence, a glance at the man’s fever-stricken face showing that, at any rate, some part of his story was true, and that he was in need of both food and shelter, He ate like a ravenous creature: and then, the pangs of hunger satisfied, grew more com- municative. “My mate played mean ill trick,” he said, “and we're old friends, we are, heand me. I was took ill two months ago, and he left me to live or die, sink or swim, as best I might. Td not have done the like by Siley; but he’s a treacherous dog, and I'll be even with him, big man as he thinks himself.” * And where’s he gone?” asked Laurence. “To Omaha, with a fortin’ in his belt. I guess he don’t think I'll ever get there to claim my share, but we shall see. A night or two here (by your leave, stranger), and a meal or two like this, will set me up. You'd not believe me, but I’ve walked a hundred miles in three days, and slept out. It’s only when the fever takes me I’m not my own man, and fear to be alone.” And so it seemed, indeed; the stranger lay down to sleep soon after, and soon, by his tossing and muttering, Laurence knew that the foe was grappling with him. He struck a light, and asit fellon the haggard face before him, he saw at once that his visitor was far enough from being his own man, as he termed it. It was a strange, wild face—unshaven, un- washed, the hair and beard grizzled, and the eyes wild, and almost terrified in their ex- pression as they wandered round the hut. Laurence sat watching him for some time, and gradually the unintelligible mutterings were hushed, the fever fit was passing away, and at length the stranger fell into a deep sleep; and Laurence, turning in, fell asleep likewise. It was late when he woke, and the sun was high in the heavens. He started up and looked for the stranger, whom he found coolly sitting at the door of the hut, while on the fire he had kindled bubbled and boiled a tin of coffee. ‘Preparing breakfast, you see, mate,” he said, with a smile. ‘‘@uess you're a hard sleeper; you never heard me move, though I made noise enough. Reckon I had a bit of fever last night, for I didn’t know when I got up quite where I was, till my ve caught sight oF you lying there; then I remembered. Did’ I jabber, now, much, stranger?” And he looked up with an inquiring glance into Laurence’s face. “You chattered a bit; not much—not like some fellows I’ve seen,” he replied shortly. The man dropped his eyes with a look of satisfaction, while Laurence, going into the shanty again, produced the remains of a deer’s quarters, from which he cut slices and prepared to fry them at the fire beside which his guest was now seated,
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IN HIS POWER. enna enna « Are you thinking of going East?” asked the man ina few moments, ‘‘But you're no Westerner, I’m thinking—a New Yorker, I reckon?” Laurence nodded. “Tm half thinking of starting Eastward; but I’m hardly tired of this part of the world et.” “Tf you were, we might join company,” replied the man. “Yes, maybe,” replied Laurence, not feel- ing, however, that the company was much to his taste. The man guessed his thoughts, and laughed again. “You mightn’t find me such a bad com- panion as you fancy. I know the ways of these parts, which, excuse me, is more than most travelers do; and it’s a rough part of the world, I tell you.” “So it seems,” said Laurence; ‘and yet I’ve done well hitherto.” “‘Not been too near the mines, I fancy,” replied he. ‘Well, stranger, with your leave, I'll bide here to-day and to-night, and start on my journey to-morrow.” “‘Stay and welcome,” replied Laurence, “and to-morrow I’ll come part of the way down the mountain-side with you. _ I’ve done the shooting about here pretty well.” But when the morrow came it seemed little likely that for many days the stranger would be able to start again on his home- ward path. He raved and tossed in the jlelirium of fever, and when it left him, lay weak as a child, almost unable to move hand or foot. Laurence nursed him night and day, and soon found that he had a man of many ad- ventures, as well as of a shattered constitu- tion, to deal with, and often he doubted if his visitor—Tim, as he called himself with- out further style or tithke—would ever leave the lonely little shanty on the great moun- tain’s side again. At length, however, he gave signs of re- covery: The fever fit had spent its force, and slowly he grew stronger. His gratitude to Laurence, who, as he said, had ‘nursed him like a babby,” knew no bounds; there was nothing he would not have done for him to show it; and Laurence, on his side, had taken a liking to the big, rough fellow, who for so many days had been his one companion and sole care. ‘I must be going on my ways, mate,” said Tim, one day, after sitting for many minutes in silent meditation, the day’s work, such as it was, over. ‘‘Siley’s got two months’ start of me, and I dare say flatters himself the | vultures have got me by now; but he didn’t | reckon I should find a nuss on the hill-side all | ready and waiting to cure me when he’d left me in the lurch, the villain!” ‘You're not very fit for traveling yet,” re- marked Laurence, shortly. ‘“No, mayhap not, ’specially alone; but I must take my chance,” he answered. ‘“And how long will the journey take you?” asked Laurence. ‘“‘Not long after I’m once out of the moun- tains,” he replied. ‘Maybe we shall meet again some day,” went on Laurence, aftera pause. ‘I’m get- ting tired of my life here, and—” “Why not tramp it with me now?” said the man, eagerly, his eyes flashing. ‘‘ Look here, stranger, you’ve been a good friend to me—saved my life, you have; and Tim the Miner, as they call me, isn’t one to forget. I sha’n’t live very much longer. Ah! you didn’t think I knew that,” as he saw Laurence’s look of surprise; ‘‘ but I know it weli enough, and as long as I’ve life I shall remember you, and if it’s ever in my power to help you or stand your friend, I'lldo it, you bet; but be- fore I die I must get my gold out of Siley’s clutches, and be even with him. Come, say we'll start together, and I’ll put off my start till you’re ready.” There was an earnestness and sincerity in the man’s manner, a depth of gratitude in his tone and way of speaking, that touched and interested i gemaneds he was growing weary of solitude, and the journey across country to Omaha in company with his new friend was not a disagreeable idea to him; so, after a short pause, he consented, much to the delight of Tim. The man was a tolerably loquacious com- panion during the earlier part of the jour- ney, and it astonished Laurence to find what an amount of fatigue he was able to go through, in spite of his late illness; but as they neared civilized parts the stranger's manner changed. With his uncouth miner's dress he dropped much of his roughness of speech and manner, and when, at Omaha, he appeared clean-shaven, and dressed in a suit of brand new Yankee garments, Laurence hardly recognized him. He smiled at Laurence’s surprise. “You'll find my partner quite a man of the world here, sir,” he said; ‘‘ although over in California he was reckoned a rougher cus- tomer than me by a long chalk. We'll go to the ‘Red River Hotel’ now, unless there’s another you’ve set your mind on.” Laurence replied that it was all one to him; so to the ‘‘Red River Hotel” they repaired, Tim the miner, or Mr. Thomas Benson, as he now chose to call himself, engaging a first- rate apartment for himself, as well as one for Laurence Gower,
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Several days passed on, and each day Mr. Thomas Benson was occupied in business of which he gave no account to Laurence, and each day Laurence saw with regret that his cheeks were growing hollow again and his looks haggard. Every night in the smoking- room of the hotel or in the billiard- saloon, he would look inquiringly round, and Rxpectenty at the door as it opened; but Mr. Thomas Benson, though he evidently knew Omaha well, seemed to have no ac- quaintances among its inhabitants—at any rate, none who seemed to care to look him up. Pat last, after three weeks spent at the ‘Red River Hotel,” the man whom Tim was expecting did appear. Ashe and Laurence were seated in the smoking-saloon, the door opened, and in walked a small, stout man, well-dressed, and wearing a glistening dia- mond ring on his finger. He looked grave and disturbed, and he started as Tim, jump- ing up, laid his hand on his shoulder. “*Siley! At last!” he cried. “What! you here, old fellow? Cheated the fever again, have you?” he replied, with a not over-pleased glance at his old mate, “Tt’s left its mark on you, though.” “Yes; but I’m not dead yet, old fellow. Come, sit by me here: we must have a set- tling up, you know,” replied Tim. “Oh, yes; of course—of course,” replied the other, evasively; ‘“‘but I’ve some busi- ness on hand I want to consult you about.” And his face assumed a crafty expression as he folded and unfolded a ragged, crumpled pewspaper he held in his hand. ‘‘ Look at this, Tim. Don’t it remind you of the old days on our ranches? Ay, it’s an old paper; and comes from across the continent, ut it’s only a month ago, soon after I came here, that I came across it. See here—I’ll read you a piece of news, You remember Elsie Seagur that was? Well— “*On the 26th instant’ (four months ago, now), ‘Ivor Sutherland, Esq., of Westham, Long Island, to Mrs, Valentine Smith.’ ” ‘*Our old friend, Elsie Seagur. But what in the name of all that’s reasonable, young man, is that to you ?” And Silas Jorrison turned, with an angry light in his cunning eyes, on Laurence Gow- er, while Tim fell back with an imprecation. “*Mrs. Valentine Smith!—did he marry her? Good heavens!” cried Laurence. ’* He did, sir; you may take your oath to that,” replied Silas, and handed him the paper. ” CHAPTER IX. PARTNERS AND FOES, Tm. a fierce, angry light in his eyes, started up as Laurence eagerly red the paragraph, IN HIS POWER. 23 “Tvs Deen warting for you a Tong time, mate,” he said, in a hoarse voice. ‘Come along, now; I’d like to have a little private talk with you.” “In a moment; but I vow I don’t feel to care for business of the sort you mean now; not but what you'll find interest in the business I’ve got on band here.” And he took the paper from Laurence’s hand. ‘You seem a bit put out, as well as this young stranger, at the news,” **T thought Mr, Sutherland was to marry an- other Jady—a cousin of Mrs. Valentine Smith’s,” faltered Laurence; but Tim had taken Silas Jorrison by the arm, and was draggin him out of the room, so on his ear alone di Laurence’s remark fall; it entirely escaped Silas Jorrison. + “Now, tell me,” cried Tim, as soon as they were alone, ‘‘ what deviltry have you in hand as regards Elsie Seagur that was; and then just make over my share in the gold we got to- gether, and those bonds.” “Slow, and softly, my man!” interrupted Silas; ‘‘all in good time. The money’s safe enough; all lodged in my name just now, but that can soon be altered; but as to that woman, You remember how she played with us both, Tim, eh? 1 mean—” ‘*T don’t know that she played with me, nor with you either,” he replied, roughly. ‘I loved her. Sbe made fool enough of me, or I made fool enough of myself, about her: and—yes—-I hated old Smith, her husband, the man who made her miserable—as miserable as ever slie made me; but what’s all that now? Let the poor soul be, Siley!” a 4 “Ho, ho! Youre mighty forgiving, ‘Tim, you are!” replied Silas, with a scornful laugh; ‘put I’ve begun my revenge already. I've been forbearing enough with her. She played me a dirty trick, I tell you, when she married old Bill Smith, and I away West; but as ng as she remained Mrs, Smith, wite or widow, didn’t much care. He punished her well for throwing me over.” 2 “You were never engaged to her,” interrupt- ed Tim, fiercely. ‘I thought you’d ever been, our friendship would have been at an end long ago!” “Never engaged, but she made me believe she cared for me,” retorted Silas, to which Tim replied by a sarcastic laugh. ‘“ Well, I believe I should have won her; but as I said, Bill Smith married her, and made her miserable. When I found her in New York last year—ah!” (e Tim started) “‘Inever told you that—l of- ered to be her husband once more, and she treated me as the dust beneath her feet; but I wasn’t hard on her, even then. I said till I saw her married, or ,going to be married soon, I’d hold my hand.” : “As how?” inquired Tim, growing suddenly quiet and collected, Silas laughed. “Don’t you remember Bill Smith’s death, eh?” he said, “T do,” retorted Tim, in an odd voice, “ And what they said in the papers, and what folks said about the murder?” he contivued. ‘Tim shook his head. : “ Wasn’t in Omaha, and didn’t see the papers
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24 much in those days,” he answered, In the same tone. ‘* What was it?” Silas looked at him suspiciously, “ Surely you’ve heard me say? But if not, you'll see it allin the papers again soon,” he an- swered, Tim looked at him wildly, and shuddered. **Come,” he said—‘‘ come back and have a smoke, I haven't shook off the fever yet, I be- lieve, and the air here chills me. What is this queer start you’ve taken, Siley? I’d thought owe something better to think of in these days han old loves and murders,” “Wonder who that young stranger beside ou was, and what he knows of Hisie?” con- inued Silas, in a suspicious tone, “ He's a New Yorker,” growled Tim, ‘* May- be he’s met her. He seems to know the fellow who’s married her anyway.” “Ab! perhaps, Well, l wish his friend joy! Not nice to marry a woman who’s accused, or been accused, or will be accused, of murdering her first husband. Eh?—what’s the matter, Tim? Surely you're bad still with fever?’ For Tim had staggered, and stood for a moment supportin, himself against the wall. ‘A twinge, nothing more,” he muttered, “Well, good-night. I’m not equal to busin:ss this evening, it seems, To-morrow, at twelve, Til Sapeck you; but take my advice, and don’t be bothering Elsie Seagur.” ry Silas laughed. “*T guess she or he, or both, are pretty well bothered by now. You've grown faint-hearted, Tim. Iremember the day—” “Yes, years ago, when I was a boy anda fool, I suppose? Well, good-night.” And Tim staggered off to his private room, and dropping into the arm-chair, fell into a fit of deep thought, while his short, gasping breath- ing and heaving chest betokened that the sub- ject of his meditations was anything but a pleasant one. . To Laurence Gower, also, the night brought but little repose, Suddenly the whole extent of his foolish jealousy, the injustice and cruelty with which he had treated Penelope West, was revealed to him, and he cursed his blind folly, his unmanly suspicion, that had forever separ- ated him from the woman he loved. “She will never forgive me!” he thought as he paced restlessly up and down his room. ‘‘She is roud and sensitive! I have destroyed no doubt he love she once felt for me, and never in future could she feel confidence in me. A few words, a few lines would have set matters right be- tween us; but I, fool that I was, made it im- possible that such words or such lines could be spoken or written. Perhaps by this time she may have forgotten me—perhaps she may love another man; it is six months ago thatI left her, and I doubt if she knows even now in what part of the world I am. Why did she never tell me of her cousin’s engagement to Suther- land? Perhaps she was under a promise not to tell; but if she had but told me, she would by this time have been my wife. Now perhaps we may never meet again! Oh, Pen! Pen! you should have remembered my weakness and spoken! But what can that queer mate of Tim’s know of Mrs, Valentine Smith? Perhaps he may IN HIS POWER, know Penelope too. Ill ask Tim to-morrow about it, How can her marriage affect him, and why does he seem so bitter about it?” So, on the morrow, Laurence sought Tim in his apartment, and found him looking pale and haggard, a prey to burning fever, and racked with pain. He turned his head eagerly as Laurence en- tered, “Tthought it was Silas,” he said. “TI don’t believe things are as straight with him as he tries to make out, and he hasn’t carried out the agreement he made with me when we parted in California, He thought he’d not be troubled with the sight of me again, Ireckon. How his head seems full of other matters and—” “Tt’s about those matters, if you mean Mrs, Valentine Smith’s marriage, I came to talk to you,” interrupted Laurence eagerly. “Why does he speak of her as if—as if—” * Asif she’d no rightto marry. Because he’s a fool; and what’s worse, a revengeful fool,” replied Tim, roughly. ‘‘Jorrison had a fane for her years ago, when she was @ slip of a girl; and for that matter, so had others; and, ina way, she threw him over,so he hates her, and vows to have his revenge; but”—and Tim's eyes glowed—“‘he may go too far. Did you know Elsie, stranger?” ‘““T knew Mrs. Smith well, and her cousin, Miss West,” replied Laurence. “ Ay—little Penelope—I remember her,” put in Tim, in a dreamy voice, “You knew her—you knew Penelope?” cried Laurence in a voice that roused Tim. “Ay, [knew her—a pretty little child with a gray eyes; but what isshe to you?” he re- ied. “Nothing now,” replied Laurence, with a sighs, “but she was, and it was my fault I lost er “Oh, ho! I see,” cried Tim; ‘‘ then you know Elsie Smith well? How did it all come about? Don’t mind telling me, I’m _ no gossip. If you once loved Penelope West, I once loved” (and his whole rugged face softened) ‘‘ Elsie Seagur, and even now I’d do anything toserve her; an if Siley torments her too far, I'll have a few words with him about it, you bet.” So Laurence opened his heart to his strange friend, and found no little relief in talking over his troubles for the first time, in spite of Tim’s sarcastic remarks on the precipitancy of his flight, and the facility with which he had al- lowed his own jealous heart to work his ruin. ‘* But never say die, sir,” hé concluded. ‘‘Go back and tell her you were wrong, beg her par- don humbly, tell her you adore her still, and all will be well. Now I must go and look out for my mate, and_see what satisfaction I can get out of him. Ugh! the fever’s got hold of me pretty closely to-day.” And he staggered across the room. ‘Come and see me to-night,” he added; “I may have something to tell you. I guess we'll do well to find out what mischief Silas is plotting against our old friend.” , Tim passed out of the room, looking shattered and wan, his eyes blazing with a brightness that spoke of the consuming fire of the f that ually brin him rey ca aa Mn bead
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IN HIS POWER. mb “How the last days have altered him! thought Laurence, as he followed him slowly. ‘He is the ghost of what he was a week ago, Poor fellow! I’m afraid his journey has been in vain. I wonder if mine would bein vain if Iwent home and begged Pen to forgive me? But perhaps I may be too late; for alli know, she may be by this time a married woman.” Whatever Silas Jorrison told Tim of his in- tentions towards Elsie, or in whatever way the two men settled their business matters that evening, Laurence learnt but little about it. Tim he found, when he visited him in his room, so stern and taciturn that he could scarcely extract a word from him, and it was only just as he was bidding him good-night that he vouchsafed any reference to Elsie or Silas Jorrison. “You're not thinking of leaving soon for New York, are you?” he said. “No; I don’t think I shall go yet awhile,” he replied. ‘To tell yen the truth, Tim, I don’t care to leave you when I see you so bad.” The man laughed harshly, but nevertheless wrung Laurence’s hand, as if fully sensible of his kindness, “T sha’n’t put any one out for long,” he re- plied, in a husky voice. ‘Tim the Miner’s about come to the end of his time, I guess; but Silas Jorrison’s a greater villain than even he believed him. I must smash Siley’s little scheme before I say farewell for good to Omaha.” “Do you feel much worse, then?” asked Lau- rence, anxiously. “Ay; but before I die I’ve something I want to say, and a message I want to send to Elsie Seagur that was, just to show her I love her still as I loved her when I was a boy! Her hus- band won’t be jealous—no fear—when she gets the message, and I’ve a mind that you should be the bearer of it. Will you promise to stay with me till it’s all over—till I’ve said my say?” And he looked im loringly at Laurence, adding, in a low voice, “It won't be long now!” Laurence gave the required promise, and in a few minutes Tim sunk into a restless, troubled sleep by the fire. Laurence went back to the reading-room of the hotel. There was a buzz of voices—people talking eagerly together over some newspaper —— aurence took up the nearest paper, and be- n to read. In a moment his face paled and led with horror, the journal fell from his hands, and the room seemed to be darkened, as he fell back in his chair, scarcely believing he was in his senses, CHAPTER X. MORE BITTER THAN DEATH. To Elsie the months of married life she had aces since the day she gave her hand to Ivor utherland had been months of happiness al- most Poe than she could have imagined it possible to enjoy. Every day she loved and admired her hus- band, and learned to appreciate his great and nokie amo gidl yfp LL e - ” en - each da appily and quietly by, foun more and eiaee to love 4 the eautyful woman he had made his wife. Penel: before their return from their wedding tour, and they found everything ready to receive them, and Pen herself at the door, with hearty welcomes and kisses for them, as they drove had gone to Westham a few days up. The weeks and months had tively flown by since then, and to Elsie and Ivor had been a time of unsloved happiness; and Penelope, in a certain sense, had shared in their happiness, Only the remembrance of Laurence Gower’s extraordinary conduct still troubled her; and even to Elsie, in the midst of her bliss, the thought of Silas Jorrison’s threat, ‘‘ When you are most happy, then dread my revenge!” would sometimes recur, only to be put aside, however, like the remembrance of an evil dream. One morning, however, as they sat at break- fast, Penelope’s watchful eye caught a look of horror in Elsie’s face as she opened and began to rend a newspaper that had been placed by her plate. As she continued, her lips turned white, and her hands trembled, and Penelope saw her glance with an agonized look at her busband who was peacefully perusing the Tribune, an then hide her head again behind her own news- paper. Western one it was, as Penelope saw, and for an instant she feared that Laurence Gower's name might be in it; that some bad news of him might have reached some paper from Mexico, and found its way into the public print; but, somehow, the idea was quickly dismissed. It seemed too unlikely; besides, Elsie’s emo. tion was greater than any harm that might have papenes to Laurence Gower would have caused, ‘Who sent you that paper?” she asked, after a moment, Elsie started and looked imploringly at her, quite unable to reply. “Ok, Mrs, Fannington, of course! nize her handwriting,” went on Pen, understand- ing her cousin’s glance, ‘ Well, Elsie, if you have done, will you come and look at the new dress Madame Devine has sent me from town? I'm dying to have your opinion on it.” With a feeling of intense relief Elsie rose and gratefully followed Penelope to her room, Ar- rived there, she threw berself on the sofa, buried ben face in the cushions, and held out the paper en, “Read, Pen! Help—advise me! He haa been as good as his word. Oh, what shall do? What will become of me?” Taking up the paper, Penelope read, her heart pices. ceasing to beat as she 80, the follow- I recog- “Private information of a ave character has, we are informed, Just come cA and respecting the mysterious murder of our well-known citizen, Mr, William Valentine Smith, late of Third fabb lero in this city, who, not two years ago, was found sho! through the head in his own Ee and whose widow, it may be remembered, left our city for New York immediately afterward, under somewhat un- ploamats circumstances, The clew just found will p Ld sores up, ot, cA is hoped, the oe rought to justice, even should we have to wait to procure further evidence,”
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tit His POWER. i ———————————E—E—EE—E—EEEeeEe The paragraph wént on to describe the facts of the murder, which the writer evidently im- agined the public might by this time have for- gotten, and ‘did not shrink from pointing, in a vailed and cautious but perfectly evident man- ner, to the person they suspected of the murder —namely, the wife of the murdered man. It concluded by observing that Mr. Silas Jorrison, an old and intimate friend of the de- ceased, would, it was supposed, be able to fur- nish valuable evidence on several particulars. For a moment or two after reading the para- graph, Penelope stood trembling with rage and af’ before her cousin, who wept and sobbed wildly. “The brute!” she exclaimed, at last; “I knew him to be a brute and a villain, but I never sus- pected him of being capable of such a thing as this, for it is all his doing—his bringing about, we may be certain.” * And suppose it should find its way into the New York papers? Suppose Ivor should see it? Oh, Pen! Pen! what would become of me? And suppose—only imagine if they should real- ly—as that wretch hints—accuse me of the murder! Pen, it is too dreadful!—and yet, you know, the look of things was against me.” Elsie said the last words in a terrified whis- er. “Even now—who knows?—the whole thing may be in the very paper my husband is read- ing!—they may even have telegraphed to New York for my apprehension! Oh, Pen! help me! What canI do? Ishall lose everything—Ivor’s love and trust! Oh, if I lose that, let them take my life as well; I am better out of the world!” *¢ Bisie—Elsie! don’t work yourself up into such a frenzy,” cried Pen, rousing herself from the horror into which the reading of the news- paper had thrown her at the sight of her cousin’s terror and misery; ‘‘ perhaps this may only be a trick of Jorrison’s to frighten you. Why don’t you tell Ivor all about it? Take this oe now to him, and tell him all. You know im, and how good and noble and just he is, and how he loves you! Are you—can you be still afraid to tell him, Elsie?” ** But think, Pen, how terrible to have to tell Iam suspected of murder!—I, his wife! Will he ever forgive me for not having told him the whole story before he married me? And yet,” she added, plaintively, ‘‘it was my love for him that kept me from it, Iso feared to lose him, to lose his love! But you were right, Pen; it would have been far better to be perfectly open; it will be doubly bard to tell him now.” “ But do it—do it! I will come with you and help you,” cried™Pen, ‘‘Don’t let it come to Ivor through any other source; your whole future happiness may very likely depend on this, Elsie,” she answered. “‘My future happiness? There is no chance for any more happiness for me,” said Elsie, hopelessly. ‘ Nonsense!” cried Pen; ‘‘don’t give way so, Elsie, at the first moment! There!”—as the hall door shut—-‘‘ Ivor has gone out; won’t be back till evening, Elsie, for he told meso. Now be food and sensible, take this paper to him when e returns and tell him all.’ “The paper—ah! that reminds me. Run down-stairs, Pen, for Heaven’s sake, and bring up the Tribune, What is the date of this paper? —ah! a fortnight old! Perhaps in that very paper he was reading the hateful story may have found a place!” she cried, despairingly. “Not a bit likely, but I'll fetch it.” And Penelope ran down to the breakfast- room. She looked in vain for the paper in the break- fast-room, in the drawing-room, and finally in Ivor’s study. She rung for the servants—none ot them had seen it; and at last she was forced to return to Elsie without it. ‘He has taken it out to read in the carriage; he was to drive over to Barnfield in the dog-cart, you know,” said Pen, as she saw a fresh look of terror in her cousin’s eyes. ‘Now don’t worry yourself any more. You know, as well as Ido, you are not guilty of thiscrime. The worst part of it will be telling the tale of it to Ivor; that once done, Elsie, you will have bim to help and comfort you, dear, and carry half your burden.” But Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. __ “Tf I had only doue it long ago that might be, dear; but now—” * & Elsie, Elsie,” cried Pen, reproachfully, “if you talkin this way, I sball begin to think that you do not really se your good hus- band as he deserves. eis the last man to re- fuse you help, or to withhold his love from you when you most stand in need of it. You made a mistake, certainly, long ago, but he will never be hard on you for that; he loves you too well.” ‘*-You are always right, Pen,” replied Elsie. penitently, ‘and I always was, and am, an shall be, weak. Oh, if I had not been weak years ago I should never have married as I did, and I should have been quite open with Ivor long ago.” “Tt is not too late now, dear. Look forward, not back,” said Pen. But Elsie shivered as she spoke, and lay back almost fainting on the sofa. “‘T will tell him, Pen, when he comes back,” she murmured, at last. ‘* You must help me.” Bat Ivor did not return that afternoon as was expected; and, almost frantic with excitement, Elsie walked restlessly up and down her room, Penelope vainly endeavoring to calm her, till at length a telegram was put into her hand. “Do not expect me home till to-morrow, or may- be next day, my darling. Unexpected business has called me to town.” ‘* Business!” cried Elsie. ‘‘Ob, he bas heard it, Pen! What business can ,have called him away so suddenly?” ‘A thousand things!” she answered, “a. ‘But, if it is this, take courage, Elsie, See, he calls you his darling still!” ‘Yes; but he doesn’t know all, perhaps,” re- plied Elsie, covering her face with her hands, “Tf he knowsanything he must know all!” re- torted Penelope. “‘Come, Elsie, it is time for bed, and you look worn out!” “Yes, lam tired, but I could not sleep. Oh, why has Silas Jorrison done me this injury, Pen? I treated him and poor Tim Blake just alike—just as a young merry girl with no thoughts of love or love-making would. Tim has never troubled me since the day I told him
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iN HIS POWER. ~ he was nothing to me, but Silas has been a thorn in my side; his love has been more deadly to me than the hatred of my bitterest foes!” It was little sleep either Elsie or Pen had that night, and it was still early when they rose, waiting and hoping for the post to bring them something to gladden their hearts in the shape, perhaps, of a few lines from Ivor; but beyond a few letters of no interest they received nothing, and, strange to say, the Zribune failed to make its daily appearance. ‘What does it mean?’ moaned Elsie. ‘‘ Oh, how shall I ever meet him, Pen?: 1 feel inclined to run away and hide myself where he will never find me out.” ‘Not while I am here to prevent you, Elsie!” replied Pen, gravely. ‘‘ Come, you promised to be brave, but this is rank cowardice to talk of running away!” ‘‘Cowardice!—yes, I am a coward, I know it!” answered Elsie, resuming her seat at the window, and gazing toward the lodge-gates, “YT wonder will he be back to-night, Pen?’ But vight came without bringing back Ivor Sutherland, and it was with despair at her heart that Elsie at last fell into a deep sleep. She slept on long into the morning, for Pen would not wake her, ‘ How pale, and fragile, and wan she looked as the sunlight, shining in through the crevices of the shutters, played on her face! ‘‘Has he come?” were her first words as she woke, ‘*Not yet, darling.” ‘* How late itis!” she went on. ‘ Ten o’clock! He can’t bave come down by the night-train. He will not be here till the afternoon perbaps. Id better get up, though, Pen, in case he should arrive earlier than we ex- pect. So, in sadness and silence, Elsie performed her toilette, made an effort to eat some breakfast, and then went into the drawing-room with Pen. About an hour after midday the door sudden- ly opened, and Ivor Sutherland, his face hag- gard and pale, but filled with a look of ineffable tenderness and love as hiseyes fell on Elsie’s \ ber tear-stained countenance, stood beside them, “Ivor, Ivor!” cried Elsie, witha half shriek, starting up. “My poor love, my darling wife!” he cried, And Elsie was folded to his heart. “You have heard—you know all—of what I am accused?” she murmured when »** could speak. “Yes,” he replied. brave.” “But can you forgive me, Ivor? 1 was very wrong, wicked, not to have told you before what they said of me really, but—but—I loved you so—I was so afraid of—” p He kissed her silently again and again. ; “Do you think it would have made any dif- ferencef—do you think I could have believed sucha thing of you, my darling?’ he said re- proachfully. . A “And you forgive me for not telling you?” she whispered. : ‘With all my heart, my poor love! Besides, “Elsie, you must be it would have altered nothing. But now, Elsie, Tecan at least help you in your trouble—help you to be brave too, darling, for I fear you lave much, very much, to go through yet.” ** How?” demanded Penelope and Elsie in one breath. “‘They will demand your arrest, my poor love! I went to town and found out all about it,” he answered. ‘“* When?” asked Elsie, clinging to him in deadly terror. “*Soon—I can’t say when—any day. Ihave friends who will telegraph to me the moment anything more is heard,” he replied sadly. As he spoke the words, the door opened, and the servant put a telegram into his hand, With a shriek, Elsie fell senseless on the floor, and Ivor, after raising her in his arms and laying her tenderly on the’sofa, with trembling bands opened it, CHAPTER XT. z FOR HER SAKE, Tm, the miner, or Mr. Thomas Benson, as he was called in the Red River Hotel, grew rapidly worse as the days wore on, and it seemed as if Laurence Gower would not be kept for long in Omaha to perform the service Tim had asked of him, for it was evident to all that the poor fellow had not many days to live, Silas Jorrison came several times to see him, and Laurence Gower could not but notice the satisfaction with which he received the doctor's bad reports of bis former mate’s state, nor the loom that always fell on Tim after one of Silas’s visits, Angry voices were beard proceeding from Tim’s room on the occasion of his last visit to his quondam friend; angry words passed be- tween the two men, and Silas left the hotel ina furious rage, vowing never to come near his old mate again, ‘He thinks he’s got rid of me, and got m money into the bargain; but for once the fool’s outwitted himself,” said Tim, wiping the per- spiration from his forehead as he lay back on his couch. “I shall give Silas Jorrison more trouble, alive or dead, than he reckons on, Mr, Gower. Do you know all this time he’s been carrying out his destestable scheme of revenge on Elsie Seagur, poor girl, as well as making away with my property?” “Tt was she, then, whom he has hinted at in that horrible paragraph I read a short time ago?” cried Laurence. “Ay; and I told you Silas might go too far, and that I’d pull him up. He’s sent that lying news to New York, and he'll be stirring up the authorities here to reopen the matter and put the poor creature on her trial for the murder of her busband, What! you don’t believe it? But it’s true, though; he said as much to me just now; but thank the Lord, I can prevent that!” “You can?” replied Laurence, in surprise. , “ Ay, that I can!” replied Tim. ** But how,” asked Laurence, ‘ | Mrs. Elsie Smith is mnocent?” “By simply informing the p public who was guilty,” rerilted | sardonic laugh, “ And you know that?’ cried Laurence, can you prove olice and the Tim, with a
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28 IN HIS POWER. Yes; I’ve known it for a long time—a very long time, it seems to me,” rejoined Tim, ‘* And before I die I'll tell the tale.” : “Is it—is it—did he—” began Laurence. “Het Whot Silas?” retorted Tim, in a voice of intense contempt. ‘Bah! Silas is a white-livered scoundrel, who might stab a chap in the back, perhaps, and who isn’t beneath any mean crime; but to do an honest, daring murder out and out, and run the risks old Smith’s murderer ran, why Siley’s not got a tenth part of the pluck for it, I tell you?” “And why have you never told before?” asked Laurence, “ Ah! that’s af busivess—quite my business, pons man!” replied Tim, with a curious twin- le in his eye. ‘But I’m glad I didn’t; I'm very glad I didn’t. I can ruin Biley's pet scheme of underhand revenge nicely, and show Elsie that I haven’t forgot her all these years and all the rough life I’ve led. And now I must havea rest, uch rege don’t suit me now, and my late talk with Siley’s tired me. He'll be surprised at one or two things he’ll hear when I’m gone, and he thinks himself safe.” So saying, Tim turned his face from Laurence, and sunk Tato a sleep so quiet and still, that Laurence hardly knew whether he breathed or no, and at length bent over him to discover, “Exhausted, I suppose,” he said. ‘ Poor fellow, if he means to make true his boast and confound this Jorrison’s tricks, he must not delay.” Nor did he, At midday on the morrow, Lau- rence was hastily summoned to Tim’s room, and found him not only with the doctors, but with a legal-looking person beside his bed, ‘*Tt’s come to the last, sir,” he said, quietly, “and I’m poing to tell my tale before I go. You've all heard (looking round) of the murder of old Bill Smith, and know how difficult the police found it to get as much asa hintas to the whereabouts of the murderer, or who he was; and you know, too, perhaps, that of late they’vo been laying the blame at his wife’s door, r little thing! But she didn’t do it; not she! She was too soft-hearted to turn even on a brute like him! No, no, it wasn’t she who did for Biil Smith!” **No? Who was it then?” asked the doctor. “Tt was me—I, Timothy Blake!” replied he, calmly. “I shot himin his own grounds, and served him right, the brute!” " You!” cried Laurence, aghast, and stepping back a pace from the bed whereon Tim lay, while the others held their peace. as AY, stranger; it was me as shot him, sure enough! And now I'll tell the tale; I shall cheat the hangman, though, for the night will see me a dead man. This is my dying declaration, take note, all of ye, and I want it legally taken down. I shouldn’t like to think that after my death, any poor wretch, much less my old love, Elsie Seagur, should be accused of such a “When I was a boy, up in the State,” he went on after a pause, ‘I worked on a ranch close to Elsie’s father’s, and made love to pretty Elsie Seagur, who never valued me at the price ef a pound of butter. Silas Jorrison, who’s been so carefully setting up the police after her, ee courted her too, and with never a better chance with her than I had, but he flattered himself she cared for him; why, no one knows—'twas his vanity made him think so, I reckon; and when he came back to Omaha, first time, and found she’d married Bill Smith, he was real wild. He riled her, saying tart things about her marriage with a rich old man, and I fancy their friendship—his and Elsie's—didn’t im- prove, but he struck up a kind of acquaintance with the old man, and made matters between him and Elsie more’ uncomfortable than ever; he always managed to set them by the ears somehow, and old Smith didn’t spare his wife when he was roused, ‘Well, [came down to this city some time after Silas did, and for my own reasons, which it don’t signify explaining now, I called myself by an alias, and didn’t visit much among my old friends. I heard of Elsie, though, and of the sort of life she led with old Smith; ard somehow I longed to see her again, and speak a word or two to her, for I loved her and pitied her with all my heart, poor soul! but, as J said, Icouldn’t visit my old friends just then very well, and so I had to devise a way of meeting Elsie where I thought she might be found alone. It wasn’t very difficult;-they had a pretty place then outside the town, where they often went, and where Elsie would often be for hours alone in the gardens, so I laid in wait for her there one evening, when every one thought I’d left the city for good, and when, indeed, I was on the first stage of my return journey West, and then, sure enough, I did see Elsie, ‘“T heard voices—her voice and her husband’s —and presently Elsie, all in tears, and Bili Smith ina towering rage, came out into the garden; it was growing dark, and they walked to and fronear the house; then I saw him strike her—the brute!—and she ran, crying bitterly, into the house. I’d a mind to run out and finish him then and there, but something held me back. He walked up and down, and then came toward where I was. Some unlucky movement I made caused him to stop,and look well into the bushes, and when he saw me, he bade me come out, with many oaths, I didn’t linger, you may be sure, and gave him a few names in return for his abuse. ords led to blows, and worse. He was as blindly jealous of his wife as such a fellow would be; he accused me of be- ing ber lover, and drew a knife threatening to finish first me and then her. I had my revolver handy, and shot him as I would a dog, with the lie on bis lips; and I’m not sorry I did it! No, not even now! That’s the story, and here ”— taking a revolver from under his pillow—‘‘is the weapon I used; it’)] fit the ball the police have, and which was found in Bill Smith’s brain, you bet!” Tim fell back faint and exhausted on his pil- lows as he finished; Laurence regarding bim with a mixture of pity and horror, hard to de- scribe, while the other bystanders took the mat- ter with even more than professional coolness. “At any rate,” added Tim after a few min- utes’ silence, “‘ Elsie’s happy, it seems, now; and she wouldn’t have been that if old Smith’ had lived, so for her sake I’m glad; and now I think I’ve spoiled Siley’s little game in that quarter.
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IN HIS POWER, 20 You'll tell her all about it when you go home, Mr. Gower, won’t you?” Laurence assured him it should te told at once, “T don’t think but what she'll believe I did it in her defense and because I loved ber,” went on Tim, his voice growing weaker and weaker. ‘*T haven’t had many people to care for, or any one to care for me in this world, but I loved her and have never forgotten her.” ‘And the other business,” said the lawyer— “the money, you know?” “The money? It’s all in the United States Bank, Silas said,” replied Tim, in a dreamy way. “But you said you would—” began the law- yer again, **'You be easy; what’s the money to me now? Let it go. Siley’s got it—he’s welcome. We were good friends once—let him keep it,” mut- tered Tim, ‘“What! a mint o’ money like that?” he re- turned, indignantly. “Much or little, it don’t matter to me now; it’s like so much dirt to me, There’s coin enough and to spare about to bury me.” The words came slowly, and a strange, far- away expression came into Tim’s sunken eyes; he closed them, and for aewhile lay speechless; then he opened them, and looked at Laurence with a pleasant smile on his lips. ‘‘She’s very happy. Tell her Tim Blake never forgot her.” And so he died. “A queer tale, but true enough, no doubt,” said the lawyer, preparing to leave the room. “That sort of fellows lead wild, adventurous lives, and stick at nothing.” ‘*He seemed to have more of the milk of the doctor, turning from the bed; and then, ad- dressing Laurence, ‘‘ Where did you meet him, sir?” “Over in Colorado,” he replied. ‘I nursed him through a bad go of fever; but it was only just now that, like you, I learned who he really was, ‘“He’s probably gone by twenty aliases,” in- terposed the doctor. ‘Good-day, sir; I must be off.” And soon Laurence Gower was the only one left with the dead man; and a day or two later, when he was carried to his last resting-place, Laurence Gower was the only one who followed his remains to the grave. “ Heard the news?’ said some one to him as he came into the hotel again. A El na I ess the city’s in an uproar to-day, ope paige not a sufferer; the United States Bank’s gone smash!” “‘The United States?” cried Laurence. “AY; news, isn’t it? But are you a sufferer, sir?” ‘‘ Not I,” replied Laurence; ‘‘ but I know some who are.” a For Laurence remembered what Tim Blake had said, that.in the United States Bank Silas Jorrison had placed not only all bis own savings, but the money he had so ruthlessly robbed bis dead mate of. he could really feel mishment,” thought Laurence, as he walked thoughtfully away; ‘he’s lost his money, and he’s balked in his re- venge! Poor Tim, he had a grain or two of gece in him in spite of all, and I’m sorry for im; but as for Silas Jorrison, he’s the greater villain of the two by a long chalk, and ’'m glad he’s been served out.” Great was the excitement prevailing in Omaha among those who took an interest in the matter when it became known that the murderer of Mr. Smith had confessed, and that the poor lady on whom the suspicion of guilt had fallen was blameless, “She'll have been in a sad state of anxiety, +i said Mr. Herries, the lawyer, to Laurence, ‘ it you know her, sir, I’d telegraph it’s all right.” ‘Just what | was about to do,” replied Lau- rence, And off he walked to the telegraph-office, and then to the railroad ticket-office, where he se- cured a through ticket to New York on the first eastern bound express. “I wonder if Penelope will forgive me?” he thought, as he left it, CHAPTER XII. ‘‘THE BITTER PASSED, MORE WELCOME IS THE SWEET.” THe telegram ed on its way, and as we have seen, arrived duly at its destination; for Laurence’s telegram it was, and not the much- dreaded one from Ivor’s friends in town, that reached Crest Lawn the morning he returned from New York, and the sight of which caused Elsie to swoon with terror. Ivor tore it open, dreading to read its con- tents, and when bis eyes fell on the words it | contained, be could scarcely comprehend them, human kindness left in him than most,” said | “Read, Pen!—read!” he gasped. “A tele- gram from Gower! Thereal murderer bas con- fessed! Elsie is safe—safe—and her innocence proclaimed! Pen, read it! Ican hardly under- stand it, my brain seems going!” Eagerly Penelope took the telegram from him. Laurence Gower, what did he know of the matter?’ How was he mixed up init? Even at this trying moment her heart beat at the sound of his name; and here he was, telegraphing to pied me news of the discovery of the real mur- erer She had not long to indulge in meditation, for hardly had she read the concluding words— “Shall be with you in five days”—than Elsie began to revive. “Take courage, bert, 1 whispered Ivor to her, as she clung trembling to bim, “I bave good news for you!” “ What? my are not coming to take me yet?” she asked, with a hunted look in her beautiful — violet eyes. “They are not coming at all, my love. You need fear nothing now; you are safe,” he re- plied. “ Safe?” she cried, looking up almost incredu- lously in bis face. ‘Yes, safe, The true murderer has been dis- covered—has confessed,” said Ivor, And Elsie, leaning her head on bis shoulder, _ burst into tears—tears of joy, relief, - “So he’s punished in perhaps the only way | tude. ts Ait eerie
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0 IN HIS POWER, * And who tells you this?” she asked, ‘‘ What! Laurence Gower? Ab, he has not forgotten us, after all! Pen, you see he will be here soon, darling!” But Pen had vanished. She could not restrain her tears, and bad fled to her own room. How could she meet Laurence Gower again after the cruel letter he had written her? She loved him still, deeply and truly; but could she trust her happiness to: a man whose jealousy it was so easy to arouse, and who, under the in- fluence of that jealousy did not hesitate to fol- low any path the promptings of his angry heart suggested? Would it not be better not to see him at all, or, if they must meet, meet but as the merest acquaintances? She consulted Elsie on this point, who was eager that the past should be forgotten. “Tt is not that I am vindictive that I cannot forgive him, Elsie,” replied Pen, earnestly; ‘it is to the future I look. If he should treat me in the same style when I am—or, rather, if I should ever become—his wife, ii would break my heart, or—or I should grow to hate and de- spise him.” ; “But, of course, when you are once his wife, he will never dream of doubting you!” cried Elsie, indignantly. But Pen shook her head sadly. ‘*T don’t see that that should follow, Elsie, and if it did not, I should be miserable.” Elsie turned away saddened and troubled. She had set her heart on the marriage between Pen and her old love taking place, and it was with some surprise that she found Ivor sym- pathizing in Penelope’s view of the matter, and advising that she should at any rate think well over the business, and, if need be, put Laurencc through a time of probation. + Five days later Laurence arrived, and was a long time closeted with Elsie and Ivor before Penelope made her appearance, She would dearly, in her heart of hearts, bave liked to have been with them, and hear him tell his story; but she was aware that for the present her self-control was not equal to the task of meeting Laurence with perfect calmness, She would either show too plainly her joy at seeing him, or else treat him with a coldness that would make him believe the old offense was not forgiven; and she wished, if possible, to be friendly and pleasant to the young man, nothing more or less. When she did meet him nothing could have been more unconcerned than her manner; and Elsie, whose eyes were still wet with the tears Laurence’s account of Tim Blake’s confession and death had brought to them, looked at her with astonishment. Na Had she really got over her liking for Lau- rence, then, that she could meet him with such indifference? It was in vain that the next day, and the next, and for several days after, Laurence en- deavored to gain an interview with Penelope. The girl avoided him, saw through all his little ruses to effect a tete-a-tete, all his schemes to meet her in solitary parts of the garden and grounds, and always managed gracefully and pleasantly enough to get out of the drives or rides Elsie slyly planned to leave them for a time together, so that Laurence might have a chance of making his peace with her, “No,” she thought; ‘I will not make myself too cheap. I will not let him think that he has only to hold up his finger to me, or whistle, and Ishall be at his beck and call. I shall wait aswhile, and he must be content to wait, too.” And so it came to pass that a fortnight, three weeks, a month rolled slowly on, and Laurence Gower found it was incumbent on him to leave Westham without having gained an inch of ground in Penelope’s good graces, He looked very worn and unhappy as he sor- rowfully bade them good-by. “We shall meet again in town soon,” said Elsie, who pitied him since and could not understand why Pen continued to be so cold to him. ‘ You must often come and see us, you know.” “T_T will, with pleasure,” he replied; ‘‘ that is—if—if my my company is not disagreeable to Miss West. ‘To me!” replied Penelope, who had been standing a little apart with her eyes cast down, and feeling very sad, but now speaking in her usual careless tone. ‘‘Pray donot think so! I should be ungrateful indeed if I did not remem- ber the service you have rendered Elsie; be- sides, if my company is not hateful to you, as I imagined (not without reason) it might be— Dear me, Elsie, what is the matter? Am I dreadfully rude and matter-of-fact? Please ex- ecuse me, Mr. Gower, and don’t give me a thought when you come to Crest Lawn, if you find thinking of me disagreeable to you!” “Thinking of you disagreeable! Why, you are never out of my thoughts, Penelope!” he cried. ‘And if I am not too late—” ‘* Which you certainly will be for the train, if you don’t start,” retorted Penelope, “I de- clare it’s nearly four o’clock! Good-by, Mr. Gower, till we meet in town!” And off she ran, while Laurence, hardly knowing what to think—whether to hope or de- spair—was driven off to the station. The season had just begun in the city, and seemed likely to be a gay one. Ivor and Elsie, though they loved each other more than ever, had (as Mrs, Carter prophesied they would) thought it well to behave like other folk in their station of life, and repair to town for a few months, especially as poor, dear Penel- ope must necessarily (though she would not al- low it) be terribly tired of the country. “T will try him a little bit more,” thought Pen, as she returned from a ball where she had been the gayest of the gay and the center of ad- miration, and where poor Laurence had stood in a corner and watched her with a sickenin sensation of despair at his heart; ‘‘and then, i he chooses, we will make it up. It’s weak of me, I suppose; but I really don’t believe I can get on happily without him.” But the next day Laurence did not come to the house, neither did Elsie and Penelope meet him atany of the parties they went to, and Penelope began to look sad and depressed, and to say in her own heart that she had been too hard and unforgiving. Perbaps he would come back to them no more! He came, though, a week later, and finding
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_ es _IN HIS POWER, «8h only Elsie in the drawing-room, opened his heart to her, and begged her to induce her cousin to grant him a few moments’ conversa- tion alone; after which, he would never trouble her with his presence again if she desired that so it should be. A few moments afterward Pen entered, and at once he saw how ill and sad she looked. **T have come,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “‘to ask your forgiveness for a foolish, cruel, jealous letter I wrote you, and still more for my subsequent conduct. Can you ever for- give and forget it, Penelope? You can’t?” he went on, as she made no answer, ‘Then I'll suy good-by, and be done with it.” “‘But—but,” faltered Pen, looking up into his face with the old mischievous twinkle in her beautiful gray eyes, ‘don’t be in a burry again. I never said I couldn’t or wouldn’t!” “Pen,” he cried, seizing her hand, ‘‘do you mean—” : “‘T mean, I think it was a very good thing you went away, or what would have happened to poor, dear Elsie?” she replied, shyly. “ But vou forgive me—tell me? Ob, Pen, you have punished me enough, surely?” he cried. ‘Well, perhaps I have; but, oh, Laurence, you must never doubt me again; if you do, if will kill me!” she murmured, as he pressed her to his heart in joy too deep for words, ‘“‘ Never!” he said, at length—‘“‘ never!” “Tthink heis quite cured of his jealousy,” said Elsie, a few months after, when Pen and Laurence had returned from their wedding tour, And she was right. THE END. DIME HAND-BOOKS. Young People’s Series. BeADLe’s Dive Hanp-Books ror Youne PEOPLE cover a wide range of subjects, and are especially adaptea to their end. Ladies’ Letter-Writer. Gents’ Letter-Writer. Book of Etiquette. Book of Verses. Book of Dreams, Hand-Books of Games. Handbook ef Summer Sports, ; Book of Croquet, Yachting and Rowing, Book of Games. Fortune-Teller, Lovers’ Casket. Ball-room Companion, Book of Beauty. Chess Instructor. Riding and Driving. Cricket and Football Book of Pedestrianism, Guide to Swimming. Handbook of Winter Sports—Skating, etc. Manuals for Housewives. ik Book. 4, Family Physician, My ecine Book. 5. Dressmaking and Mil- & Housekeeper’s Guide. linery. For sale by all newsdeaiers, or sent, post-paid, on yeosipt of price—ten cents. { BEADLE AND ADAMS, PustisHers, i $8 William Street, New York, BEADLE AND ADAMS’ STANDARD DIME PUBLICATIONS Speakers. Each volume contains 100 large pages, printed ‘from clear, open type, comprising the best collec- tion of Dialogues, Dramas and Recitations. The Dime Speakers embrace twenty-four volumes, viz.: 1, American Speaker, 15, Komikal Speaker, 2. National Speaker. 16. Youth’s Speaker, 3. Patriotic Speaker. 17. Eloquent Speaker. 4. Comic Speaker, 18, Hail Columbia Speak- 5, Elocutionist. er. 6. Humorous Speaker. | 19. Serio-Comic Speaker, 7. Standard Speaker, 20, Select Speaker, 8. Stump Speaker. 21. Funny Speaker. 9. Juvenile Speaker. 22. Jolly Speaker. 10, Spread-Eagle Speaker | 23, Dialect Speaker. 11. Dime Debater. %4. Recitations and Read 12, Exhibition Speaker. ings, 13. School Speaker. ae Burlesque Speaker, 14. Tudicrous Speaker, These books are replete with choice pieces for the School-room, the Exhibition, for Homes, ete. 75 to 100 Declamations and Recitations in each book. Dialogues. The Dime Dialogues, each volume 100 pages, em brace thirty-two books, viz.: Dialogues No. One. Dialogues No, Two. Dialegues No. Three. Dialogues No. Four. Dialogues No. Five, Diategues No, Six. Dialogues No. Seven, Dialogues No, Bight. Dialogues No. Bighteen, Dialogues No, Nineteen. Dialogues No, Twenty. Dialogues No. Twenty-one. Dialogues No, Twenty-two, Dialogues No, Twenty-three, Dialogues No. Twenty-four. Dialogues No, Twenty-five, Dialogues No. Nine. Dialogues No. Twenty-six, Dialogues No. Ten. DialoguesNo, Twenty-seven, Dialogues No. Eleven. |Dialogues No. Twenty-eight, Dialogues No, Twelve. |Dialogues No. Twenty-nine. Dialogues No. Thirteen. |Dialogues No. Thirty. Dialogues No. Fourteen.|Dialogues No. Thirty-one, Dialogues No. Fifteen. {Dialogues No, Thirty-two. Dialogues No. Sixteen. |Dialogues No. Thirty-three, Dialogues No,Seventeen 15 to 2%5 Dialogues and Dramas in each book, Dramas and Readings. 164 12mo Pages. 220 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 end standard, of the greatest celebrity and interest. Edited by Prof, A. M. Russell, Lives of Great Americans. I.—George Washington. | VITT,—Tsrael Putnam. le a, Paul Jones, X.—Tecumseh, 1l.—MadAnthonyWayne | XJ.—Abraham Lin 4 TV.—Ethan Allen, ? XII.—Pontiac. me V.—Marquis de Lafayette | XIIT.—Ulysses S. Grant, 7" The above books are sold by newsdealera everywhere, or will be sent, post-paid, to any ad- dress, on receipt of price, ten cents each. Brapiy AND ApAMs, Publishers, 98 William st., N. Y¥
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