Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 11) (1884 08 05)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
POCKET EDITION. =... ee Pe ee eee. {ail Matter. August 5, 1584. oe ae Ae rere drat the Post Office at : yas Second Cinss Be sacl ; VoL, I 32,50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, Price, N 44 eae a Year. No. 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents. 0, : “NO MORE, MABEL," EXCLAIMED MR. MEREDITH. ‘‘I WILL NOT HEAR A WORD MORE. LEAVE / THIS HOUSE, YOUNG MAN.” . | B i OF AN AGTOR: home-like than it is easy todescribe. A portion | 5 of the building had been erected soon after : the Revolution, and that had been added on Or DRIVEN FROM HOME to at different periods, until it made up an irregular structure, linked together, as it were, by balconies and broad verandas, covered with By the author of “ Alone in the World,” etc. luxuriant vines that, in the summer time, made CHAPTER I. it as picturesque as an old feudal mansion. . THE MEETING. The osm were extensive and filled with _ THe place was an old-fashioned country house | fine old trees, leaving pleasant openings here ~ up the North river, and more picturesque and | and there, from whence glimpses of the beauti-!
Page 2
‘h it was late in the autumn, the vines yet kept their leaves, in ful river could be obtained. Altho masses of rich crimson and yellow, while the garde: at the back of the house, was still bright with bro patches of color from the last autumn blossoms, where great clusters of chrysanthemums threatene to outlive the snow. The interior of the mansion was at once quaint and stately. There were broad halls ending nowhere in particular, rooms jutting out in unexpected Ss, and all so cheerful and pleasant, with such an air 0 stability and age, that Was exceedingly agreeable to one ep looked at the old place with an artistic per- on, twas a glorious morning, warm and bright, as if mmer had come back to take another last look be- ore deserting the lovely spot for so many long months. ‘ A carriage had driven up the winding avenue, and a lady, who had descended from it, stood on the piazza, making a variety of inquiries of the old serv- ‘ant who had opened the door. ‘And you do not know when Mr, Meredith will return?’ she asked, disappointment trembling in her voice, which was widely at variance with the coldness of her face. “T do not, ma’am; not for several days, I think.” * And he can not give me his address?” **Miss Mabel might know it—” ** Who is she?” asked the lady, quickly. The old man looked a little surprised at her abrupt- ness, but answered it with the courtesy of an era almost extinct: . “Mr, Meredith’s daughter, madam.” a Rigg toe ps daughter!” “Oh, there she comes, madam,”’ he added, point- So laa amned- sharply,-and girl, e urn arply, and saw a young gir mounted on a beautiful Shosthut horse, dasha up the winding The lady stood watching her, while the man descended the steps; and indeed if was a picture that might have attracted a person even more preoccu than she appeared. The girl had checked her horse, and leaned toward the servant, her cheeks ke, 2 and her great eyes full of a soft,Jambent light, that kindled her face into a beauty that was positively startling. “Oh, Joseph,” she exclaimed, “‘I have had a splendid ride. “Flash is quite beside himself with spirits this eee The servant spoke a few words to her in a low tone, which. eher pause and glance in surprise toward the i who stood sointently regarding her, She sprung lightly off her horse, before the serv- ant could assist her, and, gathering up the folds of her riding-skirt walked up the steps, e lady had not moved, and made no effort to come forward to the young girl which moved her—o as if she pn AF ny an oon look. “cr the young lady, advancing toward her: “T am ‘sorry he is not at home. ill you walk into the house?” Tho lady followed her in silence, and they entered a little reception-room off the § “T can not tell when he will be home,” continued the girl, blushing a little at the stranger’s continued scrutiny. { These words seemed to recall the lady to herself, and she said, in the same peculiar voice: cee very much toseehim. Doyou know his SS “Indeed, I donot; Isend my letters to the address of his partners; he is at some hotel in the city.” * “Can you give me his pariners’ place of busi- ness?” “s The girl gave it. _ “Letme write it down,” she said. ‘ Pray be seat- ed, madam, while I find a pencil.” ~ The lady sat down, still watching the girl while she favorite with her father: looked about for the writing materials, which had been mislaid with the usual heedlessness of a young e address, with ano yt oe a at oa : e paper, an eyes me er sade ais the same wistful ght on. : ‘What is your name?” she asked, suddenly. “Mabel a she peed. *T thought Mr. Meredith had only a son.” The girl colored more vividly than before, “He died many years ago, madam.” ‘*Have you been living here a long time?” ** Except when I have been at school.” She answered the questions arene there was — something in the Jady’s manner which precluded the possibility of taking offense. ** And you are now how old?” “ Kighteen—at least I shall be in a few days.” “ighteen!” murmured the woman, ois along way back—a long way back.” : “You look very tired,” Mabel said, noticing the white lids drooped over the w eyes; ‘won't you lay off tae shawl and take luncheon with me?’’ “Tam not tired,” she answered, almost impatient- . “How do you pass your life?” sheadde **Indeed, I can hardly tell you. Ifear I am really idle, but I am very, very. happy.” “Oh, yes; you live in dreams yet. Not quite hteen—it’s a whole life back.” : he spoke those last words to herself, but Mabel caught their import, and looked at her in astonish- bright smile, e lad those of how — ou will, perbaps, know that there is no such word as rest, * retuned the stranger. 4 Mabel’s quick fancy was excited by the lady’s mene manner “oy — was too much ~- of a visio no’ ve way at once to, the train of thought called ae ; nie * thought by that time le wanted to rest,” she said; “that they were of excitement and longed to be quiet.’? ‘Yhe woman smiled bitterly. “And is that any reason for finding it?” sho asked, “Child, when that day comes you will learn pate is no-more answered than a prayer for | “Ts life so hard?” Mabel asked, wonderingly. ‘I have read so—I know that people are unhappy. _ Sometimes I almost wish fora great trouble, to take me out of my dreams.”’ “What sort of dreams?” she questioned. “T hardly know. Iam restless without reason. I = very happy, but I am often sad without knowing Ww. “The old story,” sighed the lady. “ Keep to your dreams, child; they are better than life, far. better than any thing you will find in the hereafter.” She turned her proud face away and folded her shawl about her, in B pie abi for her departure. 7 shall I tell papa called to see him?” asked abel. “It isno matter; I may find him in town; I am going there at once,” “There will be no train along for an hour,” Mabel said. “I beg you will wait here instead of driving over to the station,” _ The lady threw off her shawl again with the same listless manner, . . “You sing,” she said, with a return of her former mn By your face, of course p rl’s songs.’ Wiabal seabed herself at the tion, and sung a charmin: iano without hesita- old ballad that was 4 er face was turned from
Page 3
- THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 8 > the woman—she could not see how those pale fea- _ tures contracted and then softened under the in- fluence of her fresh young voice, and the exquisite Melody of the song. Once the woman threw out her hands with an pppealing sone: as if to check the sweet sounds. en they fell he eavily into her lap, and she leaned her chair, motionless as before. ee 7 cee likes that song,” Mabel said, turning _from the instrument; ‘that is why I chose it.” “He likes it?” repeated the woman. “TI heard that years ago. It is an old-fashiohed melody. How came you to sing it today!” . vie — sorry if it has pained you,” replied Mabel, ei Yittie more or less does not ge returned the woman. “I thank you very much. I should like to see the house, if you are willing,” she said, after a pause, ‘It is a noble old place. Mabel caught at the idea with satisfaction; she was be ng to be embarrassed and troubled. They went about from room to room, and Mabel noticed that the eres seemed to be familiar with the | apartments, but with that rare delicacy which made a portion of her character, she asked no uestions, the library, the woman paused for a long tim walking up and down before an oval window, fille with plants. She trod softly, and with an anxious | pons - one might walk near ihe grave of a beloved rien ‘Do you like these rooms?”’ she asked. “Very much,” replied Mabel, “but papa seldem comes here.” ““Why not?” Li “T don’t know; it is not quite so light and cheerful as the others—perhaps that is the reason.” Again the woman smiled—smiled as some stern warrior of old might have done in his agonies, “Come out into es age the air of this room is stifling,” she said, with a struggle. Mabel opened the window, and they descended | the steps. The lady glanced toward a summer- house at the end of the walk they had entered. “Let us go back!” she said, hoarsely; “come back, I say!” She seemed conscious - her strange manner, and | made an effort to control it. _ “T beg ny pardon,”’ she said, ‘* but Iam cold— the ground is damp, I think.” She was trembling from head to foot, and did indeed seem perishing of cold. Mabel led the way back to the reception-room, and the two sat down | before the fire. “J have been here an hour,” said the lady, glanc- ing at the clock; *‘I will go now.” I hope you will come again,” Mabel said, feeling Come here a strange longing to talk with her sin est. ' Conn Santas a’ not !’ she repeai likely.” * Then I shall never see you. The thought makes me sail. I don’t know why, but it does.” “Who can tell? You will not spend your life here—people always meet, espec we ope shall not part ope we shal the ir earnediap? **indeed I do.” “You ce 2 so? Thank you, child, thank youl! What will Happer before then—where will your dreams be—and the happy songs, and the glad smile, I wonder?’ “Do stay think all people must be unhappy?” Ik avs we meet again you shall answer that question yourself,” said the woman; “cling fast to your happiness—it will loosen from your grasp every day now.” ~ : : mething inexpressibly pathetic in her jomar avian brought the seaxe to Mabel’s eyes, _ ¢ irons “And you cry,’ said the woman, “While that powen is ett, never moral ton unhappy. Good- now—I am away. ‘These last words were hot addressed to Mabel—tHe ly when it gives | forever now,” returned ” loveless life. girl knew that by the way her mournful eyes wan- ered about the room. Sue extended her hand—the lady took it. Some inexplicable feeling seized Mabel—she pressed her | lips upon the beautiful fingers, in pity for a suffer- which she could feel, but not understand. * Good-by,” she said; “I hope we shall meet n.’ ai ; “eho lady murmured some unintelligible ate looked again in her face with that wondering, w the room and the house. : ; Mabel followed her to the outer door, and stood | watching her as she entered the carriage? Once | more their eyes met—it seemed as if the stranger would have spoken, but the horses started off, and Mabel only caught the sorrowful glance. She turned back into the house, oppressed and troubled, as if a heavy cloud had suddenly come be- tween her and the bright day which, an hour before, ness, . CHAPTER I. THE APPARITIONS, Ir was a private parlor in a quiet hotel; so com- fortable and home-like that one would easily have forgotten the Wandering Jew sort of feeling im- rein people are wont to experience in such Pp Although the dusk was gathering heavi ‘ound him, the occupant of the Poort hee oe lights, but sat over the smoldering fire, as he had | been doing for more than an hour. He was aman past middle age, and occasionally, when a sudden gleam shot be. rom the dying em- bers, it exposed a worn, pale face, which had evi- dent grown hard from the effects of long-concealed ble, : Gradually the fire died out, and the room darken- ed; but the man did not stir. Twice a servant had tapped at the door; but the summons remained un- answered—he had not even heard the sound. He was a man to whom such utter prostration of will was uncommon; but that night -so many memories had taken possession of him that he could not break from their sively to after the first struggle he had c) yielded passively to their sway, consoling his pride _ with the reflection that there was no human eye | near to observe and speculate upon his weakness, That iron pride had been the ruling principle of Anson Meredith’s life—it had stood between him and all that would have made the happiness of his early Pe a had made him sacrifice the best ho of later existence. It was his bane now. ie wos not lamenting these as he sat there, in that gath- ering gloom, He was a disappointed, heart-sore man; but he did not blame himself for the trouble which had come a him. There was no softening in his heart. Twelve years before he had given his decision in a case that might have made any father’s heart tremble, and never once since that e had he wavered in the resolution-which had shaped his Even that night it was not feelings of weakness or self-reproach which bound him; hoe was 0 reviewing the past as one walks among the graves of his kindred—he would not have chang- ed any thing, or given life to those phantoms of past affections if it had been in his power, A clock on the mantle struck eight, but the sound did not arouse him. _ The rooni was very dark now only the outlines of his figure could be distinguished by the dull light of the street-lamp, which quivered against the window. There was a step in the hall, an impatient knock, when the door was thrown quickly open, and some one cried out: , : “I can’t stand knocking here—I am tired out, The deuce! The room is like a dungeon! I say, Markham, are you asleep?” Mr. Meredith started to his feet suddenly, as if some one had dealt him a blow; he stood for @ mo- look, then, without any other farewell, passed out of _ filled her heart with such animation and glad- not called for — , | |
Page 4
Se ~~ ment gathering his faculties, like a man rudely wakened from an unpleasant dream. “Confound you, Markham!” exclaimed the intrud- er, closing the door and stumbling about among the furniture; ‘‘ can’t you speak?—L can just make you out moping over the fireplace. T'll rouse you up, or | we'll know the reason w ae “You have made a mistake in the room, sir,” said Meredith, quivering from head to foot, he scarcel knew why, and resenting this intrusion, although it was evidently unintentional. “Well, I ike that! returned the stranger. “If you want tocheat me, you mustn’t speak in your natural voice—you’re a poor actor, my boy.”’ *You are in error, sir,” resumed Meredith, stern- ly ; “the person you are looking for is not here.” ‘Just wait tilk I can get this door open again, so as to have some light, and I'll teach you. p y these shabby tricks on me, old boy,” exclaimed the other, laughing in a a reckless way. There was something in that sudden merriment which startled Meredith again—he shrunk within himself, smitten by a sudden realization that the in- truder was known to him! ** What do ‘“Who are you?” he cried out, quickly, you want here?” His voice had grown heavy and hoarse, ashe made a step forward to open the door. A broken exclamation died on the stranger’s lips. “T believe I have madea mistake,” he seid . “Ibeg ou to excuse it, sir—but it’s very distr—ridiculous, mean,” and he laughed out again in gpite of his ef- forts to be grave. \ “Open that door!” exclaimed Mr. Meredith, in a hurried, excited manner, which those who knew him best would not have recognized as belonging to that cold, self-possessed man, “Who are you? I will know!” “*C, Montgomery, at your service," returned the other. ‘‘ As for the door, I will open it with pleasure, when I can find the knob.” » As he spoke, the young man threw the door open, and stood in the entrance. “Thave already explained, and apologized for my wtrusion,” he said, haughtily. Sg Meg sho ae pin fs soe nt eed he oo 50. 6 stranger turned, an e@ gas- rom the hall fell full upon their faces. For an instant both stood in silence, the elder man breathing heavily, and strugg. with himself--the younger with the smile still upon his face, and an apparent determination to have out the scene with unconcern which cost him terrible pain to assume. “How dare geome here?’ exclaimed Mr. Mere- dith, ‘“* How dare you?” of have already told you that I entered by mis- “1 do not believe it. You meant to intrude on me. If it ever happens again I will see that the laws pro- tect me.” “Do not threaten me or I may fo I have no desire to cross your path. gotten—I have not forgotten!’ “TI do not. know you,” interrupted Mr. Meredith, recovering his composure, and speaking with icy de- liberation, ‘I speak as I should to any stranger who had conducted himself as you have been doing to-night.”’ : rget myself, six. ia have not for- “T came here, sir, by mistake; I have apologized. Your insulting language does not disturb me, and never shall.” “Unchanged!” muttered Mr. Meredith. “Un- c ed!” “Yes, dir, unchanged; except that, like yourself, I have grown harder and more unforgiving.” ‘‘ More reckless and wicked, you should say,’’ Mer- edith returned, bitterly. i “So be it; call it by any hame you please—we both know whom to thank for the cause.’ ** Your own evil disposition and heartless nature.” The young man clenched the hand that hung at bis side, but restraining himself by a violent effort. | > “THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. he spoke again as if determined to irritate the other y his calmness: “This little interchange of harsh words can do we good,” he said; “with your permission I will re- “Go, andremember what I have said! You must not again insult me by gon presence—if it happens, I will treat you as you deserve.” “Twelve years ago I told you that no threats could terrify me. am not likely to have grown weaker since, I trust that we may never meet again, If we do, it will not be my fault. I leave you to all the a reflections il are must possess you, and f go back to the life you have made for me.” “You made it for yourself—when the bad ending comes, remember that,’’ “‘T shall remember, as will you—those who have to judge ill know where the blame lies.”’ e turned from the door—paused an instant, and the two men looked full at each other, the one hard as iron, the other with a proud, defiant expression, which pee his handsome face the look of a fierce, Pronee spirit determined to resist and struggle to © last. ** Gol" repeated Mr. Meredith; ‘* gol”? The young man walked deliberately across the hall and disappeared down the staircase, turning once more to give back that look of stern defiance, When the sound of his footsteps had died, Mr. Meredith staggered back against the wall, cold and white as if exhausted by some violent physical effort. “The last time!’ he said, in a low but fully dis- tinct tone. ‘I have only seen a ghost—the shadow came before him.”’ : $ As he spoke these words, a hand was laid upon his arm and a voice whispered: ‘aii Yi it grieve you to see another, Anson Mere- He was so overcome by the emotion of that inter- view that he did not even start—he raised his eyes and saw that a woman stood before him, looking into his face with an expression of yearning sadness that might have touched a heart of stone. “You tool” he muttered, looking down into the eyes lifted toward him with such e oquent appeal; “you here?” K 1 a pin here, in the same land with you—how could e p i Lk) She had entered the hall just as Montgomery dis- appeared, and stood for an instant watching Mr. eredith, when he gave way to that strange weak- ness. The man’s face changed as he looked upon her; his eye brightened, his lips began to close tenderly. He entered_his room and motioned her to follow; lighted the chandelier and Fan ate a chair for her in silence, Deep feeling held him mute, “*'You did not expect me,” she said. ‘*T don’t know,” he answered, vaguely; ‘‘it would not surprise me to see the dead themselves come up to-night. But the dark spirit is driven away, and youarecome. I'am thankful.” “Have they haunted you?” she asked, ina sort of wonder. use “These spirits have been about me so many years that their faces are more familiar than living crea- tures can be.” She rose from the chair in which she had seated herself, and walked several times up and down the room, rasta | her hands hard together, and gradu- ally bringing her face back to its forced calm. he was a woman of middle age, but the face was beautiful —_ only so pale and sad that it might have belonged to a statue. Still, the unquiet glitter of her eyes betrayed the inward fever of a soul in painful unrest, ~ : “I came to see you,” she said, suddenly returnir to her.chair, and sitting down with her face par wera id not spe, aod atte tae words ,_ Mir. Meredith did not speak, and after these wor he was silent for several moments, Tees a aight eeeamtinteal =
Page 5
THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 5 Sn A ee bens é ‘anon have no clew toward finding her, if she be ead?’ “Not the slightest. It-is years since I have been in this country. I have only just arrived now.” ““We can advertise for her, Mrs, Mitchell; it is our only hope.” “ And if we hear nothing?” __ “Tet us hope for the best—it is all we can do now at im Scie I will think this over to-night, and at- tend to the advertisement.” The lady rose from the office chair where she had been sitting, and stood before the oldlawyer. ~ “Mr. Meredith,” she said, ‘I have no home, no name, no friend, unless I may call you one—” ‘“‘T have always been that,” he interrupted, “Yes, you were kind to me even then; how you worked to save me,” she said, ‘I need not tell you what my life has been for these long years. Weaker women would have died, or gone mad—I could do neither, Think what it must be to me, after all this time, to hear that my child is alive—alive, and Iecan find no trace of it.” The woman's voice rose to a wail; for an instant it seemed as if all her wonderful self-control must desert her, but she conquered the spasm, and again seated herself. ; = all you know is contained in this unfinished ‘etter—”’ “Tiverything! Imet this Mrs. Eastman in Italy; I did her a service. I euppose she had heard my . story. She sent mea note anda package of unim- & portant papers that belonged to him, saying that af- . ter her husband’s death, she had found them among. _his documents. You.know he was Mitchell’s execu- oe tor. Idid not look at them. Ilocked up the pack- 8D. age, and it was only a few weeks since that opened = ~ it. Icannot tell what impelled me. Ishrink from drooped slowly into her lap in a way which indicated the attitude was an habitual one; her eyes looked Straight toward the expiring fire, and she seemed, or the instant, to forget that she was not alone. Ashes,” she muttered; ‘ nothing left but ashes.” She was thinking of her life—one could see that, by the mist that stole over her restless CYS, the mouth quivering slightly, then growing still. But for that you might have thought her sadly moraliz- ing over the white ashes at her feet. You came to see me,” Mr. Meredith said, after Hatching her in silence. “Can I aid you in any vu os did not look toward him, but bowed her head : Ys : I don’t wonder it surprised you—I feel as if we had met in another world.” ‘ ‘It is another world,” he said, slowly. “Yes, and Iam only a poor, hunted spirit, that has strayed out of the old one—your own thought hee know. I shall not trouble you long. I don’t how why I came—I want no help—you could not ve it to me, if I did—I wanted to see somebody that longed to the past.” “Has any new trouble overtaken you?” he asked. kindly. ‘“ You know I would help you, if I could.” “Never mind, never mind! e each agreed to bury our own dead—that’s a good many years ago, Anson Meredith,” “JT cannot bear this to-night,” he said, and his voice shook a little; “I have been greatly dis- turbed.”’ v ““Who left you asI crossed the hall?” she asked, ee e 7 “See shrunk from her question, and put out his _ hand. . “Don’t talk of it—you heard me say I had seen a ghost. One never trembles at the.sight of a ghost, | all allusion to the past, more and more, every year, I > unless it is the shadow of something once yery | found this torn letter in his writing. I don’t know dear.” for whom it was meant, but it said that my child “And I came just after! Ihave been looking for | had not died—but that I never should know it, never eke several days—I did not know that you were | gee it again.” : ere until this moment. I came to this hotel this She broke off with a dry sob, more painful than afternoon, and heard your voice by accident—now I | tears, Mr. Meredith looked at her, and, worldly man will go away.” : as he was, accustomed to scenes of grief and all “When are you going?” manner exhibitions of feeling, his heart was “Tonight, probably. I have found you. I only | touched. wanted to say one thing to you—-I don’t know why; “You have been a most unfortunate woman,” he you can’t help me.” . | said. : ** What is it, Eleanor?’ d “Tt is too late to think of that, now,” she answered. ‘The old name—I haven't heard it in solong—don’t | “ Part of that terrible past was of my own causing, call me that again. It is like striking a blow ata | but of the sinand shame they heaped upon me, I was tombstone.” ~ innocent,” She threw herself back in her chair, and moaned.| “Many people always believed that,” he said, with a passion so at variance with her former sad soothingly. tenderness that it was painful as a death-ery, “Who believedit?” she exclaimed; “ you, perhaps “Tell me why you come here so suddenly,” he | —the man who knew pes innocence—but who beside Said again. you two? A woman who is accused is disgraced. She rose to her feet, stretched out her hand, and | Civilization has no mercy. My worst enemies were half whispered: : : women; how they hated me] I feel their sneers “I come because my child—his child—is alive.”’ burning in my heart. yet.” 5 ; Meredith started from his chair, and they stood She broke off with a shudder, but when she spoke looking at each other with a sort of vague fear, the “again, her voice had taken a deeper tone of anguish, woman repeating several times; “T was a woman, and all that suffering I had to “Tt did not die; it did not die. God has been very | bear alone! Iwas afraid to face the digas ot day, merciful or very cruel to me, but my child is ali e— | lest I should meet familiar eyes whc coldness Iam searching for it. That bad man who has gone | would remind me of my shame. During all these to his last account, has left no trace but the single years I have had no human being to care for. I had fact that my child is alive.” . | Steeled my heart into quiet, and now there comes era the tidings that my child was then alive.” | CHAPTER III. “You must be courageous, now,” he said, kindly: THE SHADOW OF THE PAST, “think how nobly you have borne—”’ ; ~ * Anp you can give me no assistance?” “I was desperate, then—sullenly content—I had no “Indeed, madam, I do not know which way to | hope. But now—my child—all that time my child turn. I am astonished beyond measure by your | was living!” F revelation.” A . It was a hard task, but he must remind her of the “Never mind that—I want advice. time that had glapees since that letter was written, - “ Can you think of no pérson who would be likely | “J would not willingly pain you,” he gai “you to know an: thing-about th Gr pins: sini tie know fat, but I must warn you against too much is ‘woman—Ma Y 9 eee 0) ; i rhe ite pews" i eA “You need not—I know how mad itis. The child — may be dead, ‘*T do not remember hér,” may have died after—I see what you mean. Have I 3 aes not thought of that? But suppose she lives, and I Ee ai * hs Tae Paw * >) stn
Page 6
. ma » oute findred! that?” 8 THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. find her! I must tell her of the cloud that has blackened my name for years; that I have lived an deserted by my friends, disowned by my Ceuld she come back to a mother like “She would believe you—others will do so now. Indeed, Mrs. Mitchell, long since I would have ad- vised you to return to this country. People have half forgotten that time of trial; many will believe you now.”’ , “And pity me!”’ she cried. “‘No,not that. Ihave borne everything else—not that! If to-morrow I could call back those false friends, I would not do it. I do not say this bitterly, but I want rest, rest. The sight of them would be like living over those terrible years : “T can understand that, in a measure.” “Don’t talk of it,” she broke in; ‘‘ you mean kind- ly, but it is like the thrust of a dagger.” She said it so quietly, but with such a rush of ago- ’ ny under the ice of her voice, that it was more pain- ful to witness than an outburst of despair, “Shall you stay in New York?” asked the lawyer, after a pause, during which he was seeking for some words with which to break the silence. “for the present, to see if we hear from thisadver- tisement. Spare no efforts; try every newspaper in the country. At least, I have money.” “That has ever been a sort of consolation to me,” he cried, | “Sometimes I was sorry for it,” she said, with a sudden fire; ‘‘I wished that I had been poor. Hard, ee ony and labor would have kept me from Oo) “You have traveled a good deal?’ he asked, more from not knowing what to say, than for. any other reason. ““T have been everywhere. I have had no rest—no - home. The moment I reached one place, I was wild to leave it. Often and often have I spent days and nights in journeys without aim—hurrying on only because constant motion was the only relief I could “But you must have made friends.” “Tf I dared, the story of my disgrace was sure to follow. Could I feel myself in a position to be scorned and cast aside? Sometimes I found some or wretch even more unfortunate than I. I eould elp her as far as money went, but where was I to learn words of comfort to give?” ; “Poor, poor Eleanor!” The old hs said the words unconsciously, not thinking of the present, but looking back into the st, years agone, when he saw that lone woman a righi, happy girl, whose future seemed full of joy an gat ee It bey Ree aby to realize that the worn, pale woman, w e@ spent agony of such a terrible suffering always present in eo tense, could be the same. “T know what you are thinking,” she said; ‘it does not seem possibly! I feel as if that young person had died, and Iwas her ghost, doomed to wander through an eternity of pain.” ‘Heaven is over all,” he whispered. “Ay,” she said, bitterly, ‘and far off it is! God forgive me, but I have grown so hard that some- times I doubted His mercy... I felt as if I was cursed ‘alike by Heaven and man.” “You must have quiet now,” he said. ‘Where can I find it? This news has kindled the old fire in my heart. When I think that my child ead alive—oh, help me, do help me!” ~ her self-control gave way; she MIN her head upon the table with a passionate burst of dry, hard sobs. Even then she had no tears. When he | made an effort to console her, she quieted herself, | and looked up. : a. Pad ”* she said; “patience, resignation; I know. I will go away, now. I do not often give bis like this, I never did before, except in soli- ‘ude,’ : _ “T will come and see you to-morrow.” “tip a will devise means—you - poogeh fea will ere are so , 80 Clear-sigh “All that is in the power of man to do, shall be done, Eleanor. I pro youthat.” ** And I believe you. Good-by.”’ She drew down her vail and hurried out of the office, so shaken that even her habits of endurance could not longer support her in that agony. CHAPTER IV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER, Mase Mrrepiru found her home brightened by a subject of thought after the visit of her strange est. It was singular how completely the face of ¢ woman possessed her memory—how the sound of her voice stole through the day-dreams in which every new event was woven. Mr. Meredith had not yet returned from the city, and the fair girl had pees the time of his absence up to dashing rides nm the morning, and tender reveries as the night drew on. She was seated one pepe in a pleasant apart- ment, on the ground floor which opened out of the library, lost in one of these vague, bright dreams. She was leaning back in an easy-chair, her head supported on her hand, and her eyes yenderae slowly about, as if following the course of the gold- en sunbeams, She had nothing to do but dream. The sun which ripens the pomegranates in-a Southern zone is not more fervid than her nature; yet, with re was a winning gontleness about her which won every heart—a wild outpouring of affection toward those whom she loved, which rendered her very faults lovable. The elements of a noble soul were there, but unformed and orderless as the treasures of some volcanic isle. hus org: , her solitude was alldreams. She was dreaming as she sat there then. One saw it in the far-off look in her eyes, the smiling, visionary sadness which dimpled her beau- tiful mouth. The door that led into the hall was quietly opened, and Mr, Meredith entered the apartment, step! Mabel sprung up—the dreamy expression died from her fea res, and they kindled into girlish joyous- - ness, “Papa!” she exclaimed, going forward to meet him, and throwing her arm about his neck witha movement full of grace; “I am so glad you have come back. How could you stay away solong? I have half a mind to nile you dreadfully!” “What shall it be, Mabel?” he returned, with the stately pleasantness habitual to him; “‘come, de- de. “This!” she said, laughingly, raising her face to i and_ pressing a shower of kisses upon it. “There, I think D hees have sufficiently atoned for our fault! Sit down now, and tell me what you ve been doing.”’ "She forced him gently into the chair she had. left, and sinking to a footstool at his feet, clasped her hands over his knee. with a childish grace which was inexpressibly beautiful, and made one of the chief charms of her changeful manner. Mr. Meredith looked smilingly down upon her; his cold face brightened, and every glance told how closely that young creature had twined herself about his affections, ‘What have you been doing, Mabel?” hoe asked. “T hardly know, papa; I fear almost no at all, though I have been busy every moment.” “A satisfactory account, certainly! You must have a decided genius for doing nothing if you can occupy yourself day after day by the means,” “You are laughing at. me, are you? Well, papa, I have been busy. I read a little, practiced, walked, Pe with the dog, and then—’ i “ t then?”’ ] T was thinking: : _ “Indeed! You must have been at a loss for em- loyment, if you were forced to eally, I pity Son. Truly, what were you thinking about?” ”
Page 7
THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. * L wasn’t thinki “Of some a oe “Yes,” Even in his playfulness, the worn man looked un- fasy; he had so guarded his dove in his inmost heart that the bare idea of her seeking other shelter would we been terrible to him, qui = whom were you thinking?” he said, a little y. «, You won't be angry if I tell you?” Iever angry with you?” any thing—* person, then?” B I must tell nah Ment such as he seldom indulged i isfled now, papal 4 ‘Lam satisfied that you are a darling!” Nothing more than that? How commonplace! Why not call me witch or fairy?” tain} Witch. ye my s ells can hold you enthralled, I shall be wane j she replied, gayly. ‘“ But I dou’t like that ord; i lo possess some magic power—so it sh always reminds me of those r Salem wretches that Miss Granger used to make me reati | about, How stupid it was!” “What name would please you?” ““Oh, I like the one you gave me long ago; it ig mine by right. I am your princess, you know! “ And a very tyrannical one, too,’ “ But is the tyranny unpleasant?” » “Would I dare acknowledge it? You are too ab- 8olute for that.” “How gay you are to-night, papa! I hardly re- cognize ou ob know that you Baye been thinking of something very pleasant, which you are dying to tell me, so don't keep me in suspense!” “Ah, my princess, it is my turn to play the ty- rant, “But you haven't the heart; then, too, you would be Rae Ae yourself almost as much as you would Ine, by keeping your secret.” “Do you ever get lonely here, Mabel?” he asked, suddenly, and with more of his customary gravity. “Tonel: » papa?” “Yes; you need not be afraid to tell me, If it were so, it would only be natural,” * “T could never be lonely where you were, papa, she replied, unhesi s you are absent, I do so long for your return! I will do you justice there! Well, then, | itatingly; ‘‘ but sometimes, when | | cesses in the South ou are grown too tall to be a fairy, but vou per 9 time for you to see somefhing of soctety and the world. ** Papa, are you in earnest?” “Of course. Would you like it?” She ect her hands, with the ringing laugh of childh “Should I like it? Did Ilike sugar-plums when I was a litile girl?” “To my certain knowledge you did, miss; and I suppose you would like the sugar-plums society has to offer in the shape of compliments and adoration.” ** Will I receive them, papa?’’_ “T fancy there could not be two opinions upon that subject,” returned he, almost proudly. “TI imagine that a:child of mine would not be entirely neglected in the crowd, especially when she has a face like this.” “Don’t flatter, papa. But won’t they take me for | @ savage, I know so little of the world?” : “A Say. ! You, my princess!” “Very age u, , true! But then you know there are prin- Sea Islands.”’ * At all events, they will find bal where hearts are concerned. “But, seriously, papa, are we to go to New York for the winter?” youa regular canni- “Tf you like the idea, I have a house there va- | cant, Ev bing con be made ready in a week.”” “‘But shall you like it, papa?” “Whatever makes you happy must always be ps Soe tg) to me, my child, You will find it very pleasant, I hope; as for me—” “You do no Hae : “When you have reached my age, you will learn that contentment is about all one hopes for.” . ~ “T do not like the quiet of contentment; it seems dull and stupid, I like excitement. I think I should 4 society.” t is but natural at your age,” he replied, ab- sently. His thoughts had gone where hers could not follow—back into the past, that past of which he never spoke to any human being. But there are moments in the lives of the proudest and the stern- est, when memory—that officious herald, will ob- trude itself, and there is no escape from its bitter reproaches. ‘ ‘You are growing silent,’? Mabel said, after a pause; “are you tired?” “A little, but it will soon pee. Then you ‘are pleased with the arrangement I propose?” She kissed his hand with a “humility of affection unusual to her, murmuring softly: : “You are very kind to me, papa, very kind.” er You deserve it all,” he replied, “all, my good He drew her toward him in Silencé; there was a | child im, ‘Since Miss Granger left us I have no companion, you know, wheu you are out of the house.” wis ee my child} But have you heard lately from ranger “Not Ton since, She is with her brother in Mississippi, care of his ehildren—that is her proper element; and there, doubtless, she will re- main to the end of the chapter, unless some good- nai planter be smitten by her. But me, why do you ask all these questions?” ‘Because I felt how lonely it must be for you here. T am not a very lively companion—” “Now, papa, don’t slander yourself; I will not hear me Twith ‘to devise some means by which you may have more society, more pleasure.’ “Don't me you think of prysaring me & com- panier Gateet the very name! I have read novels “But not what I meant. Would you like to a) sown to. the city and spend the winter? It is 4 “A ecg in her half-playful manner which touched | “Tf I do vex you sometimes,” she said, playfully. by That one can pardon, you atone for it so will- *Good, kind papa!” He stooped down and kissed her forehead, while a gentle expression stole over his features. “ Good-night now, child, good night!” : He left her to her youthful dreams of coming — happiness—left her to seek the solitude of his chamber, where, upon the threshold, met him ever those phantoms of a shattered life, which haunt the ely of him to whom Fate has denied the chief of uman biessings—peace. ; CHAPTER V. WHAT CAME OF A BOUQUET. Iv was an apartment in a fashionable hotel front- ing on Broadway. The glow of a warm sun bright- ened the curtains, which were gathered careless from the casements in heavy folds, and cast a rich glow over the breakfast table, where a young man was seated. Notwithstanding his great personal ey: there was in the face of the young man a worn look, which gave an idea of more unsettled habits than was really the case.. But late hours, constant excite- ment, had left traces on his features which would
Page 8
8 . THER BRIDE oF AN ACTOR. have been remarked by a refined person with regret. The room in which he sat partook of the unrest revealed in his features—every thing was rich and rofuse, but crowded together in wild confusion. ooks ar-cases, fencing-foils and boxing-gloves were huddled together i the tables, or scattered over the floor; under the sofa was a delicately embroidered slipper, the mate of which had perhepe n left in some similar room a hundred miles away, and beside it a pile of soiled Sari gy of every tint, some mateless and others in tatters, as if they had been torn from the hand in haste or passion. In short, all around him was costly, luxurious and cularly uncomfortable; but he sat in the midst of this confusion as if it were his natural element, cheng | EEE thing about his persop was spotless ts : Thed i which clustered about his forehead had been Aone carelessly back by some Hapeent movement of the hand; his dressing-gown, of crim- son silk, damasked with gorgeous flowers, was draped carelessly about his form, the heavy cord Sak should have confined it at his waist partially torn away and trailing over his chair. His mood seemed each instant to change; now his manner was listless and languid—he leaned back in his chair, stirring with his spoon the foam on the cup of chocolate beside him; then some sudden thought would rouse him, and a look almost of tender regret would pane over his feat to be in turn suc- y a dissatisfied, impatient expression, pain- ful to witness. Nor. did it seem that it was an unwonted emotion which caused this state of feel- ing, but the changeable manner na’ his . characte: r, As he sat there, a servant entered noiselessly, and, seeing his master lost in thought, began quietly to arrange the furniture, and create a little order amid that luxurious confusion. He was interrupted in his task by a sudden call from the young man: ““ What are you doing there, Henry?” ; “Putting things to rights a little, sir,” replied the man. His master caught up a boxing-glove which lay at his feet, and flingin it with welt-dircated aim at the servant’s head, Sai lavehingiy® ** Be off, or you will need sett: g to rights yourself, Bring me a cigar, stupid—you knew I wanted one.” ‘The man bowed and went out as noiselessly as he had entered, evidently too much accustomed to such scenes to feel any astonishment. In a few moments he returned, bearing in his hand a bouquet of flowers, which pervaded the whole room with their fr: nee. He presented it in silence to his master, who made no movement to receive it, but turned half away with a gesture of impatience. “What do you bring those here for?’ he said; *‘you know I hate flowers in the morning, I shall be under the necessity of breaking your skull, my fine fellow, if you don’t quit bringing me these thi “But they are left for you, sir,” expostulated the servant. “Put your foot on them in the anteroom; go and see on your own account the fair onés who send fhain-do what you like, but_don’t bore me.” “T think there’s a note tied to the ribbon, sir,” “Read it, and be hanged to you. Answer it, too, | if you like,” The flowers are very pretty, sir; it seems as if they spelled a name.” : “Give them here, you fool. You are never satis- fied unless you can make me do something un- He held out his hand listlessly, and took the uet. a “ome, that’s rather pretty,” he said, with a yawn, ‘‘ but the perfume’s too It does spell aname, I believe. E—s—Estelle. I would wonder who that is, only it’s too much trouble.” was a tiny note thrus Sa , ee ae ae in among the blos- | soms; he took it, tore it open, and glanced careless- ly over it. ‘* You have forgotten an old acquaintance. These poor flowers will tell you her name, their bearer her ss, which you will forget, if you do not follow him before to-morrow,” = “Ve rettily worded,” he said, glancing again at the Owens, put the idea is not original. Bere: take them away,” he added, Singing he bouquet Re carelessly down. ‘‘ Who brought them, Henry? ** A servant, sir.” “Well, ask him the lady’s address, and any thing else you please,” en he was gone, the young man sunk back in his former careless attitude, and did not even look up when the domestic returned. “There is her address, sir; I wrote it down, but thejlady’s name he pretended not to know.” Laced : O cares? Get along with you and bring me cigar. The servant brought a package of Havanas gpon a by his master’s side. The young man selected one of the cigars, Nien 2" up t Get things read Henry; I am going out,” he said, rising, and fing ing. the end of his cigar e papers. ‘“ Hurry yourself, for it’s getting late.” When he was dressed he left the chamber, and de- scended into the street, sauntering carelessly along, and replying with nonchalant grace to the greetings from acquaintances as he passed. He entered a ho- tel near one of the upper parks, and giving his card to a servant, said, with a fatigued sort of smile which the man did not observe: “Take that to No, 18,” Ina moment the servant returned and motioned him to ascend the stairs. He flung open a door up- on the upper landing, and ushered the young man into a handsomely-shaded parlor, from whence a curtained recess gave entrance to a small boudoir, A lady, seated in the inner room, half rose as the stranger paused upon the threshold. A t blush came to her cheek, a triumphant flash to her eyes. She moved forward a step as he advanced, extend- ing her hand, and saying, in a low voice, which seemed tremulous from hidden feeling: “You appear, Mr. Montgomery, to have forgotten an old acquaintance; pardon my having troubled you to come here.” He bowed over the delicate hand with easy gal- pat, while his ree wandered furtively over the speaker’s elegant form. “You mistake,” he said. ‘*Had I known that you were in town, I should have ventured to pay Tre- spects before et I am glad that I not; it Bane Mare Sapa me of the happiness of receiv- your note. fhe lady motioned him to a seat beside the low + was pone nothing less.” was endeavoring to re fused me His quick eye caught the name he Py ed upon the cover of a volume which lay beside doubtful look forsook his eyes, leaving only a gleam Meee vanity in their depths. _- ou know well, Mrs. Eastman, that the mortal
Page 9
THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 9 « who has been blessed with the sight of an angel has lost the A isdibig of forgetfulness. “* Poetical as ever!” she exclaimed with an assumed h. ‘But you know I never did believe you. me, what did you think when you saw the flow- ers, and what did you do with my note?” “T thought a new Eve had sent me a cluster of blossoms from her Paradise; the note I laid next the heart which had become the shrine of a blessed emory. “During two whole years! Whatfolly! You have been too much poeniied since then; the laurels which were budding for you have sprung to full blossom.” “But it was the sunlight of your smile which fostered them,” he said. ‘“‘Isit only two years since Isaw you? It has seemed to me a century.” “T have heard of you continually—everywhere Betipsed, caressed, on, how delightful to be fam- ous!”’ ' “YT never thought so until your lips repeated the +4 fame will be sweet to me.” “Tf one ever knew when you were in earnest,” at him; “but you have such a torrent bodied 's | on my tongue,’”’ he said, laughing rn 7 eh quotation, yet apparen t stamaahe 8S n his voice. -. “*¥ fear me both are false,’ ” she continued, laugh- ing in turn, ‘Then never man was true,’ he murmured, taking her hand in his. “T don’t think I ever can believe you,” she said, without attempting to withdraw 9 hand, but en- prermeng oy her manner to lead the conversation former playful tone. ‘Don’t make any rash vows, for f he be sure to break them.” “Tecan not deny that, for I made one long since which I found myself unable to keep.” “ And that?” “To forswear your presence—it is too dangerous.” intent’ a thing to tell a lady; where is your gal- “Tf a man were blinding himself b looking at the sun, would you not warn him to tam away? “ Not if he had eagle eyes, like yours.” * But oe perenne dazzles the heart; there is no escape from its power.” SH hy, then, @ wise man, resign yourself to “Tf fate would only prescribe some relief.” ws Atho knows mall an on conversation Sens) & more serion: be i conguittnnte art aided ; the w her ib drawiilg it off the dangerous bounds it was oP. . As he sat there, so full ghey ta omery hardly appeared man who, in myer of his chariber that morn- ing, had sat looking so listless and world-weary. ere was fire in his e Payor in his tones, and an unnameable fascina his ce—a sort of power, which & nature of w could have Aclock in the anteroom chimed the hour, Mont- started, as if “So late?” he said. “ did you not send me ves 08 ' - “Yon are not so modest that you har gh a ty loss reason, You do not imagine t having ee phe risoner, I feel disposed to set him i Sd that I shall not be at liberty even banish m your presence,” weBanished! ou won't consider it necessary to wait for a summons to return?” “A message like that of this morning would nae re me for the T must go back to poor, ter, so I must play the ble. : Bi play agreea Meredith makes such ed aps robe ay er a. re) paying a tention that I can not refuse.” _ ; The young man did not stir; the smile faded from his fea leaving that sickly white about the mouth which so ony betrays strong feelings, and a betrayal from which no person of acute natural sensitiveness can ever free himself, in spite of all the seesnen Sane worldly knowledge and maulation ma The ef was aranaing & knot of ribbon upon her em and the change in his face passed without re- mar “ Don’t you agree with me?” she said, without her eyes. : “ Undoubtedly,” he returned, with a start. “You can never be wrong.” on = Ne eae tee ial Sree a fled, but yo as he and fear ites yu ver easant, nevertheless. Do you know him it ” . Meredith, ee ad should I? New York has been my home so. ie.” regained his composure somewhat, but the color would not return No his cheek, the smile on his lip possessed a fearful bitterness. “Th say love fer his daughter is little short of idolatry. “Tn ? He bas no other children then?” ‘No; it seems to me that he did have a son, too; dead, T believe, Yes, I remember now, he is dead. Nobody ever speaks of him—something painful con- nected with it, I fancy.” ’ “So he has centered his whole heart on this girl?” “Utterly. The intense affection of a nature like that must be a great bore.” The young man did not hear this; he had gone to a table to take up his hat, and his face was turned from her. “How old is this young lady?’ he ing with et Hndifrence. Sho you aagee to know er exact age “What a question! Well, seventeen or eighteen; will that Giawert™ “ : The young man drew a hard breath. ms Yes, that will answer. Thank you.” “You are @ dangerous opponent; never at a loss for devices. At deast you may bid me good-morning before you go.” He took her han into her face with those splendid eyes. “T have found a new O he pg “but there is only one cddess—the rest have the action appeared hardly audacious, attempted to ag his lips to her forehead. She eee ee ) bg DO sou export to make your peace after that?” e “Forgive me.” as No,Pshe said, retreating. ‘“ You can take leave "Not until Iam certain that you have forgiven me.”’ “Dare you hope it?” rr only hope Tdadious things, therefore I expect “Come to-morrow, and I will tell you that Iam When found himself alone, dee pe ee ee untenan forehead Contracted beneath the pain of thought, and bent over it, then looked
Page 10
10 - THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR, and his whole face betrayed the awakening 6 some emoldering copa heedless of the eager crowd. ew Ta 0 e 0 mudely past friend and. stranger, till _ brushing alike pb past he gained the solitude of his own chamber. He flung the room with uneven down his hat, and & y strides, under the influence of some strong emotion which forbade all rest. “Do they hope this?” he muttered, through his teeth. “Let them beware! I am not wholly powerless yet.” Once his servant entered, but stole away without speaking, awed an the expression of that face, and knowing too well his master’s moods to intrude when he found him thus. CHAPTER VI. MABEL’S NEW FRIEND. “Mapen! Mabel!” It was Mr. Meredith’s voice that called, and the girl sprung to her feet as the door opened, and _ he entered, the apartment where she was sitting. She saw. only that a stranger was with him—an elegant, aristocratic-looking creature, whose every move- ment and gesture was full of grace, for before she could move forward, the lady was by her side, and had thrown one arm caressingly about her waist, ing: sOMAR, I need no introduction here. I should have ye: her from the pag op ge Ben as it was, it fell far short of the reality. But per- haps to youl am ast er, Miss Meredith?” “Not at all,” Mr. M th answered, “ A friend of papa’s can never seem a stranger to me,’’ Mabel replied, irresistibly attracted by that winning manner. “Thanks; then we shall have no trouble in becom- ing acquainted. I detest being on ceremony and vis- people who keep me off at arm’s length.” She ki: _Mabel's forehead, and threw herself upon a sofa with the easy grace which characterized il her movements, motioning Mr. Meredith to seat himself beside her, ; bid ye you have r unearthed you ” she said, gayly; “come out of your den to live like a Christian once more, My dear young lady, we can not thank yon enough, if it is to your persuasions that we owe restoration,” , “As merry and wild as ever,” Mr, Meredith said, “Precisely, my dear friend; and the worst or best of it is I shall neyer be any thing else. Vive la baga- tele / is still my motto,” “You are fortunate that nothing occurs—” - “Now don’t finish speech. “I know that it was = -, be a moral one, and I hate moral lectures on't you, dear Miss Meredith? How prim that odious * * sounds—I hate it.” “Don’t put it on then,”’ said Mabel laughing. “May Icall you by yourname? Mabel, isn’tit? I like that; it makes me feel at home at ance.” “Tam so little accustomed to hearing any other ae that it sounds strange to me, 80 pray call me Mabel, Mrs. Eas' Se : “ Agreed, if you will say Estelle.” 4 are is complete,” Mr. Meredith said, laughing. “I think you will get on famously.” “You may be sure of, ,” returned Mrs. East- man. “You must acknowledge that I am_ not chante, and I should not be human if I could tae anevace of a face like that, Butexplain to me brn ps oe are for the winter?” **T do not know that we have any,’’ Mr. Meredith replied. “ Mabel to: be introduced into the wae be as gay and have as much enjoyment as possible. i Joined It B. hasta te encety ahall be delighted to do joined Mrs, an, ‘and Is elig oO ath —_ rmnake her ated _— epee SE - am not matron te) be her chaper an Jove dancin, ate ot ion too well; but, at least, 1 an Pe mae riend, if > will permit me,” 7 . ae = « ro Rae at her face as you speak; is that answer enough?” “The sweetest I could have, You hardly osaihe an American, dear, yet you are so beautiful that I should know at once you were one,” a & saee your residence abroad did not make you “au pple for your own country?” Mr. Mer- “Oh, no. I have too many painful recollections someee with my stay there, pleasant as it was, Poe: heard with much regret of your husband’s Ph — “Do not of it,” she interrupted, “I can not bear the thought; he was my pest friend ore like a father than a husband. But what a wild iz Iwas when you saw me. I think I shocked you sometimes, did T not?” : Pi grace like yours, as if the thing were possi- ‘At least I shall do so no more; ¥ think spiribs are all e;” and she gave a littlesigh, whic might be re or assumed, it was impossible to decide which, “ Are you fond of amusements, dear?’ she said, as if wishing to change the conversation: “of the opera and theater? ** She must not be!” exclaimed Mr. Meredith, with @ violence so unusual to him that his listeners were startled. ‘*No child of mine, and no person over whom I have any contro], shall ever enter a theater.” “My dear sir,” returned Mrs. Eastm sooth- ingly, ‘‘surely,you have none of those i anti- quated prejudices eens the stage?” “IT cannot argue the subject, madam, but I repeat, Mabel shall never enter a theater. Iam willing to Peconre her every amusement, CURy, with ye slightest wish in every other respect, but there Iam determined she shall never, "et “toot theide a eater, Mabel’s cheek colored with sudden passion; nev, before had he addressed her in a tone of command, ene her proud spirit revolted at what she deemed its yranny. vo This is a strange ae oe she said, endeavori speak calmly, “I like plays very much, and am certain that the theater Would ie my fayorite amusement.” . “Mabel!” His yoice was stern and harsh, but checking himself, Mr. Meredith added, in a more nat tone; ‘“ We will talk of this another time. Excuse me, Mrs. Fastrian, I have a deep-rooted aversion to this thing. It is no idle prejudice~you will overlook it, 1 am sure.” 4 “Oh, of course. I have too many whims of my own not to respect those of other people.” - Mabel made no remark eae a spirit of opposi- tion had been roused in her which would not easily e quelled, a 4 «| must leave you now,” Mr, Meredith said, rising. “Pray become gs a with my little girl as fast = possible, Mrs. Eastman, forI expect you to like er, ‘“‘T shajl need no persuasion,” she replied. | When he had left the room, Mrs. Eastman drew her seat to Mahel’s side, and put her arm about the girl’s waist with caressing tenderness, . ‘Now we will have a long chat,” she said, gayly; *"put tell me, first, what is there in the word t eater to make such a, tiger of my old friend?” : am sure Ican not tell. Some Me Sh Se Piha that people sometimes take without cause, ancy. detec! “‘ Never. mind, dear, don’t be annoyed by it.” » “But Iam certain that I should Be tie BF with a pla . ancy, I have never even beenin a theater.” ‘Of course’ would be charmed; but we will pounds him out of this whimsical resolution, never ear.” * “Ido not believe it; you little know his unyi ing firmness when he has once made a decision,” my child, Stupid animals, — * Just so with all men, ‘the best of ‘thew! But there's one consolation, we
Page 11
. different paths from those which THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. _ are not women fornothing; we can outwit the sagest of the sex without difficulty. You shall see a play— that Iam determined w x I could not bear father, but—” “You don’t wish to be treated like a baby—of hung in the niches of th course not, Leave it all tome. Ill arrange every thing for eg eg we will have our own way in the end, you may be sure.” “*Tt is little enough; one might be allowed that,” returned Mabel, laughing, and for the moment throwing aside the vexation caused by her father’s £0) “You must have an immensity of shopping to do, my dear. I shall help you, my taste is perfect— everybody says so.”’ ? : at Be has ordered me a variety of things from Paris, but I have still much to purchase,” “Shall we devote to-morrow morning to the busi- ness—what an odious word, it makes me think of a oes ledger.”’ ‘*T shall be delighted if you can accompany me.” “‘Tamat leisure until haif-past three; you can call for me as early as edrs like.” » “*T should be certain to come.” “Thanks. But I must run away now, for it is late, and I am going out this evening.’ ‘“*You will not dine with us?” . “Don’t ask .me—it breaks my heart to refuse you, but positively I must tear myself away. I shall ex- pect you to-morrow.” “Without fail.” “ Au revoir, then, ma belle. What beautiful eyes | you have, to be sure! I am glad you are a blonde; if you had had the misfortune to be a brunette, I should have hated you; as it is, we contrast well to- gether, as a milliner would say. Aw revoir.” With another embrace, and a flood of pretty Apoeches, the giddy woman hurried away, leaving bel entranced by her winning manner appar- ent frank-heartedness, CHAPTER VII MABEL’S SURPRISE. SEVERAL ag passed, during which Mabel saw Mrs, Eastman frequently, and began her acquaint- ance with the gay world of which she had formed such glowing fancies. But there was nothing in the vapid emptiness of our new-world society to please a girl like Mabel. The admiration of the butterfly adorers who crowd- ed around only wearied her, and the attraction she felt for Mrs. Eastman was owing to her pore Se of the thousand peer rules which regulated con- duct of those about her. : Mabel was walking alone one morning, thinking over the occurrences of the past weeks, and wonder- ing at the feeling of unrest which would not be appeased even amid the gayety and excitement of her new life. There was a vague want in her life, which had no name, but each day it grew stronger, forcing itself more resolutely upon her, until, at times, it seemed to the ‘a that a ‘great change was coming over her—that fate was about to take up the threads of her destiny and fling nee — a ‘ore trodden. Then she repressed the idea, with a smile at her own wild fancies, and strove to find relief from thought in the amusements which made up the existence of those about her, but in vain. A chime of ke pop oe the a 4:2 an 9) came swelling on the air from a ne ‘ ie and Mabel, attracted by the melody, ascend ed the steps and entered the building. It was a day of ceremony in the Mother Church, and the smoke of incense rose from the altars, where gorgeous} -robed. priests were performing mass. The sunlig crept in through the windows of stained glass, taking a thousand fantastic hues, and playing over the floor like molten flame and glea #53 When mass was over, the crowd of kneeling worshipers arose and passed out of the church, leav- he she, thought of deceiving my | to which the’ scene had given il ing ee A here and there some earnest devotee wra) in meditation. Mabel aroused herself from the saddening reverie rise, and began walk- and down the aisles, regarding the pictures ealtars. She approached a nook where the light fell purple and dim across a painting which attracted her attention from its resemblance to one that hung in the library at her home. 5 Standing before the painting was.a woman dressed in black. The face was turned.away, but there was | something in the stranger’s attitude, as she stood | | ' bending slightly forward, her hand concealed-under her cloak, which seemed familiar to Mabel. She moved forward. Atthe sound of her footseps the lady started; she turned quickly, and her eyes look- ed full into the face of the girl. Mabel uttered an exclamation of surprise, and stood ba re sd the lady in astonishment. For an instant she remained thus, unable to recall when or | where she had known that face, Then recollection came back; it was the stranger whom she had seen in her home on the Hudson. With the natural impetuosity of her character, she extended her we exclaiming: ou told me that we should meet again, but I did not think that it would be here.” The lady looked at her in silence; her face ex- spate neither astonishment nor recognition, but at he sound of that glad young voice, a slight quiver shook her frame, as if there had been something in its tone which moved her. S “You do not remember me,” said Mabel, sorrow- fully. ‘I knew you immediately.” e lady raised her hand like one wie silence, in order to recall her wandering thoughts. The sad light in her eyes softened a little; her lips half ina smile, and she allowed Mabel to take her nd, “T recollect you,” she said; “the voice is the same, but you are changed.” “It is the different dress. I have not changed so- much,” The woman looked at her in silence. “Tt seems so strange that I should meet you here,” continued Mabel. dent that I came into the church. One would almost think there was a fate in it.” “Nol” returned the lady, apis 4 **Do not say t was chance, mere I am much obliged to the chance,” said lon to see you again.” : “To see me—you longed to see me!” said the wo- man, in a voice which struck a Mabel’s ear, there was something so unnatural in it. : “You asked me'then if Iwould remember you—do you recolleet.it?” +t ie 2?) Qh, T ares a he You arin) tome, did you not? Can you sing that song now : z “T do, ectantinae: but it makes me sad, since the day it di you so.” voit bide hoa Ah, Lesage were sorry for me, but you are not unha : “No, not that: but it seems to me that I have not been so happ you left me.” , ; “And why if : “Tam so restless without any reason. I want to know why I live—what life r is; and I can find no clew! It seems to me that the time will come when the question shall be answered; but now, every thing is so misty and indistinct, that I do not know which way to look.” a She spoke rapidly, without pausing for thought. There was a power in that woman’s presence which impelled her to speak, All the eager questionin Lifer had so we eae pee bo ood a torrent r ipa Ose INEXp. © sensations whic sometimes, at the sight of a person utterly = known, agitated Mabel, It seemed to her that ahe ~ th, te ; seats a ¥ 1 Ae See Y “Tt was merely by acci-° to I have so often thought of you, and | cw +
Page 12
12 ' ‘THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. to that stranger, without restraint, of all ild thoughts which she had so carefully hidden from every other human being. “Can you tell me ee this is? Will the clouds seen Sear away? ShallI find an answer to my de- mand?’ While she spoke the stranger stood motionless, looking in the girl’s face as if that impatient voice had been the echo of her own heart. “Tell me,” repeated Mabel,” shall I find an an- swer?” “To what?” “What is life—what will m “* What is life—do you ask of the Holy Writ still walks the e of his own soul the same question! must the future be?” t? If the wanderer he asks daily our future!— » do not ask that; it will come soon enough,” But Ilack something. I want—” “ eee ge—I don’t kn hat—something to do “A cha 3) ow wha mi : something to think about. Everybody is fina to me, but ed seems so useless, so uneventful.” “Poor child, r child!” ' “Can you not tell me what todo? I have thought of you so often, and it seemed to me that if I could only see you again you would be able to tell me all that I can ask of no one else.”’ “You thought that? Why should you have done so? You did not know me.’ ; “And yet, I could not feel so; it seemed to me that I had known you s0 a long time.”’ ““Know me? no, no; you never did, you never can, knowme. What could I tell you—nothing, Goyour ways, child; follow the course which is marked out for you: let the future take care of itself; it will be e soon enough.” Le turned to move away, but Mabel caught her yShe spoke with an earnest solicitation which made the woman pause. Mabel had lived so entirely aloof from the world that the thought of her imprudence = thus addressing a stranger, did not even occur to er, “I can do you no good,” she returned, sadly, “God help me; I have no power to aid any human being. I do not know how to counsel you. The _ very kindnesses I seek to confer, turn to misery on heads of those I strive to aid. Go home; be content to take life as it is. I have heard that there be those to whom it continues tranquil and undis- turbed. Pray to God that it may be thus with you.” s on te iges — raga asp, and tbo have astene y, bu’ ain the yo: ’s pleading voice made her muse. setts cite 3 “Then we shall not meet again?” wey should we?” “And I must go back to my home, unquiet and restless as ever. there no one to answer me?” “No human being can,“ Men call on Providence, but Providence is often silent. They fill up their little sum of existence—suffer, moan, pray—and then die. ‘What comes after, we know not. But I donot doubt —no, no, thank Heaven—I do not doubt. The an- Is are sometimes deaf to our supplications here, ie I do believe that beyond the confines of this prison house they will listen to us. Take that for your ont a it be one, I have no other to r, Farewe efore Mabel could speak or move, the woman from the spot, leaving her there alone, CHAPTER VIII. THE FIRST’ STEP. “Here I am , you see, Mabel! Now own that you are y tired of my daily visits.” “You only want me to flatter you; I shall say ‘Mothing | “ How impolite! But then you know that you are & savage—heautiful, but still a savage,” returned Eastman, sinking herself to a couch, “I am tired to death, and ran away from my rooms to eg- “Do not go yet,” she said; “I want to talk to - cape the people that would keep flocking in nm me. What a torment society is! —_ “You see,” said Mabe Jeng ming ““my politeness would have been was' ou acknowledge that ou came here only because you were bored at ome, “But I had another reason. I was dying to see you Ah "7 “Now do be serious—nonsense is my forte—don’t attempt it, But I really have something to tell you. I showed you, the other day, some criticisms of that FORDE Sctoy who is turning all the women’s heads.” at of him? You excited my curiosity so strongly that I have done nothing since b the powspapers, to — neo enens tai e @ benefit to-night, ‘Ss. —— 8 with agent = fancy!” 4 ag “It will indeed be onl fancy,” replied Mabel, smiling, and shaking her head. “‘I would give the world to see him; but it is useless to think of it.” “T would give ten worlds rather than stay away! But.can’t you persuade this obstinate papa?” “You could as easily move a rock! I ventured to speak of it again the other day, and for the first time in his life he was angry with me.” “What did he say?” “That while I remained under his roof I should never enter a theater,” “What odious tyranny, I did not think he had been such a Turk!” “T can do ep. but submit; I would not offend him for more than I can express.” “But you are not a child, my dear. Why do you allow yourself to be treated like one? Men‘are born to be ruled—husbands or fathers—remember. that; and you may as well govern all of the sex that come in your way, as a preparative for married life. To think of your missing that play! ty Montgomery only stops here a fortnight longer. You can imag- ine nothing like him—a perfect Apollo. Such a voice—such eyes, and the way he makes love! Oh, my darling, I pity you!” ‘Let us talk of something else. It only vexes me to remember of, what delight Iam deprived.” “ After all, Mr. Meredith might not care so much “as you think.” But he has expressed his wishes clearly,” said ; ‘‘I can not act contrary to them,” “Quite right, my dear; beautiful in sentiment, but practice is another thing. Duty and affection are rood words—they have no significance in this rapid age. ; R I should not like to forget them.” ** But you must go tothe theater. My heart is set on it. Ishall die if 1am disappointed. “Tt is impossible! Pa’ dare not even mention “Don’t, then.” * But what can I do?’ “Go without, simpleton! Fie, you will never be @ woman of the world if oo go on in this mamner.”’ “If he were to know it he would disown me. Papa can be stern, I tell you.” “* He never need know it. Now, don’t look shock- ed, nor ‘purse up that pretty mouth—it is quite too pretty to give forth sermons. You can go to the theeter and he be none the wiser; nothing more “Would you have me tell him a falsehood?” “What a word, little barbarian! Of course not; I only ask you to do something much more difficult for a woman—to re own counsel and hold your tongue. I will tell that you are going to spend a —— evening with m night, as I am ill. Don would never consent; I e subject again.” and will Bag stay all frown; I shall be if IL am disappointed! .I have a box at the theater, and we will go quietly there. get neatlv stowed away behind the curtains, and return as decorously as the most fastidious could desire. Now, what is there _ so frightful in that?” - “‘ Nothing, I suppose: but I dislike to do it.” “Nonsense; remember what you miss if you allow
Page 13
: THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR, these idle scruples to influence you, and they will be forgotten. No more words; go and ss, I will see Mr. Meredith, and tell him that Iam Seing to run off with his princess.” “‘T cannot do it, Mrs, Eastman, indeed I cannot,” Said Mabel, “Now, my dear, don’t prove a coward, or I shall ise you! Dress yourself, because I am here with the intention of taking you home with me, I must be back in half an hour, and believe me, I have no intention of going without my lady-bird.”’ Mabel would have expostulated, but her friend Silenced her with a kiss, and hurried out of the room to seek Mr. Meredith. Mabel began to dress in t irresolution, her mind filled with a vague Sort of trouble, which she could not drive away. In a few moments Mrs, Eastman returned, laugh- ing merrily, and exclaiming, as she entered: Victory! victory! Hurry! h ! Your re doubtable dragon melted like wax in the sunshine of my smile, The day is ours!” * He did not consent to my going to the theater?” “Of course not, you little Hs You don’t sup- pose I ever alluded to the ! No, my dear, I put on my most sanctimonious face, assured him that I was dying of headache, and wanted to take ou home in order to read mea hymn. But where you home in order to read h But wh i Res Ring for her; don’t stand there so id”? : ‘What spirits you have!” exclaimed Mabel. “Of course Ihave; it is my profession. Here is Agnes. Now dress, and don’t speak to me till you are ready to go, for I wish to read.” She sat down and took a novel from the —, while Mabel’s toilet was going on. The misgui irl looked pale from the conflict within between inclination and duty, but she had been too utterly spoiled by indulgence to pause now! * Atlast!” exclaimed . Eastman, fli g@ down her book, as Mabel rose from her seat; “ready at last—pale as a lily, and just as beautiful!” She hurried her away, without igiving her time to relent. They met Mr. Meredith the hall, but Mrs, Eastman would not be delayed beyond a pas- sing salutation. **Good-by,”’ she said, kissing her hand to him as he assisted them into the carriage, “Vl bring our princess back safe, never fear.” They drove off, and the charm of her companion’s conversation soon banished from Mabel’s mind the anxious doubts which had beset her. Mrs, Eastman did not again mention the theater; she was too wily a diplomatist to endanger her cause by further discussion. When evening came she dressed without a word, bade her woman make the necessary alterations in Mabel’s attire, and drew her into the saloon, where a gentleman whom she had before met awaited them, Mabel was given no opportunity for gam ee and almost before she realized it, they were seate in a carriage, and whirled swiftly away. When they drew up at the brilliantly-lighted en- trance of the theater, Mabel sunk back in the seat, trembling in every limb. ‘Don’t be a baby!’ said her friend, in a w r3 “Thate weak people. Do bravely what you make up your mind to do—hesitation is ridiculous.” bel descended from the carriage‘in silence, me- chanically accepted the arm their cavalior extended, and entered the lobby. She heard a tumult, which seemed to come from afar—was conscious that they were passing through a long gallery. In a moment a door was flung open, & of uate burst a her, an outburst rn music, and she knew that they stood in the theater. “Sit there,” Mrs. Eastman said, pushing Mabel gently into a seat, where she was screened from the sight of the audience by the heavy orange-colored curtains. “You have a good view of the stage, and are as safe as a dove inits cot; as for Livingston here, he is as innocent as one, and | that he never saw you in all his life. Mabel laughed gayly. Her spirits rose: a strange | 18 excitement took possession of hei, and she f t her fears, her remorse, and gave herself up to the intoxicating pleasure of the moment. One of the most celebrated tragedies in the English tongue had been selected for that eth I enter- tainment, and the theater was crowded with eager spectators, gathered to witness the efforts of the tw stinguished performers of the evening. . : The opening scenes were listened to with ‘breath- less eagerness, and when the young hero of the night trod proudly down toward’ the footlights, in sight of that vast throng, the shouts of applause which greeted him were almost deafening. They died away at last, and his voice rose clear and ~ powerful, yet with a sweetness in its tone Which moved the coldest heart. Mabel leaned forward, heedless of the eyes which might be bent upon her, forgetting every thing in the spell flung about her by that presence. As the play went on, and the actor gathered up his full strength, Mabel’s interest grew more intense, Several times her companions addressed her, but she did not heed or turn her gaze, but sat fascinated. Suddenly the heroine ap d upon the scene, amid the tumultuous greetings of the crowd. But soon Mabel forgot the woman, so deeply d® her interest center in that man! She could not have turned her eyes away had life depended apes it. She watched him as a fascinated bird might the serpent who is charming it to death. At length she seemed to attract the performer’s attention. Several times he glanced toward the box, and had Mabel been watching Mrs. Eastman, she would have seen the quick smile which shot over her 7 and the gesture of greeting she made, he curtain fell upon the last act, shutting out from the girl’s sight the glorious world wherein she had reveled. “Come, Mabel,” exclaimed Mrs, Eastman; “come back to life—the play is over. “You were charmed, were you not? continued her companion, “Is he not spendid? Did I say too much—isn’t he an Apollo?” *. Mabel made no reply. Those words irritated her, and she turned impatiently away; but her com- panion did not remark it. ‘ The crowd was so great that they were forced to © wait for some time in the box. Mr. Livingston had enna to order the carriage, and Mabel, heedless of er friend’s presence, stood bewildered by the wondrous vision which had just passed before her. Their cavalier appeared at last; but it was not until Mrs, Eastman had twice repeated her name that the girl started up. “You are pean Mabel; don’t deny it, You will go theater-m They passed into the crowded lobby, and in the pressure of the throng Mabel lost her hold upon her companion’s arm. As she looked around, frighten- ed at her situation, some one drew close to her side, took her hand gently in his, while a voice, which she vet in cece only too well, said, gently: “Pardon me; your friends are only a et in ad- crowd. vance, but you will be crushed in t She made‘ho reply—she had no power, but allowed him to lead her passively on. Once she r her is, and those dark orbs ed as eyes—they met they had done through the passional scenes of the play. She knew him—it was Montgomery, the ac ne ° —— CHAPTER IX. |
Page 14
a ie a ee 4 . THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. too, the recollection of the deceit which she had practiced toward him, and the bitter self-reproaches which succeed a first act of treachery toward a be- loved object, made themselves felt with new poign- “Did I startle you, child?” he said, “You look ed, Did you leave Mrs, Hastman better?” “She is quite well,” Mabel faltered. “You have come back just in time to wish me good- ney “What do you mean—you are not going away?” “T am obliged to leave town fora week. I did not until late last night.” the thought of his absence, and again a pang of re- proach wrung her heart at her own ingratitude. “You need not look grave,”’ he said, in his kindest voice; ‘you must persuade your friend, Mrs. East- to stay with you and prevent your getting lo te “Oh, no!’ exclaimed Mabel, unwilling to add to the wrong she had committed by placing herself so entirely under the influence of the woman who had Sear nopaneled her so badly, ‘‘I shall not be very ely.’ T thought you had taken one of your violent at- ear f erp et ? ea : oh yes, she is ve ut she may no like eving a rooms—” 4 4 y __ “T will answer for that. I shall drive by her hote and give her yourinvitation, Youmay be certain o seein, yet within an hour, Now, good-by, my child, Mabel threw herself into his arms, with a gush of baypre ble tears. “ Hurry back,” she said, as he soothed her with be quiet dness; ‘‘I don’t think I’m fit to be left alone.’ . “J will trust you; there are few in the world to - whom Icould say asmuch, Good-by.”_. @ was gone; and Mabel gave herself up to the painful reflections which his presence and affection- ate words had aroused. But she was not allowed much leisure for the indulgence of those sad fancies; . Eastman’s voice sounded on the stairs, bringing _ her back to the duties of the hour. s I am, my dear,” she exclaimed, epeuliog the door; “‘I could not refuse Mr, Meredith’s appea tomy sympathies for beauty in distress. But how do cee find yourself after our last night’s adven- “Don’t speak of it! Oh, Mrs. Eastman, I have done wrong!’ “ Now, don’t pley the penitent, I beg; it is not at allin your line. Make all the good resolutions you please for the future, but don’t gointo a Jeremiad over what is past.” “What spirits you have! Do you never feel sad?” Siz t a horrid question! Of course not! But come, my dear, don’t starve me to death in this bird’s nest of flowers—I could eat no breakfast with ee Ot our distress.” T will ordér luncheon at once—” “Do so; and the ca: e after. Ihave no fancy for being mewed up in the house this lovely day.” She turned away humming a song, and Mab with a sigh for her broken dream, resigned herse to the idle amusement of the morning. Toward dinner time they were sitting in Mrs, East- man’s apartment, when a servant entered with a “Show him up,” said that lady, glancing at the name with a smile; and as the man went out she turned to Mabel. . “You never would guess who has called. I have | the most delightful surprise for you!” abel was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she hardly heard the words. Mrs, Eastman fluttered away to & mirror; then composed herself in a pretty "will | “TE shall be Saas Meant eae on attitude on the sofa. Just then the door opened; M ced toward it, and her heart seemed to abel glan cease aera ae was Montgomery. aorta gay words of compliment with which he ad Mrs. Eastman. Th was spoken: ‘Mabel, dear,” eried her friend, “ pray come out of the clouds. Iam presenting Mr. ontgomery to you. Your acting left her quite dazed—she has been in a dream since last night.” “So have 1,” he murmured, as he bent toward the young girl. are way these words recalled her presence of ind. “*T have to thank Mr. Manigoieey. for assisting me last night,” she said, in a voice whose composure made her wonder. : “Was it he who extricated you from the crowd?” asked Mrs. Eastman. ‘Why didn’t you say so?” ‘Probably she was not certain until now,” he re- plied, before she could speak, keeping his eyes full upon her face, and noting how the crimson bloomed into her cheek. “Now, be good enough to sit down between us, and make yourself agreeable,” said Mrs, Eastman, gayly. s You have destroyed the possibility now, if there had been any,” he said, laughing, but taking the seat she motioned him toward. “Don't play the modest,” she returned; ‘it would be your one unsuccessful part.” ‘““Please do not use those words,” he said, brush- ing his hair back from his forehead; “let me forget en her own name the stage for a little while, if I can,’ : ‘| Mabel caught the sad expression which came over his features—he had struck the key-note by exciting her pone. sympathies, “Do you mean to tell me that you do not like it?” returned a . “T shall not believe you; “It seems to me a strangely fascinating pursuit,” she answered, in a low voice. : ** Ah, Miss Meredith, you only see one side of the picture—that before the curtain. You know nothing of the hours of discouragement and loneliness—the sense of misappreciation of the man, even by those who profess to admire the actor.” : It was the same deep, rich voice which had wiled her heart into that beautiful dream on the previous night, and it made her pulses tremble again. ‘To me it would be perfectly intoxicating,” said Mrs. tman; ‘I think there is no fame like an actor’s—it is so comes so closely home,” * And is so evanescent,” he added. “What difference does that make? It is much better than having people wait till one is in the grave before one is appreciated.” He shook his h and made no reply—his eyes wandered toward Mabel, and then the lids drooped sadly over them. “Do you know,” pursued Mrs. Eastman, “ that this child never was in a theater until last night?” Mabel colored painfully, and made an appealing gesture toward her friend, at which Mrs. tman Ge. pain “We have a secret,” said she, “and Mabel is afraid 1 shall reveal it. I have a mind to do so.” “ Ah, then we shall have one in common,” he ex- claimed, in that impulsive way which Fa ds rb potural to him, and which was so irresistible; “ tell , 1 beg. “Do not, Mrs, ”” Mabel entreated. “T wonder which I had better oblige,” said she. “You are safe, Mabel, in having it told—this creature is so wild and willful himself that he will only ad- mire you the more for your naughty escapade.” — ‘Please let her tell me, Miss Meredith,” he added; less afraid of youif I find you are not quite perfect.” Mabel ny pat but Mrs. Eastman loved mis- chief too well to remain silent. “JT must tell,” she exclaimed; “I really must! The truth is, [ran away-with herlast night. Mr,
Page 15
which neither o “Tt is hardly worth repenting,” he said; “it was a ~ 2: THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. nh Meredith would kill us both if he knew we had been | rtorever down the sunny stream ayer which her un- to the theater.” guided bark had so unexpectedly drifted “T did very wrong,” Mabel said, feeling tears of mingled shame and vexation ni, ot her eyes, There was & eit smile on Montgomery’s lip, rv mere frolic.” “But I assure you, Mr. Meredith would not look on it in that light,’’ said Mrs. Eastman, unable to re- sist her pleasure . “He has the most fear- ful aversion to the theater, and thinks actors—oh, dear me, out of pity for you, I won’t tell you what he does think of them.” Again Montgomery smiled that bitter smile, which ~ changed the expression of his face so pa rejudices,” he , ‘a. Me-pot blame = one for those said, after a moment’s silence; rhaps they are natural, but I. think, Miss Meredith iP ou knew ore of my profession, you would not share in em. “T do not,” she said, hastily; ‘‘indeed, I do not.’ He spoke very seriously then of his art, and every word found an echo in Mabel’s mind. She forgot her penitence in listening—forgot everything but the beautiful dream which had so suddenly dawned :: only think you believe me on one condi- on, “ And what is that?’ asked Mrs, Eastman. “That Miss Meredith promises to accompany you , upon her undisciplined mind, Aer shall fi _ to the theater te-night.’ “‘T cannot,” exclaimed Mabel; “ indeed, I cannot.” “Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Eastman, “You must, and shall!. Make her promise, Mr, Montgomery.” “T can only add my entreaties to yours. I have no right to do even that.” he “ bg don’t go, Mabel, I'll be cross for a week,” said Mrs, Eastman. ‘I won't hear of a refusal.” They both pleaded with her until her scruples tig! weave way, and she promised to accompany rs, Hastman to the theater that night. , Mrs. Eastman, *“ At eighteen one doesn’t choose to be treated like a baby. ‘“The usual mistake of parents and ms to her that her father was unjust and cruel. Then she ceased to think about him, and shut her ears to the self-reproaches which to come up. Mont- gomery was speaking again—talking in a poetical way which could not have failed to produce an ef- a fo a girl of her age and peculiar ignorance of @ world. ‘*L have outstayed my time,” he said, at last, rising to go; “ you should have sent me away,” “Oh, you have not wearied us much,” she replied, rep ighingly; ‘“‘has he Mabel?” “If you knew how precious this hour will be to me, would forgive,” he returned, and Mrs. astman received the compliment as intended for herself, but Mabel caught a quick flash from those wonderful eyes which went to her heart like a sud- den = ht agit an ‘You may come make your peace,” said Mrs. Eastman, in her easy mettish way, as she held out her hand to him, pide ms He bowed silently to Mabel, and went away, but to the last she fe*t his eyes upon her, as if he could not keep his gaze from wandering that way. Tent e a wonderful creature?” cried Mrs. East- man, when the door closed behind him. “T didn’t tell youl knew him, because I wanted to astonish a Now we'll have dinner, and then dress, Don’t ook so forlorn i, make the best of everything; that is my philosophy.” abel minds no answer. ay she 9d re- proaching herself—she was se ma ea count for the new fe Ww 4 ent ae & ae She was only dreaming wildly, and con wae | af ae ed ea the wid ol ee rang Mrs. East- man, when the servant announced the carriage. “Come, my beauty, it is time to go.” In the same inexplicable mood, Mabel suffered her to lead her away, and again drank in the light from the eyes whose influence had already become the controlling power in her life. > x. THE AWAKENING, Exzcanor Mrtconen sat alone in a room of the house which she had taken when the restraint of a Those who, for so years, had been harshest in their condemnation of’ the woman, ‘ht have pitied her, had they seen her in that hour of solitude and self-abandonment. A month had elapsed since her first interview with Mr. Meredith, and not a step had gained. The discouragement which had come over her ptr gaa bear than all the suffering of her ast life, ! . A strange existence it had been; one more utter blighted and judged, it would haye been im ble to conceive, 6 wretched woman had started for America, and in her perplexity and madness had sought out Meredith on her arrival. With no effect; he could give her no information; all either gained by the meeting, was a reopening of the 4 wounds that would never wholly close ae there she sat in her lonely house that day, brooding over all these things, wondering how much longer she could bear that intolerable suffering and sus- pense, and what other trials life could have in store. Even to be certain that her child was dead would have been a relief; but to think of it living, grown to wo! and never to have heard her mother’s voice, or even her mother’s name! The horrible un- certainty of the fate she might have met; the agony of knowing that both t live for long years te come, and she never be able to find the slightest trace of her child, Probably no life could produce an ce of more utter wretchedness. ao eee had made eve: pee Gren his in- could suggest—no such ¢ grown w among’ her husband’s family—no trace, Snywhere e turne Eleanor was living quite without friends or society, except when he pron Dy to see her, and of Jate it had been only painful to meet even him, so that she had not even had that break in the monotony of her ex- ed her time, she could hardly herself have told. She could neither read nor use her needle. She dreaded going out, for this return to her native country brought all that past so vividly to her mind that she could not believe it had been almost forgotten by old acq nees she might chance to meet. z Repose was torture; she used to walk for hours | hotel became insupportable to her. hall, back and forth, back | through.the parlors and hall, back poe on d forth, until she was forced to phi sical weakess. But when night came, she could nots ; she would lie staring ’ Kenai: her, fell into a broken womeure onl sas ome jong eath wo! com Y shawper, it was only to dream of her ray 8 always as she had last seen it, almost aninfant. She me hear it wailing feebly for pee out its little hands to her—and when she to grasp it,some terrible shape would snatch it away, and she woke with wild cries, and drops of agony on her fore- — had seated herself now, quite worn out from | sleeplessness and —__ too weak for the moment, even to feel acute suffering; nothing was left but the dull, heavy pain which follows the first sharp pang opened and Mr, Meredith entered un- of a wound. The door
Page 16
16 announced. She did not look up, or pay any atten- 2. *Wleanor,” he said, softly, for the old la ‘er had “fallen into the habit of her by that familiar name; * Eleanor!”’ “Isit you?” che sell; “you are very kind to come; AS ong Maghimagd to her side and took one of her ds in hisown, shocked to see the change which had come over her sincé they parted. ** Are you very weak to-day?” he asked. **So tired,” she moaned; ‘' oh, so tired!” “Tcame to talk with you,” continued, ‘* but you must not be agitated. PG a age hed her hand awa; ohenmrge ai tile Kade spite of his habit me ree fell feelings, and the restraint he was pasties upon himself, she knew that something had a v ou have news!”’ she gasped; “tell me—quick— ick or I shall die.” : } er face w 80 ghastly that he was rising in slarm, but she grasp his arm with a force of which she did not appear capable. Fe Tell me this is worse than death—any thing He saw that the most abrupt announcement would as dangerous for her as that suspense, “I have received an answer to the advertise- maak,” be said, ‘. * Margaret Hawkins’s grandson has been to see me, She leaned a little forward—her lips moved—at last she whispered: $ PE cng my child!’ pee A a no news of that, but Margaret is alivein mor leaned back in her. chair, white and still: not fainted. she was 5 powerless and rigid as if stricken by catalepsy. He to herself like a per- from a long swoon. she said, her voice growing firmer; now.” “It’s over, am strong “You had better lie down a little,” he, said; ‘I will wait till you are able to talk.” “No, no, lam well,” she exclaimed poreing back “When her strength in a way that was wonderful. can I start?” in almost thought her mind wandering for an in- ‘* Start?” he repeated. ; Yes—when does a steamer sail for California?” To-morrow—we will send a trusty messenger,”’ “Send!” she cried. “ Are you mad? Secure my passage at once, to-morrow.” , “But you are not able; you could not endure the ey—” She sto him bad genes Hee und Saya AP stren ive can bear thist sae Sera aay “* But a messenger would do as well—” “You torture me! Don’t argue with me—don’t een Let me go—I must go! I should die here, of me sitting in this room for wee perhaps mo waiting—waiting!” that it would be worse for her than ure, in pee I have a hope, un oad rhe id ceased his di i y phy e, and ce. 8 dissuasions, Wore Auk oy man?” she asked. “ Why didn’t bring Ui “He is waiting in the hall. 1 was anxious that should not see him at first,” ae € motioned him to call the stran, and he obeyed. The man ee THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. ee rN brother, ma’am; you can see what it says about er,’ . She took the letter from his hand, and tried to read me t’s Tae he ied “read it—read it.” Mr. Meredith leaned over her shoulder and read it to her, she ing the all the while, as if it was visible hope which he could not let go. “ Where is it dated?” “had one shall alive—I ut Ax Ke a ens od a <hr ow 15 my ¢. m a ae veg ~ her an he sould, and Mr. Meredith motion 0 go away. j “The reward,” she akc , suddenly remembering cOal cing wettanee. RL a appy. im. . . After the man had one, Mr. Meredith forced her to lie down MP the sofa; but she would only do so me be Condition, that he should send at once to the 8 mer, ‘ “‘I want to see my ticket,” she said; “then I shal feel that I am 1 Pong, surely going.”’ Ls ou Ww: to sleep, I will thing for you,’ Morgan will go course?” She nodded, so he rung for the housekeeper, a faithful woman who had been with Eleanor for sev- eral years, and explained to her the fos that were to be made. She had un many tress’ every- you, of 0 the — of feet, joint sobs and low exclama- wing-room, but th rush the ere was no confu- sion where, While © Mrs, Mitchell was paci and dewn the room, fookitic and unlocki ae bec kana, & visitor en- tered the house, and walked with a quiet step into the drawing-room. The woman paused, struck the presence of a man who from her youth n the agony and joy of her life, It was the Why had he returneat anor.’ quinn, locked hands fell apart, her lips began to ver, “ rg she said, and the hidden tenderness of years gushed out, eloquently in that single word, * Anson, have you come to me at last?” Meredith moved across the room, his f be- The old look,” h, said, gathering hands ter; “the dear old look,’ oe ou itte f a ieee n to the heart by a pang o *‘ Anson—Anson, what is this? Have I gone mad?” “Eleanor, I have had a le, wi the night ve we met so flowing in nm In my first qouth IT loved iat pote Bina never loved woman, and now I walk ov, time and say; loved woman,” - She fell to the arms about his kia, and Poe a On wound her her head, an to weep. He “ entered—a respectable, clvil-look- iG oe his bands ‘to ite her “up but she r oa are Margaret Hawkins’s grandson?” she ontAnd be hay love mie, Eleanor?” pare “Yes, ma'am.” | Ples, and looked in his face. : *, ©ou know she is alive?” “Love you—lo Dh, if I had words—oh, Here is a letter I got only the other day, from my } I but hed Weekes te eee t .
Page 17
. lg beyond the sight of land away toward : that new country to which her range fate was leading her. THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR, _ 1? He took her in his arms then, and kissed her on the forehead and the quivering mouth, “Eleanor, we are both free. Let us put the old life, with its hard duties and bitter anguish, quite “away. You and I have crossed the desert, but I hear the tinkle of cool waters and see gleams of young . The down-hill road may be short, but you I will travel it together.” She understood him, but through the very out- break of her happiness a Poneey eaine flashing; “My child—my child! I had forgotten her!’ His arms loosened, he looked down upon her ten- derly. "We will look for her together, Eleanor.”’ She withdrew herself from his arms, and sat down wearily. The remembrances of a sorrowful life came slowly back upon her—her anguish, her odious mar- riage and su darkly above all, her disgrace. é No,” she said, with weary tenderness, “this must not—can never, never be! How should I dare to bring scornful eyes on you?” “T can afford to defy them, Eleanor.” - No, no. I have tried that. You never must.” a And you can give me up now?” ‘No, no, Icannot. It is you that must do it. You — Be ee ane save urself from ihe “ig is me. reat heavens, that the mighty temptation should fall upon me here and “Eleanor, this is madness.” “No, n0; it is love—great, ho! ‘* But is no way to prove i doubted me.” * “JT did—I did!” ‘Will you repeat the wrong?” “No, no; in this I atone for it.” He went up to her, and took her hand. “Eleanor, ntome, You are feeble now—” “Yes, very feeble.” “Timid, confused. Let us talk no more of this to-day; take time. I can trust the heart that has loved me so long. I cannot stay in the same city without seeing you, for no schoolboy was ever so weak, But for a day or twol will go away. Com- pose yourself, darling, think kindly of me, fling off a idea of disgrace, and when I come The yearning tenderness in her speech, and it ended in a gaze t love.”” In my youth you cea % carri e uent words ‘into the depths of her heart. She saw him moving toward the door vaguely, as if he vines reine aka a aE Cn 0 een busy up-stairs came in, her mistress had fainted. ae Eleanor slept that night as she had never slum- bered since her youth, with her white hands folded over her heart, and a smile of ineffable softness on her li quiet, bi ust this p : but have no fear for me—I go with hope.” en the sun went down, Eleanor Mitchell was CHAPTER XI, ent and change than the whole She hardly recognized herself eaming girl of the past year. She had sprung suddenly to the maturity of her woman- hood under the new influences which surrounded Let remark, When she left Mrs. Fastman's she had de- termined never: to see him again, or even to trust herself at the threater; but the resolution had been of brief endurance. He besieged her in her he wrote to her, and at last won permission to visit her at her house. She knew now he loved her—he had told her so— and this new affection had made up the beautiful mn aan life ps those he ia emet her self-reproaches exquisite tries; he made her vow that if it came toa decion between giving up him or os with her father, thy gas gle Fete which inspired Montgom- was a eeling whic ery. He loved her, that was certain; but his nature was so proud and impetuous, that it was danger- ous sg 4 sea upon that affection, however engross- mig . ma would have gladly married her at once, but even her romantic impetuosity could not bring her to take that step, without an effort to obtain her father’s consent, and he now looked for- ward to Mr. Meredith’s return, hoping some outbreak ht occur which wo separate the tot oot - mt meeti ment Mrs, requ meetings or engage’ Eastman did a ed a knowledge of the truth to have turned he rous to the gir days flew by, and Mabel ceased to take any note of their de , 80 wholly lost was she in the mazes of that first bewildering passion. as Mr. Meredith had written to say that he should re- pao by be gcthine4 mo Mae Foy had only a eeling 01 when she e message, an hour of keen self-reproach when she upon the wrong she had done. et, after all, the girl was more to be pitied than blamed. She had been left with her h and fancy so untrained and undisciplined that nothing could now effect the work but real and poignant suff x In the tyranny of his affection, for it had been Mr. Meredith had neglected those important coun- wip es we! Seti feed eit soma brow: was ignorant of the stren, erly directed, it would have made her a splendid a man; as it was, her very abilities would probably ber 5 jead her into trouble and unhappiness. She was selfish from mere indulgence; at the same ete she was capable of any sac’ for those she | loved. At present, her whole soul had so centered upon that man that all her self-abnegation would have been in his favor—the love and protection of the past weighed as not in the scale. ee She wak sitting in the library, after reading Mr. Meredith’s letter, and while she was still yielding to the reproaches of her conscience, Montgomery was shown into the room. He went toward her, took her hands, and looked down into her face. a Abe looks sad,” he said; “‘what has hap- Peghe hel tip'’é letter, while the great tears rose in her eyes. « Feora papa,” she said, “Oh, Charles, what will he say to me when he knows the truth?” ’ Montgomery frowned; in his egotism he felt. wronged even by her grief. “Can you ieee Pay. affection in comparison with mine?” he 4 Xe ; “You know Ido not. ButI feel to-day how wick- ed it is of me to deceive one who has loved meso well. He will be here this week.”
Page 18
‘ate an 18 “ Wretched while I love you? Have you forgotten = often you have told me I was dear to you? ve you— # Dent pa ag me—please don’t. Ican not bear it. Core me what to do, Help me, instead of adding to my distress by such crue] words.” “Heaven knowsI would not ingly pain you, Mabel, but what canIsay? You will not listen to my advice. There is only one course open to you, if you do indeed love me, and desire to be happy.” She shrunk back in her chair; but he wound his arm about her waist, and drew her toward him. “Are you growing afraid of me already?” he whis- ed, “Oh, Mabel, listen to me. What right has y one to come between Pies: and your heppencest is not a wife to forsake the world for her hus- band? to me, there is much more Once married _ hope of that man’s granting you his pardon, if that is necessary to your peace. “Tt would he ended it would! Ishould be miser- able to think he had ceased to love me.” He drew his arm away, and his brows gathered in a frown, . “Ah,” he said, “I was mad to think I should ever find a love like mine! See, Mabel, I would give up every hope on earth if it could bring you happiness, yet you hesitate to dare for me even the displeasure of a nical man,” “But he was never tyrannical with me—indeed he was not,” “Because you never thwarted his wishes—the mo- ment you do that you will feel how harsh he can be. Has he not deprived you of the rational pleas- ures of your age—not even allowed to enter a thea- “Oh, but I think he must have had some strong y= for that prohibition was not like him,” Montgomery smiled m ly. “Only one of his whims; but it is useless to talk of these trifles. The time is coming when you must choose between your father and the man you have sworn one day to call your husband.” “Oh, it is hard, very ” she murmured through r tears. “Then you do not love me.” She laid her hand upon his arm, and the piteous entreaty in her face silenced even his re- roaches. Pre But how will you decide—for decide you must? He will discover the truth, and a decision will be foreed upon you.” st k if he knew how I love you, how good and noble you are, he would forgive us,” she said, “Never! I tell you he would see you in your grave, rather than allow you to be my wife. He prides hinwelf upon never changing his resolutions— Ep rar wate which has e his life so deso- so “ But he has been so loving, so kind to me! I can pees 9 oe a as hard,” oa = ways that.one answer u can, give your life to him—sacrifice yonrself and me! I care told you i es are to me—you know what my ) has eeu: Lonshtoe ad: shall ce Srey ev! that makes nce WO ng. Do tee Y gay and when it is too late, break your heart in vailing remorse! You will have done a wicked hing. You will have ruined the man who loved you; but if you choose, let it be so; and years Hone? tell me if you have been repaid for the sacri- ce. She was weeping so wildly, and her teazs did not flow with out, terrible Mt he was forced to soothe her, He held her to his breast, murmuri endearing words, until she erew calm again, an tened to his persuasions and _pl & remonstrance, or a thought of the wreng she was which made Mabel start up in affright; but before either could turn or Speak, the door was thrown open, and Mr. Meredith entered the apartment, ans without a word | UL denly there was a sound of voices in the hall, | | | THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR, . He saw them both; his astonished eyes took all inat a glance, Pale and stern, he moved toward ther saying in a terrible voice: ; ‘**You here? I warned you!” Montgomery returned his arm around Mabel, when she would é have from his embrace. , “Let go that girl!” exclaimed Meredith. “Mabel, quit that man, Y She did not —she was almost fainting. speak. Meredith put out his hand and forced her away. She sunk into a seat unable to speak, looking at cm: those infuriated men with a wild terror in her “‘Leave this house,” said Mr. Meredith, “ or I will have you put out of it,” i will go, undoubtedly,” answered the young sory but that young lady goes with me.” es nr what does this mean? What is this man e could not utter a soi but sat pale and frightened, looking Diteously on her father” : She is my betrothed wife,” returned Montgom- "Meredith was silent for a moment, then he ex- claimed: ss i understand this; you have done it to wound me—me. Montgomery smiled—that cold smile which came Mabel” continued Mr. M ” continu . Meredith, struggling for composure, “I will forgive you everything, if you promise never to see th nian in," E “T can not,” she moaned; ‘‘oh, I can not.” ** Be careful,” he said, slowly; “you do not know what you are doing! I will forgive you—I, who never forgave before. Make your ch bye Pe ag forgive me, forgive me!” she cried, passion- ately. $ Y will-I do—only tell this man to go.” “ Mabel!’ whispered Montgomery, She raised herself in her chair asif foreed by some power which could not be disobeyed. Me Sr wo dt she exclaimed, ‘“‘ Any thing else—I « , Do you know who he is?” questioned Meredith. A nameless wretch—an actor—a—"?__. é “You forget one other title,” interrupted Mont- gomery, coldly. ‘*Lhad almost forgotten it myself.” Merédith made an imperious gesture with his hand, “Mabel, decide!” he said. ‘Remember, it is for- ever. If you hesitate, I leave you to your fate,” tis spre him,” broke from her white lips. ‘I love m Montgomery turned upon the unhappy man. re th you satisfied?” he asked. < ; The proud man turned away. That Laale meening girl was the last object in life ¢o which he coul = . He would not relinquish her without another al. ‘ Mabel,” he cried out, iapeei “hear the truth: that man is dishonest, dishonored.” She only stared at him, wondering if she had sud- denly lost her reason, while Montgomery stood be- fore his accuser, perfectly calm. He would have suffered eternal torture, rather than betray the agony those words gave him. a “Twelve years ago,” pursued Meredith, in the same unnatural voice, “I expelled him from my— my confidence—”’ ontgomery started forward. ‘* Hold, sir!” “Mabel, this is false! That man always hated me; he made my life a torture. If I had been as wicked the young man. Meredith turned to his daughter; his face was relapsing forever, Go glance, and kept *
Page 19
- The young girl raised herself with despairing energy. “T cannot give him up,” she cried, wringing her hands wildly; ‘it would kill me! Let me at for | Him, for my sake, forgive him; for my sake, save | pe Stop, Mabel!” exclaimed Montgomery. “TI will | not forgive him. The wrong is on my side. This | man never shall have my pardon. You forsake him orme! Your choice!” ; “He is my father,” she almost shrieked, “‘ remem: ber that.” She stood between them, her hands and imploring them, with frantic words, but they re- mained unmoved as two statues under the passion of her speech, so different, and yet so like, in their hardness, ‘“*No more, Mabel,” exclaimed Mr. Meredith. ‘I will not hear a word more. Leave this house, young man!’ Montgomery turned toward the girl. ‘“* Come, Mabel,” he said; ‘‘ come.” She did not stir; Mr. Meredith extended his hand. “Come to your father, Mabel.” She hesitated still, her poor heart wrung with ter- rible emotions, torn with contending love, ‘* Mal my wife!’’ whispered the yo man. With a low ery, she flung herself upon his breast: ee go with him,” she cried; “I must go with Not a sign of emotion escaped Meredith. He seat- Ps himself quietly, and waved his hand toward the oor. . “Take her away,” he said; “I could not curse you or her as you have cursed yourselves.” Montgomery drew the shivering young creature toward the door, but she broke from his hold, and rushed back to Meredith, flinging herself at his feet, and clasping his knees with her arms. “Only ay! phy me! I will give you my life—every- thing—say that you forgive us.” He lifted his white face, and his voice came clear and distinct: “*T do not know you—I do not know him.” Montgomery came forward and raised her from the floor; she fell back in his arms insensible, and he bore her from the house. Mr. Meredith sat there, motionless, till night came on, The last blow had fallen, but he did not relent. Once he muttered: . **Eleanor! Eleanor! all forsake me now; will you go, too?”’ but that was all, ere he sat, hopeless, solitary, bitterly wronged and at the same time culpable and unjust. Life ad nothing left for him tempest as he had encountered former ones; it might crush him, but he would die and make ge. Twilight gathered and filled the hits gloom; there was no sound thro house, e servants below knew what h aaees ed, and sat ther conversing in mysterious whis- pers while their master kept his vigil in the darkness, CHAPTER XII, found herself in the h f a clergyman, j ; ouse of a where Montgomery had driven on leaving Me Mere- dith’s dwelling. She had offered no resistance—she hardly unders his explanation of where they were going, or the reason therefor. He led her into the parlor and seated her by the for she was shive’ from ‘oot. “'T will come back in a moment,” he said. She clung to his Dane 6S drowning man might murmu : . eres fas oa ak tet Don’t leave me!” “It is only jfor an instant, darling. I want to speak to the clergyman. “The Pres ni!’ she repeated. P “Yes; he will marry us at Sere Are you fright- ened, Mabel? Do you repent: Sina shcok her head, with a smile, THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. now, but he would meet this last P ian aca but it is so terrible... My father—my ather | ‘Never speak that name again, Mabel,” he said, frees alas “T never oak to think of him hence- rt ia? anne only shuddered, and cowered down toward e fire. ‘‘Tell me,” he said, “have you decided—would | you go back to him—would you leave me?” * He knelt down by her, and laid her face upon his shoulder. “3 Speaks Mabel.” : “T have decided,” she said, brokenly; “I will be your wife.” .< He forced her sent pece a the chair, took off her bonnet, and smoothed her hair softly as &@ woman could have done, and left the room, Mabel’s mind was in such utter confusion that she could not have told whether she was left alone for moments or hours. She was only conscious of a troubled whirl of thought like the rush of waters, without being able to settle upon any. Many times she repeated, in a despairing sort of way: “Father! father!’? But she hardly appeared to realize the meaning of her own words. ewe a time the door opened, and Montgomery re- ne “The clergyman is coming, Mabel,” he said, lift- ing her out of the chair with the tenderness a mothe’ might have given her child. is face was all aglow with triumph, and though _ his eyes turned on her with a love which was beauui- ful and sincere, the smile with which he had parted from her father still lingered upon his lips. “Come, Mabel,’’ he whispered, “be brave; my own now—all my own,” ~ The minister entered, accompanied by a couple of the members of his household to serve as witnesses, and the ceremony was performed which joined that young: pair for all time, and in violation of many sacred ties. 1 The rite was over, and that reckless man folded her to his heart with infinite tenderness, That in stant his whole being was given to love, ‘*My wife! my wife!’ The words came upon his pe reality which no previous word or occurrence of the day had done, e forced herself to grow strong— allowed him to put on her bonnet and shawl, and to lead her back to the carriage. ' ‘“Where are we going now?’’ she whispered, as they drove away. f “Home, darling—home at last!”’ So Mabel was married, and the new life she had ! megie for herself began, | “or several days with a force and ontgomery was at leisure, and every moment was ones to his wife. His love for her was real and intense. For the time her happi- ; ness was complete. She forgot the past, the fu- | ture—the whole world was centered in that bewil- | dering bliss. CHAPTER XH. THE ENCHANTRESS DISENCHANTED. Ir was Mrs. Eastman’s reception-day, The suit of rooms she occupied at the hotel was filled with that luxurious twilight which a woman who studies ef- | fects of light and shade knows so well how to pro- duce. She had been unusually anxious that morn- d arranged the ornaments with her own Sfindin difficult to satisfy with the result produced. With this woman, beauty, in all its exquisite forms, was simply an. instrument, She had no genuine love for it, but studied. its vari- ous combinations as a man becomes acquainted with nie finding it v the tools that are to turn his time into gold. The lady. wes very glad fo Foeb & Iman like Mont- ae some, accomplished famous— fered of admirers. Indeed, so far as she ae heart, it went to this young man. Frothy and frivo- lous as were the compliments which <. | them. aera of deeper feeling reo wade
Page 20
w on the lady’s side at least. Butit was not for him | she arranged those ye rple easy-chairs, and filled the | foreign vases with flowers. It was not for him she | swept down the masses of amber-tinted drapery | over the windows, aes the light to creep in through waves of frost-like lace. It was not for him that she contrasted those shining braids of hair with crimson berries and leaves so bright that they seem- ed freshly dipped in running water. The dress of rustling silk, and that cobweb lace that shaded her neck, were intended to entrance a richer prize than the young actor, who was, as she said, a splendid crea’ every way, we what a pity it was that such men could give neither position or wealth in re- turn for the adoration so many women were ready to lavish u them. Indeed, it was not exactly at her reception that she cared most to receive young Montgomery. He was a charming person to know, but not to introduce—people had such unreasonable prejudices about the stage. o, no. It was altogether a different person for whom Mrs, Eastman completed that elaborate toilet, and filled her rooms with flowers. She had chanced that morning to see Mr. Meredith going up from the station, and fancied that he would come hter, when that young lady made her usual call. ith all her frivolous romance, the widow had a firm 7 to business,.and Mr. Meredith was the most wealthy and unincumbered in her circle of frien It was this consideration which led to the very intimate acquaintance which THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. had corns up between this scheming woman and Ma Give a sharp, handsome, scheming woman of the world a domestic foothold in your household, and ten chances to one the widower or bachelor who presides there will accept his destiny without an idea that he has not chosen it from the first. But there was a single drawback to Mrs. man’s scheme. Meredith had once loved with his whole heart and soul, and this is a sort of passion from which one does not recover easily. The man who had loved Eleanor Mitchell was not likely to fall back to the level of Mrs. Eastman, ; But Mrs. Eastman was ignorant of these import- ant facts, and imagined herself to have made con- siderable headway in her project of aggrandizement. So she opened her day with unusual brilliancy, and, flushed with a consciousness that all her luxurious surroundings must have the due effect, flung her rooms Teast ; , Mrs. tman was very popular in society, and s00n a troop of gay visitors thronged her rooms, She was in unusual spirits that morning, and the RS oot thing has h ed!” laimed s e strang: i appen exclaim: @ new-comer, as soon e he bad Pished his saluta- tions; “‘have you heard it?” ; “No, no!” cried Mrs. Eastman, “we are famished for news. Tell us it at once.” “Til give you three guesses,” said the visitor, “ and then ’ll wager you don’t hit it.” **Somebody has proved an honest politician,” said Mrs. and there was a general laugh at the gentleman’s expense, in which he joined. “ Not yet?” he said; “try again.” “Do tell us, you provo. creature!” she ex- ed, mm “Young Montgomery, the actor, was married last night,” that ri a tighe os Nonsense !’ she said; “I saw him yesterday morn- “T can’t help that; it’s true. Look at the r — Sa 8 "he ran off with that beautiful Mabel 2 ’ ; still wore a smile of unbelief. “T expect Mabel here every moment,” she said; “wait and hear what she says to the report.” “T doubt your seeing her. But bring the paper.” Per postin snatched a newspaper from the table, grew pale; you.could see it even in of “Here it is! ‘Married—Charles Montgomery, to Mrs, Eastinan snatched the paper, and glanced over the advertisement. The lines whirled before her sight, but in a second there came the recollection of the curious eyes that were upon her—anything rather than eadure their ridicule, She burst into a merry laugh, and allowed th paper to fall at her feet. “Upon my word,” she exclaimed, “that is the most exquisite joke of theseason. Fancy Mr. Meret dith’s rage,” Sant tak laughed, and with the usual heartless- ness of idle people, began speculating upon the chance of reconciliation and making merry over what affected more nearly than any other act the lives of that young pair. “Mr. Meredith never will forgive him,” said Mr. Osborne, the gentleman who brought the news; “he is a very obstinate man.” “Dreadfully!” returned Mrs. Eastman; “you might as well try to move Mont Blane as change m ” “IT pity the foolish girl,” some one said; “‘a more fickle, heartless man than Montgomery never lived.’’ “Think of living in high tragedy all the time!” ** Let us hope he won’t beat her,” said Mrs. East- man, with another laugh. She sat there calm and smiling, to all outward a earance, but her hands had clenched themselves er lap till the lace handkerchief she held was torn ina genet nee “Tt would not we me if he left her in six months,’’ said Mr. Osborne, 4 tman looked . with a peculiar smile: “Give him a year!’’ said she, ‘give him a year.’’. More visitors entered, and the group broke up. There was no relief for the woman e@ must there her allotted time, exchanging ae ae Wg e W) looking brilliant and gay, while all t ile the oa mortified vanity and pride were tugging at er heart. There was no time to think even when the re- ception was over; she was going a to dinner—from there to a ball, and had only time to dress, in a state of wild, almost unendurable excitement. It was almost morning when she reached home. She dismissed her maid, with a feeling of satisfaction in being able to spéak ill-humoredly to some one and sunk to an ottoman by the smoldering fire, and with both hands locked over her knees, fell into a train of bitter thought. ' : She looked wan and, tired in the ghostly fire-light; she was alone, and there was no necessity for school- ing her face any longer. Her fingers knotted them- selves together, and her brows contrac as looked back upon the t weeks, Never her vanity received a shock like that; and, more than all, such fragments of a heart as she had left were wounded to the core. F She really loved neem’, and believed him completely the slave of her attractions, Not that she would have married him; even if another match had not aroused her ambition, no affection would have induced her to run any of losing caste; but he was the idol of the day, petted and flattered, and it had been very pleasant to have him follow her = adulation so many were eager to wrest from er.. “That little baby-faced thing!’? she exclaimed. “To think of my bein so deceived!” She quite overlooked the fact that she had deceived herself, and her anger against Mabel, who was per- fectly innocent of offense where she was concerned, by far exeeeded the irritation she felt toward Mont- gomery. _“T will be revenged before I am @ year older!” she said, aloud, rising from her chair, “She has left her home, and such a home—never on this eartn shall she return to it: ‘There, at least, I will reign!” She partly arose, and caught sight of her face in the mirror over the mantle; it looked so worn that she turned her eves away. and sat down shivering,
Page 21
\ THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. | 21 ee Oe Er She crept to Wed. Sléep came, and she carfled with her into her dreams the evil thoughts she had ieaploes during that lonely reverie. : Mabel seen her then, she might well have trembled for her new ea She had made a dangerous and rincipled foe, Montgomery and his aoe San left town sudden- jy, and in the Southern city to which his proteeaion i him, itne eal one pa — en wastman, chi and praising her a breath, re- proaching her most for not ®. who loved her so dearly. Mabel gave the letter to her husband. “Tsn’t she kind; I’m sorry now that I did not like her better.” Montgomery smiled. He probably had a clearer insight into the feelings of the writer than his young wife; but he offered no remark. “You will be certain to meet her somewhere,” was all he said, as he laid the letter down, wonder- to himself if Mrs, Eastman remembered a variety of little perfumed billets with which she had favored him in nies gone by. ck CHAPTER XIV. THE ENCHANTRESS IN BLACK, Mrs. Eastman, even in the midst of her disappoint- ment regarding Montgomery’s marriage, began to tie up the broken threads of her calculations anew, with her first waking thoughts. Her great object had been rather advanced than otherwise by the un- ropitious marriage of Mr. Meredith’s daughter: The rich man was now alone, shattered in his affec- tions, open to ta yd Mabel’s place was empty in that almost regal household. Who should fill it? The lady rose up in bed, and looked at herself in an opposite mirror. The reflection was not satisfactory; it seldom was before the first toilet duties were ac- complished, “No matter,” she thought, falling back on her pil- low, ‘I have manner, style, tact, everything t insures success in this world. These will stand me instead of youth, which, after all, is full of blunders, I wonder if he call to-day; if not—” A clock in the next room chimed a late hour in the preity She started up and began to dress hur- edly. He is an early riser. He may come at any mo- aoe What adroneI am, and so much at stake, She rose hastily, rung for her maid, and com- menced her toilet. She was very difficult to please that mo) —as is so often the case, the poor ser- vant had to pay for her mistress’s nervousness and excitability. Dressed she was at last, and, her chocolate taken, she went into her pretty morning room, to await the arrival she so anxio ected. Several visitors came, but not the one she desired, and when dinner- time arrived this close ¢ tor was forced to ac- ee es that for once she had been mistaken in her anticipations. Mr. Meredith did not come near her either for information or sympathy. But while pondering the matier in a mind that ht, and trying to devise some scheme which would place her once more in communication with him, she reco Eleanor Mitchell. Some time after’ giv- ing the package of pay to herin Italy, she eet covered others of eater importance to that unhappy lady, but through indolence and forgetful- ness she had never taken the trouble to seek for Mrs. Mitchell’s address, in order to send them to her. Tn her anxiety for some excuse by which she could carry out her plans, she recollected that Mr. Mere- dith bad known Mrs. Mitchell, and was in some way connected with the trouble w had wrecked the poor woman’s life. She would go to him with those papers, and ask his advice; nothing would be more natur very early hour the next morn- ie wee, Sei - matt presented herself at Mr. Meredith’s house, She was shown into the library. ving confided in one and sat down, with a beating heart, to await the upshot of her scheme. Probably her plans were vague, but they all centered upon one point—to ay forth all her powers of fascination, and bring Mr. Meredith wi! their control. sympathies felt, “The servant said that you wished to see-me on business,” he' remarked, rather ech: £4! but mak- ing an effort to be cheerful; ‘‘I thought that was a word you did not admit in your vocabulary.” pi! ae not,” she replied, feeling more at her ease; ‘it was advice lcame for. You know what a fool- — ema creature I am, Mr. Meredith—such a ehild.’ He was too sore, too sick at heart, to pay any at- be gna to those childish ways, and grew impatient of them. rai ; ** Any advice that I can give will be cheerf. of- wr chase he said. ‘* What did you wish to consult me about? She felt a little annoyed. Stillit was something to have seen him, and made him understand that she felt for him in his affliction. She must trust to her own tact for more, ““T was sure of that whenI came to you,” she said; ane have always been a kind friend to me— so kin handy only. He could not talk commonplaces at oe Bestdes that, it seemed as if you were a proper person to consult here. You know the lady con- cerned much better than I.” He waited for her to continue; there was evident- ly to be no opportunity for a display of her his- heb np ea so she was forced to go quietly on er business. “ ey pon eee I meta Mrs. Mitchell in Italy,” she 8: uickly. He stented then—it was only for an instant; before she looked toward him he had recovered his com- sure, PT had found among my husband’s papers some letters which concerned her, and I gave them to her, or thing.” | a: So she, told me,” he said, with a slight quiver in his voice.’ s bos Mage ae or asked. ‘“ You can tell me her ess, perhaps. “ T do not know that, bat I can probably obtain it from her aa ae “Tam so glad—so very glad!” ; ' “Have you any communication of Ro ee to make her?’ he asked, with more in than he had before exhibited. ' “Yes! he ! a The other day I = = hunt over a box of dusty pai ‘or my wyer, and I came upon a Ms et for Mrs. Mitchell. It was papontagts Iam sure; you know how people talked —how—” a “T know; but please goon! These papers— “Would, T think, be proofs sufficient to reinstate her ae he in the opinion of those who were hardest against her,” “He fone nich . She was fairly startled at the change which had come over him, “You have those oc pk he asked, quickly. At that moment something flashed vpon her which she bad not dreamed before—if the rs had been left at home, poor Eleanor Mitchell would never have received any benefit from them. But for once craft had outwitted itself. Mrs. Eastman had put them in a pretty little affair, half purse half reticule, that she might give them into Meredith’s own hands, and so be remembered pleasantly in his mind in contrast to the troubles about him, as a woman eager to render kindness te a suffering sister. i a el ee) ld os
Page 22
22 THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. The reticule had falién open on the floor. Mr. Meredith could see the papers, for the golden clasp had been unloosed in the fall—there was no help. ** Here are the papers,’’ he continued, hurriedly. Mrs. Eastman could utter no denial; she could only allow him to pick up the pretty receptacle and draw out the package. He partially opened the envelope, then closed it n again. “T have no right to look at them,” he said; ‘‘ they must beseen by her first; but have no fear; the shall be placed safe in the lady’s hand, if I trav over the earth for it.” “Tf you will give’ me her lawyer’s address,” she said. oe “T will take them to him.” “Let me do i . he replied. “¢I must find her. Every hour’s delay is one of agony to Eleanor.” She ted the name in angry surprise. “You must have known Mrs. Mitchell very inti- mately,” she said. ; ae | dia, very intimately, at one time, but it is long ago, I can not thank you enough for having brought these papers. If they are what you suppose, it will make more than one heart i, irs. Eastman’s eyes looked eagerly toward the ackage—how her fingers tingled to once more get {hea within reach! “You feel very deeply in regard to it,”’ she said. And well I may! I have never been free from trouble on her account. She is a noble, wronged woman, Eastman, you will have done the work of an angel, if these papers set her right with the world—freed even from the shadow of reproach, It is a wonderful, wonderful blessing.” “T am to have been the means of bringing you alittle happiness,” she said, in her softest voice. *Thank you; God bless you!” he replied, varnest- ly. “If this be true, you have indeed. brought me great happiness—the safety and peace of the only woman I ever did, or ever shall love.” He held the papers close and turned away fora moment. The room whirled with Mrs. Eastman; in her mortification and rage, it seemed as if she must f i and there, She rose from her seat, pale, even through the artificial tint that dyed her cheeks, but Meredith did not notice it. His own nature was too ape ly eeared . He took her hand and wrung the delicately gloved fingers with passionate violence. His proud lips quivered; his eyes shone. + toa found me a solitary, hopeless m ed in my affections, every way without a hope, al- most out a wish; my home desolate, the past a cloud, my future a blank. You leave me vigorous with a new expectation. Oh, lady, lady, if you but knew what happiness these ty es may bring to persons who have not deserved their hard fate, you ‘would indeed recognize your own angel work. Some day, when Eleanor takes her place by my side, we f wilt thank you for this together.” Mrs. Eastman wrenched her hand from his clasp, her lips grew pale under the smile she had forced to them, but she made a graceful acknowledgment for _ his thankfulness, and left the room, crushing the pretty reticule in her hand till its frail clasp broke. betray- CHAPTER XV. aheseats A ¥ Jur ths sed; it was now June. gs laa had again returned to New York to lay his last engagement for the summer, and Mabel Sabon anied hint They were alone in their apart- ment# that bright morning which made even the dull streets of the city beautiful, and seemed to pro- mise: to all the earth. Montgomery was lying — the sofa, idly smok- | a , and watching the wreaths curl into fan- | c sha) above his head, He looked a little worn and harassed, although he had lost none of the be manly beauty which was his peculiar charac- eristic, Mabel sat by the window, her hands idly crossed in her lap, unlike her old industrious and active habits, and her eyes wandered listlessly about, kind- ling into sudden anxfety when they rested upon her husband. The ¢ which ha more womanly, and more beautiful, but the dreamy d so softened her features in those which ‘her She had be: In the southern cities where Montgom: fulfilling engagements, his poor young wife had been very lonely, and depressed by a sense of her own selfish conduct. She had left her father in utter solitude of heart, to find herself more soli still. In every place he visited, Montgomery found him- self among a set of idle young men who had former- ly been his companions, who absorbed his time and won him into forgetfulness of the fair girl whose destiny lay with him. Mabel went often to the theater, for his actin; pee ssessed for her its first aerhpilee was over, to come to the box for her; ut one night, after waiting until the crowd had dispersed, She went home and sat expecting him until day broke, fancying all sorts of terrible ‘3, and work- ing herself into a fever of anxiety that made her te ill. When he came home, very late at night, she did what any young girl would have done under the cir- cumstances, wep at ly, and irritated him beyond He was impotent with her, and after he had fal- len asleep, she sat watching his noble form in its re- pose, almost ready to believe that the whole might nave been only a bad dream, Poor Mabel had plenty of time for reflection, which almost deepened into remorse, before she had been six months married. Perhaps her greatest curse was that she still loyed her husband devotedly, but in her solitude the old love for father and home came back with such bitter longing, that even then and there, regrets grew strong and tortured her. It does net elvay? require some fe moral convul- sion to punish wro oing. tle things can.ac- yt ap oot Ts fs) ‘e hivtits 0, roaming m city city, spending and days in raiJroad cars, and hater nm any inst » lance of a home, that deli- endurance by her haying even the semb: a nurtured girl saw the joys of her married life fast verging into those coarse common-place ways of existence that are worse than erty a thousand fold, Never staying in one place long enough to make a female friend, she had no asso- ciates, and in her utter isolation, the poor wife lenty of time for those bitter thoughts which deep ove alone saved from being utter ery. All this was, in a great degree, consequent on Montgomery’s peofeesion. The very rg that he threw into it absorbed him, and in passion of his mimic love, he sometimes forgot the sweet and happiness which might havebeen so real, Ma- el had not considered this when she so madly left her magnificent home to be the wife of a ee ular | actor. Poverty she might have put up with cheer- fully, little as she had ever known what it really was. But this fantastic life among trunks, spangles and stage-effects, almost gienstes her. ‘True, she loved her husband, and he loved her—sho did not doubt that—but it was a hard trial for a sensitive, delicate girl to be dragged through the coarse de- tails of stage business every day of her life. had the excitements of his Digtespions she ben noth- ing but its coarse realities, - No-wonder that she al- Still, Montgomery was good to her when he had | most withered away!
Page 23
oo | a ee THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 28 time for a moment of domestic quiet. But it was useless to conceal it, when her own pale face so clearly developed the painful truth, Poor Mabel was reaping a wild harvest of trouble for her dis- Bi pete and sin. ney ening,” Montgo: ou seem very silent this mo: ,”’ Montgomery said, suddenly rousing himself. She smiled patiently. “T thought you were busy thinking over your new part,” she answered. “Do you ig yor always have such nonsense in my head? aches badly enough without that.” ““Can I do any thing for you?” she asked. “*T suppose that is by way of heaping coals of fire on my for comin late,’ he said, with a careless -nature; “it won’t do, my dear, so don’t trouble yourself to try it.” She was glad to hear him speak so pleasantly; usually, after having performed an arduous task, he came home in a sort of dreary silence, that was wont to end in an outbreak of temper. While she was wondering what to say next, fearful of disturbing him either by her words or her si- ery the servant entered. Mrs, Eastman wished to see her, Mabel started up really delighted. She had never seen Mrs, Eastman since her marriage, and she had so few friends, that her coming was welcomed as a relief to the not too light-hearted wife? Was it welcomed by Montgomery? Mrs, Eastman entered, as gay in dress and blithe in spirit as a Southern bird. Her grace, her manner, and her subject-mat- ter of communication—all were commissioned to work her woman-of-the-world’s charm. Montgom- ery received her, at first, somewhat coldly—Mabel warmly, Ere long, Mrs. Eastman opened the way to the actor’s heart by pretty compliments, cunning- ly-devised criticisms, deftly-planned stratagems, and Mabel beheld, with some concern, the power which her visitor possessed over the man whom she, as a wife, could not command. An hour flew by quickly, when the visitor rose to go. She pressed Mabel to visit her, as of old, Giving promise of gay times and change—just what Mabe most needed; still, the young wife felt ill at’ ease under the pressing offers of the dashing widow. In her heart 8 dread—a fear—a sense of ger, never before there, became a palpable thing. Mrs. Eastman dep d, Montgomery soon rose to follow, offering as his apology, that he was re- uired at the theater, as rehearsal hour had come. He passed out, and soon was on his way down Broadway. Mrs, Eastman’s carriage stood before him ere be had rocee a half-dozen squares? Was it fate which mpelled him to enter the vehicle, and, with the fas- | : hér , inachair, everybody running in a different way for cinating woman, to drive at Ey the city up to the great park, where several hours of uninterrupt- ed conversation might be had? The poor wife would have trembled to the tread of the horses’ hoofs, and her tears would have fallen in agonizing showers, had she known that the tempter was, indeed, at her spells. CHAPTER XVI. CHASING AFTER A HOPE, _ Anp Eleanor Mitchell, during all ‘this where was she? ? season i 5 a gee gh eters: op rane "ol two Ievthawe. “tho ar ope thither from the Xtlantic States. rey, Tt was the place that Eleanor sought. Marcaret Hawkins iived there with her gran ne, and this woman held Eleanor’s last hope in her hand. From the hour that she landed in San Francisco, Eleanor had taken no rest. During the voyage, she had borne up with a strength which seemed born of fever; silent, enduring, passe her days in pacing the deck, and her nights in sleepless endeavors to subdue the wild thoughts which ened about her. Once on shore, desperate fortitude appeared to give way. She would hear of no pause, no hind- as it by chance or by design that | : rance. The instant a conveyance cofild he 8 | B: | said. he was on her road. Even in her reverted absence of mind, her old thoughtfulness, where others were concerned, did not desert her. She insisted upon er faithful attendant remaining behind, but Morgan would not hear of it. _ “Tf you can bear it, ma’am, I can,” was all she ‘Tain’t a-going to see you start on such a journey without me, and that’s all there is about it; so don’t say another word.” a : So they started. In after years Eleanor wondered how she lived through’ ir ali Sa they were worse than all she had before en It was late in the afternoon when they reached pm tase Bleanor was within three les of her es and making every effort to cling to her senses, which seemed deserting her. She would have given Tsing faster and faster through her veins. : re An exclamation from hér companion made her raise her eyes—they were driving up to theranch, ~ The carriage stopped before the entrance, and all the inmates of the house came swarming out to re- | gard the unusual sight. , There was an expression of such terrible agony in Eleanor’s face, that Mrs, Morgan seized her hands in bf ; " aa et me speak,” she said. ‘‘We want Mr. Haw- ns. : “That is my name,” answered a man, coming up to the carriage in a state of utter astonishment. ne “Your—your—” Eleanor gasped, but she could not utter another syllable. “Your mother lives with you,” said Mrs. Morgan; “we want to see her.” The man turned away his head, and the woman, who had also come up, put her apron to her eyes. © “She did live with me,” he said, “but she died more than a month ago. Did you know my mother, marm?”’ - Eleanor sprees to her feet with a shriek so thrill- ingly painful that it was echoed by half a dozen voices, Y “Dead!” she cried. ‘*No, no, not dead!” She fell back again, helpless, but terribly con- ous. ; hed, “ Help me to get her in the house,” pleaded Mrs. Morgan, earnestly. ‘She is sick. 6 will pay you any thing—any thing.” A ey carried Eleanor into the h and they did not know what, as people always do when fri Iitened. Mi tate ‘i t * nor beckoned the man to her. She must speak at once—she knew a few | of con- sciousness hag were left to her.” : “Tam Mrs, Mitchell. Did your mother ever men- Svcs Ala ectdeaheseg> the wetiames sieliee ak * exc’ e e re her utiene doula ak; “‘she talked about you when she was sick. She lived with you once,” “Jim would know,” said the woman, her husband. “Jim’s got all her ee “Papers!” cried Eleanor. “ papers?” *“We don’t know, ma’am,” said the man. “ Mo- ther was old and queer; she wouldn’t talk only to Jim. There was something about you told him, but I never could get a word out of her.’ “Where is your brother?” asked Morgan, + Call him at once, for the love of Heaven, call “He sailed for Amsterdam the week after mother died,” rered the man. “ H fone ter ake.” iad dian Papa a a ere was another Ww derin: 80b, El Mitchell fell senseless upon the floor. "That Incr “Yes; and the child—did she speak of the child?’ . ) turning to
Page 24
shock had been more than she could bear at once. Mind and body had given way at last. They raised her, and laid her w @ bed. When she recovered from that deathlike swoon, she was raving ina brain fever, which held her in its grasp for many long w " When the fever had t its fire, it was long be- fore her strength came k; but from the first she fastened meen one idea, to which she clung tena- ciously. She would go in pursuit of that man, if he was anywhere upon the face of the earth—she must find him. She had no hope now; she found there had been one in her heart before, but the mad anx- | iety was thero in all its force. She must learn her a fate—she coulé die then—she»asked nothing ut this, Long: before hag Shea to look at her attenuated form, would have believed her capable of the slight- est exertion, she took her way back to San Fran- cisco, and the first ship that sailed bore her away, still accompanied by her faithful attendant. CHAPTER XVII. f MOTHER AND CHILD. | Iv was winter again—more than a ycar since Mabel left her father’s house; a year in which had been crowded so much excitement, and such varied ex- periences, that the very months seemed like years, as she looked back upon them. That had been an anxious, miserable summer, after meeting Mrs. Eastmanin New York. Bitterly had the woman repaid her for the wrong which she considered herself to have received at Mabel’s hand. She gained for the time a great influence over ome tirgys & fleeting of course, but ghey from his habit yielding to excitement of kind. With it all, sho kept up a semblance of affection for bel, which at last became utterly loathsome to its object, although she bore in silence, lest she should. estrange her husband still more from her, Tt was winter now, as I have said, and Mabel was just recovering from a severe illness, looking thin and pale, but more lovely than ever, as she leaned back among the cushions with her tiny babe nestled close to her heart. A 4 More than ever, since the birth of her child, had aapel pemogsed v her conduct to her father, and still more. e had seemed to her the estrange- ment and feud between them. : sie alitiie cal noe. 2on, that world ‘be 2 an - ; wou sa harder yecicnent than I could bear. If the child, ine rs, should turn on me, as I defied him, how bear it and live?” The very thought was ese ses igae and yet it would recur with the pertinacity with which an idea “ fix itself upon the mind of an invalid. ontgomery had been kinder and more gentle with her of late, and she was very grateful to him; her r pews eget was so subdued, and the duty she owed as a wife was so strong in her mind, that she welcomed back his attentions with every evidence of patience and affectionate kindness, While she sat there watching her baby in his slum- ber, whispering to him, cooing over him, like a bird, her husband entered eng Bs usual impetuosity, calling out: “‘ Mabel, Mabel!” e put up her hand, warningly. “Don’t wake baby,’ she whispered. “Oh, is that young-music box asleep?” he said; “upon my word, you make a very pretty picture.’ : 8 ne “a high’ spirits, evidently somewhat exci- have just got a telegram from Richmond,” he once.” 5 et,” she said, anxiously, ou can not go ; es Yee loan: T didn’t tell you, but I quarreled with Old Bond, last night, and broke my engagement. I 6hall start to-morrow.” : ‘‘Oh, no, no,” she pleaded; ‘I can not travel yet could not stand it,” —tho aa bab; I should think not.” he said, laughing. “TI want THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. to stay quietly here, like a gooa@ child. 1 shall back in two months, at the furthest, and I shall make a great deal of money.” “You won’t leave me?’’ she said. “Only wait a week—I shall be able to travel by that time.” “My dear little puss,” he said, sitting down beside her with his old endearing manner, “it would be in aes for you to attempt to go—you must not do ““But I can not stay alone here,” she said; ‘you know I have no friends, no acquaintances.” “Are you reminding me again that you lost all those by marrying me?” he asked, sternly. “You know I did not mean that—I never sav or think such things—you knowI donot! But think how lonely I shall be!” “Why, you will have baby for com) —little prince, that he is! Besides all the rest, Mabel, I want money, confoundedly.”” — - .* But you have made so much during the last year— “There, there, don’t pws. I must go, and there’s no use groaning. lam going to be good and stay at home more, after this tri am indeed.” " If you would,” she ventured to say, “‘for baby’s sake. “Oh, yes, baby shall be rich, and have no occa- sion to wear the buskin, I half wish I was out of She shuddered at the bare idea. Every t con- nected with the stage had become so distasteful to her that any allusion to it, as associated with her ehild, was very painful. - “T think you ought to be in bed, Mabel.” “No, I feel quite strong to-day. But you were not in earnest—you will not go to-morrow?’ “T must, Mabel—this is really childish! We must tyes this is too good an engagement to throw aside or a whim. “Tt is not a whim,” she said; “ you know it is not. I ought to go with you on such a journey, These times are perilous, and I should be with you.” “Upon my word, one would Say pone 1 was a child that could not be trusted alone,’ he said, in an irri- tated tone. “I wonder I ever got along at all, before IT married you!” 4 Se pant harsh with me,” she said; “‘ please on’ y “There, there, be a good ehild!”” He stooped over, and kissed her forehead. ‘Now don’t entertain this foolish idea of peril,” he said, looking at the baby, as a man always does, as if he were some peculiar piece of machinery that might get out of order at any moment. “Tf you would only wait a week—” aM a so lose the engagement—sensible, cer- ie Pou have offers enough here.” “But none so good as this, you know that your- self. Now, Mabel, it is of no use to say any taing more about the matter—I am going to-morrow.” She knew that to argue further would be worse than folly, plese 92 only end in his from her in anger. he choked back her tears, as well as she was able, saying only: “Thavould be the hight of folly; 1 shall be ready ¢ wo e hi of folly; i) eome back by that time.” : steed There Mabel would not wholly yield. aes ag not promise that you will not see me,” He dismissed the idea as quickly as “You will stay here,” he added; ‘ very comfortable—the weeks will slip away before you know it.” / She shook her head, sadly, but further words were worse than useless. : ca | do the best I can,” she said; “ but oh, Charles, when those Southern men come about you, think of your child, The times are so full of excite- ment, oh, I pray you be careful; be wise; be true to yourself, and to our future!” : *T am going to be as steady as a judge,” he said:
Page 25
bt ef al gn tinal “ never fear forme. Richmond {s wild with excite. ment, and that is just the reason they want me, Theaters always prosper in such an atmosphere,” . He left her soon after to make scpeteeons for his gaurne » and she was forced regard it asa matter settled beyond the possibility of change. He did start the next morning, and Mabel was all alone. That very day she happened to take ee Richmond paper which her husband had left in hig room. It announced the arrival of ‘‘ Mrs. Eastman and a brilliant pony, who had come to share the fortunes of the State, and to enliven the capital with their presence,” The journal fell from her hands— she grew faint with the sickening jealousy that came over her. ) Her Petation threw her back again, and for several days she was quite ill. N: pining abe up her courage but the sight of her child. ithout that, she could gladly have turned upon her pillow and died. She besieged the doctor for permission to start, and he, at last, feared the excitement she was labor- ing under would be worse than the fatigue she might endure, and some weeks after she set out herself upon the journey to the South. The air was filled with the wild alarums of war, but what were these to the war of emotions going on within her heart? ~~ would dare all—even her husband’s anger—to be him again. CHAPTER XVIIL THE TWO WORLDS OF HUMAN LIFE, ANSON Mrrepirx was living in his lonely house in the pea eit he had retired there soon after his rup- ture with Mabel, and had hardly left it since. A long, dreary year it had been to him, solitary. desolate man! It was hard for his pride to sup rt Bin, es this last blow had crushed him more than all the troubles which had gone before. The hope which . Kastman’s papers had inspired was dying out. No news of Miss. Mitchell had reached him from any quarter, The old house was fuller than ever of painful recollections, yet he could not bear to leave it. There he lived, day after day, thinking of his blighted youth and Eleanor; of the girl whom he had so idolized and indulged, and who had repaid his affection with such duplicity. Mabel had been to him the last heart anchor. That, too, had given way, and without affection, life has but husks and ashes for fhe proudest man on earth. Twice Mabel had written to him without her hus- band’s knowledge; but when Meredith saw her writing upon the envelope, he had burned the letters unread, After that there was no fresh occurrence to throw him back upon the pest _nathing but that dreary living on from day to day, hoping against hope, that time might restore Eleanor to her friends. One morning, while seated in his library, he heard a carriage drive up to the door. Visitors rarely came now, for he had been resolute in his determination not to receive any one—he almost dreaded the sight of a human face, and used sometimes to wish for a refuge in some vast Canadian wilderness, beyond the sight and sound of man, ‘Presently the door opened, and his servant en- tered, Sa. : ; beg your pardon, sir, but there's a lady says she must see you. — “T can’t see any one,” he answered, abruptly; “send her away, whoever she may be.” “She is here, sir,” said the servant, in a confused withe intruder pushed past him, and entered the ry ee Meredith,” she said, “it is Ido not refuse see me. eat Ei Snort ‘Eleanor 1” she said, hurriedly. she vin doudlly right shaking from Toad foot, THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 25 a Bit down,” he said, gently, ‘‘ you look very im.” *Well now,” she said, ‘Iam well now.” ‘““What has happened—what—oh, Eleanor, it was . cruel to oa me ecordat of your movements,”’ ph on , She'sat do wn; egret joy shone through her pale. r : face as she repeat : . ** Anson, Many years you adopted a child—a little girl; so young that could know nothing of her own history—’ 7 He made a surprised gesture; but she checked im. ‘‘ Listen to me—let me finish! You brought her up as your own—I thought she was your own. I think you loved her; I saw here onee. The child—the child! You know I was searching for mine, I have journeyed far, I have endured every thing—but 1 have found my child!” A strange terror crept over his face. He did not try to interrupt her; he sat perfectly , with that expression of deepening on his countenance. Call her,” she said, rising suddenly; ‘‘ quick—be quick. Tell her— Why do you look on’t you understand? Anson, that child you took was mine— a tae daughter !”* is only response was a groan. She caught his arm and clung to him wildly. Z “What do you mean? ere is she? She is not dead--my child isnot dead? Speak to me, Anson, speak to me!” ‘Eleanor, that child left me a year since, She is mari She fell back in her chair with an exclamation of thanksgiving. . “You frightened me so!” she said. ‘Where is she? rake me toher! Married or single, she is _“T don't Know oe she is; I have never seen since. She married a bad man—against my will — and I cast her off,”’ “ Cast her off—my child!’ she said, bitterly; ‘and you cannot tell me where she is? J de her at your hands—give me my child.” He was startled at her agitation, and tried to calm her. “You will easily find her,” he said; “ her husband is well known,” ‘ ‘What is his name!” “He calls himself Montgomery. He is an actor— a celebrated one, if you think that betters it.” “He is my daughter’s husband,’ she said. paused suddenly, drew her hand across her ; repeating: * Mon’ pea ge somes Ae actor. What did I read this morning? here is the paper? Give me a morning paper!” He took, the paperfrom the table, and handed it to rere She looked hurriedly down the page, and cried out: $ , “Tt is the same! He isin prison; he-has been ar- rested asa Northern spy—as & man dangerous to the rebel government!’ Meredith snatched the paper from her hand, and read the paragraph. ; ie sepa he exclaimed. ‘‘My God, my son— my son!’ , “*God help you!” she said, “you are more wretch- ed than I.” j He did not answer; he sat for a few moments stunned by the shock. Then he exclaimed: ee Let him go. I do not know him—he is no kin of ne!”’ ‘Anson! Anson! I tell you he is ’ bende ke mat besarte eee Ags chose her fate—I warned her of his char- acter.” ‘** And because she thwarted ler off My poor chia ne ae
Page 26
26 “You are mad, Hleanor; T bear no blame in this thing. Never was a man so wronged and outraged as I have been.” “You can tell that to a woman whose life has been what mine has—you, aman! What was your trouble compared to mine? Would I ever have disowned my herons ne son at been a re Aye wre ever breati you sho’ ve clung to him—saved him.”’ “T did all in my power—” “But my child—my daughter!” “She has started’ for Richmond, where he has been playing. “She is with her husband—her mother will go too. Oh, thank God, Ihave found her. I can aid her; she will love the poor unknown mother who has en a i sO long. My child—my child!” ss help me!” he groaned, “1 have no child.” Eleanor laid her hand on his arm. “* As you value your soul’s peace, save my child’s husband! Put by this pride; itis unworthy. Come with me—he shall be saved!” He shook off her hand, and said, coldly: *“You don’t know what you are saying, Eleanor. I believe that man to have been guilty of a paltry “No!” she exclaimed, ‘‘my daughter’s husband would never commit a crime! If he was guilty, what matters it?—he is your son—yours—mine too, now. All the strong pride of his nature rose up to aid the man then. “TI will not lift my a ” he said; “I do not know him, Iwill not go before the world and ac- knowledge that crim as my son.” “This is cruel,’ she cried. ‘Twelve years ago! he was a boy then—a mere lad.”’ “ His very youth made the offense more hideous,” -hesaid. **Do not blame me till you hear all. His last act while with me was to commit a forgery; can ou wonder when that came that I cast him off? e was sixteen years of age—older than most men of twenty.” ‘ * Are you certain that he was guilty?” “There was not a doubt.” Fs ante of : rape and pe ef aap tho muttered, ou ma certain that he was iy.” “* How 3 you believe it,” she exclaimed. “A boy might have committed even afault like that, and still been reformed; you made no effort.” “Tt could not have been done, Eleanor; no mortal could influence him,”’ “But he was your son,” she repeated; “he was your son.” ee een I could not consent to bear his TAce, or The old ae interrupted; ‘how well I re- —— ae there en her whole manner changed. She looked at him in an earnest, pleading way, and her voice would pono Pg aad to a heart even more firraly be Anson, by the miomory of that past by all my suffering an ang yronas, implore you tohelp mel Think iba my life has been. There is one hope be- fore me, will you not aid me to grasp it? Only put our pride ag no matter what wrongs you may Sere endured, they are not equal to mine, and I for- ve, Your Own son, Anson, your own! Think of im asa little child—would you have believed then eat nd crime or sin could have separated you from He made a gesture entreatin would not heed. She had taken his hands in hers— she was half kneeling before him, and even in the midst of his trouble and agony he was startled to gee | how much of the old look stele over her face when she ke of hep child. “You do not care for the world now, Anson— neither its praise nor blame—we shall both soon be old. Oh, will you leave me childless?—for the blow that falls upon your son’s honor will strike my daughter’s heart!” silence, but she | THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. “Fleanor! Eleanor!” “The old name—the dear old name! Oh, Anso come with me—let them be aoe If you will no listen to your own heart, then for my sake, for the Eleanor of old, listen—oh, Anson! Anson!’ She turned pets aS away, and walked several times up and down the room, then as abruptly came back and sat down near him, “Tell me if you loved my child,” she said, ‘Oh, if you knew how sweet the word sounds now.” ‘Eleanor, I never dreamed till now that she was your child, or why ms heart went out to |her so ten- derly. She was a little thing, who could not know her own history, but there was something in her voice that made my heart yearn toward ‘her at the first sight. It was the old love for you, hewn down, trampled out, but starting up fresh and green in my affection for the child, I understand it now. Ex- cept yourself, Eleanor, I never loved anything as I loved that child.” “Except me! Did you, then, love me so much?” “T loved you then, I love you now, better than my own life, better than my own soul.” The woman gave a faint moan, her form drooped, her a grew misty, She shrunk away from aa trembling and frightened. “Now, Anson, now,” she murmured; “ and all that terrible mountain of disgrace rising between us, Both free, and yet so miserably chained,” ‘You will not refuse me again, Hleanor?”’ “Again and again, Anson. If you turn from a son whose faults may have been only those of youth, how much more would my disgrace cling to you.” There was a great sirusgle in the proud man’s heart, His bosom heaved, his eyes grew black with intense excitement. ‘Eleanor, I will forgive him! For your sake, I will forgive him!’’ She took his hand and kissed it; but when he ~would have drawn her closer, she shrunk back, Allat once a flash, as of lightning, came to his’ face; he remembered Mrs, Eastman 8 package of pers, What if they indeed contained the vindica- on which would give the woman before him back to life? He moved from her, and opened a cabinet. His hand shook as it turned the key. The papers rattled against each other as he brought them forth. ‘““Kleanor, my Eleanor, read these, They are Mitchell’s papers, and relate to you.” She stood motionless. Something told her that , her fate lay in those papers, but a misty darkness came over her vision, and she could see nothing. “Read them, Anson, read them. I can not.’ “Let us read them together,” he said, tenderly. “Sit down by me, Eleanor, and we will read them- together,” e drew her toa sofa, and sat down by her side. In one hand was the papers; the other rested upon the cushions that supported her. She did not ob- serve it, Every faculty of her nature was ina wild tumult, : Heapened the tet Besos acid hal dh € opene' e first pa and held it toward her, She pushed it back.) “T can not—I can not!” The strong man grew ashamed of his thrilling nerves, and began to read. The paper had been astily written; the sentences were abrupt, the anguage broken, It had been folded and sealed, but there was no address on the outside. In her eager haste, Mrs. Eastman had not observed this. pardeules paper, and the seal was unbroken. What ad she cared for the sister woman whose very life layin the balance? But for her own selfish purposes the package would have rested still in one of her worn-out traveling trunks. Had she chanced to open the sealed packet, it would never have reached eanor Mitchell. It was addressed to Anson Mere- dith—that is, in the inside—while the entire package had Mrs. Mitchell’s address upon it. The éxecutor had not been able to find Mrs. Mitchell’s address, and soit chanced that the pe fell into Mrs, Eastman’s hands, among other papers, after het
Page 27
THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. -_ ma husband's death. We have not to do with the other documents in the package; they are not ne- cessary to an explanation with the reader, CHAPTER XIX. LIGHT IN THE NIGHT. “ Anson Mrrepiru,” thus the page ran, “TI have hated you while living, but death is stronger than hate, en he commands, truth follows. I hated om and why? For two reasons, the strongest that uman nature has to give: You stood between me and my interests; you stood between me and the only woman I ever loved. We were cousins. Your mother was my father’s sister. Her wealth, which should have gone into our family, for she had promised this, was, at the last moment, swept up by Ahead father, and became yours. I hated you for is, By my aunt’s injustice you became enorm- | ously wealthy. I was a pauper, for my father lost | eve “i hing, and had no rich wife to fall back upon. e were much together, for you were not above “ie gyie poor relation. Sometimes you were iberal, é me money, and no doubt expecting tet e, You never got that. I looked upon the undreds you doled out, as there for gratitude? “At the same time, and by the same person, we were introduced to Eleanor Nye. You loved her. am not tothis time sure that she loved you then, The creature was so shy and impossible to get at any secret of her heart. I think she did love Phy then. I am certain that she did afterward. But she was not for you. The By erty that should have come back to us you had; but that young girl—you never got her! at thought gives ‘me a grim pleasure even now, I strive to conquer it, but can not. You made a confidant of me—why not? I concealed all the feelings that raged within me. You never dreamed of my love of Eleanor Nye till she became my wife. How was it done? This is the way: I found means to insinuate charges against you that would have made any woman shudder; such charges as no refined woman could speak of, even to ask an explanation. Not direculy, but through such channels as were available. The ng worked, But you had enrooted yourself in ner heart more firmly thanI supposed. It tooktime and t ingenuity. Had you remained near her, nothing would have separated you. I managed that you should be compelled to goaway. You will remember the time, You were engaged then; spite of all, she had accepted you. Ismiled at that. You went, but was to write every week. You had ob- tained me a clerkship in the post-office, Your letters never reached the lady. I read them. Among my accomplishments was that of. imi- tating almost any handwriting at sight. Yours was not difficult. I have a way of opening en- velopes without harming them. The letters reached her in the right envelope, with the genuine postmark, but the contents were mine. She grew ale. I could mark the progress of m work, day by day, in the sadness of her eyes, in the mournful tones of her voice, At last the decisive letter reach- ed her, You had changed—absence had proved how superficial was the genuine, The love with had convinced you of this. In you would be a ma man, “This was the letter which reached her, Poor wretch! her face eeate Baal now-s0 eas tke doe! ess, or ou fae teva took must have disarmed me. But I di : seem: ul—so gra that I, like fook ered that it was the love of a heart taken in the rebound, af ore you came home we were inarviel Oran ell ps had never got her strength, and seeing the onate love which a word from her could turn into misery, remembered what she y own, What call was: 27 had suffered, and so in eee pity married me, This sufficed for a time. but love demands love. I ‘was not a man to content myself with pity, so when the deep on within me received no answer, I and exacting, She bore it all in proud You were at home again, but. avoided To you she seemed treacherous, unworthy of a —- me she was coldly dutiful, still I loved er, “ “ At last, when we had lived together m she discovered the treachery of my conduch, Thad forgotten to destroy your letters, and she found them. A terrible scene followed. You had been long married to @ proud creature like her; no expla- era was possible; root and branch, I had torn up er life. “She left me. There was nothing in this that ve her a right of divorce, but her property had mn secured to her by a wise and she had that power over me. I took her child, an infant then—we had lost one before that—hoping that the bereavement would bring her back. It wounded her _ to the soul, but she would not come, would not look I | roud, that it was | upon me or s me. ““When I saw that nothing would do, that she had determined to ignore me forever, the evil that was in me arose firm and strong. She had resolved to abandon me, I would dis her. The haughty — which lifted her far from my reach should be rought down, **T sued her for a divorce. I brought that proud and sensitive creature into open court, I hired wit- nesses—plenty such can be found—to swear away her good name, The court did not believe them, the jury did not believe them, but a thousand news- apers had sent the record abroad, I lost the ease, be my object was accomplished. The —— ride which had rejected me was ground to the dust. et that woman was as innocent of all wrong as the child I had wrested from her bosom. “T say this to you solemnly, Anson Meredith, say it on my death-bed. “*My wife left the country, and went I never knew where. Twice she sent to inquire after her daugh- ter, and her lawyer came to me about it; but I told him the child was dead. Times went hard with me after that, and at last I was driven to ask aid from you. It was awarded in the form of a a pre e A clerkship from you to me! Oh, how I hated yout How that hate throve and took fresh bitterness ever he “*My child was an incumbrance to me, your son a blessing to you. Why was it, I asked, that you should be surrounded with wealth, and love, and honors, while I was poor and forsaken? The old story over again. Do what I would, the dispropor- tion in our fortunes remained. I a bankrupt every way; you—. These bitter thoughts had their ac- tion too. “Your son was a noble, manly youth, impetuous - rich in talent, but a child of p' ; reckle persor honor. His love for the proud father who gave him and true. “T wanted money, and still thirsted for is? y of imitating any specimen of penmanship. It was a natural gift, Seepaoved i Became PP nyse A dangerous gift, by which I won wife who had repudiated me. “ After imitating whole letters, it was easy to copy your name. It was Iwho forged that check. It was [ who fastened the guilt upon your son. You had been in the counting-room that morning, and left a check on the desk. Iwas to draw the money, and meet some payment with it outside of the business, I quietly went to the desk, when no one-was looking, and changed the genuine check for the one I had prepared for ten times the amount. Your son wag going out—no one was near—I pointed to the check, and asked him to step down to the bank and draw it, as I was pressed with business. He did it. In
Page 28
> eee ee De Be a Oe eee) le 4 Pb tad’ pees tee. thd eh» ei phate . the xe 7.) {HE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. twenty minutes I had the money in my hands. I cashed the original check, and paid the bill it was a ag to nea i: “You remember the explosion. The charge of fraud against your son, his indignant denial, and expulsion from your house. The poor fellow had no means of lanation. The transaction had almost sed from his mind; such amounts were frequent- i aes by the house. He had taken no great ac- count of one check, and his defense seemed like a@ subterfuge, his indignation like defiance. I had counted on this, and watched your stern agony with ae > and of joy as I had not tasted since my wed- in ys ‘You had offered the boy money, which he re- rejected with heart-broken disdain. I sent him money—some of that money—and with a sense of aching wrong and unmerited disgrace at his young he went forth into the world. “What could he do? What can any young man, educated to expect a fortune, proud, sensitive, ar- dent, without trade or profession, do in a selfish world like this? $ peed genius, and I led it into an excit- ing channel. His first idea of the stage came from me. He was too Lonorable, too upright—I could not © a villain of him, no one could have done that, but I made him what was sure to wound you almost as deeply, an actor. This satisfied me. I had no wish to mane the youth; it was not in human na- ture to e any thing so bright and good, but I knew that the greater his fame, the deeper your de- eased of his profession. So he went his way into wounding you at every upward step. “T had money now, and pee shake oft your mer- cantile patronage. You were a widower, childless, for the son’s disgrace, secret as it was kept, killed . his mother. Isaw you wounded to the heart. My work was done. But the , always an incum- brance, what could I do with her? She was the sole link i poco her mother might be drawn back, and must be cared for tenderly. A thought came into my head, You should be induced to take her under your roof. There she would be certain of protection and culture. I would keep proofs of her identity, and claim her or not at pleasure. I went tothe good country poole who had the child, and took her ou were at your country place, mourning —desolate, as they told me, and so misera- ble that I almost pitied you “Tt was a lovely moonlight evening, the dew fell heavily; the lawn around your house flickered with gleains of silver in the moonlight. Under the sha- w of the great forest-trees on the left, I stood Poe little ae ne pee amine seen ar a ew nothing of her mother. er, inting to the great house gleaming in the mnponiiaus, that it was her home—that a gentleman living there was her own father, who would love her dearly, and give a great doll, and plenty of P trie at which her bright eyes danced in the flickering moonlight, and she clapped her tiny hands in sudden glee, “There was a light in the library window, which opened to the ground, and I saw you sitting within, tees you out to the child, and bade her Bo up to window and knock on the glass, and call out— ‘Father, father, let mein! She was a ey little thing, courageous and lovely asan angel, Thoughts of the doll had inspired her. With an eager laugh, she broke from my hold, and darted across the lawn, little feet sunk in the grass, and she went off noiselessly, An instant Isaw them flitting over the gravel walk, then her fairy-like shadow darkened » window, and I heard a sweet voice cry out: ‘ Fa- ther, father, let me in.’ “You came to the window and opened it. I could see yor face—it was pale an Lee porter haggard that I did not grudge the gleam of animation that came over it when you saw my beautiful child standing in the moonlight, with her golden hair afloat, and her pretty hands uplifted, g you ‘father.’ I knew the word was a mockery, and so endured it. ets Pa a “You took herin. Isaw her sitting on your knee, and felt no pain when she held up her mouth to be kissed. It was an assurance of her safety and com- fort. You were questioning her. I knew that, but it did not trouble me. What could she tell? That she had always lived with two old people who were not her parents, and that a man almost strange to her . had brought hershe knew not where. There was no disturbance about the house, and I conjectured that vou had taken the little stranger in quietly, and would keep her without question or explanation. Satisfied of this, I went away, but came back to the neighbor- hood more than once to be sure of my child’s fate. “Twas told that Mr. Meredith’s little daughter had ust been sent home from some distant relatives of er mother’s, and that since her arrival the house had become more cheerful. She was a sweet child, they said, and a great comfort to the stricken man, “Twas free now to follow my wife. She should know that her child was alive, but never see it or learn of its whereabouts, unless her resolution to ig- nore my rights was given up. I went, but could not findher. She must have been traveling under an- other name. Allover Europe I went, searching for her. Then to California, but in vain. I am dying now. Ina little time ali will be over. It has been a cruel sickness, and in the dim, sleepless nights I have had a weary time for thought, for repentance, re- morse. During these long, long nights, I have writ- ten this. Ifit can undo any of the wrong I have perpetrate er God speed it. Atonement I can notmake. ButIam alone here with my God, and He knows how my poor heart aches to set these things right. If my wife is ever found, tell her it was love more than revenge that urged me on to the crime that seve her tome, For my child—but Ican not. My strength fails, the pain of coming tears- aches in my eyes—I can no longer see the paper. _ . “EiiaH MITcHELy, **Grass Valley, California.”’ The ma was read through, at first_breathlessly, then with slow, cautious scrutiny. They did not speak much, for those two hearts, severed so long, trembled beneath the great joy that beat against them. They were so accustomed to restraints, that happiness crept back to them timidly, It was strange there. : But one great fact stood out luminous before them. That letter had lifted the black cloud of re- proach from Eleanor’s name. The friends she loved would cling to her from certain knowledge, not from faith alone. Meredith folded the paper, and placed it under his vest near his heart, en he drew her to his side, and looked down into her glowing face through a cloud of tears. They did not fall—manly tears sel- dom go off in a heavy rain—but their brightness shone upon her with a holy illumination, The mother’s first thought was of her child. She clasped her hands with a joyous sob. “*Heis innocent, all that is noble, this man who is your son and my daughter’s husband.” “T have wronged him terribly—thrown him into a way of life full of temptations,” said he, with pain in his voice, “And if he has sometimes yielded to them, re-. member, Anson, who it was drove him forth.” “Twill, Eleanor, Heaven knows how deeply I de- plore my harshness now.” b “You will go to him at once. You to your son, I to my daughter. No matter if war and danger block the way, what impediment can keep us back on an errand like this? Our children are in danger.” “T will go with you,” he said, brokenly. “We will make one effort to reach our children, Eleanor. There is danger in that, but wé will be to gether.” “ Hleanor,”® : ** Anson,’ “ Before we go on this journey which is to redeem aes and mine, there is one thing to be thought or— “ What is it, Anson?”
Page 29
“You and Fmust have a right to travel together ore the whole world.” She began to shiver. His arm was around her, his cheek touched hers, yet she trembled like a girl. *To-morrow,” he said, ‘before we sail, Shall it be to-morrow?” “Yes,” she said, gently, “let it be to-morrow.” CHAPTER XX. THE ANGEL IN THE PRISON, In one of those miserable prisons which have fes- tered ae from the bosom of our country during the war, Charles Montgomery was confined. It was a dark, ill-kept room, gloomy and uncomfortable. The tramp of a military guard beat against the pavonas outside ht and day. The gloom of eath hung about the young man. His engagement at the theater had been broken up. Hour by hour the excitement had increased, until even the thea- ters were deserted, All men breathed the fury of madness. Then the enraged mob began to cry for victims. Looking around, the actor was ‘‘ spotted ”’ asa Northern man. Though no word has escaped his lips, yet he was fet to be a Unionist. He was waited upon by a committee; but all the pride and determination of his nature came to his defense, and he only too fearlessly expressed himself to his inquisitors. The result was his arrest as a spy, oes none better than his accusers knew how baseless was that charge. It sufficed, however, to make a Unionist feel the rebel power, and that grat- ified the rebel public. : But there were secret as well as public accusers seeking his ruin. Among the’ most dangerous of these was Mrs. Eastman, whose presence he had zo sought, and whose perfumed notes he had left un- answered. Whatever folly previously may have pose him, the last ai < of his wife had given im a new conception of his relations and responsi- bilities. He had begun to comprehend one cause of his wife’s sadness, and loving her more dearly than ever since the birth of her child, his better nature awoke to the cruelty of his admiration of a woman ‘ so much her inferior. Perhaps the sacred infiu- ences of paternity had something to do with this for, waking or sleeping, that lovely picture of Mabel and her child haunted , as if she had been one of Raphael’s Madonnas, and he a devout Catholic. Tt was true, Mrs, Eastman had come to Richmond because at that time it held forth promise of a gay season, and, like many other ambitious women she hoped to profit by a state of war. Montgomery’s engagement had been her powerful attraction; not that she meant any thing seriously wicked, but what trifle of heart she possessed y been his long before his marriage with Mabel, and it was pices to absorb his attentions. That was all. rs. Eastman would have married Mr. Meredith without love, Indeed, the reader knows she had plotted for it, and done many contemptible things to accomplish it, But she would not have married Montgomery, had he been single, with love, because it be not in her nature to sacrifice any thing for another. - All this did not render her the less bitter against the young man when he came to Richmond, and visited the hotel every day without even calling on: her, This woman was on intimate terms with many of the Southern chiefs. Montgomery was an im- pulsive, outspoken young man. He was arrested on the general charge of — an enemy of the South, and stood a fair chance of being summarily dealt with as a aly orn There was trouble in store, if not danger . There was plenty of time to think of his young wife and her pretty babe, whom he might not see again. sacae ty time i a eee om jth in a series of dark memories. f; ari he : : ose ye ae ehoe undutiful his very pendence had been. What was 1, after all. THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR, Hf. craving for applause, this hunger after excitement! Then came the recollection of his young wife, and that was the bitterest of ail. Filled with these reflections, he heard the heavy bolts drawn back, the key turn in the lock, and a lady entered. Before he could move, her arms were: about his neck, her voice erying, ae 0 ‘My husband—oh, my husband!” “« Mabel—Mabel, how came you here?” “IT reached here last night. They told me every thing. I could not see you until this morning. How dreary it is here.” is ** Not now, Mabel.” “But you are innocent; you have done nothing.” ‘* Before God I have not, Mabel. 1 love my coun- try, and my whole country; that J “:ave said, nothing more. “Then we can bear it, Charles, we can bear it.” He was completely unmanned, and, as he strained her to his breast, the great tears fel] like rain upon her Ute eles face. “J did not deserve that God should send me such an angel,"’ he said. Mabel was the first to grow composed; this terri- ble blow, instead of weakening her, had brought out all the latent energies of her character, and she was prepared not only to comfort but to act. “‘T have seen the commanding general, Charles,” she said. ‘‘ He will inquire into your case.” “Mabel, I have no friends here.” — Promise me one thing; may I send for my fa- ther 3 ‘* He would not come, Mabel.” . ; “He would—he would. He must be human.” “‘T tell you he will believe me guilty of some im- rudence of word or deed—of any thing that will justify him in keeping away.” * But he will not think so. He is rich and power- ful. Let me send.” “JT would rather pass my life in prison, Mabel,” he exclaimed, with a return of the old passion. “For the baby’s sake, husband. Ileft him asleep. Oh, if you could have seen him you would not hesi- tate. For the boy, Charles.” He did not speak. His chest heaved, his eyes dilated. Even in that moment of self-abasement he could have borne the most cruel sentence rather than have yielded. z “T can’t do it, Mabel,” he said, hoarsely, “I can’t do it. Go away—leave me to my fate.” ‘“‘Qharles,” she cried, “if you do this thing you will be a murderer. You will killme and our child.” She pleaded, not wildly, but with a smothered sion that was more powerful than tears lave been. Beforeit the prisoner’s stout heart melt- ed—yielded as a great cloud passing away before the arisen sun. “Mabel, one word before you send, This man is my father, not yours.” *« What—what!” her eyes opened wide, her white. li rtly slowly. Ne e aati me om his house when I was a mere lad charged with forgery.” = But you mide a As our ¢' abel.’ “His child and I not/ Driven from_home! husband! Oh, Charles, Charles, then I will send; he shail save you!” : He shook his head, but made no answer. “And you can love me still oo oe as this, Ma- bel,” he said, at length, ‘‘ after the grief I have caused you?” ‘No, no,’ she broke in, Lengo Sa we be me, Charles.” “Mabel,” he said, solemnly, “if I leave this place, my whole life shall be spent in proving it. I sea mareele no am. No wonder God punish- ” “You are not to think that—you must not. Only have patience—it will only be for a little time.” He did not cloud her hopes with further fears. ‘*never that. I did not. happy yet. You do love _ = ss &.
Page 30
but, ashe looked at her, and thought how precious om would be, a still deeper glc-m and despon- dency stole over him, She remained with him for several hours, and only tore herself away then that. she might see her babe, and by some messenger send away word for help in her great want. en she had gone, he threw himself on his bed to wear out the long night as best he could, and count the hours that must elapse before her return on the morrow, CHAPTER XXI. : A REVELATION. Maser hurried back to the hotel, and up to her room. She ord open the door, to ‘pehold two per- sons, a man and woman, bending over her child. They turned as she entered, With a cry she threw herself into Mr. Meredith’s arms. “Father, father!” She could articulate no more and for the first time since the great calamity had come upon her, she fell down insensible. When she came to herself, Mr. Meredith was bath- ing her forehead, while the lady held her in her arms. Mabel looked wonderingly in her face, and recognized the stranger she had twice before seen. “Ts it you, also?’ she asked, faintly. The woman made an impetuous movement, but Mr. Meredith checked her by a look. “Are you better?” he asked. ‘Can you sit up, Mabel?” “Yes, yes, 1am quite well now. Father, you have come to save him—you have come to save him?” “T have come to do all in my power, Mabel. To ~ pave him or to die with him!” ‘ ‘Father, he was innocent. He never wronged you—never]”’ Eleanor had released her child, and was leaning against the sofa, hiding her face in the cushions. She dared not look up lest she should shriek out the secret that was upon her lips, and Mr. Meredith had warned her how fatal the consequences of any sud- Lohr aaman might be in Mabel’s state of excite- ment. “Can you give me the particulars?” he asked, She told him all that she knew. “*T will go at once,” he continued. must rest, for the child’s sake.” “T will—I will,” she said, with a return of her old ' ea “T leave it all to you now. You can save im “Tam certain that can. I may have good news for you when I return,” She did not answer. She knelt down by her child, and they saw by the motion of her lips that she was praying. Neither stirred till she rose again. She was quite calm now, and went up to Mr. Meredith, and said: _. “T can wait now; Iam content.” 3 . Meredith saw Eleanor’s appealing eyes upon his face; he knew the torture she was suffering. “*Mabel,” he said, gently, ‘‘ could you bear a sur- ise? It has nothing to do with Charles.” “Ts it trouble?” she asked. ‘‘ More trouble?” “No, my child, joy and happiness,” Eleanor took a step forward, her eyes were fixed full on Mabel, but she did not speak. “Do you know this lady, Mabel?” “T have seen her twice: she was very kind tome,” * You owe it to her that Iam here—” **God bless her; but—” “You never heard of your mother?” he said. * No, no;”’ she looked wildly from one to another. “Mother? What do cote mean by speaking of her?” “That is your mother, Mabel.’ : With a joy in which the wish of a lifetime found vent, Eleanor caught the young mother in her arms. No word was spoken for many moments; only low \ sobs from Mabel and murmurs from Eleanor dis- turbed the stillness, “My mother—my mother!” Mabel at length mus- ed. 5 “My oe chila” **Mabel, you = THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. Mr. Meredith laid his hands upon theirs. * And any wares Mabel, my honored wife. Remem- ber that, when you kiss her. She will explain every thing to you, Mabel. Iam going for Charles. You oP hope now.” e went out and left them together. It was a full hour before they could talk, except in broken words full of love and tenderness. Then Eleanor, with her child close to her heart, told the story of her life, and Mabel began to realize that this great joy was not a dream, ‘God is very good to me,” she said; *‘so much new happiness when I thought that I was utterly de- serted. “There shall be no more trouble,” Eleanor said. ae wwe shall have happiness now. God will give it us. ‘*He will save Charles, I know he will. Oh, mother, you must love him—he is so good, so noble. one may think him wild and reckless, but it is not true; he is so kind to me.”’ “Darling, I do love him. Itrust in him. We will go away from every association of his old life. He will take back his father’s name, and become the pride of his father’s house.” “Oh, mother—mother!” At these words the baby-boy woke, and lay re- garding them with his great blue eyes full of a sort of vague wonder. Simultaneously they rose and bent over him, a new tide seemed formed between them from the maternal instinct in either heart, “He is our child, mother,” whispered Mabel, through a gush of tears that filled her voice with tenderness. . ‘ ‘*And our grandchild,” answered Eleanor, gather- ing the little fellow close to her bosom, CHAPTER XXH. THH DIVINE CONSUMMATION, Caries Montaomery was sitting in his cell, Ma- bel had not, as yet, been near him that morning. He had lost the little glow of bene Te revious day’s visit had given him, sinking k into a de- spondency deeper from the temporary rise of spirits he had experienced at her coming. * She is afraid to come,”’ he said to himself. ‘' She has only bad news. If she would only come and tell me. I’d rather bear the worsf news than this sus- pense. Oh, Mabel—Mabel!” As if in answer to his prayer, the door was opened, and Mabel rushed toward him, her eyes streaming with tears, but with such a joy in her face that it took his breath away. “Mabel!” he gasped. “You are saved!’ she cried, “‘saved! Oh, my husband!”’ He could not believe her words; he repeated them with a feeling of stunned surprise. “ Saved—saved!”? “They are here—all here,” continued eee forgetting the caution she was to have displayed. *“Who are here? What do you mean?” “Your father, Shall I tell him to come in? Will ‘you see him now, Charles?” He could not speak. In the revulsion of feeling which came over him, it seemed as if his heart would burst, r Mabel went to the door and beckoned; in an in- stant Mr. Meredith was in the cell, followed by Eleanor. Charles could not stir. His feet felt chained to the floor. There was an instant’s pause, then the father and son fell into each other’s arms, and, in the burst of repentance which each heart felt, all the old pride and sternness went out forever. : “My boy—my boy!” he exclaimed. “If you had only spoken at the time—if you had said you were not guilty." “ t that.” “No more than mine, Charles, but it is all over | now. We will n a new life from to-day, and this dear child shall be another bond between us,” was my folly and madness, father, 1 know
Page 31
THE BRIDE OF AN ACTOR. 31 He drew Mabel toward him, and Eleanor followed. a “See, Charles,” Mabel said, through her tears, this is my dear mother. She will love you for my sake, She is our father’s wife, too.” Charles looked at them in speechless wonder. Mr. Meredith hastily explained the mystery, telling all in a few words. ending: **I know that she may be content in giving her child again to your care; you will be faithful to the trust,” ‘‘ With God’s help,” he answered, fervently. Eleanor laid her hand in that of her new-found son. * You will not’separate us?” she said. “You will come home, and let us live in the great flood of joy and peace which has at last crowned our way.”’ Mabel threw herself upon her busband’s bosom. ‘* Will we not all go again to the dear old home?” If there had been a sa shadow of pride or disobedience, it vanished before the sunlight of those tearful but beaming faces. Charles stood like one transported. His eyes seemed fixed upon the far away. “ Home /” he murmured, as over his fine features was diffused a smile which indeed seemed born of love and light. “I will go home; we will all go home; and we shall grow good and great, as God designed us to grow.’ His words came slowly, distinctly, like one making a revelation to the invisible presences around him. Never, in all his career on the stage, had the actor wrought so divinely with words. It was a moment of joy, which must have thrilled the angels whose wings fluttered over that group, where Hates were buried and Loves were resurrected in great glory. ‘IT wonder how people feel who are unhappy?” said Mabel, one day, as the group sat on the deck of the steamer bearing them down James River, under the flag of truce, to the Union lines. ‘‘ Trouble seems so far away now.” The young wife already was realizing in her dreams the years of peace which should bless her path and diffuse its rewards upon those she loved. THE END. DIME DIALOGUES AND SPEAKERS FOR SCHOOL EXHIBITIONS AND HOME ENTERTAINMENTS. Dialogues, Nos. 1 to 31 inclusive, 15 to 2 popu- lar dialogues and dramas in each book. Each vol- ume 100 pages 12mo., Speakers, Nos. 1 to 24 inclusive. Each speaker 100 pages 12mo, containing from 50 to 75 pieces. YOUNG PEOPLE'S SERIES, Dime Book of Winter Sports. Dime Book of Summer Athletic Sports, Dime Gents’ Letter Writer. . Dime Book of Etiquette. Dime Book of Verges. Dime Book of Dreams. Dime Fortune Teller. Dime Ladies’ Letter Writer. Dime Lovers’ Casket. Dime Ball-Room Companion. Dime Book of 100 Games, Dime Chess Instructor. Dime Book of Beauty, ks are sold by newsdealers efcerhens neg veut be sent, post-paid, to any ad- dress, on receipt of price, ten cents each, BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William st., N. Y, . . 5 zs . Half-Dime Singer's Library 1 Woa, Extma! and 59 other Songs. 2 Caprain Curr and 57 other Songs, 3 Tue Garsssoro’ Har and 62 other Songs. 4 Jounny Morcan and 60 other Songs. 5 (tu Strike You WitTH A FEATHER and 62 others, 6 GrorGE THE CHARMER and 56 other Songs. _ 7 Toe BELLE or Rockaway and 52 other Songs. 8 Young FEeLLAn, You’re Too Fresx# and 60 others 9 Suy Youne Girt and 65 other Songs. 10 I’m rar GovERNOR’s ONLY Son and 58 other Songs, 11 My Fan and 65 other Songs. 12 Comin’ Toro’ Tuk Ry and 55 other Songs. 18 Tae RotuicKkine Irishman and 59 other Songs. 14 Otp Doa Tray and 62 other Songs. 15 WHoa, CHARLIE and 59 other Songs. 16 IN TaH1s WueEat By anv By and 62 other Songs. 17 Nancy Lue and 58 other Songs. 18 I’m THe Boy THat’s BounD To BLaze and 57 others, 19 Tae Two OrpHans and 59 other Songs. 20 WHAT ARE THE WiLp WAVES SAYING, SISTER? and 59 other Songs. 21 InpI@naNT Potty Woe and 59 other Songs. 22 ''HE OLD ArM-Cuarr and 58 other Songs. _ 23 On Conny IsLanp Bracu and 58 other Songs, 24 Op Simon, THE Hot-Corn Man and 60 others, 25 I’m in Love and 56 other Songs. 25 PARADE OF THE Guarps and 56 other Songs. 27 Yo, Heave, Ho! and 60 other Songs, 28 "Twit NEvER po To Gis ir up So and 60 others, 29 Biur Bonnets Over THE Borper and 54 others, 30 Tur Merry Lauauine Man and 56 other Songs. 31 Sweut Foraxr-mn-Nor and 55 other Songs. 32 Leretie Basy Mine and 53 other Songs. 33 De Banso AM DE INSTRUMENT ror Mz and 53 others, 34 Tarry and 50 other Songs. 85 Just ro Prvase THE Boys and 52 other Songs. 36 SKATING ON ONE IN THE GUTTER and 52 others, 87 Kotorep Kranks and 59 other Songs. 88 Nit DespeRANDUM and 53 other Songs. 39 Tur Girt I Lerr Beninp Me and 50 other Songs 40 "Tis nut A Lirrue Fapep Fiowerr and 50 others 41 Prerry WHinnrnmta and 60 other Songs. 42 DANCING IN THE BARN and 63 other Songs. 43 H. M.S. Prnarore, compere, and 17 other Songs. Sold everywhere by Newsdealers, at five cents per copy, or sent post-paid, to any address, on re= ceipt of Sim cents per number. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PuBiisHers, 98 Witiiam Street, New York, The Dime Dialogues No. 31. Containing twenty Minor Dramas, Extravaganzas Burlesques, Farces, Dress and Humorous Pieces, for the Amateur Stage, Parlors. Schools and Exhibitions. All original and by favorite authors, professors, teachers and amateurs. For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, post-paid, on, receipt of price—ten cents. \ BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pusursaers, 98 William Street, New York, é
Page 32
LOLS LOE POCKET EDITION. Waverley Library. THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. PUBLISHED EVERY TUESDAY. : 3 A FIFTY CENT NOVEL FOR FIVE CENTS! N 4 - Fach issue a complete and unabridged novel, covering the field of Love and Society Romance, by an author of established reputation—perfectly pure in tone, spirited and captivating in story, as the title ‘‘ Waverley” implies. Everything to please and nothing ; ; \ ‘ | | | ' \ \ \ : to avoid— V \ : 5 g s \ s ¢ : WHOLESOME, VIGOROUS AND FRESH. \ \ No inferior or exceptionable productions; no tedious narrative of weak sentimentalism; } nothing but good strong stories of to-day! i ‘ \ \ \ \ \ y \ , | | , \ \ \ , } | —— — A Bride of of a Day ;. or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. By Mrs. Mary Reed The Girl Wife; or, The True and the False, By Bartley T. Campbell. Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wm, Mason Turner, M.-D. Married in Maste 3; or, A Young Girl’s Temptation. By Rett Winwood. “Will She Marry Him? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. His Lawtul Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stepliens, A Fair Face; or, Out inthe World. By Bartley T. Campbell. A Mad Marriage ; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love: By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. _By Mary Grace Halpine. The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. By the Author of ‘ Alone in the World,” etc., ete. l A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Necklace, By Rose Kennedy. Ready August 12th. Without a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. Ready August 19th. 14 Alone in the World; or, The Young Man’s Ward, By the Author of “The Bride of an. Actor,” éte., ‘etc. Ready August 26th. oetan em ww —< = _ td _ -] The Waverley Library, is for sale by all newsdealers, five certs per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 98 William street, New York. AOA FFF PAP LAA LID EL ODPL sa ORS a a a a aga cg Td pel nce ae oe a large am le ae er