Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 26) (1884 11 18)
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... “pyrighted, 1884, by BEADLE AND ADAMS. Entered at the Post Offive at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mui Matter. Nov. 18, 1884, $2,50 ° a Year, Vou. I PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, No, 98 William Street, New York. Price, HE HAD SEEN THE HANDSOME STRANGER PLACING A RING ON HIS IDOL’S FINGER, HIS IDOL ; Or, THE ILL-STARRED MARRIAGE. BY MRS. MARY REED CROWELL. CHAPTER I. . THE BETROTHED. _ Tae Grange was now one blaze of welcoming light, and the occupants were adorning the rooms with all he taste of which they were: Possessed, : Down-stairs, every imaginable preparation for & sumptuous feast was going rapidly on, superin- tended by the skillful cook, from whose domains he savory scents would occasionally reach the » !apartmevts above, where were waiting the family. The family at the Grange were very aristo-. cratic, very wealthy, and exclusive—so muéh so, that the honor of being placed on Mrs. Doc- tor Elverton’s visiting-list was greatly coveted in the vicinity by aspiring neighbors. . The household at the Grange was not large, consisting of the handsome, dignified husband and father, Doctor Le Roy Elverton, a retired physician of great skill and world-wide reputa- tion, his elegant lady-wife, and their only child, Maude. Maude Elverton was but a trifle over eighteen, and charmingly lovely. Ofa family noted for their personal beauty on her mother's side, and descended from the famous Elvertons on the Five Cents. No. 26. mene 2h
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2 : HIS IDOL. : other, she inherited graces of mind and of person, that, aided by the liberal education she had received, fitted her to shine *‘a bright, particular star” in any society. Her gentle, unaffected, and withal dignified mien, no less than the sweet face, the sloping shoulders, the round, faultless arm, with its tiny white hand and slender, tapering fingers; her little naked foot, peeping now and then from the coquettish walking- skirts; all these had made many impressions on the gentlemen she had met from time to time. Impressions that were of no avail, however, much as Maude Elverton was admired; for of all the scores who, in the brief twelve months she had been in society, had waited on the doctor to obtain per- mission to offer their addresses to his beautiful child, the same poi invariably came: " Miss Elverton’s future husband is already selec- ted. To a person she had never seen, but of whom re- port spoke proudly and favorably, to George Cassel- maine, her own cousin, and heir to a large fortune, and natural inheritor of personal beauty and intel- lectual strength, Maude Elverton was to be married. From her childhood days. since she could temember her parents’ consultations together, Maude had learned to regard the unknown cousin as her future husband. He, in his turn, had ever considered the lovely girl, whese picture her mother had sent him, his wife. Mutually satisfied with this state of affairs, and liking each other at a distance, the intervening years of their childhood had passed until now the time had come when they were to meet. This is what the family at the Grange were wait- ing for that cool autumn afternoon. Waiting for George Casselmaine, Maude and her mother were alone in the dressing- room of the former, who had finished her toilet, and Foal by the window, glancing carelessly down the ro. _ “How does he look, mamma? Is he really as | handsome as_his picrure, or was the artist flatter- ing? Iam wild with curiosity to see him.” ud’s eyes turned inquiringly to her mother. “George Casselmaine is just what you sec he is in his picture. Add to that his grace, refinement and elegant ease of manner.” Perhaps I will not meet his expectations, mamma, if he is so perfect.” Maude laughed as she spoke, even while a proudly self-conscious look of her charms shone in her dark- blue eyes. Mrs. Elverton looked quickly up, a haughty smile curving her ae “Not be satisfied with you? Child, a prince might be delighted to wed you.” Her maternal pride was her greatest passion, and Maude, whose head was not turned in the least by her fond flatteries, loved the parent for the delight she felt in the daughter. “No, indeed,” resumed Mrs. Elverton. ‘‘ George selmaine will find all he desires, all he expects in . we my darling. And I can as assuredly say that him you will perceive every thing to admire, to please you.” ** And to love, dearest mamma?” Maude asked the question in a peculiarly pointed tone of voice. 2 Her mother raised her eyebrows in amazement, “My child! how could you help but love him, when ie you such a glowing description? Zove him ude? Any woman would do that; they could not avoid it.” “You are an enthusiast on the subject of, your fu- ture son-in-law, dearest mamma. Perhaps others judge less paral. “Well, you must be your own judge of that, my child. In avery short time you will see him—” Mrs. Elverton was interrupted by her daughter's voice, who, with flushed cheeks, was gazing eagerly from the window. | der attentions he had offered ae it he?*she asked, quickly following Maude’s 00. A noble-looking young man was passing the great gate, and as Maude bowed, he Fenomed the inte, ae No, mamma; it is only an acquaintance,” Her words were lightly spoken, but the blush on her face, and the fire in her eyes, were not unnoticed by Mrs. Elverton. ‘Maude, Maude, why does the sight of Fred Trev- lyn pring that color to your cheeks?” Almost sternly she asked the question. The tint only deepened as Maude replied: “Was I blushing, mamma? That was very fool- Mrs. Elverton brought her chair close to -her daughter, “Can it be possible, Maude Elverton, that you were thinking of him, of any one, when you asked me if there was any thing to love in George Cassel- maine?”- Maude turned ign away. “JT did not think that of you; your father and I thought that when your cousin came, it would be to welcome him with an undivided heart, and yet you blush when the owner of the Archery passes your window. Oh, Maude!” Her tones were both reproving and vindictive. “You accuse me of that which is false, mamma. Iknow of no reason why I should betray emotion at sight of Fred bia ig and I certainly shall meet m cousin with as whole a heart as he brings to me. only know one truth, aad that is, that Mr. Trevlyn seems adapted to love, and I wondered if George was equally so.” ‘Oh! and Mrs. Elverton uttered a faint scream, “how should you know enough of Mr. Trevlyn to know he seems of a ‘loving’ temperament?” Again the hot flush rose to Maude’s white fore- head, but she did not choose to tell her mother of | the earnest glances of the dark, handsome eyes that often had met her own in a grave, crious way that had made her heart beat wildly, or the delicate, ten- er on the two occa- sions they had met. Maude did not tell this to her mother, for her heart would not let her. Suddenly she turned to Mrs, Elverton. , ‘‘Mamma, this is exceedingly foolish in both of us. In me, for acting so childishly at mere sight of a comparative stranger; and in you, dear mamma, for accusing me of the improbable fault of being trait- ress to you and papa, and—and George Cassel- maine,” she added, with a genuine embarrassment that effectually removed her mother’s suspicions, “T am only too pad I was wrong; my darling, and now— ‘There, there, Maude, comes your lover!’ f hasty glance rewarded her with a moment's glimpse of a tall, handsomely-dressed gentleman, whom her father was welcoming ‘at the door, His face she had not seen, but his voice, as the tones were wafted up the stairs, was full, rouud and mu- sic | Her heart beat as she sleppee from her room and for a moment a wild throb of shame filled her heart, as she thought how utterly her own tastes and judgment were ignored—how complete a tool she was in her parents’ hands. George Casselmaine would hate her, sbe thought, for her unmaidenliness, and, as if by mere force of contrast, she reflected that Fred Trevlyn would never have degraded her so. But, then, George Casselmaine was as much involved as herself in this arrangement, and if he had trav- eled from Germany to see her, she thought she could go down-stairs in her own father’s house to meet him. : ; Again her own cool, dignified self, she accepted her father’s arm at the foot of the broad, elegant staircase. \ Proudly Doctor Elverton led her in. “This is our Ganghier, our Maude, your Maude, dear George. My darling, let me introduce your cousin, George Casselmaine, and our future son, we hone.” =
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— HIS IDOL. 8 Mande blushed prettily, and extended her hand in cor welcome. The gentleman clasped it warmly. “Wor years I have dreamed of this meeting, and now the realization far exceeds my wildest anticipa- tions. My sweet cousin, we are the best friends imaginable, are we not?” “Most certainly.” The earliest greetings were over—that which Maude had so dreaded—and, accepting his arm, she and George Casselmaine walked away, like old-time friends, conrntsing) picakeaty. “T hardly dared hope you would desire to keep to me the promise your father made mine when we were children,” he said, in his low, musical tones, as they promenaded_ slowly up and down the wide marble-floored halls. “Now that I have seen you, Maude, I almost trem- ble when I think how miraculous it is that such beauty has been reserved for me. Strange that no one has robbed me of the jewel I was in such igno- rance of until this hour.” . Maude hi ge merrily. “Oh, sir, like all men, you seek to please by adu- lation, ‘and perhaps you can more sa sfactorily ac- count for my condition to-day from the fact that I care ve little for gentlemen's society.” ; He colored slightiy at her well-pointed allusion. “Let me hope your opinion may be altered before long, concerning me, atleast, And to impress the fact’ on your mind that I shall constantly aud steadfastly aim to attain that standard which is high- est in your opinion, my dear cousin, may I place this on your finger—the talisman that shall protect while it strengthens, and recall thoughts of me while it whispers how dearly Ilove you 8 He held a shining circlet toward her as he spoke, “Tt is no fetter, dear Maude, only a charm, Will you wear it for my sake?” She blushed, smiled, and then extended her hand, while George Casselmaine slipped on the ring. He led her to her parents. ““My betrothed wife, Doctor Elverton, dear mad- ” Her father laid his hand on her eal little head in speechless blessing, while Mrs. Elverton glanced proudly at the handsome cou le before her. “Poor Fred Treviyn!”? she thought. “T wonder if Maude did insnare him? Well, there is an end of it now.” CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERY AT THE “ ARCHERY.”’ Stowty along the beautiful road the horseman rode, leaving the Grange at his left as he entered the shady avenue that led to his elegant residence. He had seen her—seen her bow of recognition and returned her greeting, and his heart beat wildly to the tune of his deep love; he had left the spot 80 sacred, because Maude Elverton hallowed it. Fred Trevlyn was a noble fellow, one whose socie- ty every one courted, and one to whom all persons conceded a peculiar position—a position made by himself, and maintained by his habitual reserve, . and entire lack of gallantry and attention to the es. : Not that handsome Fred Trevlyn was negligent to women of his acquaintance, for when he did attend “the social gatherings in the neighborhood, none ’ created greater furore oe ) the ladies than this Selfsame wealthy bachelor, for Fred Trevlyn was twenty-seven. ‘Many matrimonial traps had been set to catch him, but he had ,stepped quite over the snares, en- tirely ignoring their existence, until the time had ‘one by when he was _to be caught; yet always was © a welcome guest wherever he went. $ For five years had he lived at the Archery, with no companion but his dogs, and no family save the Score of servants, the need of whom was doubtful— Yet, considering the Archery was of spacious dimen- 8ions, and the grounds immense in size, the horses | | many in number, there might be @ good reason, after all, forit. ” ‘ Pte ee) : ra year went by, people an to talk dar of a maperery at the iat be vague y eae, hints were circulating that a fair-faced lady, as unlike the dark, handsome, stern-faced Trevlyn as possible, was sometimes seen there in ck con- versation with him, after which conferences, the master of the Archery would go away for several days; then, on his return, present the impersona- tion of stormy sorrow. . z These rumors often reached Fred Trevlyn’s ears. and, on such occasions, he would smile bitterly, and quietly ask ‘if that was really a fact?” ; Every, effort, to unvail the secret, the maynteny oF the Archery—if mystery it was—proved futile. Trevlyn would not talk of his private affairs to any ~ one, and his well-trained servants had learned to Pea iat et Ai life—one of deepest is had been a strange life—one of dee shades and brightest tints. He had lived on the mountain- top of joy, hope and comfort; he had dwelt in the valley of disappointment, grief and discontent. To-day, as he entered his splendid home, he strode straight to his private room, whose shutters were always darkly bowed, and the door ever locked. Into this room he went now, and, as was his custom, fastened the door after him, then threw nimself on a somber brown lounge that stood be tween the windows. ““Wretch! worse than brute that I am! and yet — for the life of me I am powerless when I see her— tremble like a guilty school-boy if I do but hear her name mentioned.” ~ He covered his eyes with his hands a moment in silence; then his pent-up grief burst forth, “Why, why am I doomed to lead such a life? Why cannot I love whom I please, and throw this fearful shadow from my side, where, for these dark years it has clung in such persevering gloom? O. fool that I was—twice fool that I am, to live and suffer— to live yet die daily!” His face was ashen pale, and as he arose he err from his forehead the great drops of perspi- ration. : “ And I love her—oh, how I love her! with a depth, a force, an intensity that is burning my heart t cinders. Yet I dare not speak, dare not go, like other _ more favored men, and plead my suit; I must only smother my love for her, and suffer and live on and on in dreary longings worse than Tantalus ever i gol Oh, my darling, my darling, if I could but call you mine! my angel! my Maude!” ; reached an intensity that His self-communion ha 4 was startled himself, and as the name of his idol | wrung, in anguished tones, from his pale lips, he started, and stood a moment motionless, his hand clenched upon the marble-top stand beside the lounge. Gradually his emotion died away, and then, with bright, glittering eyes, he stepped within a heavy hanging curtained recess, whose folds opened to receive him, then instantly fell tightly together again. No sound issued from the vailed apartment, and when, ten minutes later, Fred Trevlyn came orth, his brow was calm and clear, his eyes quiet an dispossessed of the raging fire that burn in their dark depths so lately before; he came forth a subdued man, and left the room for his chamber above. This inner room was the one sacred _ spot of the Archery; mortal eye, save his ote had never pene- trated its hidden mysteries, and if the faint delicious perfumes that occasionally were wafted from. this inner apartment were noticed by the servants, they did not dream of its origin. ; This afternoon he went to his d where the servant met him with a letter. It was a small white apers, addressed in a beautifully graceful hand, and his own name was the superscription. He frowned darkly, and rapid flashes of ominoug -room, a ere
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light gleamed in his eyes as he dismissed the man, and tore open the letter. As he read, his lip curled scornfully, and a bitter smile played over his face; then a sudden paling swept over his countenance, and he sunk back to his chair, while the strange letter lay unheeded on the rich carpet at his feet. For several moments he seemed absorbed in thought, then apparently just remembered the missive, for he caught it up quickly, glancing anx- iously to the door, as if fearful some one had wit- nessed his agitation. Straight through to the end he read, without ause or hesitancy, and then, lighting a match, urned it to ashes, scattering them far and near on the floor. His writing-desk was open, and he hastily scrib- bled a note, and without re-reading it, dashed it into an envelope, and directed it. Calling his groom to bring his favorite Fleet to the door, he drew on his riding-boots, and thrust the let- ter into his pocket. An hour’s gallop, by a back road, brought the missive in time for the mail. Despite his better judgment, he resolved on once more peeang the Grange. Semi-darkness was fast vailing the landscape, and no one would observe him, while he might once more gaze on the sweet face of the girl he so loved. With beating heart he drew the reins, and permit- ted Fleet to walk slowly by. The curtains were yet up, and by the brilliant illu- mination within he plainly saw the bright, gorgeous carne the elegant furniture and costly paintings. But these were every-day things, no new sights to him, for the Archery was equally splendid. His faze was riveted upon a group, directly under the flare of the chandelier, and when his mind fully ap- yreciated the truthful import of the the tableau, a cold, dead weight settled on him, and he went . dreamily along. P 2 He had seer: the handsome stranger placing a ring on his idol’s finger; he had seen Maude’s bright ee and witnessed the mute blessing of the proud ather. ‘*Oh, my darling, itis right! I can not complain! I have no right to love you, and you—youw care nothing for me!” To his lonely home he went, a sorrowful man, with no kind voice to bid him welcome, no merry face to brighten at sound of his footstep. ith a bitter, half-savage smile, he entered the . room, and locked it after him. , CHAPTER IIL. A TRUE WOMAN, Ir was a charming little cottage, little less than a mile away from the Grange, and covered with creep- ing roses from chimney to base. Roses with white ereamy and blushing pink hue bloomed in wil abundance, and rendered the fragrant spot a fit home for the blossom who presided over the small household of three, with all the dignity and grace of a matron of thirty-five. Little Ida Tressel, with her sleeves rolled to the elbows, as she prepared the flaky pastry that was to tempt her father’s waning appetite, was every inch a Hebe as she stood so meee pare dainty foot, holding aloft brown hand, while with the other she dexterously cut the over-large edges of the brimming pumpkin- Her cheeks were glowing with health, and her eyes fairly scintillating in her exuberance of spirits, and her father, as he watched her, thought what a ete she was, and Aunt Hetty, the sable house- maid, follow her lithe, nimble figure from oven to dough-tréugh in pardonable pride. “There,” she said at length, ‘I believe I’m through. Now for Hetty’s nimble hands to clear he pie-plate in one small | t | seemed strangely ill at ease. a? > a 7 HIS IDOL. my litter away. Tlove to bake, but oh, don’t I de- test the dish-washing that follows)”’ Her ha: fashione “There are two custards, your favorites, father, you know, and two ie he the first we’ve had this fall. They look splendid, don’t they? We ought to save them for company, only we’re never trou- bled with that nuisance.” Mr. Tressel, who was confined in-doors by his rheumatism, fidgeted un- easily in his chair. At last he found courage to speak, though rather reluctantly, - “Maybe you'd better save them for to-morrow, for we'll have a neighbor in to dinner.” “Who, pray?’ and Ida nearly let fall the apron she was untying. ‘“‘Company for us? Why, who can it be?”’ Her father looked out the door, then at the “Nobody much, child. Only old Andrew You needn’t go to any trouble.” “T guess Pl not! Old Joyce? Why, father, he is almost a fool! What made you invite him here?” She bent an inquiring look at the old man, who py laugh echoed through the large, old- itchen, ies. oyce. “You mustn’t call him ‘old Joyce,’ Ida. He’s a very rich man, and ’s got a splendid house full o’ splendid things,” « “Just as if that is any recommendation to him! No, indeed, father! He is a disgusting old man, say what you will. Why, he is as old as you.” “No. He is not sixty yet, and that’s pretty young —pretty young.” _Amerry peal of laughter rippled from Ida’s red ips. “Oh, father, Mr. Joyce: is evidently trying to be- friend you, or wanting you to accommodate him, else why these new and sudden views of ‘ old Andy,’ as the boys call him?” ; Her father looked up in her laughing face, and a sigh burst from his lips. ‘Andrew Joyce is a aoe honest man, Ida, and I believe would do well by anybody, particularly ou— ‘* Me!” screamed Ida, involuntarily springing from her seat. ‘‘What under the heavens can Andrew Joyce want of me? Tell me, father, for I know there is something between you two.” Mr. Tressel leaned back in his chair, both hands grasping the rustic oaken cane he always carried. For a moment he did not speak, and Ida bent ten- aa! over him. “ Dear father, if Mr. Joyce asxed you to let me su- perinten1 his elegant house while the fashionable ccmpany from New York is there this season, you need nov hesitate to tellme, It will not shock my pride, father,” she said, in her sweet way; then add- ing, “and Iam not ae sure but that I would en- joy a4 visit to the Villa, more than you think I should.”’ ‘Would you?” and old Mr. Tressel glanced eager- ly up at her. ‘Would you really like to go to the Villa to live?” ‘“‘T could earn money, father, or let Mr. Joyce al- low my wages go toward the debt on our dear home,’ oe Ida, softly, as she smoothed the scanty gray locks. “Then you love this little spot, child, better than any other, even the elegant marble Villa, with the poised on one | fountains and arbors, and the velvet furniture and costly silver?” ‘Father!’ and Ida’s voice was a, trifle reproving. “Didn’t mother die in Rose Cottage? didn’t little Albert die here? shall not you and I and faithful old Hetty live and die here?” ; There were tears in the old man’s. eyes as she spoke, and he dashed them hastily away. . “Ida,” he said, after a moment, his voice husky yet firm, ‘‘ Ida, have you a lover?”’ f A burning crimson torrent flooded her fair face, neck and arms, but her answer, so prompt and un- hesitating, seemed strangely at variance,
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_ at mention of an offer of marri HIS IDOL. ‘ Weta indeed, [ have no lover! You know that, ather.’’ Her clear, truthful eyes were raised to his face, and yet in their far-away deeps, old Mr. Tressel fan- cied he detected other signs. ‘“You a maiden of twenty, and never yet loved?” Again the vivid blush, deeper than before, spoke more plainly than words: This time she made no merg and her father smiled sorrowfully upon her ave ace, “Then my daughter does love, yet has no lover. That is strange.” ~ Asudden gush of tears from her eyes was her assent to her father’s remark. ‘*Who is this man you cannot tell me of!’ “You must not ask me, father; plevse do not.’’ With strangely new eagerness, Mr. Tressel insisted on her informing him. “You are doing very wrong, my daughter, in holding back the name of the one in whom you are ie) anon interested. Besides, I have a right to demand his name and position, I will te you, if you will willingly give me your confidence on this wibleot, of an offer | have received for you.” Ida’s face had colored deeper and deeper, but e, suddenly paled. “No one need ask my hand of you,” she replied, romptly, ‘‘for never will I give it without my Peaoe and that is bestowed, vocably, as you have rightly inferred.” ‘“Who is it, my daughter? I shall not ask you ain:”” oer. Tressel looked almost sternly upon Ida’s bowed head. For a moment or so he waited, but no answer came. Then he resumed: “Whoever it may be, your: love is hopeless, for, Ida, I have promised you in marriage.” “Promised me in marriage!’’ repeated Ida, in | “You have exceeded | startlingly scornful tones. your right. No one, not my own dear mother, whom you know I loved above all beings, should, were she this moment here, bias me in my marriage re- lations.” ‘ Ida’s eyes flashed decisively. ‘“‘ But, there is immense wealth, a high position, splendid jewels, Ida.” “T care not for them all, unless I love their giver,” she replied. é ; “Your father will end his days in happiness and comfort, if he could but see you the wife of this suitor.” “In Rose Cottage, with me and Hetty to care for you, you will pass your days just as Fa ad and peacefully. Do not indulge in any foolish thoughts of a marriage for me, father, for there is but one man on God’s footstool I would marry.” The proud blush on her sweet face strengthened her noble assertion. n ‘Ida Tressel, you have always been an obedient, affectionate daughter; never in word or deed have ys given me occasion to reprove you. To-day impose my last command upen you; as my loving: child, I wish you, nay, I command you, to e. bey. ; Td arose, and returned his sternly earnest glance. ‘You know we owe four hundred dollars on our house, and our creditor declares it must and shall be paid within the month.” 7 e paused to note the effect of his language. Ida was pale, and a trifle angry, but she nodded imperi- ously for him to continue. i “ & certain wealthy man loves you, and wishes to make you his wife, and the mistress of his elegant mansion. You cannot fail of being happy. perfectly happy, and I will,save my home, and with Hetty to wait upon me, will live comfortably enough.” “Well? is that all?” asked Ida, when he paused, “That is all.” -“Tirst, then, if old Andrew Joyce insists upon having his money in such an me eine time, do not be worried, We possess a good friend at the Ar- She ceased, and smiled assuringly. ‘Nothing, therefore, remains but for you to con- vey “ae Soeveun to my suitor, whoever he and with them my positive rejection of him and his overtures.” : Having thus peremptorily settledthe affair to her obey satisfaction, she turned away to her household uties. Stay; you never asked me who had made this offer. Her father caught her arm, “Because I cared so little. No matter who it is the answer will apply.” yee “You shall know—and you must not, you darenot refuse, You shall consider it, and when the time comes, let your answer be yes to Andrew Joyce.” A sstiffea ten ie a Ida. ever, never ou frighten me, horrify me! You fill me with loathing ate disgust!’ wf ne write of that toothless, deaf, silly old man? Father, you dis- grace me, you énsult me.” She turned almost defiantly back upon him. ae tr ie el 2 tis is the return you give me for the education Istruggled so hard to get you? When your mother and I went poner buy you fine dresses, that you might not be ashamed among your companions. This is your thanks, is it? This is what your learn- 1, and your religion teaches you?” : he tears sprung to Ida’s eyes. Have I “You wrong me, father. not always obeyed you, and do you not acknowledge it? Whe asa father, you bade your child do this, do that, | never rebelled; but when you would bid me bury myself alive, when you command me to shut away all happiness, all joy forever from me, I repeat you exceed your prerogative—you do what no earthly power has a right to do.” Mr. Tressel watched every play of her features as she replied. ‘But my word is passed, and Andrew Joyce comes on Sunday to greet you, his betrothed bride, and place the costly diamond on your finger.” ‘““And T solemnly declare that while I am in full possession of ray mind and reason, while I am ecapa- ble of knowing my own heart, I will never, unaer any circumstances, under any pretense, for any pur- pose, marry that disgusting man.” She turned indignantly away, and in her own apartment calmed her justly outraged feelings, CHAPTER IV. FORBIDDEN SECRETS. THE days of that glorious sunshiny week were assing pleasantly away to the inmates of the range. George Casselmaine had found his betrothed wife very beautiful, very charming, and very agreeable; yet there lacked something—a nameless something — that made him often wonder why he occasionally wanted to mount his fleetest horse and dash reck- lessly away over hillside and valley, with the feeling that he was not, after os gs Ge man alive, as he ought to be, with such a lovely jiancee, A vague eg pd that this same emotion was ex- perienced by Maude Elverton, when her dreamy. misty eyes would wander from him and gaze so soaps d at the white cupola among the tree-tops just visible from her favorite western window. And e asked himself if it was possible there was want- ing that keen, subtle sensation of first deep love be- tween him and his future bride. Possibly Maude loved another? \ Certainly he did not. At anyrate, neither adored the other with that ardor which engaged people of a week’s time are accused of. - Notwithstanding, George Casselmaine f re- solved that by no sign of his should Maude or her parents dream that he was not the worshiping lever ' 5 ‘chery, and Mr. Wred will willingly, gladly, loan t Pon Thus Rose Cottage heed not ‘be cae 2
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pay * ae" 1. - ot ‘ ,) ae as a” aT Se he seemed. He did like his betrothed Very, nin 4 much, and he could but admit that a lifetime wi! her would be a fortunate destiny for any man. So the time went on, and Maude little knew the secret resolve of Casselmaine, while we must ac- knowledge that she cast many a wistful glance over the emerald meadows to the gleaming white man- sion, That mansion was the Archery, with its mystery; the aie emeen of whom Maude so joften thought was Frederic Trevlyn. They had not met often—perhaps a half-dozen times; but, those brief moments had been of suffi cient length to impress indelibly upon Maude’s heart the handsome, serious dark eyes, the noble, manly bearing of the stern man who had regarded her so keenly. But Frederic Trevlyn had never shown by glance or token, that beautiful Maude Elverton was any more to him than a dozen other pretty girls. How well he must have preserved his love a secret the reader may guess. A succession of brilliant parties, both indoors and out, had followed the arzival of George Casselmaine at the Grange. To these Fred Trevlyn was of course invi and of course present, ° On this evening there was an unusally pleasant gathering at ‘‘the Villa,” the magnificent country- seat of old Mr. J ie om whose two step-daughters did the honors of the house. The music-room was almost deserted, and the | lamps were paled before the bright rays of the harvest moon, that flooded the room with its sub- | dued brilliance. Most of the guests were promen- | ading in the garden; but, alone of the gay company, the star, Maude Elverton, had dexterously stolen to this quiet retreat. ; - She had been there but a few moments when a tall fi appeared in the doorway, who, on seeing her, immediately came forward to the balcony, where she sat. . “You are disposed to be cruel to-night, Miss _ Elverton.”’ Fred Trevlyn’s voice made her shiver from head to foot, but she replied, gayly and unconcernedly: “T do not comprehend; amI punishing myself by staying away. from the remainder of the guests?” uite unconsciously she looked at him, with a sweet timidity that almost unnerved Fred Trevlyn. “No. You are cruel to your friends, but kind, most kind to me.” A sudden fleet blush mounted her white forehead. **Miss Elverton, do not misunderstand me when I say how delighted I am to enjoy this interview. I have very few friends, and when with themI can spend a brief moment and forget myself, my life, ret past, present and future, I can not be too grate- He drew a chair opposite her, and leaned his head against the pillar. Maude glanced fuitively at him, and for the first time since they had become ac- quainted she observed how deep an expression of sad disgust brooded on his handsome face—how dark a shadow rested on his brow—si that too rped told that he had in early life drank to the ‘bitterest dregs, perhaps, the cup of earth’s sorrow. And in her heart a pity for him dawned—that ats hg be sympathy so near akin to love. And while Mande was thinking of these things, her eyes downcast, her hands idling with a clematis spray, Frederic Treviyn was eagerly, earnestly reading her sweet face, thinking how unspeakably, inexpressibly dear it was to him, already—how happy the man must be who might bask in the sunlight of her resence—how e-would give untold gold might he ut win her! Saf But he dare not think of this. He dare not give his wild imagination play; he, who in earlier, even boyhood days had counted his conquests by dozens, d not dream even of beautiful Maude Elverton, She could never be aught to him—never, never! He . ! ‘was a& doomed man; he was powerless to speak & word of love to her—to any woman! She was the betrothed of another, so the gossips said, but that was not the barrier between them, for Frederic Trevlyn would never have ellowed that to stand between him and his love. But the wide, impassable gulf between them! He shivered and sickened as he thought that his own hands, ignorantly and innocently, ar before, had made that gulf, and now no mortal might bridge it over! The two sat, little dreaming of each other’s ba gi in the beautiful, tempting moonlight. “Mr. Trevlyn, you of ail men living, the owner of the enviable Archery, the delight of our county, young, fortunate, happy, should be the last to com- plain of fewness of friends.” “7 fortunate? I happy? Surely you can not but be jesting, Miss Maude? “T never was more in earnest, Mr. bag to but I sincerely hope I have not offended you. You looked pained when I spoke.”’ ‘* You never could offend me, Miss Elverton; and may I tell you that of the few friends. you are the peed a ag dearest? Pardon me if fam hasty in 8a; is. e leaned nearer her, and she met his earnest, almost impassioned glance. “T am very glad you do like me,” she eee ingenuously, “and if, in my capacity of friend, I cau serve you or alleviate the dark fate you persist in clinging to as inevitable, you must allow me. you promise?” She extended her hand, and he d it eagerly, bending to kiss it as he felt prOnpted to do; but, a strong resolve saved him, and pressing it kindly, let go hig hold upon it. Littie did she dream the whirlwind her innocent words had caused. Poor Fred Trevlyn! how his aching heart throbbed with joy as he had held her hand that brief moment Pa with a hopelesss joy, insane and intoxi- eating. Poor Maude! her heart bounded with a wild, un- controllable bliss, for sho imagined perhaps he loved her! perhaps he would love, if he did not yet! This was the wanting key-note that George Cassel- maine had failed to discover between himsclf and Maude; this, that was perfectly attuned between Maude and Frederic Trevlyn. Already the room was filling an with the merry couples, eager for the dance, and Trevlyn lod Mande to the floor for the polka redowa. it seemed to them both the perfection of joy; to Maude, who scarcely was able to analyze these new feelings, & new, wild, thrilling joy came when Fred Trevl: held her so closely to his throbbing heart, and she knew it must be dove that induced the new emotion. And he? it was happiness for a time to hang ha her smiles—to watch the lights and shades of her beautiful face—to look into her clear, truthful eyes with his searching, impassioned glance. Bliss too perfect for expression, excepting the thought that ib must all end some time, if not that hour, when pru- dence bade him flee from the temptation. The music died away, and he and Maude silently went from the room to the balcony again, where — were alone. either spoke; then, with a mighty impulse, he stooped and kissed her forehead. “Mr. Trevlyn, sir, you forget I am to be George Casselmaine’s wife!” and even as sha spoke, a great, wild heart-throb leaped to her voice, P “Forgive me. I did know it—I do know it! But I have so few joys, so few comforts, and we are tO be friends,” He held out his hands for the pardon he craved. — And Maude? She laid her tiny hands within them, and granted the forgiveness.
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ee ee HIS IDOL. 3 a CHAPTER V. A FLASH OF LIGHT, THE ball at the Villa seemed to have been a gayety of Cupid’s own making. The host, old, silly Andrew Joyce, was in raptures over the suddenly appreciated charms of his neighbor Tressel’s daughter; while Ida herself loved, Le stame in secret, a far different personage. Maude Elverton had discovered that, though her hand had been formally bestowed upon Casselmaine, her peculiarly eccentric owner of the ee thus eavil eorge entirely unprovided for. Yet the goddess did not thus neglect one of her prime fa- vorites; for that very day George Casselmaine met his destiny. . A Tee pa of Maude and Trevlyn, Casselmaine and the elder Miss Joyce had gone for a pceene tour far off among the hills, In returni ey had come past the Archery, thence toward the Grange. This road, the reader remembers, led directly by Rose Cottage, and that humble, lovely spot he first saw Ida Tressel. Since the morning previous, when her father had commanded her to receive Mr. Joyce as an accepted lover, not a word relative to the sub- ect had passed between them. It was now Satur- ay, and on the morrow Andrew Joyce was to come to hear his fate; a decision he vainly ed could not be otherwise than favorable, but which Ida revolted from thinking of, even. The two days had wrought quite a change in her; they had transformed her from the merry, laughing girl into the more sedate, demure woman, yet upon whom the dignified air sat as gracefully as the more joyous one, She had resolutely kept from her father the name of the person upon whom she had, unsolicited oured all her young affections. He had not asked er opinion, and in the fact that no one save herself knew her sweet secret, she rejoiced. Only a few times had Ida seen this ideal of whom she was so enamored, but, like Maude Elverton, when she first saw Fred Trevlyn, it needed not days or weeks to bring her whole heart, her entire will, to own this dearly joved one, master, She had gone to her own room—a sweet, tidy apartment, draped in white, and carpeted in green —to commune over the commotion ske knew must occur when the morrow came. She had been in her room but a few minutes, when confused cries and a loud, ringing voice calling her name, disturbed her, Peeping from her blinds, she saw three riders. mounted, Maude Elverton, Frederic Trevlyn, and her especial aversion, Helen Joyee. Beside Mr. Trevlyn was a riderless horse, and across his animal lay a prostrate, unconscious form. With fairy speed she flew to the rescue; un- bolted the door, and, calling Hetty, began assisting the ladies to dismount. Maude was pale, and Helen Joyce much agitated, though she did not fail of flinging a coldly con- temptuous look at Ida, who returned it defiantly enough. «Miss Tressel, please be so kind as to hold my horse, while I dismount and help this poor fellow down.” : Fred ke kindly, and courteously grasped her hand as she came to hold Fleet’s bridle. “Js your companion seriously burt, Mr. Trevlyn?” she asked, stepping carefully to his side, and lifting the heavy brown curls. A sharp cry burst from her, and the three guests stared curiously at her. “Oh, Mr. Trevlyn, he is not dead! Tell me, hecan ~ not be dead!” “Mr, Casselmaine is certainly not dead, Miss Ida, though your screams indicate the grief you experi- ence upon the mere possibility of the event.”’ He spoke sharply, and with that stern glance her self-reliance returned. “Tf you please, Mr, Trevlyn,” proudly and indig- L orge | affections were centered on the | nantly, ‘*you are not the person to control r ser 4 inay ex Sigrten ae a sight as that.” oe e hea’ ss i dee aE ero ot again and pointed to a Miss ee our pard times. Ladies, I fear George has Seeved = tee e severe injury than we ce oe se heed a little ne ee bape e nervous 3 : é gs Soc vttr Seoee ose: eee etty, assist the gentleman to carry the stran ger to my room, Ladies, walk in the perio e For his very lite Frederic Trevlyn dare not disobey the cool command, and without a demur he assisted Casselmaine to the cool, airy chamber above. Restoratives were tried in vain, and at the expira- tion of half an hour the pa had not revived, and then Ida left him to Hetty’s care while she went to ~ eg peg aman aude Elverton and Helen Joyce were sitti * wars oe escort igs ing to and resale gerly noting every chan; 3si e sweet face betore ii iecigeicre Almost ae Ida broke upon them: Miss Elverton, your guest is no better; I think I had better send for a surgeon.”’ Maude paled a trifle;-then, b ; $ some unac = able agency, raised her eyes fu Cor to Frederic Trev- lyn’s face. The glance was mutual, and beneatl keen gaze the rich bloom on her oliede Necpanedaee vivid glow, and she turned to Ida again. Thank you, Miss Tressel, and will it be perfectly convenient for George to remain here unt Doctor Blake shall consent to his removal? You will confer a at favor. : aude asked Ida very earnestly, but n as the prompt reply: A i. om age “IT could not think of having the gentleman dis- turbed. Hetty and I can attend to him perfectly well; it will be a pleasure rather than a task you seek to impose upon us,”’ Helen Joyce’s keen black eyes smiled scornfully upon her, | t is quite a romance, Miss Tressel, to have a handsome young man helpless in your house, to be waited upon and attended to. have heard cf susceptible young nurses falling in love with their patients, too, haven’t you, Miss Elverton?” Regardless of the pained, angry flush on Tda’s face, she went on: ' “At the Villa are ample accommodations for sick people, and suitable servants to care for them. Itis — : is a quarter of a mile, we could easily carry him ere. She addressed her concluding remarks to Trevlyn. *“Are you sure there are no susceptible nurses at the Villa? Possibly the handsome patient might ai ae si ed spe there.” e spoke with a quiet irony that nettled Hele “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Trevlyn, that etiien: I or my sister meditate the slightest design on Mr. Casselmaine or his particular friend, the irresistible = ee 4 ed bowed with profound gravity; then, turning epee addresse nee eigisote ne ree is your especial prope: Miss Elverton; how shall we anaes Cee attain? Fy “*T would much rather he would remain quiet and comfortable, as he is, several hours at least. Miss Tressel knows her own business best, and she says it will not incommode her any. A grateful gleam shot from Ida’s eyes at Maude, who little knew its real promptings. ‘ The trio mounted their horses, and returned to the Greg leaving Casselmaine in the charge of Ida. Softly she stole to the room where he lay, uncon- scious and silent. ¥y the bedside she stood, devour- ing every feature of the calm, noble face, with a devotion that could be prompted but by love alone A thrill of indefinable joy swept over her, as she gaped upon him, and, glancing searehingly around, nt over his forehead and him. while the iS? Pera ee Pa ete ye ey
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zee HIS IDOL. fiery blushes spread over her face at the liberty she had dared to take. This, then, was the one whom Ida Tressel refused to pelnerledse to her father as the only one she had ever, could ever love, Little Ida Tressel—the poor, humble, yet proudly beautiful girl—had fallen in love with George Casselmaine, the rich, aristo- cratic lover—no, the betrothed husband—of haughty Maude Elverton. And yet he, her idol, had never seen her. George Casselmaine knew not of Ida Tressel’s existence, and when in his moments of yearning for the want- ing something that should bind him heart and hand to the one he loved, he little dreamed of the pair of soft brown eyes that lightened at the thought of him, or the heart that throbbed so wildly when he rode by on the shady roadside. And Ida Tressel was not alone enamored of the. stylish stranger. Another, whose money might be counted by hundreds of thousands of dollars where Ida’s was told by pennies, had concluded, that, hereafter, she and Maude Elverton were bitter rivals. Preposterous as was the idea, Helen Joyce had determined to win George Casselmaine in spite of his beauteous betrothed, and often in her zeal, when Casselmaine, in friendly familiarity, whispered the most commonplace words in her ear, or assisted her to mount or dismount, she believed her end was nearer to accomplishment than she could have hoped. When Ida Tressel had offered so sincerely and hospitably to keep the stranger, Helen Joyce ‘had read her secret in her truthful eyes; and in the rare expressive face she foresaw a rival more potent than Maude Elverton. But, Fred Trevlyn, who also was aware of Helen’s interest in Casselmaine, and who also knew of Casselmaine’s utter disregard for her, had spoiled any romantic little plot Helen Joyce might have ._ formed, and the result was as he and Ida desired. Perhaps had Helen Joyce known, at the moment she directed her impertinent glances at the despised girl, that her old father would be awaiting his destiny at her very lips not a day later, she had acted less scornfully. But, she was in blissful ignorance. CHAPTER VI. THE UNHAPPY MOTHS AND THE FLAME. Tur ride from Rose Cottage, in the society of his idolized Maude, with Helen Joyce on the opposite side of him, was not as delightful as it might have been, and when at the open archway, the two halted, while Helen seemed undecided whether to return home with Maude or not. Fred Trevlyn decided the matter very quickly if not gallantly. ‘“*Good-afternoon, Miss Joyce. Miss Maude and I will not come in, thank you.” Then, touching Maude’s pony with his whip, and _ bowing as his own Fleet darted off, obedient to the .touch of the bridle, they galloped away. [it was a perfect afternoon, cool and breezy, and the buoyant atmosphere incited the riders to a longer race than the short distance to to the Grange. For several minutes neither had spoken, and then Maude broke the silence. ‘Poor George, I do earnestly hope he will recover sufficiently to,come home this evening.” ““Then his society is so very desirable, I conclude, More so than that of any other mortal.” He. laughed savagely, wondering within himself how he had dared say what he had spoken, Maude looked proudly at him. “Why should not my future husband be the near- est and dearest of all men?’ Fred Trevlyn reined his horse close beside her, and bent his h to her.ear. cia He ought to be, he would be, but you do not love m ~ Lik e lightning she turned upon him. . “You transcend your rights as a. friend, Mr. Trev- 1yn; pray, who gave you your information?” But a vivid blush-was slowly tinting her face, and she felt her companion’s dark, passionate eyes read- ing her own. No one told me; my own observation noted it, and my own heart taught me the secret. Mauce Elverton, you are not the woman for George Cassel- maine !’’ He spoke hotly, vehemently. ““Not good enough, perhaps?’’ asked Maude, half in jest, partly to cover her confusion. “Maude! how dare you misconstrue me?” In bitter authority—a power she recognized in every fiber of her being—he spoke, and ere she framed a reply, he burst forth again: “T repeat it—George Casselmaine is not suited to you, to your wants, or your expectations. You need not only a husband who shall lead, direct and guard you, but you want a lover, who shall cherish, wor- ship and adore you. Your betrothed can not do that; he does not love you as much as another does —one who I know sins in the depth of his love for you, who, if he dare, would be the husband-lover!”’ His dark eyes and stern face were tender and lov- ing as he bent so near her crimson cheek, so close he almost heard the wild heart-beat—the throb of purest ecstasy as Maude thought, ‘‘ He loves me!” Z It was fearful ground he was treading on, and he well knew it. But, as stolen sweets are most en- joyed, so did Frederic Trevlyn revel in the enjcy- ae of an interview he felt was only a bitter tantal- ization. For, in the brief moments he spent in Maude El- verton’s presence, he partially forgot his sorrow, Lis chains, the deep gulf between him and his love. He penges the sacred room at the Archery, and its con- tents; he forgot all—every ong save the fierce, hopeless passion for her, and, to-day, from the over- charged deeps of his heart, he had said the words that sent such warm thrills all over Maude, And yet, with the voice of conscience, duty and rudence ringing so tg in his ears, Frederic revlyn would not listen, but madly pursued his_ rash way. : He had been so unhappy—he reasoned—so miser- ably lonely until this sweet face flitted across his vision, this lovely charmer came to woo and enslave him, Maude Elverton was the first human bein who ever, in all Frederic Trevlyn’s life, possesse the power of awakening the master-passion in his heart, to touch the resounding chord of love, which vibrated so fiercely, so Smee This, then, the only dream of joy he had ever known, would come, at last, to a rude awakening. His darling would marry George Casselmaine. He shivered to the very soul at this thought, and when he looked quickly up, he met Maude’s gaze, tender, almost loving, but with a half-savage smile, — he started their borses rapidly Seana ‘* One doesn’t care to ride slowly along this gloomy road, especially when their escort is as stupid as yours.’ Maude might have et Yeti a far different remark than this, so very unlike the last words he spoken. But Maude Elverton was not the woman to — let any man note such a feeling, and_ eagerly as _ Frederic Trevlyn read her face, he detected no sha- dow of what was passing within, and @ fierce pang — shot through him, half jealous that she did not care — for him, half angry that he cared so much for her. “There is the Archery,” and Maude peinted to the cupola glistening among the trees. iim 4 It is a wonder you are not afraid to m\ss such ab ill-spoken-of pisces, at dusk, too. Most adies avoid it, as,though it were peopled with hobgwblins instea@ of human beings like myself, but not :much better than fiends, after all.” a SBE omg “Why, Mr. Trevlyn, how you speak! ‘Making such sport 0 og elegant home, and comparing yo if to a fiend!” on \ Maude’s answer was quickly and indignantly ub — tered, and she raised her eyes fearlessly to his. : He smiled in his own peculiar winning. way; arate eS, ee ee eee ee TS ee — =
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smile, and one as rarely indulged in; one which, de- spite herself, brought a fi to her face as she turned her eyes away. Then you admire the Archery, and do not think me quite a demon?” “T have considered you a friend, Mr. Trevlyn, and is ok that proof I do not regard you in such a wicked “Then you regard me wrongly, Maude Elverton. Iam a wicked man, whose atest sin is my only {oy: You may well look confounded at my language, ut it is true—too true.” He paused, evidently awaiting an answer, but none came. “T know not why I am prompted to speak of these things to you, unless my evil genius. who is ever resent, | me on, but certain it is Tam strongly nclined to tell you my troubles, my griefs—no, par- don me; I have forgotten myself.” He bowed ag) Be strange, inexplicable lover of hers—and, as Maude stole a glance at his stern, stormy face, she saw the fixed expression of stony grief, = near akin to despair, that she pitied him enderly. “Mr. Trevlyn, tell me, I beg. That you are labor- ing under a severe agony of mind, I easily see and deeply regret. Please confide in me, my friend; per- haps a confidante will relieve your feelings. I think I can sympathize with you.” Unconsciously she laid her hand on his arm, and looked imploringly in his face. He turned away, by a an effort, for the temptation pressed him stro a Mau @ Elverton’s warm, life-giving touch on his arm; her sweet face beseeching the story he dared not tell, and could scarcely conceal! It was almost madness, yet the words trembled on his lips; had not his good angel interce ted, Maude Elverton would have heard the words her heart was so earn- estly craving, and he himself would have been deep- er sunk in sorrow and remorse. “TJ thank you,” and his tones were low and gentle, “put Ldare not/ You lay your hand in all confi- dence in mine, now, and call me friend. Did you know my wickedness, m sin, you would hate me, and your hate would be to me worse than death.” ain the lightning-flash of unrestrained delight thrilled over Maude, but she gently removed her arm. For a moment she was silent, then, ere she could reply, Frederic addressed her: j “ As true friends, dear iends, I hope we will part to-day. After to-day I wi not meet you often. can not, I dare not!” . With a haughty bow, Maude answered him, while the angry blood rushed to her brow. “Thank you, sir. Our roads diverge here. Good- afternoon.” She touched the lash to her horse, and bounded down the Grange road, put not quicker than Frederic followed. i “* No,”’.he said ing the bridle, and bringing them face to abe willnot part thus. Listen, Maude Hiyerton, | ae look in gag herent a heart teliyyou w say we mu not your Beart bear witness to what I dare not say, and whatiyou dare not hear She didmot remove her eyes from off his face, until the lasfwords were spoken; then, with a sudden movement, wrenched herself from his hand, so hot and tre" bling. There nsuied a silence and Maude’s heart throb- bed almbst audibly. Never before had Frederic Treviyn «suggested his love so eee and now she thought he referred to her betrotha to George Cas- selmaine, as the impassable barrier to his love for her, Like a sudden flash of light came the thought, that her lover, her rightful lover, was not the one who wore her ring, who would eall her wife, when the summer came again. She knew Fred Trevlyn loved her, and she knew she loved him. She had heard how cold, repellent and haughty the hand- some owner of the Archery WS and how no woman HIS IDOL. ae ever succeeded in winning a smile of love or word affection from him. And from all this ice-bound son of coldness and sternness, the love for her had come, a rushing, hty torrent that naught might stay. She, she was the recipient of this love, the object of this on! and the flush deepened on her cheek at the t ought. “Well?” he asked, gently. His voice, loving and beloved as its tones were, re- called her to herself, and with a fierce, almost stern voice, she answered him, And her answer saved im, “Mr. Casselmaine, my future husband, certainly will not object to my friend, Mr. Trevlyn, calling as usual at the Grange.” Was he awake? Could it be possible this was Maude, his darling, speaking so cruelly, so entirel disregardful of the meaning of his question? He looked earnestly at her, but her sweet face gave no sign of the fierce tumult within, He drew a breath of relief, and yet tinctured with exquisite grief. “T have but one request to ask. Promise me never to give George Casselmaine up. Promise, Maude Elverton! Your sacred promise alone will save me from eternal ruin!” : Hagerly, wildly he scanned her face. “TJ shall certainly marry George Casselmaine. Are you satisfied?” So ~via at variance with his words but a short time before, when he told her George Cassel- maine could never be the husband she would need, he seemed madly delighted with her reply. ; “©God bless you, Maude Elverton! You have saved me—have saved yourself.” He caught her hand, and covered it with hot kisses; then, stooping suddenly, pressed one long ~ kiss on her lips. “T shall not ask your pardon; I do not desire your forgiveness, but I will not repeat the offense—never, alas! never!” The tears sprung to her eyes, but she dashed them away, just as they paused by the Grange gate. - Frederic turned abruptly away, and without a word or bow, galloped home. Almost listlessly, certainly very wearily, Maude entered the house, to apprise her parents of the ac- cident to their guest. CHAPTER VIL. NURSE AND SOMETHING. In the shady, airy bedroom, George Casselmaine lay; the physician had seen him, and pronounced him not dangerously hurt, but too exhausted by the shock of his fall to venture from his present quar- ters for a while—before the next day at the earliest. Consciousness had returned, and he was scanning with interest the objects before him. He perfectly remembered the ride, and wondered, with bitterness, if his betrothed were in the house to attend upon him, or whether he were left to the tender mercies of the country folks who dwelt in the house. He ee ecided that some one in the dwelling was refined, for the dainty little pictures that adorn- ed the walls, the spotless lace curtains of the win- dows, the neat muslin screen attached to the wall before the wash-stand, ornamented with the bright blue rosettes, the Se of flowers on the bureau, all spoke plainly that some refined, taste had ar- ranged all this. ‘A lady must have occupied the room, he further concluded, for behind the door hung a pink muslin dress (whither hasty hands had deposited it), and the lady must be pretty, for the tiny slipper by the bedside, the small gloves that the -opened drawer disclosed, all bespoke a A ae ates He smiled rather scornfully, as he closed his eyes languidly, at the romantic idea of estimating an un- known person’s beauty by such peculiar tests. She might have small hands and tiny feet, and a head of softest brown hair, and wear the daintiest
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10 HIS IDOL. oo ee chee of pink dresses, and yet the skin might be coarse ad thick, the eyes ugly and cross, and the figure ill- proportioned. But what did it matter to him? What need he eare about the owner of the neat little room he oc- | Geo cast an imploring glance at her which said, plainly as looks might say—he much preferred Ida’s ministry. But, she was dumb to his glance, | and, as Aunt Hetty deposited the waiter on the stand, was about to request her assistance. But cupied? He had no pi a pe building air-castles | an opling them wit V r would have loved with all the ardent intensity of his nature. He sighed, and thought of Maude Elverton—beau- teous, enchanting and refined, possessing every qualification his wife should possess, except the one consideration of a love that was from the soul. To George Casselmaine, a marriage without this love was a mockery to which he could not, would not consent. Not that he entertained the most remote idea of giving up his beautiful Maude, but he determined to grow ove her; and when the time came that he could in all truth claim her as his wife vee marriage might be solemnized, and never till then. Rather than learn to love, George Casselmaine wished it might have burst upon him at once. He wished, when he first saw her, the right feeling had come, and this way what his heart was starving for, the while he was nobly striving to cultivate the coy passion. ‘ His thoughts were assuming a serious import, and he was growing restless and impatient, when, sud- denly, the door opened. ; He was so entirely unprepared for the vision that burst upon him, that he cared not to restrain the ex- clamation that rose to his lips, and a bright smile welcomed his attendant as she blushingly advanced | to his side. Ida extended her hand cordially. : “You have awakened, I perceive, sir. You feel | much better, do you not?” “Thanks to some one’s skillfulness, yes; and that ‘some one’ I believe is yourself. Is it not?” Ida smiled pleasantly. ‘ “T certainly attended to you, -but how skillfully I cannot say.” 2 : “ And to whom am I thus everlastingly indebted?” The admiring, withal courteous glance sent the wild blood to her face as she answered. “*T am Ida Tressel.” ‘Ida Tressel!” Unconsciously his lips repeated the name. “T will confess so sweet a name surprises me in this country place.” His winning smile and gentle tones were making sad inroads on Ida’s heart, but she bravely smoth- ered every shadow of her feelings. ‘That must you think then of the title of the dwelling you are in? We call it ‘“‘ Rose Cottage.” “Ida Tressel of Rose Cottage! I shall never for- et ta I think it is the sweetest sound I ever ear “T have prepared a light lunch for you, sir, and if you are ready I will bring it up.” ‘All ready, except that I'll have some water and a napkin first, I’m rather dusty.” Ida poured from the water-vase a basin of cool water, and set it on a chair by the bed; then hung a clean, perfumed towel beside it. With a careless movement, George arose to a sitting posture, and essayed to turn back his cuffs, but a sudden faintness seized him, and, his face as | ashen as death, he was forced to liedown again. . In a moment the giddiness passed away, and look- ing toward Ida, he smiled mischievously. ‘Miss Tressel, you will pardon my presumption in daring to suggest such. a thing, but really Iam un- able to bathe my face.” \ She hesitated a moment, just as Hetty entered the room. “Aunt Hetty can assist you,” she said, pointin mt his sable attendant who carried the tray oF beautiful maidens whom he | Casselmaine superseded her. “Miss Tressel, if it is not too much trouble, would you please help me bathe my face?” His eyes were beaming with a merry twinkle, and a mischievous smile parted his lips. Ida blushed, and then smiled, then comprehending the ludicrous situation laughed aloud. ~ ‘* Please grant me this one favor, dear Miss Tres- Ida’s heart beat tumultuously, but she calmed herself, and, gravely and sweetly, with not the faint- est show of merriment, proceeded to bathe his face and hands, As her hands ie thelr around the waving hair that curled over the white forehead, she shivered in spite of herself. How could it be otherwise? Here was her ideal, on whom she was lavishing all | her heart’s affection, comparatively helpless under | thick waving hair, an her hands; his handsome face smiling so kindly in her eyes, and his own dark eyes beaming so merrily. True, there was no suspicion of loye in George Casselmaine’s demeanor, but Ida felt sure he did not dislike her, and that was a delight. So her hands wandered caressingly, lingeringly perhaps, in the she reluctantly declared her task accomplished. Bide are not threugh?” he asked, and Ida we in She detected a shade of disappointment on is face.’ “Tam. Will you have the glass to see if all is | right?” She would have gone for the little hand-mirror on the toilette stand, but Casselmaine suddenly detained her. *““No, Miss Tressel,” and he caught both her hands, while a rich bloom tinted her cheeks; “no; you shall tell me if l look well. Dol? Are you sat- isfied with me!” ‘*Was she satisfied?’? how that innocent question made her quiver. Satisfied with George Casselmaine? But she raised her lids, and glanced timidly at the handsome invalid. “TI am perfectly satisfied, sir. Your hair is ar- ranged very becomingly, I think.” ‘* Let me see for myself, please.”’ 4 ‘ He looked earnestly in her eyes, so flooded with the love-light in their depths; he tooked eagerly, and when she could no longer return his searchin glance, with a faint ne! she buried her scarlet re pe in her hands. asselmaine detained one and. . “Miss Ida,I beg your pardon. I was cruel, bar- barous, to tax your modesty, to try your patience sO Forgive me, my kind nurse, my little attendant, wil] you?” His smile was bright—his tones earnest, but, Ida saw not the one, if she beard the other. She only knew that perhaps he had read her secret in her eae eyes; and that were worse than never being oved! “Look at me for a single moment, and I promise not to offend again.” He placed his hand under her chin and gently raised her face, so their eyes met. “You forgive me, freely forgive my rudeness? and will grant me a great favor to prove my unre- served pardon?” “IT shall think nothing of it,” she murmured, striv- ing to appear indifferent. “Thank you, thank you; but the boon I crave is, — that you will condescend to regard me as a friend, one who may by friendly acts atone for this one ungentlemanly deed. May I call you my friend— will you acknowledge me yours?” A thrill of wild rapture filled Ida’s heart, that fluttered and throb! in her glad emotion, With- “8 4
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HIS IDOL. __ tt out a word she extended her hand. Casselmaine grasped it cordially, and the compact was sealed. George and Ida were to’ve friends. CHAPTER VIII. A MAIDEN’S SCORN. Tue intervening days had passed, and Sunday had come, when Ida's gray-haired suitor was to make his proposals.,. George Casselmaine had two days before returned to the Grange, leaving the sweet | memory of his brief stay at Rose Cottage, for Ida’s solace, and carrying with him a small vignette of hers, which he had insisted on retaining as a souve- nir of the pleasant episode in his life, no less than a memento of their mutual friendship. He had gone to Maude again—only to dream of his charming nurse, And Ida, in a state semi-joyous, equally wretched awaited his coming again; but, meanwhile prepared to meet Andrew Joyce. The long, warm autumn afternoon was slowly paesing on, and Mr. Tressel and Ida were quietly sit- ing in the little vine-shaded porch, their usual place of siesta on those lovely summer-days. ““My child,” spoke her father, ‘“‘our guest comes; welcome him as becomes us.” The tottering old man stepped on the porch, a foolish smile of sey playing on his withered lips as he reached his hand to Ida, with the other clutching the gold-headed cane, without which he was powerless. . : A scornful expression of her face answered his salutation, and she remained silent. : . “Sit down, neighbor, sit down. Ida, will wheel the easy-chair up for you.” : : Mr. Tressel darted a reproving glance at his daughter’s cold, proud face. “Never mind, my beauty. To be sure I am no gay young lover coming a-wooing, but the gold in map pocket will balance all that, eh?” is dim blue eyes sought Ida’s, but with a gesture of disgust she turned away. : ‘‘Tda,” spoke her father, sternly, while Mr. Joyce endeavored to assume an air of profound dignity “the time for silly trifling has gone et You we know the object of Mr. Joyce’s visit here to-day, and he knows you are aware of it. He comes to repeat to you what he said to me; he comes to hear from you what I have promised him.”’ ; Proudly stern, Ida listened to her father’s words. and replied by a careless nod, and a slight smile o contempt. “Yes, sweet Ida, I come for the express purpose of offermg you my hand and heart; one full of gold and jewels for my lovely bride, the other full of love for my charming wife.’ t , : ; He bowed respectfully, while a sickening shiver ran over her frame. 4 : “You do not reply,” he continue), softly., “I will add, I have the full, free consent of your ather, who has further sworn to keep_his word—that you should be Mrs. Joyce. When I am made cig 7 by addressing you so, the great study of my life will begin—to make you happy, to gratify your slizhtest wish. Ilove youfondly. Will you be my wi e?” j “Never, never!” cried she. “I never will wreck my happiness by binding my young life to yours; I despise, I hate you!” ‘ £ “Be silent, fill you can use choicer language, angrily commanded her father. : x "Do not mind her; it is only maiden coyness, said old Andrew Joyce, endeavoring to reco cile the two, ° “Tt ig not,” she replied, sternly.“ Maiden coy- ness has no affinity with aged imbecility. When an old, decrepit man of seventy seeks to marry a girl of not a third his years, womanly anger takes the bee of maiden coyness. Again I repeat, you had etter keep your overtures for some one more anxious for the gold and ewels you seem so de- termined shall buy you a wile, Her eyes flashed fier¢ely, and she confronted both the old men, while old Aunt Hetty pitied her from her far-off seat in the little back ees : “ Your father has passed his word, and he will not break it. When once I have the right to call you mine, you will learn how kind and loving I am, and you will never repent your « hoice.” “T shall never repent, for I shall not commit any thing worthy of repentance. My father may promise me to whom he sees fit, but, it remains fae me to fulfill that promise, which, rest assured, Mr. Joyce, will never be dore by me.” ; Mr. Tressel arose, enraged, from his seat. “ You shall be more reverent; Icommand it, You shall tell your suitor what I have told him.” “Do not reproach me, father. I mean no disre- spect for you. I, alone, am the insulted one, who will stand up for ay ‘* Pray, Miss Ida, listen, and let me tell you how dearly the old man loves you—” “Be silent, sir,” she commanded, imperiously. - “Your language inspires me with horror, with dis- gust. You are not a man, or you would cease your unwelcome, importunate avowal, No man with any spirit would pursue a woman with such distasteful protestations.” Proudly and with innate dignity she looked at the bent form before her. J ‘*T have enough spirit to continue to strive for the treasure I swear I shall obtain,” he replied, angrily, clenching his fist on the arm of the chair, She gestured him away, and then turned to with- draw to her room. ; “No, Ida Tressel, you disobedient child, you shall hear me. You dare not reject this offer.” aa What! I dare not bestow my love upon whom I “No. Your old, infirm father, who has worked and toiled these three-score years for aa com- mands you instantly to accept your suitor. y the authority of a parent, I beseech you.” : Ida smiled in supreme disdain. ‘‘No earthly Ala nor human ingenuity is able to coerce me in his affair, I never shall, never can, be persuaded to marry old Andrew Joyce.” Like an enraged lioness she exultingly confronted her father and their guest. “One moment, if it please you, my dear young lady. May I speak? Iwould beg, to know if you have a prior engagement which is the obstacle be- __ tween us?” , _ A vivid blush mantled Ida’s brow, but she did not deign to reply. Her father answered for her. “She loves, but has no lover, sir.” His sarcastic words, the cutting tone in which they were spoken, stung her to the quick, and she turned fiercely upon them, her face aglow. “Since you inform your guest so far, allow me to confess the entire truth. ow you, then, Andrew Joyce, that I do love another with all the passion of my soul, I will die loving him, whether I am be- loved or not.” Her sweet face was lighted by the a fires with- in, and she seemed glorified as she told her ardent love for her idol. “Poor girl, poor girl,” muttered Joyce. “Ican appreciate your feelin s—” : “* You appreciate—you /” she retaliated, scornfully. “The man who is old enough to be my great-grand- father, whose youngest daughter is ten years older thanI! You a oe gases yee Mr. Joyce smiled compassionately. “Such overwhelming affection must be a fairy tale. This confession is a falsehood, then, for you told me but a few moments before you would never m ; “T referred to yourself, sir. I shall never marry, unless it is the one Llove. Ihave told you my final, unalterable decision, I shall not allow so loathsome a subject to annoy me again,” ’ With a courtesy she left the room, ——- te 7 so ve... 7 pany a
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ek >, 2 Dee eo “= ” — oe, |) a eee 12 : HIS IDOL. CHAPTER IX, THE SCORNED WIFE. Tur Quaker City had just fallen into the first sound doze on a cool, starry September night, and the windows of the elegant bazars on Chestnut street were long since closed, Lights were extin- guished in the elegant mansions on the aristocratic | uptown streets, save where at intervals a solitary watcher kept guard over the couch of illness, The train from New York had arrived an hour before, and the passengers reached their destina- tions. The spacious Kensington depot was occupied by but one of the hundreds that lately increased the bustle there. The one passenger was a gentleman, tall, hand- some, and commanding, who motioned to a cab- man. “Driveto Arch street, number —.”’ Tossing his overcoat within the cab, end following with his hand-valise, he closed the door, bade the driver go on, and reclined on the cushions, while the cab hurried onward. With a lurch that aroused him, so violent was it, he gazed from the window. The cab had drawn up a large, imposing residence, whose stately front frowned in unrelieved darkness. No ray of light was visible, and as he cast a hasty glance from basement to roof, a bitter smile darkened his features. Without a word, he thrust a bill in the cabman’s hand, and with coat and sachel in hand, ascended _ the steps. He did not try the door, for, of course, at that hour of the night every door was securely fastened, but from his vest-pocket he took a tiny key which he fitted, and opened the heavy walnut door. A faint light in the chandelier in the ball illumined the splendid decorations of the broad, low staircase, the frescoed walls, the statuary in the niches, the velvet-carpeted floor. Beyond the und-glass doors, draped with costly lace, which stood slightly ajar, he saw the massive sideboard, fraught with its |e weight of silver and glass, The view was a eautiful one, but it was only a quick, scornful glance he deigned to bestow, and hanging his over- coat on the e ny rack, and leaviny his valise and hat beside it, the strarger ascended the stairs. The soft Aubusson carpet gave back no sound of his footfall, and, silent and unseen, he continued way. From the door of the front chamber a light gleamed through the keyhole. To this door he went. He turned the knob; it offered no resistance, and he entered the splendid apartment. By the window, over whose plate-glass panes heavy orange-satin curtains were let down, sat a lady, deeply engrossed in reading. She smiled as she read, all unconscious of the presence frowning so grimly upon her; and when she smiled she seemed transfigured, so gloriously did her features lighten. She was otherwise scarcely beautiful, though not am She had an oval face, and her hair was rushed gracefully off the white forehead. The. cheeks wore a pale carmine tint; the lips were scar- let and haughty. Her dress was a white negli7é, of pe. soft Indian muslin, and trimmed with cobweb aces; ©" Upon this fair tableau the intruder gazed, and the | frown darkened on his brow. She did not heed it, and read on in blissful unconsciousness. He ad- vanced rapidly, and laid his hand on the book. : “ Clare? She started, as though Signet but when she saw him, her fear turned to delight, and she sprung from her chair, ‘ “Frederic, my darling!” She laid her hands on his breast, but he removed them, and led her to the chair she had just vacated. - “You know I dislike such demonstrations, Please | discontinue them in the future,” | member our early wedded life; remember how hap- 4 A pained expression came over her features, but she made no reply. i For several moments they stood confronting each ~ other. Then he spoke: “Doubtless you were surprised to see me so unex- pectedly; tut the old excuse is again offered.” aye raised her eyes a moment, looking full in is face. “ Frederic, will the time never come when peace and love are restored between us? Must our lives ever be passed in this awful mockery, ever apart?” She gazed tenderly upon his cold, handsome face, and a bitter smile broke over his features. “Never! Your own hand did the deed; your own heart must bear the consequences.” He smiled proudly. ; Clare uttered a cry of anguish. “ ‘“* My heart alone, Frederic? AmI the only victim — of this pg y marriage? Does not your heart ever long for the happy days my goer Oh, my bhus- band, must I bear this load alone? Pity me, pity me, and love me, be it ever so littile!”’ She raised those tender eyes, love-lit through the mists of grief, in earnest imploration, **Do not enact this scene again, Clare. Whenever I come, the tableau is thesame. Do you wonder I come not oftener?” Frederic Trevlyn folded his arms as he stood — before her. “T received your letter last week, and I would . have come before, had not other affairs detained me, Now I am here, ready to do your bidding, as a hus- ag should et tic light 1 ae for a moment a sarcastic gleam Clare Trevlyn’s eyes, but she bowed respectfully, ; “*T will hear my husband’s will.’ 3 A vial of scornful indignation was centered inthe one word, aud Frederic felt it, but too proud to re- | sent it, he proceeded: ‘ . “T can tell you my commands in a few words. I never wish to see you at the Archery again.” An enraged blush mantled her face, andshe turn- __ ed proudly to,him. : “You have no authority to order your wz/e, your lawfully-wedded wife, the mother of your child— dead and an angel though she be—from your door. You dare not, you shalinot! I protest against it! At the Archery or in the Philadelphia mansion, I am mistress. Remember, my name is Mrs. Frederic Treylyn, and no human power can divest me of my rights and privileges!” F ederic Trevlyn looked coolly on her, so glowing —— and animated. . “That is false,” he said, quietly and calmly. ““You wear my name, you are called my wife by the few who know us, You are truly mistress of your mansion here, for I gave it to you. You were m wife once, Clare, my loved wife; you are my little dead daughter’s mother. I never shall forget that; and for her sake it is that I tolerate you enough to hold an acquaintance with you. But beyond these chains. you are not my wife. You never shail be.”’ His language, though decided, was not harsh. His tones, though firm and stern, were not malignant. ct i Trevlyn knew he meant every syllable he uttered. Her cheek paled, and she trembled like an aspen. — “No, Frederic! Unsay those cruel words! Re-~ py- how trusting you were then. You loved me then, my husband.” ike music, sung by the siren of the fatal rocks, her low,-liquid voice came to his ear, and her beauti- _ ful, melting eyes gazed affectionately in hisown, — Clare Trevlyn had charmed him once, buthertime — had passed. ‘Never call me husband again, Icommand you!” — he replied, almost fiercely, shaking her soft white hand from his arm, His words stung her to madness, and she answered in her anger: : And you, whom the world thinks an enviabla
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i ee HIS IDOL, : 18 man, whom mammas and daughters look covetously upon—you, whose wife is di ced, dishonored—can enjoy opr freedom, your pleasure; can visit beau- Egle! oo and whisper love-words in their ears.” are : Frederic Trevlyn fairly thundered the name. His face grew white with an ill-suppressed passion as he proceeded: ‘ How dare you mention this subject? Remember, never another word on this matter.” E “You have not the power to silence me! I will speak, and inform ets that my love, earnest though it was, can turn to hate! I can punish ou, if I am what you declare you ‘hate’ and ‘ despise!’ ” She paused to await his reply, but he sternly re- garded her in contemptuous silence. She spoke again, now wooing and humble. ‘Frederic, Iam angry: I am saying what I should not say. Forgive me, and, oh, I pray you, love me again, Only let me be your bapoy wife again, andI will compass the wide earth to please you, to delight you. See, Frederic! Clare is penitently suing for your pardon and love!” She knelt humbly before him, but he motioned her away. “ Never, never! the hateful bands that unite us shall remain the same; if I wear the galting chains they shall clank around your neck aiso. We will no be divorced, but we are not a married pair. You shall be answerable for every hour of sorrow and anguish you have forced upon me: you shall live here alone, secluded, to meditate on your sinfulness. Remove your arms; they polluteme. We are not even friends: we are strangers.” He snatched his foot from her hand, and with a contemptuous bow, withdrew. CHAPTER X. AT THE COTTAGE. Grorarn CassriMamNE had been brought to the Geanee again in Doctor Elverton’s easiest carriage. Mrs. Elverton hovered raibsepithcas S about the leunge whereon he lay, which the doctor had insisted should be wheeled to the pleasant spot in whichever room the family used for the time. Maude tended him carefully and kindly, anticipating his every wish, and enacting the tender betrothed most devotedly. Despite these attentions from every member of the household at the Grange, Casselmaine’s thou; hts were too often reverting to the fairy nurse at Rose Cottage. Of Ida he dreamed, sleeping; of Ida he mused, waking, until he was terrified to find what a deep interest he felt in her—until he was grieved to learn that he loved her better than Maude, __ The quickly recurring days brought him his strength and wonted health, and as soon as he was able to endure the fatigue he went straight to Rose Cottage. Ida was charming as ever, in her plain white Marseilles, and a vivid pink rosebud at the neck, and as the bloom on her cheek deepened when he entered, it caused a corresponding gleam of joy in his own bright eyes. “Tcome to report, Miss Ida,”—he had so soon adopted the formal title—‘‘as it becomes a thankful patient todo. Your good care did wonders for me, He reached his hand cordially toward her, “Tamglad to hear it. Isuppose you mean the ‘bath’ when you refer to the ‘good care’ bestowed ee you?” er merry eyes sought his own. tooclbasly | S25 before the ardent, admiring glance, she blus “Oertainly I included that. Inever enjoyed any- thing in my life more.” Jda dared not tell him that she thought the same, 8o she played carelessly with the tassel of the linen shade, endeavoring to recall her self-possession, George Casselmaine, with an effort, removed his eyes from her sweet, blushing face. “Are they wellatthe Grange?” Bhe asked the commonplace question, for the si- lence grew awkward, “* Perfectly well.” ee reply ae Rea Ase ere oe to another question, and she twir: etassel desperately. “What shall I say to entertain es haw can I think of the silly little remarks with which fashion- able women entertain their guests?” she thought. Then, by a sudden inspiration, she determined to converse of their mutual friend, Maude. Ida desired to hear hinr speak of her for a two- fold reason. One, to learn whether he really loved her; the other, to see if beautiful Maude loved him. T presume Miss Elverton has proved a most effi- cient attendant during your convalescenee, Mr. Cas- selmaine?”? |. “She deserves credit, certainly; but her services were in no wise preferable to that of the first nurse into whose hands I fell.’ pores had an excuse for reading her face again which he did, filled with a strange joy as he no’ the flush on her cheeks. “Tell me all about it,” he continued. “It is a pleasant incident to me. Indeed, I almost wish the affair would transpire again.” “There is very little to tell, indeed, except that Mr. Trevlyn brought you into the house, and I came, with Hetty, to the rescue. Miss Maude and Miss Joyce returned with Mr. Trevlyn for the surgeon.” new light shone in his eyes, and he asked, ak most eagerly, if Maude did not remain a while at least. ‘She stayed until ker further services were unne- cessary. »She was very kind, indeed, Mr, Cassel- maine, and insisted on having you taken immediate- ly to the Grange.” ** And who demurred, Miss Ida?’’ With more than friendly kindness he leaned near her, awaiting her answer. “'Mr. Treviyn objected most decidedly, and I was — too glad to have you remain here.”’ ‘he slight frown on his brow when she began to speak, cleared away at her last words. ‘Then, although you dared not demand that m safety required me to go no further, you were aes when it was decided I should tarry with your” —~ His dark, earnest eyes were looking straight at hers. “Yes, I was glad, and I am giad still.” Her heart throbbed as she made this bold answer, — and Casselmaine’s beat faster when he replied: _ “Thanks, Ida; now I know we are friends indeed.” He pressed her little hand earessingly. Ida’s pulse bounded wildly. He had called her “ Jda ;” he had held her hand: Surely he didlike her a little; and the warm flush of joy lighted her eyes, and rendered her more beautiful than ever. And George Casselmaine, as he watched the emo- tions of her mobile countenance, grew momentarily to loving her more and more. But, while he chided himself for the love he knew he was cheri where another should have been encouraged, he ex- cused himself with the thought that he was stron, enough to burst the fetters when the proper time o decision came. So Ida, in the warmth and fullness of her heart, allowed her affections to twine about him. They were ara A by the window, both silent. Ida gazing abstractedly beyond the little garden, and George watching her. Suddenly she seemed to pale, then uttered a, little cry. “What is it that frightens you?” Casselmaine sprung from his seat, and looked anxiously around, A faint smile played over her lips as she answered: “Nothing, not I assure you. I am very foolish, very silly. You will think I am affecting airs. She laughed as she spoke, but the pallor of her face did not escape his eye. “You are miserable,” he returned, gravely, ‘Some object has passed the window that fills you with alarm or horror. Iam your friend, Ida, il you not tell me?” . “T have nothing totell, Mr. Casselmaine, Indeed Tam very silly, and that will surely content you,”
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4 { 14 She looked laughingly from her bright eyes, and the brilliant carmine returned to her lips again. ‘* A special admirer of yours passed at the moment you spoke, Mr. Casselmaine; perhaps a sight of her rriffed me,” ‘An admirer of mine, Ida? Who, pray?” He glanced anxiously down the road at the car- riage that was nearly out of sight. It was not the Grange carriage, and he~breathed freer, would the Elvertons say to see him, their daughter’s betrothed, in such a place in company with the poor girl of Rose Cottage? “‘Helen Joyce,” she answered, darting a merry glance at him, yet watching its effect, His lip curled contemptuously; then he suddenly caught Ida’s hands. “Look at mea moment. Do you think I like that woman?’ His dark eyes were steadily searching her own; but she answered lightly: What | HIS IDOL. ‘How am I supposed to know? Sheisa very fine | young lady, they say.” He ed her hands away, and then threw himself down in the rocking-chair, ‘*Ida Tressel, you are a curious girl.” ‘““Why so? Didn’t I answer you correctly?” “Did you answer me at all? Didn’t you ask me another question?” Ida’s gay laugh rung out on the cool autumn air, _“Oh, sir, I verily believe you are in_ love with | Helen Joyce, and are afraid she may hear of it. But, indeed, I will not tell her.” She regretted her careless speech the moment she uttered it, for with flashing eyes he arose and con- fronted her. “You know that Miss Joyce has no particular at- traction for me.” ; “T spoke thoughtlessly; pardon me, and let us be friends again?” The sweet persuasiveness of her voice subdued him, and he extended his hand. ‘“‘bardon me, Ida, And now lest my host should consider me remiss in staying so long away, I must | ain, return. But promise me I may come ¢ ever open a “Yes, come again, Rose Cottage welcome door to you.” ** And its sweet mistress a welcoming hand ?”’ He had almost said “‘heart,’’ but she did not know it. He bowed and left the house, and Ida gazed wist- fully after him until he was lost to view. 4 o CHAPTER XI. A WIFE’S LOVE. THE ieee mansion on Arch street was a blaze of lght. Its haughty mistress detested darkness and gloom, and fora few days past her imperious edict had been issued to the well-trained, respectful servants that as soon as the first night-shadows deepened, every room should be brilliantly iliumi- nated. Through the lace-curtained windows might be seen the fairy scene within, the long suites forming one bdazing sea of light, gold, crystal. The furniture was pees peoultn in its golden and satin ele- gance; the tables were of rich inlaid wood, the cabinets of verde antique. The paintings were most exquisite, the statuary the rarest, the numberless little articles of vertu the costliest that decorated any resideace far or near, And tumid all this luxury the lone woman, who was mistress g@ it all, stood, clad in robes of magnifi- cence, deiantly proud and fascinating. Clare Trevlyn had been a wounded when her husband came to her, on that evening when we introduced her, and her heart still quivered from the fierce blows Frederic Trevlyn had struck. But she had resolved to pursue her own course, and now she smiled sternly at her lovely face in the mirror, as ~ she thought over her plans, She stepped to the speaking-tupe. ** Scud Esther to me,” Her melodious voice echoed down the long dis- tance, and in a moment a low tap answered her. In obedience to the silence which followed, a sign of Mrs. Trevlyn’s that she was ready to receive her servants into her presence, the door opened, and the woman summoned entered. é She was a fleshy, good-looking, amiable, harmless- looking woman, whose black silk dress and neat lace cap bai pee her of the higher order of servants, And indeed she was, as the conversation between lady and maid proved, ‘*Close the door and turn the key, Esther. I de- sire to talk on private and important matters, which no one living must know but you and I. You under- stand?” Mrs. Trevlyn nodded Spgs ges oe / ‘IT do comprehend, exactly. Iam to hear every- thing, yet know nothing.” Esther understood her ground well. . Precisely; we have shared many a secret, Esther, before I was Mrs. Trevlyn, and you plain Esther Waring—the rich Mrs. Trevlyn’s housekeeper. You remember those early, happy ear I suppose?” “Indeed, I do; and all too well. How the proud, handsome gentleman came riding to the tumble- down cottage to court you.”’ Esther’s face clouded over as she spoke, +s “ He was handsome, Esther, and proud, too: and e is yet.’ Mrs. Trevlyn tried to smooth the frown from her bee neo brow. ‘*Proud and handsome he may be, yet what does his beauty count for when he treats you so shame. fully—’ «Hush, Esther. Icannot allow you to disparage ac. husband’s conduct. Remember I am his wife.”’ here was a sweet dignity in Clare’s tones that fell reprovingly on Esther’s ears, but it failed to quell the storm of passion rising in her breast. “And a pretty husband he is: Didn’t he come alt the way from New York to see you, and then order me up in the middle of the night to light up the blue bedroom for him, and yours, his by rights, as cosey and comfortable as possible?” Her voice grew loud and indignant as she ended, while a flush dyed Clare’s fair face. “Do not be so severe, Esther. Mr. Trevlyn was very tired, and wished a bath before he went to sleep. You should not judge him so harshly.” Esther laughed scornfully. “ And why wasn’t his wife’s bedroom good enough, eh? Don’t tell me, Mrs. Trevlyn, t¥at that man cares for you; don’t tell me not to judge him, when every servant in the house gossips about you two the live-long day.” 5 , * ape Esther! The girls do not mention his name, o they?” - A proud, injured look was on her face as she raised it, tearful and flushed. ‘“And why don’t they? They’ve every cause to, I am sure,” Clare arose from her chair, and walked slowly to and fro, her eyes blinded by the hot tears that welled tid her sad heart. Suddenly she paused before sther. ‘*To think that the time has come when Frederic and I are a byword among our servants! To think that he loves me so little as to conduct himself in such a manner, that people point at us and repeat that ‘Frederic Trevlyn does not live with his wife!’ Oh, Esther, it is hard to bear all this, silently and without demur! What have I ever done to merit all this agony and shame?” She clasped her beautiful hands in an eestasy of grief, and bowed her proud head on them. ‘Sure enough, what have you done? I'll soon tell you, You’ve worshiped that man_ until you’ve con- cluded he isa god among men. You've slaved, and slaved for him, until he has grown weary of you, and now, while your love continues the same, his
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AIS IDOL. eg has waned, and in another vicinity he seeks new Beye hope Ss charms, ied a ad mind.”’ . > sther Waring spoke sharply. bitterly. When she had done, Clare raised her arcopiae Bead. “Yes, God knows I love him, and God knows Iam true to him,” Her passionate avowal made no impression on the indignant woman. “ But he insists you are disgraced and dishonored, and advises you to remain here, in seclusion and re- tirement, to meditate on past offenses and future punishment.” She looked triumphantly at Clare, who sat, pale and sad, like a broken lily. ‘“‘True,” she responded, wearily; “ true, Frederic does not believe me when 1 tell him I love him, and have never breathed a disloyal breath; but what must I do to convince him otherwise?” “Do?” asked Ester, sharply, ironically. ‘‘ Why, prove yourself his abject slave by immolating your- self in’ his gilded cage, and humbly receiving him when he condescends to come, as a dog does its mas- ter whom he fears.” “Cease, Esther. This is wrong, heartless. I am heart-sick and spirit-sad. To you {come for advice, for comfort; for, besides you, I have none else. My husband hates me, my mother is in heaven, my baby an angel! Gh, sther, Esther, 1 am very lonely! Forget I am the rich Mrs. Trevlyn; call me little Clare again, as you did when I was little! Oh, Esther, my heart is so sick!” Scalding tears dropped from her brilliant eyes, and the woman’s lip trembled at sight of her woeful, pitiful face. “God help you, my baby Clare, for you have a heavy burden to bear on those slight shoulders.” She wound her arms about Mrs, Trevlyn’s neck, and kissed her forehead. “Esther,” whispered Clare, ‘‘can’t I convince Fred how innocent I am? Tell me how to win his love again! He mustloveme; he shalilove me, for I am his wife.”’. “Mrs. Trevlyn, come with me a moment,” and Esther took her unresisting hand, and led her to the mirror. “See, there is a beautiful woman, who can, who shall win her husband to bis rightfullove.” Gradually Clare’s eyes grew soft, and her mouth rippled in‘a sweet, rare smile. Her perfect form was displayed to its best advantage by the close- fitting, graceful robe she wore; and her beauty was hightened by the severe simplicity of her dress. The starry eyes were floating with their tearful splendor, and from their dark depths looked out a ‘tender, proud light. " “Yes, Esther, 1 am beautiful, am I not?” “Every one calls you so, and that must be true which allindorse. Mrs. Trevlyn, this beauty is your weapon; you must pring your husband to your side again.” a smile played around Clare’s exquisite mouth. “Yes, I will take advantage of it. Life, wealth, pride—all, ail will I gladly sacrifice if I may once more hear my husband say, * Hy darling, my wife! CHAPTER XII. BATTLING WITH SHADOWS. SrverRAL days had oe since the day Frederic Trevlyn returned from hiladelphia, and, as usual, after his trips there, he shut himself closely in the Archery, receiving his meals at the hands of his valet, at the half-opened door of his private room. He had not seen any one since his return, and his face wore that stormy, anguished expression of one passing through deepest waters. The afternoon sunlight peeped through the shutters of the sanctum, where, pale and trembling, be sat, fighting another fierce battle with himself. The gray velvet curtains hid him from view, but a listener in the aijoining To might have heard the moans that burst from his hard-compressed lips. “ “Tt is madness, yes, infinitely worse than mad- ; ness! And yet, in my own strength, 1 am nothing. Tecan not—oh, {can not fight much longer against this mighty power that is dragging me down, ‘soul and body, to ruin, desolation and remorse! And yet I court the sweet temptation; I delight to revel in the forbidden joy. Weak, powerless wretch I am, and still, what can I do? How shall I shut the last ray of light, dazzling to eternal blindness though it be, from my weary eyes?” He covered his face in his trembling hands, and re- mained silent, until the sound of approaching horses’ hoofs aroused him. He glanced carelessly up; the least diversion was acceptable that would change the morbid train of thought into which he had failen. On the road, just beyond the rustic fence, two riders were Sek rnh One was Maude Elverton, smiling and : the gloomy house, searching for a salutation from him, little recking he was watching her from be- hind the closed blinds with throbbing heart and flashing eye. Beside her rode George Casselmaine, proud, hand- some, as he always was, and he, too, following the direction of Maude’s glance. They dashed on out of sight, and Frederic Trevlyn breathed freer again. “Thank Heaven, she does not know my secret! No, my beautiful, Meeker Maude, you little dream of the mad, wicked love I feel for ee And, although I have almost betrayed self, I thank Heaven the fatal truth remains unspoken in my own burning soul.” He rose again, and tossing his hair from his fore- head, he paced the floor in his agitation. “Tt will be happiness, unalloyed bliss for the time, to listen to. her voice, to a 3 Soe her smile, to gaze into the azure depths ot her pure, innocent eyes; but, oh! when the end of it comes, as it must do, the remorse, the bitter, bitter wailings of remorse!” His eyes wandered to the road again. “This will never do forme! I am wasting my best days in sorrowing for what I can not help; guoving for what can not be changed. I must engage my mind some way or saa or I shall go crazy.” And truly, his haggard face and hing wild eyes reiterated his assertion. ‘With sudden determination, he jerked the crimson tassel by the door. “Tell Mrs. Holcombe to come to my room a mo- ment. I have an order for her.” The servant’s exit was followed by the appearance of the portly housekeeper. “Mrs. Holcombe, you will be exceedingly sur- orised, I think, when you hear that I intend re- modeling the Archery, and partly refurnishing the western suite, on the second floor. Please set all the girls to work, have every room opened and aired, and made perfectly clean,”’ f A tranquil expression had gradually crept over his weary countenance. Mrs. Holcombe glanced toward the heavy gray velvet curtains that swept from ceiling to floor at the further end of the room. “Not open every room, sir? Not enter that?” She pointed to the sanctum. “Heavens, no. I thank you Mrs. Holcombe, for reminding me. I will attend to these two apart- ments myself; you may see to the others as soon as possible.” e bowed, and Mrs. Holcombe, with a kindly beam of her mother-eyes—for she loved and pitied ae HONORS young enough to be her son—turned to depart. ‘ Treviya called her again. 5; “One moment, Mrs. Holcombe; make pre tions for a dinner-party on Tuesday next—a dozen couples. And be so good as to send William to me,”’ e walked to the window and closed the shutters tightly, fastening them with the heavy iron bars that he could barely lift. Then he lowered the ascinating as she looked earnestly at —
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TO eee ee 4 pets > ‘ 16 . HIS IDOL. upper sash, and raised the under one, leaving half the window open. With the two other windows he did the same, and in the total darkness groped his way to the gas-jet, and lighted it. his he turned far down, so that a faint twilight ervaded the apartment. For a moment he bowed os head against the marble mantle, and in his ish unheeded words fell from his lips. Iam building the awful barrier between me and hope, joy and love; but, I thank God, the same gul? that separates me from life and light, unites me to duty and right-doing. Maude, Maude, my*heart’s beloved, to-day I am endeavoring to forget you! I am endeavoring to remember another, whose name and title deserves better treatment from me than I bestow, but whose actions have widely, hopelessly divided us.” He turned wearily away from the mantle, and lifted the gray velvet curtain. as de the last time, for the last time,” he mur- mured, BF jas stepped through, and the heavy folds closed ter him. It was only a moment ere he returned. '“T have left a faint light burning, which shall never die until Ido! Ihave looked on my treasure for the last time as the lonely master of the deserted mansion. ‘The next time 1 enter my sacred retreat, an ‘ I shall be known as Frederic Trevlyn, the gay, gener- | ous, hospitable host of the Archery. He left the outer room, and after locking it, went to the open door in the hall. “Tam waiting,” said William, as he appeared. -“T want you to ride to the residences of those whose names are on this list, and carry some notes,” He a a the man eA list. ‘ > : While you are ing your horse and arrangin your route, I will or the cards of invitation. 4 twenty minutes I will be ready.” The time had barely elapsed when Frederic ap- red at the door, the envelopes in hand, while illiam led his horse to the carriage-block. “Begin with the Villa, and end at the Grange,” he said, as William rode off. “Tt is of no consequence, but I feel as if every act I did that gave no preference to her was a safe- ard,” he whispered, with a bitter smile; then, as murmured words recalled her too forcibly for silence, he repeated her name: ~ ; Homedeees tb bases eedh, tind eqgatn Hien g f e enter 6 house again, an or Mrs. Holcombe. ee “Tam a great deal of trouble, I know,” he began, pleasantly; ‘‘but will you take me through the rooms, and show me what you regard the most con- verter? suite, and the most elegant guest-cham- ers : “Bless you, Mr. Frederic, I shall be proud and happy to accompany you. But I must confess, it does seem strange for a gentleman not to know enough of his own house to go through it alone.” “Tam a strange man, Mrs. Holcombe, as you truly say. Besides my bedroom and the ground floor, I have not entered aroom in the Archery for two years.” His face clouded again, “Do not an ltd mind run on your troubles, sir, | - pomuch. Pa on my boldness,” she added, noting his stern features. “Pardon me, my good friend, for neglecting you forsomany months, As you say, my griefs oppress me constantly, and under their burden Lalmost faint at times.” -They paused before a massive oaken door, in whose lock Mrs. Holcombe fitted a large brass key. “This is the best Lie aero Mr. Frederic, and one in which the ident might feel proud to sleep. To my notion there isn’t its equal in America.” With a pardonable satisfaction, she pushed open the door, and glanced proudly around. It was a Adlendid apartment, the prevailing color pale pink. a . . “a | This should never leave him, and in Carpet, curtains, and wali were all tinted in the same delicate shade, while, scattered in picturesque Seat Sree were every imaginable convenience and uxury. Frederic gazed carelessly at it all, “Yes, it looks very well.” “ Very well !” repeated the housekeeper, in i nation. ‘It is elegant, splendid, magnificent!” Trevlyn smiled at her enthusiasm, : “You needn't laugh, Mr. i'rederic, for I am not the only woman who gone in ecstasies over it.’ ; He turned quickly toward her, a flush rising on his ‘ace, ‘* What woman has been here?” he asked. “Tf I did wrong, you must pardon me; but she was so pretty, and so lady-like, and begged me to show her the house; and I could not refuse, especially when she said she knew you, and she guessed you would not object.” The blush deepened; then his face paled. “Of course you didn’t let Miss El—the lady enter every room?” “Bless you, no, sir. The finest and best only, of course.” “Who was it, do you know?” he asked, a feeling of exquisite joy filling him at the thought that Maude had seen his house; begged to see it; admired it. Of course, Mrs. Holcombe referred to her, for who else pretty and lady-like in all the country dut Maude Elverton? ‘* She left her card with me, but made me promise I would not let you see it. It was a short name, like Kate or Belle; neither of those, though.” “Yes,” he said, softly, ‘‘she means ‘Maude.’ Was it an pene name, Mrs. Holcombe?—an odd name?” He almost feared the answer, lest, after all, it were not the one. * “The queerest [ever heard; Inever heard it be- fore or since.” : He felt satisfied now—and if he only could get ed session of the precious card, so that he might kiss the name he loved so fondly, he would find it a pana- cea in his moments of gloom and darkness. ““Mrs. Holcombe,” he began, gently and per- suasively, ‘‘I feel greatly flattered that any Pours. lady should have been pleased with the taste 1 have displayed in my furniture. But could I know her name, I would like to present her my compliments.” He smiled at Mrs. Holcombe, _ “ But I have forgotten the name, Mr. Frederic, in- deed I have, orI would tell you, seeing you would assure her how welcome she was,” “ Most certainly I should, and invite her to repeat her tour of investigation. If I had her name—or the card,” he suggested, hesitatingly. Mrs. Holecombe’s face brightened visibly. “Sure enough, there is the card safe in my trunk, if 1 haven’t lost it. Ill get it for you. You'll prom- ise to be friends with her?” His heart beat violently. ** Friends with Maude? Oh, if it were only that!” She returned soon, and Frederic saw a tiny slip Lend her fingers as she triumphantly carried it along. His eager hands almost snatched the a Maude’s sweet name, traced by ear riceless er own fingers. He coveted it more than untold gold. the glimmerin light of the silent, curtained room below, he woul read it—Maude’s own hand-writing. Mrs. Holcombe handed it to him. His nervous fingers took it trem- blingly, and his love-lit eyes caught the sweet name. A pale, ashen hue crept over his face as he took the coveted U peataey and, without a word, he handed it . back, and strode fiercely down the stairs. ‘the innocent card lay in Mrs. Holecombe’s open palm, while her wondering eyes followed her mas- ter’s retreating form, The name was short, sweet and sad, The name was ** CLARE.” we — ee ae ee ; 4 al :
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~ Ye ee . a HIS IDOL. " ‘ CHAPTER XIII. A SERPENT'S TONGUE, Gror@r CAsseLMaIne had returned from Rose Cot- tage in a strangely excitable condition, and to his in- finite relief, found, as he surmised, that Mrs. Elver- ton and Maude were out driving. Notwithstandi which, as he entered the darkened parlor, for a cool siesta on the sofa, a little scream from an invisible occu, ant startled him. “Oh, Mr. Casselmaine, I hadn't the slightest idea ou were in the house! Isn't it provoking that aude stays so long?”’ George threw open the shutters to discover his pigs ag oyce—pardon me; my eyes were unaccus- tomed to the twilight of the room, and I did not re- co nize your voice.” nak e bowed respectfully, and Miss Joyce laughed merrily—at what, he was at a loss to pices Here is a seat,” and she drew her skirts to make room beside her, ‘““Thank you,” he said, seating himself, with as ood grace as possible, and secretly wishing it were “You look remarkably well, Mr. Casselmaine, considering your recent indisposition. It was too bad in Fred Treviyn, I think, to leave you at that forlorn, out-of-the-way cottage, with an infirm old man and a fat colored woman to wait on you.” _ “Treceived most excellent care, Miss Joyce, though it came from neither of the two you mention. He spoke distantly, coldly, but Helen Joyce would not admit that to herself even. She had a task to accomplish, a Herculean task, too, and she was re- solved that no rebuffs should intimidate her. She had determined to win George Casselmaine, if not by fair means, then assuredly by unfair ones. He little dreamed of the siege she was laying to his heart; he little dreamed o anything in connec- tion with Helen Joyce, except that she was a good- looking woman—Helen Joyce was twenty-five—dis- agrecable and tiresome, ‘Yes,’ she continued, * you look as if some awk: ward creature had nursed you—pardon me, Mr. Cas- selmaine. I do not refer to your awkward appear- ance, but that of the nurse.” ain she displayed her white, even teeth, and again Casselmaine wondered what she found so’ amusing. He did uot know that she considered her teeth her greatest charm. “IT dare say I am a boorish-looking fellow, Miss Joyce, in your critical eyes, but I always am ‘hai, at the best of times. * Oh, no, you are just the opposite of that, I’m She blushed, and then looked out the window. “T wonder when Maude will be home? Do you know where she went?” **T do not know either, Probably not before tea.’’ It wanted yet an hour to the supper-time, and he thought to discourage her from waiting. “Oh, then, 1 may as well lay off my hat, for I must see her before I return.” 5 She deliberately unfastened her kids, and laid them on the mirror-stand; and Casselmaine resolved the hour should be a solitary one so far as he was concerned, After she removed her hat and shawl, she reseated herself on the sofa. el pa Maude has gone with Mr. Trevlyn, riding? ey seem quite attached to each other,’ she remarke colnet. yet watching the effect of her words. ; “T can appreciate Mr. ial: og discriminating taste in selecting Miss Llverton for a friend; she is a chemning 66h ‘ Helen bit her lips in vexation; her arrow had fallen harmlessly at his feet. “Indeed she is," she continued, enthusiastically. “Maude is a sweet creature, and we are the best friends in the world. 1 know all her secrets, and Bhe all mine,” «You could not have a better confidante. I know Mauuae never betrays what is confided to her.” Again the cold ego in his eyes warned her he was not falling into the net she was spreading. *“T mentioned Mr. Trevlyn’s name conjunction with Maude’s, because I know she thinks a great deal of him; a great deal, indeed. I should not-be surprised if they were betrothed.” ne ee glow of anger he could not avoid mantled s face. “Miss Joyce, if “far think to wrench from me any — 9) demonstrations jealousy on Miss Elverton's ac- count, a) pb scarey | in the most impossible way. Miss El\erton considers you what you ve! evidently regard yourself—her confidante, she grossly deceived, and you have basely betrayed her.” Without a parting word he walked proudly out from the room, leaving her to quench her rage as best she could, z . ‘And indeed it would be difficult to define the vari tumult of emotion that swept over her. as Rage, mortification, wounded pride and love—for with all her might she loved George Casselmaine— struggled and conflicted. Her face w dark and severe; her light, keen eyes darted fiery rays of malicious vexation, as she paced to and fro, awaiting the return of Maude, in whose ear she was so anxious to pour her poisonous words. 3 She had not long to wait, forin a few minutes after her companion’s abrupt departure, the sound of the carriage-wheels on the gravel-walk announced the return of the ladies. : Mrs, Elverton ahghted, and proceeded at once to her dressing-room. Maude, seeing Helen’s face between the curtains, er 5 ah rlor. green a ; ope Ihave not kept you waiting very long; have 17" Maude asked, as she removed her elegant camel’s-hair shawl, glancing a moment at Helen as she spoke. “Only a half-hour, chere.”’ “Which must have passed lonesomely here all by yourself, Iam sorry we were not home sooner.” “Mr Casselmaine has favored me with his gentle- manl arn aed part of the time.” Helen spoke sourly and crossly. - ; “Why, what is the trouble?” inquired Maude quick- ly, noting the rising in Helen’s tones, and on her ace. She knew her betrothed had, in some manner, offended her guest. “Nothing mentionable; pray do not allow it to an- — nOy oat iB don't fancy Mr. Casselmaine very much, that’s all. Maude laughed merrily at Helen’s grim visage. “Nonsense, amie, George is too thoroughly & gen- tleman to cause any lady to dislike him. You may have misconstrued a word he said, for I am positive he never speaks indecorously to any one.” “Tf he were to tell you you were a base betrayer of secrets, and accuse you of loving another person betterthan your betrothed husband, wouldn’t you take offense at it?” She looked Maude full in the face as she uttered the treason. Maude’s cheeks flushed an angry scarlet, and her eyes suffused with tears. ‘““Helen, Gecrge Casselmaine did not. say that?” Hex voice quivered as she spoke. “He did, He said he thought you liked Fred Trevlyn better than you did him, and that it was dis- honorable in you—” : “Helen, Helen, stop. Did he dare call me—Maude Elverton, dishonorable ?” Her flashing eyes searched scrutinizingly the im- assive pale face, so haughty and self-assured, be- ore her, The keen gray eyes did not falter when they met the fierce glance, nor the cheeks redden as the lips deliberately uttered the falsehood. Helen Joyce looked boldly at Maude. “George Casselmaine not only accused being false to him, but he declared the ou of isloyalty o
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oh? ~- / 18 was Tautual, as the pretty girl at Rose Cottagé had won his heart.” Maude’s proud head drooped to the arm of the sofa, and the hot, scalding tears fell copiously over her round white arm, No a ra did she utter, no other that she was insulted, outraged in her womanly faithfulness to her future husband—and grandly true she had compelled herself to be, as the reader remembers— Helen watched her tears with ill-concealed delight. “Let me part them; let me part him and the mis- | my reward, even | erable cottage-girl, and 1 will rea if a half-score years pass before I win him. L will marry George Casselmaine, come what may, and he shell one drepay me the bitter debt he incurred is day. “Helen,” and Maude raised her face again, her i ad tearless, her countenance devoid of all traces of her previous emotion, ‘‘I am very much indebted to you for your kindness, and I think I appreciate your frien y interest in accepting my honor as your own, for I know your anger arose entirely from hearing my name defamed. “Indeed it did. Iam not the by, and hear any one speak friends.” Maude laid her head affectionately on Helen’s shoulders. “Dear Helen, I am so thankful you are such a true, fearless woman; so noble and high-principled in everything you do or say. George could not have selec a more honorable conjidante for his opinion.” “And the confidante has “basely betrayed,’ you see,” returned Helen, playfully. “When I told Mr. Casselmaine I should certainly inform you of our interview, he accused me of being a betrayer of con- fidence, and what lowered him still more in my esti- mation, and will, Iam sure, in yours, threatened to deny, é toto, every thing he said, in case you brought him before you; and not that alone, but he said he could turn the tables against me, so it would a ear I had maligned you, and Ae indignantly de- as Helen ceased, ended you?’ ‘Do not feel em- arson to sit quietly arshly about my “Heartless!” ejaculated Maude, and stroked her hair lovingly. barrassed, dear Helen, for I know, positively, ou would never speak ill of me. And it is very hard to think George should, either.” Helen did not reply, nor did Maude see the almost fiendish smile on_her haughty lips. “Maude, will I be forgiven if I say something I fear I should not?” “Say any thing you choose; you cannot offend me.” Above Maude’s bowed head Helen’s eyes gleamed delichtedly. as she thought: ‘* But let me ascertain if Frederic ae and Maude do reciprocate each - other’s love, and Then baffle me who may!” Her voice, as she began; was hesitating and hak | fearful. ‘“‘T must have another promise that I may whisper my unimportant opinion—or, rather, suspicion—and not offend or distress you in the least. And that, if Iam wrong, you will love me none the less.” “You have the promise sacredly given. speak,” Now *¢ Then,” said Helen, lowering her tones until they | were low and liquid, “‘then, chere, 1 think Maude does love Fred Trevlyn.” The words were few, but a vivid blush mantled Maude’s face as she raised her head. “ Why do you think so?” “Because I know, from good authority, that the handsome master of the Archery loves aecrga Casselmaine’s betrothed to idolatry; and Maude Elverton can not, for the life of her, avoid returning that love.” ‘ She kissed her tenderly. “Helen, promise never to tell a living soul that I do love him as I never shall love again, am on the very path 1 am seeking. _ HIS IDOL. - A proud’ light gleamed in her eyes as she nobly confessed her affection. ‘Rest assured of that, chere. And now, knowing you love each other, may I congratulate you that the barrier is removed? For, of course, your two- fold reason for releasing Mr. Casselmaine will direct you to break the engagement as early as possible.” ‘‘T must acquaint mamma and papa with this affair, and see George myself. Of course, I shall dismiss him, for, after what _he has confided to you, I would not wish to become his wife, even if—if—” “You really loved him,” supplied Helen, as Maude hesitated. ‘‘ Remember, I caution you against what he may say of me; for, in his wrath that I said I should faithfully repeat every word to you, he un- wittingly said what he did. So be prepared, dear Maude, to hear me spoken of very harshly, perhaps scandalously. ButI trust you know me too well to credit a word.” “Indeed, no one can influence me against you; you can always believe that I am a true friend, even as I know you are.”’ , Helen pressed her hand affectionately. “T shall have to go home again, for I expect Mr, Winchester to tea; and father is very particular about our punctuality.” She drew her shawl Stace, around her, and put the dainty little hat on her head; then, when she had fastened the kids, she kissed Maude, and went away. CHAPTER XIV. A CONTRETEMPS. ; SEVERAL days had elapsed, each passing as the other to the inmates of Rose Cottage—each marked by the urgent advice of Mr. Tressel for Ida to accept Andrew Joyce—each occupied in part, at least, by a visit from the gray-haired lover, who begged and implored her sweet consent. But Ida remained indignantly firm. She stoutly persisted in refusing to converse on the disagreeable subject, and the two old gentlemen had at last Jaid their heads together to concoct some plan whereby their darling scheme should be accomplished, The days had passed, and since his first and onl; call, Ida had watched in vain for George Cassel- | maine’s appearance. From her _white-curtained window: oy, dear that he had looked from it— she watched the shady country road, wondering - why he did not come; wishing he were there, if but for a moment, and then chiding herself with Hire her thoughts to dwell so continually on im. What did George Casselmaine care for her? He had said or done nothing more than any other gentleman would when he admired a lady. Then she remembered, with a thrill of exquisite | pleasure, the earnest gaze of his fine, dark eyes; the pressure of her hand when he bade her adieu, and the solicited entreaty that they might be friends. | From him her thoughts reverted to her persist- ent suitor, whose voice even then reached her ear, and her whole soul went out in a rebellion against | the wickedness of the desired alliance. Buried in thought, she took no note of the passing moments, until a sharp knock at their front door | awoke her from her reverie. Hetty had already ushered the caller in, and then came to call her. “It is the gentleman, honey—the handsome gentleman who was hurt.” A wild throbbing of her glad heart told how welcome the news was to her, and, though her fingers trembled, she hastily made a few changes in her toilet, and went down-stairs. Near the part- opened door she pansed to still the tumultuous beating of her heart, and collect her senses before | she entered; then, firmly, yet enthusiastically, she opened the door. Casselmaine arose to meet her, and taking both hands, led her to the sofa, and then seated himself beside her. | “Tt has been so long since I saw you, that I fe
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. HIS IDOL. ventured to call again béfore strict etiquette admi But I think Iam welcome?” ‘ a “Very welcome. I wish you had come sooner.” He smiled, and took her little hand, holding it earessingly in his own. “Then I wish it heartily, too. I find my best en- Mitac in your society, Ida, and many are the ours I would pass at Rose Cottage were I master of my own actions. As it is,my host and family “ag and very properly, a large portion of my * Which every other gentleman envies you for, es- pecially on Maude Elverton's account.” : They well may, for she deserves all the praise bestowed upon her. Yet—and I suppose I ould not dare speak it—I do not think our marriage will be a happy one.” He spoke absently, and his eyes were far out of the window, on the beautiful expanse of meadow- land that stretched before them. - Ida shivered and started, and her cheek paled. Then to her beautiful eyes the tear drops rushed. He did not see her agitation, but he felt the quiv- ering of her fingers, and he turned to her. “Tt should be happy, I’m sure. Mamde is all you could desire, and you—”’ Her voice faltered, but pride came to her rescue. And though his eager, loving eyes were fixed on her eevee features, she managed to finish her re- mark, You are quite a favorite with her.” : a gaat again, but bitterly this time, as he lis- ened. “Tam glad you think so highly of Miss Elverton’s ro presume you knew an engagement ex- sted?’ In his own soul he felt the cruelty of the question, and yet he desired to ascertain if she cared for him. Ida heard his , agian and more calmly than she _afterward thought possible. ~ “T did not, Mr. Casselmaine. How should I?” Her gaze was directed from him, and her fingers restlessly pulled a twig of clematis to pieces. “T thought you were acquainted with Miss Elver- ton; she would have made it no secret.” Ida’s cheek fiushed as she rep ied: “Tam very slightly acquainted with Miss Maude, but you know she is an heiress, and J a penniless country girl. Confidences between such antipodes would be impossible.” ‘ She spoke coldly and hangs. “Yet Joffer you my confidence, Ida, while I am an heir of a larger estate than the Grange.” “J account for iton the ground of our mutual friendship.” George read earnestly her sweet, flushed face, and it seemed he loved her then better than life itself. “J think I said my union with Maude would not be a happy one; and, as my little confidante, I tell you why. fear my heart is given to another, a less dowered maiden, but one I dearly love.” For a moment Ida’s breath came in apie spasms, and a sensation of keenest rapture thri ed over her; she raised her eyes timidly, but he was not looking in her own with the tender, joving look she expected. He was dreamily gazing on the emerald sea without. Little did she know the superhuman effort he was making to keep her name from his lips; little did she ‘know that he resigned her hand from his grasp be- cause he durst not retain ft. Soul of honor that George Casselmaine ever was, he would go no fur- ther than drop these hints, so vague and uncertain until a proper time should come, which in his so he felt wouwld come, which he resolved should come. And Ida, when she met no answering beain from his far-away eyes, felt a strange, numbing coldness cree; over her, A heavy weight settled over her, whic would not be shaken off. ‘ She made no reply, and he continued; “T shall depend on you, friend Ida, when I see this _ beauteous lady-love, for your interest in my behalf. May I depend on it?” : This time their eyes met. His not as Ida had dreamed a lover’s ought to be, while he was tryi to throw all the carelessness possible in their dark depths, so false a mirror of the heart beneath. She forced a smile to her lips, and a agit to her aching eyes. And Casselmaine, in the light of his love, thought she might have divined the hidden meaning of his language. Yet he made no sign. “Certainly, Mr. Casselmaine. WhateverI can do to serve my triends I gladly undertake.” “Then my errand is accomplished, and I shall return to the Grange. We will see each other in a week at furthest, and then I will beg your interces- sion for me with my sweetheart.” _ He took her hand, and raised it respectfully to his lips. At that moment black Hetty opened the door with a flourish, and ushered in two ladies, f ‘ Tiny owed coldly 0 Ta. pad ey bowed coldly to Ida, and very haughtily to George, who addressed Maude inieciately: ped “Miss Elverton, this meeting is most opportune. We shall have a pleasant walk home, for I half dreaded the solitary walk.” He advanced to her, graceful and unembarrassed, while Hélen, blushing and confidential, sat by Ida, whose face was flushed to the hue of the carnation. “Thank you: J think the sudden interruption of so charming a passage d’amour very inopporvune.” Maude’s words were bitterly sarcastic. ‘‘Miss Elverton, as his hostess I am bound to de- fend my guest. Mr. cent of the charge you fling upon binj.” “Of course; I beg you will not allow our unfortu nate eniree to annoy you.” Helen Joyce spoke in her scathing tones. Id¢ blushed, and Casselmaine replied: “Maude, an explanation is due you, which I desir< to make to you piivately, Will ge accompany mé to the Grange? Miss Joyce will remain with Miss Tressel and make the necessary apologies.” His face was flushed from excitement, Maude haughtily accepted the invitation, and to- gether they made their adieux toIda, who was left alone with Helen Joyce. “Tt is altogether accidental that Maude and I should surprise George here. We were out for a promenade, and stopped for a rest.” It struck lda uncomfortably that Helen Joyce should speak of Mr. Casselmaine as ‘‘ George,” and she told her so, “Bless us, child, doesn’t evers wrt oo" | by his Christian name? At least George wishes me to call him so, and he usually addresses me as * Helen’ or ‘ Nellie.’ ” Her viper-like eyes were fastened on Ida’s pale face, eager to read the thought that flitted across it. Tda laughed, but Helen knew it was a fearfully forced laugh. ““ Why, you surprise me beyond measure. Tthought Mr. Casselmaine was engaged to Maude Elverton?”’ ‘So he was,” responded Helen, lightly, folding plait after plait in Ida’s white apron; “so he is con- sidered still. But he and Maude mutually annulled the betrothal, and I- think Maude will ma Mr. Trevlyn. And George was only too glad to be re- leased, for he confessed to having loved me—me, Ida, isn’t it strange?—ever since he saw me.” A maidenly blush of modesty spread over the face of the traitress. “Te seemed very ill at ease before Maude, did he not? I think it was she who corrected him for ven- turing to touch his lips to my hand.” “Yes, it was Maude,” returned Helen, ‘She thinks he should have been more loyalto me. But I haven't the least objection in the world. I am con- tent to know that I shall be his wife, and then—oh! the different times we will see at the Villa! Tintend to change the order of things in a style that will as- tonish my old father.” The dutiful daughter nodded toward the porch where her father and Mr. Tressel sat, Casselmaine is perfectly inno — ~ eg it
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’ pa 20 - -HIS IDOL. “T gaw him talking to your father when I came pasts He comes every day, doesn’t he? I heard im say he thought a great deal of Mr. Tressel.” Tda remained silent; a dreadful gloom filled her heart. She saw no ray of light in the future, no pipaty of hope. Everything was shut away from er, and the one glorious dream of life and love had flown forever. ‘*T pness I had better walk on after them,”’ re- marked Helen. ‘I seo Mr. Trevlyn coming down the road, and as he will walk by Maude, of course George will want me.” Carelessly she drew her sacque around her shape- ly shoulders, and bade Ida adieu. CAAPTER XV. THE PROMISE, Atone in her own room, Ida walked the floor in silent, speechless agony. In the few hours that had on since she had been almost stunned by the sudden revelation of G orge’s betrothal to H Jen Joye», her sorrow had taken the form cf taciturnity. That night, after Andrew Jcyce had departed, without seeing her as usual, her father called her to come down-stairs, Obe“ient and sternly silent she entered his presence. He was kind and gentle, and took her in his arms tenderly as if she had been a little child. “Tda, my dauzhter, I heavd all that Helen said. God pity you, my poor child, in your bitter grief.” He stroked her hair peg and with fatherly caresses, so unusual now in these latter days when he had urged upon_her the importance of the pro- osed marriaze. Her tears. that had been sealed or the last four hours, now fell in torrents and she laid her weary head on his shoulder. ““Pather, father, I loved him—ay, [love him now!” “But be has trifled with you, my child, you see, and the best you can do will be to tear his image from your heart and cease to remember him.” “1 Gannot, [never can! You know not what you ask, Oh, father. I wish [ was dead,” Her form shook under the conflicting emotions that strucgl:d in her breast. ‘Not so, my Ida, This sudden, and to you pain- ful event seems to me most auspicious and providen- tial You k‘o 7 to what I refer?” She started suldenly away from him and disen- gaged her hand from his: “Do not desecrate this hour, I beg, by such an allusion. Let m2 bury my old love before you intro- duce ths new lover.” Ol1 Mr Tressel wiped the tears from his eyes. “Bo that as you will, my child, Mourn over your faithless—”’, “He was not faithless,” she interrupted, ea erly. “ He never loved me—it is I. only I, who loved—loved unbidden, unaskad, uncared for.” Her exquisite mournfulness, aad _ the quivering of her lips were pitiful to behold, and her father turned his head aside to avoid the sight of her gricf. Like a pale, brok2n lily sue moved about the little cottage, followed by her fater’s watchf 11 eyes, and faithful Hetty’s glistening ones. After she had me- chanically prepared the simple supper and Hetty ha'l left them alons, sh3 drew her footstool to her father’s side. She laid her head on his knee, and took his wrinkled hand in hers. “Pather. we will talk this affair over; we will settle it finally, to-night, First, 1 will candidly tell you, I am utterly opposed to the marriage, and regard it at this moment as I did a fortnight ago when Audrew Joyes first: mentioned it.”” She pause & moment, and then, finding her father oy expecting her to fully define her ground, continued: “But now my love-dream igs over, I will hear your oft- repeated reasons »»/7 1 should marry Andrew Joyce. Tam caln, my mind free from floating dreams of what might possibly happen.” “T told you, child, that your suitor would sell our roof over our heads the day you forever cast him off, He does not regard himself finally rejected, ¥ = =n a = . a ; - “ ms — and has unbounded confidence in your compassion for him, no less than a peoad e -nsciousness that any woman would be proud to be installed mistress of the magnificent Villa. By the way, Ida,” he inter- polated, eagerly, ‘““you would have a splendid chance of revenging yourself on that upstart Helen, for Andrew swears every wish of yours shall be sacre', every Fig aie promptly granted.” “f would be Helen’s step-mother, and George’s step-mother-in-law,” she remarked, quietly. “Just so,” returned Mr. Tressel, delighted at her willingness to listen to this loved subject. ‘““Mr, Joyce is old, to be sure. hut intelligent, yes, fin-ly educated, wealthy and infl 1ential. “His form bent and decrepit, his eyes dim and sunken. his hair white, his knees tottering,” added Ida, still calmly severe. “You must not expect great personal accomplish- ments in a man as old as IT, Ida: bub remember a younger lover could not offer the princely wedding- gifts Andrew Joyce will give you.’ ‘father, look me in the face; straight in the eyes, and teil me if it is your heartfelt wish, to see me, young and fresh, married to that man?”’ She raised her face—her ca'm., truthful eyes to his. He returned the look. as calmly, as truthfully. “T speak frora my heart, Ida, when I say, if [know my own thoughts, if I attend to my daughter’s best interests, that there is no news on earth would please me better than to learn you had accepted An- drew Joyce for your husb 1nd.” A solemn silence intervened; then she lifted her tearful face. “Ts this inevitable, my father? Must I bow my head in obedience to this act from which all my na- ture shrinks in horror? Oh, father. tell me I ‘have your consent to send him away when he comes | again, finally and forever!” Mr. Tressel’s lips compressed tightly, and his eyes assumed their cold, steely expression. “There is no hope, my daughter. I have sworn you shall marry him, and I know you dare not vio- Jats my sacred vow.” Ida replied nota word. Her hands fell gradually from her father’s knee, and her head bowed to her breast. The bitter stroke had fallen on her, and left her in hopeless desolation, stricken and disconsolate. Mr. Tressel eagerly followed up his last words. “Tda, you see George Casselmaine will marry an- other. You know we are poverty-stricken if you dare refuse. You know all that awaits us bot? if you consent, Will you do it? MayT tell Andrew Joyce my daughter accepts him?” ‘or a moment she stood, stony and still, her head thrown defiantly back, her eyes gazing wildly down the moonlit roid. Then her answer came, sounding like a vo'ce from the grave: “Tell Andrew Joyce I will see him to-morrow af- ternoon. If after that interview he still desires to claim me, I wiil accept him.” _ She shivered, and then, staggering and moaning in her grief, repaired to her sleepless vigils. - CHAPTER XVI. A WOMAN'S RESOLVE, CLARE TREVLYN sit in her splendid boudoir, and beside her, her companion and friend, Esther. “Yes, my friend, I saw his home, the very place where he lives, a lonely, solitary man, and I, his wife, so far away from him. saw the bed he sleeps in; I kissed the pillow and laid my cheek on it. I saw his toilet-case with the delicate perfumes he loves so well, his shaving apparatus—oh. Esther, was it wrong because I wept over them all?” She howed her beautiful head on her fair hands, while the stern woman opposite smiled bitterly. “And he curses you with every breat’ he draws.” “Bsther. no. Frederic Trevlyn knows I love bim, and he may ridicule my weakness, but curse me— me, Effie’s mother, nerer!” Her sweet face was full of wifely pride and wo- manly dignity, :
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eo , Esther, and will not allow further harsh remarks about him. Be- sides, my small fortune will maintain the most ex- travagant style for two years at least. “Yes, Esther,” she continued, after along silence, ‘¢ we will open t e house. and issue cards fcr my re- ception. If the people think I am a widow, let them think so—better that than be a deserted wife.” Pitterly she added the last few words. Esther folded up the ruffled apron she was mak- ing, and silent and stern descended to superistend the arrangements. | ; The eards were printed, end by a strange coinci- dence, she emerged from _her retirement the same day, the same hour, that her husband received his ests at the Archery. ‘ 3 pay elegant parlors were filled with the élite cf Philadelphia; her supper was the most dcl cious, her entire entertainment the most satisfactory. ; Renowned guests were there, whom other invita- tions from other parties had failed to bring, and it seemed as if the Goddess Queen herself had laid her best tribute at Clare Trevlyn’s feet that nicht. Flushed and handsome, yet withal dignified and charming, she moved a veritable queen among her uests, admired by all, envied by many, a mystery o nota few, . ; Her sudden appearance created a /vrore, which added to a fresh-blooming beauty, lent new attrac- tions to the lovely lady. ; Thus her d-but was a glorious suecess, and even Esther's hard ‘face relaxed in a grim smile as she saw the adulation offered to her darling. Of all the guests was one gentleman whose per- sonal appearance wasstrikingly handsome, who was at once the admiration of every lady in the room. He was a stranger to Mrs. hones A's and a stranger to her guests, with but one exception. ; Renator Rowe had brought him, as the guest of his own famil , The pay had arrived late, and the hostess had not yet received their compliments, For a moment 21 Clare was at liberty, and the handsome old gentle- man, accompanied by his wife and their guest, ap- proached her. The greetings over, the senator presented his com- panion. ‘ ‘*Mrs. Trevlyn, my dear madam, ailow me to in- troduce my young friend snd nephew, Mr. Cas- selmaine. e is just returned from Judge El- verton’s old Grange, near New York, and I could not permit him to tarry at my house this evening while we were away. I brought him aleng. He is nota well man, Isee by his face, and hope this visit will do him no harm.” Thekindly old man rattled away as if no formality were recessary. “Tam happy to meet him—very bappy. His late residence entitles him to more than ordinary consid- eration. as Judge Elverten’s place is very near the home of a dear relative of mire.” Mr Casselmaine bewed in return. “There are several residences contiguous to the Grange, which are occupied by friends of mine. I did not entirely understand your neme, Cear mad- am, or I. could instantly Givine to which you refer.” The carmine de epened on her cheek, and she low- ered her eyes. : “Mrs. ‘treviyn, my bey. Mrs. Clare Trevlyn,” re- turned Mr. Rowe, in exylanaticn. ; He raised his head. v ith a quick. eager motion. “You mean Frederic Trevlyn, of the Archery?” “Yes,” she whispered, loarsely. **I mcan ] im.” The sovnding mvrsic called ber away, and George Casselmaine followed her graceful figure, lost ina. maze of bewilderment. Mrs, Tievlyn? Who was ske? CBAPIER XVII. JANUARY AND JUNE. In order to fully ard setisfactorily explain the eppearance of Mauce Elveiton’s tetrcthed at Mrs. aay tes reception on the day when Frederic Trey- lyn also held bis first levee, we will retrace oursteps a few days, 1o where we left Ida Tressel after her interview with her inexor: tle perent. ah Punctual to the Lour of Tis daily ccming, Andrew Joyce arrived at Rese Cottage. is ; Mr. Tressel met lim at the Ccor; they exchenged a few words which Celighted them beth very n uch, for a brightness lighted their countenances as they entered the rocm, ard Mr. Tressc) bade Hetty sum- mon Ida. Pate as death, but calm and colected, she cntered their yresence, ard gravely bowed to Mr. Joyce. then sat quietly beside her father. Mr. Tressel broke tlhe en barressing silence. ‘*T told Mr Joyce, my child, the message you in- trusted to me.” She nedded gently in reply. “And Mr. Jcyce tlirks it entirely unnecessary to repeat the extreme satisfecticn: the heertfelt j your decision kas given lim,” ren arked Mr. Joyce himselt. ‘‘Iam the berpiest man living, for | bave won the Jovely Jda Tressel for my wife, the peerless crown of my Ceclining years.” % She bowed her head, as if in acceptance of his graceful compliment. , ‘*But, Mr. Joyce, I think wren you hear what I have to say, what I scent for you tosay, you will re- tract your cffer. and Jeave me free.” Mr, Joyce rubbed his soft, white bands gleefully together, and smiled cheerfvlly. “Do not fear you will offend me, my dear. Say on, say on.” : : She raised her face to his, burning with blushes, the eyes filled with tears. “T told you once he fore I loved another; T tell you the same to-day. You take a herrt that in none of its recesses bas a niche for you. I make this humil- iating avowal to you. of. all men, because I be ic ve you recall your suit, do you not? You giveme my liberty, do vou not?” Her beautiful, pleading face and clasped hands enamored him but the more. “*T admire, 1 deeply appreciate your confidential « 5 em a SA ye e ®
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; 3 29 | _ BIS IDOL. avowal, for it isa tribute to my sympathy for you. In return may your sweet confidence give me the right to ask you if your love is reciprocated?” A vivid, pre hue spread over her neck and face, while her lips refused to frame the reply. inet when she could, she spoke, low and pit- eously. 4 ‘*No, no; he does not even know I care for him.” Her burning tears fell unheeded on her snow- white dress, “Then, my dear child, I see no reason why I should release you. Indeed, my great love for you will soon make up for anything you have suffered on his account.” Her heart almost stood still while he spoke. “Then you will not be merciful, and refuse to accept me?” She spoke hoarsely, and a new light, a hidden fierce fire shone in her eyes. ‘No, I will not relinquish my treasure.” She caught his arm, and clutched it tightly be- tween her quivering fingers—so tightly that he winced with pain. “Andrew Joyce, if I yield, it is because I am forced to yield! forced by a bleeding heart which dare not struggle any longer! forced by circum- stances I blush to mention—which would otherwise drive me and my gray-haired father homeless into the world. But, Andrew Joyce, in yielding, I say— woe toyou! 1 do not like you, I cannot even tolerate you—I pray I may not /afe you.” The words came hissing from between her teeth, and her form towered defiantly grand. ‘ “TF you hated me to death, I would not give you up!” The fire in his aged eyes, the strange resolution in his aged voice, thrilied her with unutterable horror, and a ery rung from her lips. ‘Be it as you say; but, in becoming your _wife— no, in becominz Mrs, Joyce—I become what I never was before, a hunted woman, who has sold her hap- . for a roof to slesp under; who has wrecked er whole life’s happiness for her gray-haired father’s sake. Andrew Joyce, I hold my word in- violate; but you wilregret this hour—the hour when you ever saw Ida Tressel!” Lifting her proud head in conscious dignity, she swept from the room, casting a glance of withering contempt on the admiring old man by her father’s side. They sat for an hour arranging tie prelimin- aries to the welding. which the entranced lover was desirous of consummating immediately. Mr. Tres- sel knew of no reason to prevent, and Mr. Joyce said the Villa would be ready for tha bride at an hour’s notice. So the csremony, to be quietly and simply con- ducted, was arrang :d for the next day. There were no strangers but the pastor of the lit- tle country church; Hetty was the witness, and her father gave her away. The moment the farce was over—so did it seom to her—without waiting for congratulations or her ‘father’s blessing, she turned to Mr. Joyce: “Sir, I have prepara‘ions to make this evening before T am able to take up my residence at my future home, which will preyent my giving you or my father my company. It will take Hetty and I till the morning sunlight to arrange my wardrobe; to-morrow you may, if you see fit, call for me to ac- company you to the Villa. Until then, -ale/” She bowed sternly, and ascended to her room. The bridegroom smiled compassionately. “Let her have her own way. To-morrow I'll come for her.” He repaired to his home, alone, to return on the following day for his bride. All that night she and her faithful colored woman passed in ods hig ho clothing and little knick- uacks, preparatory to her final departure. The hours passed all too oo and with a sink ing heart she saw the faint flushes of the sunrise in ‘the pearl-gray east, - UES GEE All things were in readiness, and with her sad face turned away from the direction to the Villa, she waited her husband’s tere ; Not long did she wait. for, before the noonday the elegant barouche of Andrew Joyce drove granily up to their low. vine-wreathed door, and the pompous footman sprung to assist the old man down. He came slowly to the room where she sat, and ex- tended his hand to salute her, but she drew back an ! then went in advance to the door. Her father and Hetty followed the couple to the carriage. “This is my wife—Mrs. Joyce, boys. assist your lady in,” The footman and coachman raised their hats in Goece amazement. and Arncld officiously handed er in, then held the door open to await his master. “ We wiil drive over often, Tressel; and whenever the carriage comes vacant you will understand you must return in it.” He shook hands with his near relative, and Tressel found the deed of their home in his palm. He smiled to his daughter, who carelessly nodded; to old Hetty she gave a parting glance of grateful remembrance; then her husband was helped into the carriage, and they drove off. Mr. Joyce was talkative and pleasant; Ida stern and reticent. From his conversation she learned the marriage was still a profound secret from every one, and her lip curled with scornful contempt when she remembered the insult her daughter-in-law, two years her senior, had offer.d her, and in this hour of blighted joys, blasted hopes, she felt to revenge her for her share of her own unhappiness. They drove up the wide carriaze-path, and stopped before the open doors of the Villa. At the door a portly woman met them, who looked with astonishment at the simply-clad girl be- side her master. ..“This is the new mistress of the Villa, Mrs. Bond. My young bride, my wife.” The housekeeper courtesied deeply, and then con- gratulated Ida. “Show her to the suite on the south side, and have Jeannie sent up to wait on her. Mrs. Bond, have a grand dinner prepared, and tell my children I wish to see them at one precisely ia my library.” She received her orders, and departed. In a moment a tap on the door announced the arrival of the maid Mr. Joyce had sent for. Shs was a pleasant-looking girl, about twenty-two and in her blue eyes Ida found a world of pint eae “ This will be your new lady, my good Jeannie, and your. exclusive business is to serve her faith- fully. Show Mrs. Joyce the dresses that were sent last night, and see that you ‘faithfully attend to all she directs.” Jeannie bowed in return, and Ida acknowledged his kind thoughtfulness by a frigid bend of her quesnly head. She started to follow Jeannie but her husband laid his hand on her sleeve. “Ida, my dear, my wife, I have done every thing I could think of to make your home agreeable to you. Iam old. child, old.an| foolish, and you are young, and fresh and blooming. But, as God hears me, 1 swear to regard your every wish; I swear to do all that lays within my power to make you hap- py and contented. My children shall respect you, my servants shall obey you. My house, my purse, my heart are yours; do with them asyou see fit. AILI ask of you is, to bear with the old man.” ae raised her hand to his lips, and then let it fall gently. The tears sprung to Ida's eyes as she followed Jeannie up t e wide, broad stairs. Past room after room, whose doors, half ajar, dis- closed the costly, wealth of their varied decorations, she went, until, on the front of the second floor Jeannie paused and fitted the key, The polished silver knob yielded to her hand, and mistress and seryant entered the spacious and mag- Arnold, =e as
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’ HIS IDOL. nificent apartment. It was every inch a bridal- chamber, and from it opened another smaller room, fitted for her private boudoir; and beyond this still another, expressly for herself, all adorned in the most luxurious manner. Jeannie followed ie br admiring glance, and smiled with pardonable pride. “It is magnifique, madame, and monsieur is ver. fortunate in securing so petite and charming a wife to occupy it. Will madame be so good as to ex- amine the robes, monsieur ordered yesterday?” The pleasant French girl unlocked the rosewood wardrobe, and laid the elegant dresses upon the bed for Ida to see. Almost confused by their number, and dazzled by their beauty, she turned them over. “These are handsome, all, but I prefer the dress I brought. It is a wine-colored silk, and will answer very well for an informal dinner.” ‘i From her trunk, which the footman carried up, she took her only silk, new a few weeks before. She put it op, and the set of rich old lace her mother had worn before her in their better days. A plain, yet exquisitely beautiful set of turquoise jewelry completed her toilette, and when Jeannie surveyed her she enthusiastically pronounced her ‘“narfaite! charmante!” Fier gg ; CHAPTER XVIII. MUTUAL FRIENDS. Tum walk from Rose Cottage to the Grange was not the most delightful lovers’ promenade ever en- joyed. ; The moment Maude and George had passed be- yond the gate that led from Mr. Tressel’s garden to the country road, she turned toward him. “ George, take your ring; I return you your troth; we are free!” : ; © He saw the outstretched hand holding the heavy circlet he had placed on the slender finger a few weeks before, but he glanced in sheer amazement from it to her face. ‘Maude, what does it mean? Why do you return me my ring, my liberty?” His eyes eagerly searched her lofty face, and she met his look. “ You ask me why, George? Do you not know?” “T protest I do not. Have I, in word or deed ’’— he almost added, ‘‘ thought »—‘ done anything to call for this sudden termination of our engagement?” “There is no possible use for us to pretend igno- rance longer, George, concernin this love affair. You do not eare for me, and you have said I do not care for you. Be that as it may, the only alterna- tive is to annul our betrothal. 3 Her eyes fell before his earnest gaze, and the deli- eate color faded and then glowed on her cheeks again. He took her hand tenderly. ; “We are friends, Maude; therefore, let us, in a friendly manner, discuss this subject fully. You offer me my ting, thus annulling our vows. I ask you in all sincerity, in all kindness, why?” His tones were low and soothing. and as Maude listened, she wondered if, after all, Helen had been mistaken. e “George, I will answer you as fully as I am able. I think—nay, I know—you love another better than oulove me. That alone is a sufficient inducement urge me to break the engagement. Besides, you should be preserved from marrying the woman you in your soul believe is cherishing some one that is not yourself. These are my reasons,” 3 While she was speaking a new light had slowly il- lumined his dark eyes; as she finished, an angry flame burned in them. Maude Elverton, let your accusation be your ac- cuser. You say I believe you cherish another where 7should be regarded. Maude, I never said it—but, Maude, I ask—do you not?” egg hou Her truthful eyes fell beneath his piercing glance, -‘*Confess to me, first, your affection for [da Tres- sel,” He started at mention of her name. “Tda Tressel! Maude, what do you know of her?” ‘“« That she is pretty and lady-like; a girl that any man might be proud to woo and win. And she loves you, too; it is written on every line of her face. I give you your full liberty, friend George. Now, take this ring and place it on Ida’s finger.” Again she handed it to him, but he refused it. ‘You are generous, womanly, Maude, ang I ad- mire you as I never did before, In return, may I ask, in the same charitable spirit that has charac- terized our interview, if you do not love, a thousand- fold more than me, the handsome owner of the marble building yonder?” He pointed to the gleaming observatory of the Archery. Maude’s heart gave a great bound, then seemed stilled to suffocation. She felt the decisive moment had come, and with her own hand she would now remove the barrier existing between Frederic Trev- lyn and herself. “ George,” she returned, at length, after a lo paus*, ‘* rhiae, I will acknowledge it to you. open my whole heart to you. You will sacredly guard my do love, with all my heart, all my might, Frederic Trevlyn.”’ He held her hand and grasped it warmly. “My; dear Maude, your sweet confidence demands my heartfelt answer—that, though I ee one of the noblest women living, I claim for my bride her I love best and fondest.” He kissed her hand respectfully, and then their embarrassment was over. “It is a strange affair, this:mutual retreating from each other. But both of us will be bappier, Maude, far happier. You with your cbosen one, I with my darling Ida. Yet we are friends, true friends, and will be forever.” She assured him on the subject, as she, for the last time, offered him the ring. “T take it,a pledge of friendship from you: a token of love for another.” ; The sound of approaching footsteps disturbed them. Maude turned, and a sudden bloom on her face told George who was approaching them. Frederic Trevlyn rapidly neared them, and just as he reached them, Helen Joyce came up by a shorter route, and the quartette entered the Grange gates. CHAPTER XIX. TEMPTED. Never bad Maude Elverton been mre bewitch- ingly beautiful than she appeared that afternoon and as her stern, silent lover gazed after ber gracefu form, his heart grew cold and faint when he re- membered her charms were not for him. Casselmaine could not but detect Trevlyn’s agita- tion, and in the fullness of bis heart, no less than a, fervent desire to serve Maude to the utmost of his power, he resolved to seek an interview with him. A sudden summons from Mrs. Elverton to the ladies favored him in his purpose, and, without any preliminary skirmish, he at once addressed Trevlyn. — “Mr. Trevlyn, will you |e bm my ep bold- ness if I ask you if Miss Elverton is not very dear to our” A haughty bend of his head and a fierce gleam in his eyes was the answer Frederic vouchsafed. “Do not be affronted, I beg, for, believe me, my sole object is your happiness and her own.” ‘*My happiness and hers, Mr. Casselmaine? What can we two possibly have in common?” “That I cannot undertake to say. I-merely, as a true friend and well-wisher, and not as Miss Elver- ton’s lover, mention to you that I shall not stand in your way of winning her,” A bright smile. preceded by a struggle in his inmost soul, lighted Frederic’s pale face, and he ex- tended his hand enthusiastically. “Thank you, thank you. You have then released her, because—because what ?” he asked, suddenly, recious secret, will you not? George, I - ae mre eT | 6b in |
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ai 24 HIS IDOL. ~ \ ‘‘Because both our welfares demand it. Because Maude Elverton does not love me—because she loves another. and because I love another.” ** Suffisient reasons, I should say, for your actions. Casselmaine returned his glance with a smil+. “ You are not grieved, Mr. Trevlyn, that such is the case?” Treviyn rose from his chair in desperation. Never before had the temptation come so Sib Paice po IS upon him to cast aside the feiters that cruelly chained him down. He walked rapidly to and fro. Suddenly he caught George’s hand. “She is the star of my stormy existence, the idol ‘of my lonely life. And yet I dare not, oh, my God, I dare not win her!” ae On his forehead stoo1 great drops of perspiration, as he wrung Casselmaine’s hand, who returned the fierce pressure in sympathetic pity. “I do not ghee joe to refute your words, Mr. Travlyn, but | certainly may be allowed to assure you that your suc ‘ess will be certain.” “T know she loves me—canno1 my loving eyes read her hearc? Did not my soul predict thes> - Jonzing agonies long weeks ago, when first I knew her?. But Mauie is not for me; she is too good, too pure, too holy for me.” Casssimaine heard the groan that issued from his pallid lions, but he turned coldiy away. “T will not intrude further. But if Maude Elver- ton’s affections are crushed forever through your stubborn will cr false pride, you wiil be the wretch- ed caus3,”’ Trevlyn raised his head to look after him, and a smile, icy and bitter, played on his handsome face. “Stubborn will--false prile—oh, Heavens, if that were all!” From the room adjoining came the musical m2lody of Miude’s voice, as her merry laugh sound- ed through te open casement. H > listened greedily. “ Wiy shoul I, as he said, cast off the last chanc3 of happiness left to m2? Why should I suffer for another’s sins? I will bs no fool to grop in this useless gloom, when Maude Elverton’s hand will guide me.” , H3 would woo her; he would kiss hor as his eager heart siid he would be kissed. Hs would pour his love-words in her ear, and listen to her murmuring avowal. And then— Then he was not Frederic Trevlyn, noble, upright, honorable; he was a sinful man, deserted by his guardian spirit, led at will by his wicked heart. CHAPTER XX. ; THE FLOOD-TIDE. THanks to good Mrs. Holcombe’s management, the splendid apartments of the Archery were ia their best con tition for the reception of the dozen guests who ace2pted Frederic Travlyn’s invitation. The affair was an unparalleled one in the annals of bis history among them, Since his sojourn here, two years before, he had never opened his house to a guest, traveler or friend. “Tam thankful the Grane party promised to be present first,” he repeated, his attention diracte | to- ward the road by which they would arrive. Hs hal been in a state of feverish excitement ever since his interview the day but one before with George Cassel- maine, and as the hour approached when he knew he would tell Maude his love, he became restless. At four o’clock they came, the dignified doctor and his elégant wife; George Casselmaine and - Maude. ‘ Maude’s dress was superlatively becoming; a simple white Marseilles, with a natural ros*bud at the lace-collar, and a second in the luxnriant masses of her hair. She was bewilderingly gracious too, and her lover gazed ra»turously upon her eloquent face. * The Archery is a most delightful place, Mr, Trey- lyn—just the ideal spot of mine, where one might orever pass his days in perfect, perpetual happi- ness. Frederick looked wonderingly at her. Was it possible she had thus opened a chance for his avow- al? He decided instan ly as he looked at her admir- ing face as it viewed tne beauteous objects that met them at every turn. He essayed to speak, but his language failed him, and silently he walked on beside ber, They were alone, entirely alone, in his rare garden, where, arm in-arm, they walked along the box ordered path. Abruptly, almost fiercely, Frederic Trevlyn loosed Maude’s arm, and starve before her. ** Maude Elverton, did you know I loved you?” He had not uttered the words, ere he would have given worlds to have recalled them. Instantly he regretted the lawless passion that gave them birth, and could he have done so, would have annihilated them forever. But Maude? : Those magic words thrilled her to her very soul She drooped her beautiful eyes, and_the rich color deepened on her glowing cheeks. Unconsciously her hand stole to meet his, and the desperate clasp of hisown made her shiver with the pain he in- flicted. ‘Frederic, Id> know—” She laid her disengaged hand on his shoulder, and ented her love-lit eyes to his, so full of joyous ruth. What could he do? Whatshould h> do? His posi- tion was particularly perilous; momentarily he re- gretted th» words his lips had spoken, and as he re- gre‘ted he loved the more. He esired now to resist the temptation, and yet seemed determined to court it. ‘Maude, I—” He was interrupted by George Casselmaine, who suddenly appeared before them. ‘*Worzive me, my frionds, for hearing your con- versation, Although IT unavoidably was compelled to bea listener, [think you both know no on® re- joice: more over your mutual love than I. God bless you, k-ep you, and make you a comfort to each other!” Before either Maude or Frederic cuu!d reply he was gone, and Maude smiled as she saw him take the road to Ross Cotta7e. Other guests that moment arrived, and they were compelled to part. ‘“God help m2!’* he whispered, fervently, as he wrung her hand, and out from his aching heart went more pity for her, the gentle, loving, trusting girl, than sorrow for himself. The greatest danger had passed. Maude left him to return to her mother, flushed and deliciously happy. He toreceive his guests and maintain the honor of his character as host. ,CHAPTER XX. THE REVELATION OF SORROW. . George CAsseLMAINe A7d gone to Rose Cottage, gone on the first opportunity that presented, and in- tending to return before the dinner-hour to the Archery —to see Ida Tressel. Goneto pourforth he love he knew she would so gladly hear, and his heart bounde | blissfully as he neared the vine-embowered cottage where she awaited him. It seemed, as he walked along. as if he trod on air, so elastic were his spirits, and he almost feared that his anticipations were not to be realized; but he smiled away the foreboding as he pictured to himself the scene at the -ottage. He knew that Ida's graceful form would come to the door to welcome him, and he could see the downeast happiness in her ‘dark eves; he imagined he heard the sweet melody of her voiee. and the silvery laugh that so often floated from her carnation lips. He reached the gate, at whose base the luxuriant grass was untrodden. It was very quiet, and he glanced up to the fringed white dimity curtains at
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_ her-in the sitting-room or HIS IDOL. the windows of her room, whither he had often caught her peeping. The curtains were falling be- ae es glass, and down-stairs the shutters were closed. e Not a sound broke the deep stillness as he walked up the narrow path and rapped on the closed door. No one answered his summons, and with a vague apprehension of horror that Ida was ill, he went by oe well-trodden, grass-grown walk to the back oor, On the porch sat Mr. Tressel, sleeping soundly, his red bandana handkerchief thrown over his face. He trod softly, so as not to awaken bim, and en- tered the neat little kitchen. There was black Hetty, her work all done, her large, old-fashioned Bible spread on a clean white handkerchief over her plain linsey dress. Her spectacles were off, lying across the ees page. Her eyes were bent on the floor, and her ands clasped meekly together. Her attitude plain- ly denoted extreme depression of spirits. He spoke gently, that he might not startle her, but at the sound of his voice she arose to her feet and courtesied respectfully, __ “T would see your es Hetty. Shall I find arlor?”’ “ Miss Idie ain’t in, sir. Miss Idie’s out, sir.” Her very comprehensive explanation brought a deep shade of disappointment to his brow, “Out, Hetty? That is unfortunate. I wished par- ticularly to see her. Will she be in soon?—or Stay, tell me which way she has gone, and I'll continue - my walk and come back with her.” A spasm of pain crossed the old woman's face, and she turned her head away to hide the fast: drop- ping tears. * She'll be gone all night, sir, I’m a-thinking. You had better come in and rest you a bit.” But he started for the door. . “You said sho had gone—which way?” A moan of pain issued from Hetty’s lips, but she bravely hid her emotion. ; “T promised I’d_not tell him—and I won’t,” ghe murmured to herself, then added aloud: ‘‘ She went to Mr. Joyce’s.” He started immediately, with a kindly nod to the negress, who watched him with streaming eyes, “Poor lamb! poor lamb! oh, Miss Idie—dear Miss Idie, how’ll she ever stan’ the sight of him!” She resumed her seat, while George walked rap- idly back to the Villa. af The distance was short, and in his restless eager- ness to see her, was soon accomplished... The gate- way was open, and he saw, in the carriage yard, the barouche being drawn out. for the family use to Frederic Trevlyn’s dinner-party. The house wore an unusually festive look, for the rooms seemed all open and occupied. He experi- enced a peculiar sensation as he entered the open vestibule—one he never forgot, and attritu‘ed it to the fact that the woman of all women most distaste- ful to him—Helen Joyce lived there. He dared not inquire for Ida, for he was not sure she was there, so he sent his card to Mr. Joyce, whom he had several times met. In the lofty reception-room he waited for his host to receive him; for a trief time he sat there dream- ing of Ida, wondering if she were there, when the door opened, and Mr. Joyce entered, Usually dignified to coldness, he astonished George by grasping his hand with painful friendli- ness, “ So you’ve eome to congratulate us all, have you, _old fellow? I thank you, I thank you heartily.” George bowed in amazement, but seeing-how mor- tifying his ignorance would render him, determined to feign perfect Knowledge of the cause of congrat- ulation, and mentally resolving to cut short his call as soon as he saw Ida. Mr, Joyce rung the bell when he had finished speaking. ra Jeannie answered the summons. “Tell your lady I would be very much obliged to see her in the reception-room for a few minutes.” A feeling of provokedness prompted Casselmaine to refuse seeing Helen Joyce, the “lady’’ he knew of the Villa; but politeness bade him meet her, with at least a show of cordiality. A light footstep sounded on the stairs, and Mr. Joyce hastened to meet her. He escorted her through the door, and triumphantly announced her: “My wife—my bride, Mr. Casselmaine.” George turned in astonishment. He looked at the lady, and his glance turned to stone. Slowly he raised his arms, in a mute appeal of the keenest anguish to the white-robed figure; then Sway ee reeling like a ship driven by adverse winds, he fell; and as he touched her hand in falling, all the concentration of that moment of unspeaka- able agony was uttered in the words that fell from his tremb ing lips. ? “My God!” CHAPTER XXII, IDA’S WEDDING DAY. Tuatr had been a trying day for Andrew Joyce's timid wife, when she had met, so unexpectedly, the daughters of her husband. r In her matchless loveliness and haughty conscious- ness of superior position, she had gone down to the dining-saloon, on her husband’s arm, after the fam- ily had assembled. } Helen, the eldest, Julia, the second, and Irene, the child-daughter, were awaiting their father. As usual, Helen occupied the seat at the head of the table—a poe very gratifying to her vanity. “Mrs. Bond bas committed a most ridiculous mis- take in supposing our family consisted of five in- stead of four. Why is that plate there?” she asked, impatiently of the housekeeper, who entered the ~ room for a parting survey of the table. ‘“My orders were to ay an extra plate, Miss Telen,” returned Mrs. Pond, shortly, as she left the room. That moment the door opened and Mr. Joyce and Ida entered. Helen sprung in astonishment to her feet, While the other girls, who never had seen Ida before, stared wonderingly. : c “ Miss Tressel—you surprise me! Todinner? Tam certain no invitations have been issued.” Jda’s cheek flushed hotly at this insolent speech, but her calm gaze re'urned Helen’s contemptuous one. ““Miss Helen, have the goodness to forbear your jokes in my presence. My position enforces not only respect. but obedience.” Her freezingly polite words aroused Helen’s ire still further. ‘“ What impertinence! Do you presume to insult Andrew Joyce’s daughter in her own father’s house? Zam mistress here!” ; Her light eyes fairly scintillated with her rage, and her voice was choked with passion. She pointed to the door, while Ida smiled in conscious superiority. “Would you insult Andrew Joyce’s fe, in her own husbanil’s house? _ I aM MISTRESS HERE!” Grandly rung out her melodious voice. Helen gasped for breath. “Wife!” she screamed, in a fearful storm of un- bridled rage; ‘‘you my father’s wife! you, a com- mon. low—”’ “Silence!”? said Mr. Joyce, bringing his fist down my. on the table till the dishes rung again. “ This is wife, whom you will respect and obey in every par- ticular. Helen, remove your seat near to your sis- ter’s. Ida, my dear, this is your proper place.” He bowed to Ida. who loftily occupied the chair Helen was thus forced to vacate. Her eyes flashing, her bosom heaving, she confronted her qathee. “Tf you think to disgrace our family by this mes- alliance, you need not think J shall endure the shame, the insult! Iam Andrew Joyce’s daughter, not Ida Tressel’s slave.”’ ° ~~ ee
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as ae z ~) : ? 26 HIS IDOL. a ee eae eae nS ee re a aT Da aden ae eee aes Wale ae She cast a menacing glance at Ida, but her father raised his hand sternly. “T command silence. Helen, if you can not_be- have yourself, leave the room, Julia, follow her. Irene, my little daughter, Iam glad poe are a good girl; your sisters have greatly mortified me.” Proudly He'en and her sister walked from Ida’s presence, and she and her husband, with the ten- year-old Irene, ate their dinner in peace. It was scarcely over when Casselmaine called. Jeannie summoned her, and, in total ignorance of the caller's identity, she went down the stairs.” To her horror, grief and surprise, she recognized George Casselmaine! It was a fearfully-cruel blow to them both, and Ida thought he was dying when she saw him lying so still and cold at her feet. Darting from her husband’s side, she knelt beside him, chafing his cold hands, and her hot tears falling on his pale, grief-stricken countenance. Not a word did she utter, yet her heart was in a tu nult of inquiry as to what had caused his extreme emotion. Calling Mrs. Bond, they soon succeeded in restor- the senseless man to consciousness. r. Joyee had been calied away, and Mrs. Bond retired when her services were no longer required. Ida knelt on the carpet beside tho sofa, eagerly watching every motion of his lips. At length he opened his eyes, and Ida sprung to her feet. A smile of ineffable sweetness lighted his counte- nance. . “Oh, Tda, my darling! Thank God, it was only a dream!” He extended his arms, as though he would fold her to his heart. Quickly, eagerly she looked up, the expression on her face, as it lightened at his words and gesture, speaking volumes of joy, love and even hope. But it passed as quickly as it came, and left her paler, whiter than before. ‘*Don’t look so coldly—so coldly, Ida. You are not ill, are you?” He raised himself up on one elbow, and scanned her face earnestly. “A mighty struggle was going on in Ida’s breast. What did this mean, unless he loved her? But if he did love, what mattered it now ? ‘* 3peak, speak, Ida, for heaven's sake, and tell me what the matter is?” She strove to do so, but her eoge seemed 2 sek lyzed. Another effort, and her pale lips moved. “Tam not Ila Tressel. You—” “Goll! not {da Tressel? Who, then, are you?” — He sprung to his feet in wildest excitement, ‘BitherI am going mad, or you are deceiving me! Which is it?” “Tam Andrew Joyce’s wife, married yesterday—”’ A fearful ery burst from his pallid lips, and he fell on his knees before her. ‘Ida, Ida, my own! Unsay those dreadful words. Oh, darling, my precious darling, I am on my way to win you for my own! Kiss me, Ida, and promise to be my wife!” He wound his arms around her neck, and drew her head to his breast. She struggled to free herself, but he repaid her efforts by showers of kisses on her blushing cheeks. “Timplore you to listen. I repeat, emphatically, Lam no longer I11 Tressel, but the wife of the host of this house. Your betrothed is Andrew Joyce’s ‘daughter, Helen—not his wife, Ida.” She forced her voice to speak coldly, and instantly he released her, “Can it be—canit be? You, that old man’s wife? I betrothed to Helen Joyce? You know better, and are very cruel! Oh. Ida! this from you!” She uttered a ery, like a wounded bird, and caught his hands in hers, : ‘George Casselmaine, tell me truly; were you not plighted to Helen Joyce?” “As God hears me, never! I released Maude El- verton, and hastened to claim you—my first, my only love— with Maude’s blessing.” radually his voice grew sharp from the strain of sorrow, and when he ceased speaking, he bent his face, in desolate mournfulness, on Ida’s hands. ‘*Oh, George, George! forgive me, and pity me! Don't for mercy’s sake, don’v!’’ she sobbed, piteous- ly, as he kissed her cold hand. ‘*T loved you, !da Tressel, and it was the sweetest dream of my life. The world before me is very dark, and the only ray of light to cheer me is that you loved me—you were not false.” He stopped abruptly, for the gathering tears choked his utterance. She laid her hand on his bowed head in gentle tenderness. F ‘*My lot is the hardest to bear, and God alone can give me grace to endure it. But, George, give me our blessing before you go, and then I can better ar my heavy burden. shall die if you don’t, George, I shall die.” A sick, faint sensation of deepest despair filled him as she ceased speaking, and he did not restrain the tears that would fall on her hand. “ Rather let us pray our Father to help us both, my lost, my Ida. 2 alone knows my oneniek, and your agony, Oh, my darling—let me call you so to-day for the last timé—my lost darling, the blow is so unexpected, so fearful.” Her heart ached for him, while, in the memory of what might have been, it bled for herself. ‘We will say farewell now, George; we must. Let us strive to forgive the terrible wrong that has forever separated us. Let us part—friends.”’ She extended her han2s, in a silent appeal for his farewell grasp. He took them and pressed them to his breast. “T bid you farewell, my only love, my lost dar- ling. Be true to your chosen husband, and may God reward him and his.as they reward you for this dreadful sacrifice. God bless you, my precious one, ‘and keep you, and guard you—and me!” He pressed her in his arms, closely to his agonized weet and imprinted a last, long kiss on her quiver- ing lips. A hand laid gently on his arm arrested him. It was Andrew Joyce, his eyes dim with tears. ‘* Young man, I heard all: I know all, and I honor you! Lamat best a frail old bark, and will soon put up for repairs forever; and then she will be yo rs. You deserve her; and were I not so wickedly selfish, I'd give her up this minute. As it is, she will have to bear with me a little while—only a littie while, antl then all this elegance and wealth will be hers, and she’ll make you a royal bride!”’ Old Mr. Joyce dashed off the tear-drops, and George wrung his hand in pitiful than fulness, and, without a word, strode s'raight to the Grange. He packed a valise, and the next train bore him to his uncle, Senator Rowe. Five hours after his arrival in Philadelphia he stood in Mr. Trevlyn’s parlor. CHAPTER XXIII. A WIFE BUT NOT A WIFE. At Frederic Trevlyn’s dinner-party one guest was absent—George Casselmaine, whose reasons were hastily written as he left the Grange, and delivered to the host by a special messenger. An unexpected guest was present, being the wife of Andrew Joyce. The surprise of the guests knew no bounds when they were acquainted with the fact of the sudden and secret marr age of the gray-haired owner of the Villa; and comments passed freely on her youth, beauty and grace. Her poverty and obscurity were now t ngs of the past, hence utterly forgotten; and while as Ida Tressel she might have been ignored by tho aristocratic ladies of the vicinity, as Mrs. Joyce she was flattered. Ida filled her position with exquisite dignity, and none of all the assembled guests—excepting Maude and Frederic, and it might } a
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HIS IDOL. eget CV Re be Helen Joyce—dreamed of the heart ending inter- view that had transpired an hour before her arrival atthe Arciery. The guests returned rather early, and among the first to retire was the family from the Grange, Maude had been quite happy all that deticious Sep- tember afternoon, and she looked forward impa- tiently to the tims when her lover would complete the interview so rudely interrupted, When the hour came for their parting salutations, he followed her to the carriage. “May I see you to-morrow, at twelve o’clock? I wish to have your exclusive company for awhile.” She did not see the pained expression of his noble face, or the happy blushes wuld not so quickly have crimsoned her cheek, or the joyful light burned in her eyes. “Come at twelve, and I will certainly give you the favor you desire.” She threw him a kiss, and he returned a slight bow, and the foctman closed the door between them. Maude returned to her home to dream of poor George Casselmaine, of her handsome lover, of faithless Ida Tressel, and thanking God her happi- ness was so sure, ; rants child, she little knew what a day would bring '0 Trevlyn re-entered the house to bid adieu to the remaining guests, and then, when quiet once more reigned over the Archery, witharew to his room to pass the daily hour in penance and prayer. The wedding-party were the last to depart. Mr. Joyee and Ida oceupied the barouche, while the daughters were escorted by theic attendants. The ride was passed in utter silence, and even when the footman sprung to assist Ida to alight, not a word was spoken. Ida entered the house and ascended to her room. Jeannie had arranged everything for the night, her bridal night, and had, by Ida’s express orders, retired to the servants’ floor above. Ida entered, and locked the door after her, and alone for the first time since the hour of suspens0 and anguish that had left its in ffaceable hand on) her heart, she sunk on her knees in an agony of bit- terest grief, that. restrained so many hours, now burst forth in a fearful torrent. A low rap at her door startled her, and, with a perceptible shiver, she opencd it. ‘© da, still in your visiting dress?” Her husband smiled pleasantly, and closed the door after him;/then he threw himself on the blue velvet loungenear the door. ; “Still up and in full dress, sir. I desired to see you a few moments, and this is the most befitting costume I possess.” He gazed wonderingly at her, as she stood proud- ly before him. ; : “My beautiful wife; let me bid you fice welcome to the Villa, your home, your empire!” He extended his hane, but she made no response, “T thank you fer the kindness ycu have shown me ‘to-day, sir, and 1 will ever gratefully remember it But to-night it és necéssary that we come to a full understanding of our position to each other. Shall T continue?” He gestured for her to proceed. “T told you, Mr. Joyce, if you persisted in marry- ing me, after I had repeatedly refused you. and plainly told you that my affections were bestowed upon another ’—her lips trembled, but she forced back the emotion—“ that the union could bring no triumph, no victory to you. LIrepeat the same now; you have taken m=; you have shown me to be your wife before’ the world. I am Mrs. Joyce to the world, Iam their father’s wife to your children. I am the rightful mistress of the house, and as such I will be obeyed. Lask no favors, I receive none— ex eepting cne, which I ask not only, but demand in the name of common humanity.” ‘Speak, my dearest one, and your one solitary | anted ‘an act of kindness. wish isgranted; I promise en my word.” ‘It is that you leave me, leave my room, and con- sider this apartment mine eeclusirely.” Mr. Joyce arose to his feet in wonderment. “ But, my wife, you know such a request is an un- precedented one—a—”’ * Mr, Joyce,”’ she interrupted, ‘‘ unprecedented or not, 1 demand this privilege. You have two reasons for granting it. rst your pledged word; second, that I solemnly declare, that, although I am your wife in the eyes of the world, once over the threshold of this room, | am Ida Tressel!’ For a moment they looked fully and unhesitating- ly at each othér, then Mr. Joyce extended his hand cordially. , “You are a noble woman, Ica. You are right, perfectly right; I am wrorg. Ycur wish stall be pee And now, dear Ida, let me wish you good- night.” indly as:a father would kiss his daughter her husband touched his lips to her forehead, and left her alone. Alone with her heartache, heart anguish; and on bended kee she besought the healing of her wound- ed, bleeding heart. CHAPTER XXIV. TWELVE O’CLOCK. THat succeeding morning passed all too slowly to Maude Elverton, whese thoughts went forward with bounding anticipations to the moment when her lover should tell his Jove for her. Her parents knew that she had released Cassel- maine, and they at first objected strongly. But George’s persuasions, united with her own request, received their reward, and she heard from her father’s lips that he sanctioned the annulment of the engagemert. At that very moment Frederick rage se was bend- ing over a leiter ke had Sas written, in which the ‘ink was still wet and fres Before him lay scattered many letters and notes, which from time to time he corsulted; then, when he had read, began his writing again. At times an expression of intensest agony con- tracted his features; then that was auickly followed by a proud, dc fiant smile, to be as rapidly sueceeded by a stern look of duty—duty that he felt he must perform,« culd perform in spite of any human power. After he wrote, ke reed his letter. Half-through, he tore the sheet into a dozen pieces. > Ona fresh sheet he transcribed a line, signed his name, ard thrust the sheet into the envelope, hastily and wildly, as if he feared he would repent. He called William and directed him to post the letter gm aa That dispatched, he rung for Mrs. Holeombe. * Are the rocms in readiness. the western suite?”’ ““Byverything is in perfect order, sir. and 1 think you'll be pleased with my arrangement. Will you step up-stai s and see the rooms?” “No—no ” he replied, besitatingly; ‘‘I think there is no oceasion for that. But I wish to ask a. favor of you. If company comes to the Archery—a lady— will you exert yourself to the utmost to make her ‘happy and contented?” Mrs. Holcombe answered by a glance, half-ag- grieved, half-wondering. “T know you always do make everything pleasant for those around yeu. and I only ventured to men- tion this to you because, if any one comes, her posi- tion will be a very peculiar one.” “Mr. Trevlyn, f it is your wife you are going to marry and bring home, no woman should be hap- ier, and no one will serve her more faithfully than While she was speaking, a vivid flugh had arisen to his ebeeks, and he seemed ill at ease. A sudden idea inspired Mrs Helcombe. “My dear Mr. Treviyn, I am old enough to he your mother, therefore I ee you will take what Isay as ere you my son, I would de er again and more freely of se" =” VTS eo . fae
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aes HIS DOL. — 7 ion Fe ee nea SRS eae aan ae ea I TN just what I am doing now, and ask just what Iam going to ask now.” » 5 She came up closely to him and laid her hand lov- ingly on his head. “My boy, is it a wife—a good, true wife you are going to bring?” A ie burst from his pale lips as she ceased. ‘Because, my dear Mr. Frederic, if you are going to dishonor yourself, your home, your servant, I _cannot remain here to witness it.” He caught her hand and laid it against his hot ' forehead. : “Mrs. Holcombe, your honor and mine will re- ceive no stain from the guest who shall demand our courtesy. She will please you—you will love her. T— Oh, Mrs. Holcombe, if you but dreamed of the eonstant dirkness I watk in, you would pity me— yes, you would weep over me, as a mother for her heart-broken son.” A great, deg I sob burst from his white lips and then he released her hand. “To-day I must be away at dinner-time. To-mor- row the lady will be with us; then I will explain more fully. Trust me, Mrs. Holeombe, trust me and bless me, and pray for me.” She murmured a broken benediction as he bowed his proud head before her, and then softly left him. ihe eee up his scattered papers and arranged the disordered furniture. Then he lifted the gray curtain and entered his mysterious retreat. At first no sound broke the stillness; then a stifled moan came faintly from the darkness, and a voice, laden with anguish, fell on the still noon-air. “Our merciful Father, strengthen me, assist me in this hourof deepest trial! enable me to sacrifice all for duty, all for right! and though I relinquish her who would have been—who 7s—God forgive me, the light of my life, let me believe it is for the best.” His tones died away, like the moaning of the aaron winds, and all was silent again, but only for. a time. . “Strengthen her, my heart's idol—strengthen her _ for the load this day to fall on her heart with its crushing weight. Enable her to say, ‘Thy will be done!’ Bless us all, and remember, another, another, and may I be prepared to do my duty to her.” He ceased, and for several minutes he was silent ain. Then the curtain parted, and he came forth, pale but composed. The carriage, agreeably to his orders, was at the door. Be took the lines himself, and drove slowly to the Grange. He was shown into the parlor, where, before he had seated himself, Maude entered, beautiful and bewildering, her starry eyes charged with the love- light of her full heart. ** You returned safely then, Ae dae afternoon?” He knew he must say something, yet he dreaded to speak the most commonplace remark. “eOh: rae Trevlyn; and you, since then, have been well, and ’’—she hesitated, blushed, then added ta happy 97 : A spasm of pain crossed his fine face, but he met the occasion she offered of striking his own death- blow of hopes and joys. ‘* Maude,” he said, in a hollow tone that startled himself, while she started in surprise at the sound while an undefinable fear curdled her blood and drove the carnation from her cheeks, ‘Come and sit down, Maude, and listen to what I st ee you must hear even if it kills us oth, ’ He drew her unresisting form to the sofa, and then he began: “Yesterday I told you I loved vou, Maude. To- day I come to ask yow to forget I ever said it. No, you must not misconstrue my meaning,’’ he added, quickly and vehemently, as a proud light gleamed in her eves. E “No, no; the truth is none the less—the love is - none the less, yet, Maude, I, the most pitiable man in God's universe, am here to beg you to forget & those words, and if you can, forgive the speaker. ae. He brushed the great drops of perspiration from his forehead, and paused for her tospeak. Butshe — sat calm and silent, prions him full in the face. D “Don’t look so, Maude: don’t regard meso stern- — ly. When you understand it all you will pity me ~ not hate me.” “ee But she did not remove her eyes, for she could not, _ but a softer, tenderer expression crept into their dark depths. “Frederic, what do you mean—are you afraid I’ regret your confession?” “No. no,” he returned, mildly. ‘“‘ Would that you — did; but oh, Maute, when I spoke those words 1 - must have been beside myself. I had no rightto © speak them. But the temptation overwrelmed me, _ and I did what I to-day suffer for—what you will suffer for. But you will forgive me, won’t you?” His pleading, passionate eyes looked eagerly in hers. “T feel bewildered; I can not understand what this means, Frederic. If you think I do not love ~ you, you.are wrong. But if youdonotcareforme ~ —why—then—” Her lips quivered, and a tear fell on his face. 4 ‘Maude, Maude, you will drive me crazy,” he r whispered, hoarsely, his white lips trembling so he _ could hardly speak. ‘ Yesterday I told you, defy- ing the honor that should have restrained me, that FG loved you. But harder than any thing I ever did, or can do, is it to-day. to tell you—oh, merciful Father —must I give her up?—yes ‘Maude, I can not accept that love—you must not be my wife, He had spoken at last, and, with a faint ery, Maude reached forth her hands im pe. “Why, why, oh, Frederic, will you not let me love you and be your wife?” Her bosom heaved with the confined grief, and her eyes glared with unshed tears. és He put her hands gently down. 4 “Listen, Maude.” he answered, quietly, though _ every word seemed a drop of blood oozing from his wounded heart: ‘‘can i not guess what is the — reason I am killing our hearts?” ee Slowly she drooped her head on her bosom; slowly * 7 9 the warmth left the little hand that just touched his own. “Tinow the stab I inflict, my poor Maude, but, listen, listen, and may a merciful Savior sanctify the cross to us—to you, my trusting, innocent one. — Maude, Zam married |” For a moment she sat, stiff, upright; then, slowly. mechanically, she arose, and pressed her coll. — quivering lips for one moment on his own. He did — not return the pressure, he dared not; then she — lifted his chin with her ‘cold hands,and for amo- ment steadily regarded his face. With that last, lingering, touching glance sh? — went quietly from the room, and Frederic Trevlyn, as sadly, silently, went from the house, ; His self-appointed task was done, and he knew God would reward them both one day. ; CHAPTER XXYV. THE SECRET OF THE CHAMBER. _ Tur guests had all departed from the Arch street mansion; the lights were extinguished, and Clare — Trevlyn and Esther were alone in the chamber of the former. : Clare seemed almost frenzied at something; her eyes were swollen with ters, and at times they darted rays of golden fire. Now she was pacin, the floor of the long room, her elegant evening dres? trailing on the velvet covering under her feet. “ Bsther, Esther, to think my first attempt toward winning his love should have been the time when first learned of his treachery. Oh, why dol sp K thus? I will not believeit. Esther, do you believeit? Esther laughed scornfully. : P ““Why shouldn’t I? Haven’t I always insisted that Frederic Trevlyn-was-a. villain, since the day$- he refused to credit your innocence? ~,
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Her voice softened as she finished, for a woeful mournfulness clouded Clare’s face. ‘Be my adviser, dear Esther. Not my cross, pre- judiced housekeeper, but my mother’s dutiful adopt- ed child, ay loving foster-sister, again. Speak gen- tly, please, Esther, and tell me what to do.” Her tearful, pleading eyes were fixed in mute ap- peal on her companion’s hard, stony face. “Tf you do not believe that Mr, Casselmaine has . told yon the truth, most certainly I advise you to travel at once to the Archery and see for yourself if one pustany is paying his addresses to this young “Mr, Casselmaine is a real gentleman, and seemed deeply grieved when he learned I was Frederic’s wife. He was very much startled, and when he asked me for a private interview I felt a presenti- ment that something was going to happen. But I little dr. amed what it was.” Her unrestrained tears leaped forth again in torrents of grief. - . “Don’t ery, my little Clare, my dear little sister. + will all come right eventually, depend upon it, and even if it doesn’t, let the thought comfo t you . that you are sinned against, and not sinning.” . “But it wounds me so deeply, Esther; it causes a feeling I can’t describe to come all over me, when I ~ imagine Fred, my Fred, my darling. kissing some other woman; telling some other woman he loves her better than life itself!” ; Her pitiful sobs shook her frame fearfully. “ Clare, you must not grieveso. You willcry your- self sick. Let me prepare you some valerian, for you are entirely too nervous.” Esther spoke commandingly, as she arose to pre- pare the quieting draught. ““T need no valerian; I need comfort and sym- pathy. Sit down, Esther, and let me talk more to you. “To-night we will rest; to-morrow you _must elp me pack my trunk, for I shall go to New York. Es- ther,” she added, abruptly, clasping and energies her restless fingers, ‘‘do you think I can win him back? Had I better confront him. orsee the lady. or merely watch them secretly. until Iam satisfied?” *T cannot tell. You can decide that point better after you reach the neighborhood.” , Clare removed her jewels and the costly silk dress _ that had been the admiration of so many guests that night, and in her night-wrapper sought her couch for a little rest. Early the next morning, ere she had left her cham- ber, aring at the basement door was followed by a timid tap on her own, and one of her maids handed her a letter. A strange sen rl. Ser 5 sation thrilled her as she took it, and an exclamation fell involuntarily from her lips, for it was subscribed in her husband’s handwriting. ~ Almost frantically she tore off the envelope. The letter was very brief, and its contents ran thus: “Mrs, Trevlyn will oblige her husband by coming immediately on this receipt to the Archery. “ PREDERICK TREVLYN.” -_ Agsudden sunburst of rapturous joy shone over her face, and in an ecstasy of delight she dropped on ) her knees in thankful prayer. * _ “sther, Esther,’? she called over the railing of _ the stairs, ‘come quickly. . “ See,” she whispered, holding the letter up as Esther entered, ‘‘ see the glorious news! __As excited as Clare. Esther seized the note. A Shadow of pain crossed ber stern, homely face as She handed it back. ; | “T have altered my mind. I believe Mr. Cassel- | Maine was mistaken; I believe Frederic Trevlyn is ‘rue to you. 4 A thankful smile looked from Clare’s eyes. ‘ . Te think I am all ready to go, too,” she said, herrily. __ She pieneed her white hands over her heart, so Wildly was it beating. oi Nie) ‘Gome down fora lunch before the carriage 1s Teady. Come.” by coach to the Archery. Alighting from the car, a stranger touched her on the shoulder. * You are Mrs. Trevlyn, going to the Archery?” She replied affirmatively, and, to ber surprise and heartfelt gratification, ascertained that the family barouche was awaiting her. “He lIcves me! he loves me!’’ she repeated to herself, as she noted the kindness of her husband in providing for her comfort. > The road lay through the village and up the beat- tiful terraced bill above, near whose summit the white walls of the Archery were gleaming in the afternoon sunshine. ; : As they entered the open gate, her heart bounded wildly at the thought of so soon meeting the cne she so well loved. The carriage stopped, and the footman assisted her to alight. : The Coor was open that led to the outer vestibule, vid the glass doors, with their rosewood panels, low Yarapery. and silvery knobs, were ajar. | She stepped lightly, timidly ; what would be her weleome? She could hear her heart beat in the solemn stillness; then she laid ber hand on the door-handle. Widely it opened by other hands than her own, and her husband reached his hand in dignified courtesy to welcome her. She forgot etiquette, forgot his previous coldness, and springing up, she threw her arms about him. “Fred, my darling, you believe me, ygu trust me, you love me?” He gently disengaged her clinging arms, just as a pe eg bat lady entered the hall by the south oor. ‘‘ Mrs. Holcombe, this is the lady I promised My wife, my housekeeper. The ‘Clare’ you remembh r. oil er to her rooms, and I will come in a haif- our.’ He bowed not unkindly to Clare wie followed Mrs. Holcombe through the spacious halls and stair- ways to her room, . It was the room she had visited but a few weeks before. ‘ i “Please tell Mr. Trevlyn to send my trunk as soon as he finds it convenient.” _ Mrs. Holeombe hastened to obey the new mis- tress’s request. : Her trunk came up immediately. From it she selected a simple white dress, and letting ire her hair as she knew he used to like it best, aw ited his coming. ‘ Soon his rapid foctfall sounded along the hall, and, without knocking, he entered the room. She did not rise to greet him, but her joy shone in every line of her fair, sweet face. He walked up to her and smiled. ‘Clare, shall we bury the past? If we cannot re- instate each other in our inmost hearts, at least we will strive faithfully to forgive and forget.” She took his hand and drew him to her side, and lookei into his calm, handsome face. “As your wife, Frederic, I may say what I would
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+i 30 HIS IDOL. not dare to, were I only a betrothed—and yet it seems very like a betrothal, this sweet, sudden re- conciliation.” She blushed in spite of herself, however, as Fred smiled a faint smile. “T have nothing to forgive, my husband, because the grat love I have always borne you has palliated everything that has occurred. But, Frederic, let me make a simple explanation, that I have never been permitted to do. ay 1?” He bowed affirmatively. “Frederic, the gen leman you saw place his arms around my neck and kiss me was my ov1y brother.” An expression of thenkfulness lighted is face. “And I judg sd you harshly, Clare! You are loyal and tru» still.” “ And loving,” she added, laying her head on his shoulder. Hetrembled, and closed his eyes a moment. “Clare, let me confess that I have not been loyal in thoucht ani heart, though I have been inact. I am no longer the man who could love deeply, ar- dently—but a trembling, sinful 01-6, who strives to fulfill his duty.” His voic2 trembled, and Clare f>lt the shiver that eases through his frame as she leaned against m. Her own face grew Palle as death. * And you'’v2 ceased to love me, then? Oh, that I had died before I heard it.”’ The ery came from her stricken heart. “Truth compels me to say it. A stern resolve to do my duty—be it ever so fearful in the perform- anc>—imp2ls me to confess it to you. Yet, Clare, there is still a holy tie that binds us, a sweet bo:id of indissoluble sympathy. I never can forget, Clare, that you were the mother of my chill.” A mist gathered in his eyes, and the mother’s heart overflowed with mingled anguish and bliss. >> ““G5m>. Clare, a moment with me.” Sie accepted his proffered arm, and they descend- | ed to his sacred room, He pointed to the vailed recess. “hore, Clare, is my shrine. That silent little re- treat contains the talisman that has, under God, saved me from sin worse than murder. When temp- tations so whirling that my brain reeled blew upon me, here I cam2, here I suffered, fought, and, thank God, conquered. Will you enter with me, and learn its secret? No mortal eye but my own ever invaded its sanctity; bat vow shallenter. You have even a better rig it than I.” Tremblingly she suffered herself to be drawn along; he raised the griy cloud of drapery, and the two stood within the s »crot room. Tt was asmill apartment, ani the wall was hung “ with black velvet, studded with golden stars. But two obj cts ozcupied the room. In one corner stood an ebony table. where Jay an open B blo, and beside it a silver candlestick, in writin’ flamed faintly a waxen taper. In the center, on a low, marble table. lay a tiny white coffia, simple and unpreten ling. ee 3 a bound, Clare sprung from Frederic’s arm, ani knelt beside the casket, her hot tears flowing fast and copious, ; It was a baby that lay thers, white and beautiful asa sleeping angel. The tiny hands were folded on the little breast, and a little bare leg, plump and marble-hard. nd pure, was visible. are’s sobs c2as3d; then she arose and looked long an‘ eagerly on the infant’s placid sleep. “My baby—my Effis—darling!” “Our child, Clare, is happier than either of us, When she diet, two years ago, Lhad her tiny body _-embilmed. and enshrined very near me, for I felt ~ the powerful tile of fate that was sweeping oa to ms. A good God has blessed the memor, of our daughter to mo, and to-day I can lay my and on her sinless brow and confess all I have done,” With one arm thrown around Clare’s waist, who wept, silently while he spoke, and the other on their baby’s white forehead, he told her all, felsi a e Not a word, not a syllable did ‘he conceal, and, when he had finished, asked: “Clare, can you forgive me?” _ ‘A thousand times. yes. Only give me alittle of the olden time love, only remember sometimes I am Effie’s mother, and Iwill try to bear it; but, Fred- eric, my lost husband, it will break my heart, I “We will help each other on our Jife’s journey, ‘and in heaven, where there is no marriage, or giving in a marriage, we will reap the reward of our sacrifice.” He led her away, and ten locked their treasure in again. CHAPTER XXVI. - > aa VALLEY AND SHADOW. Propit do not often die of broken hearts, and yet Maude Elverton was certainly fading fast. She had never been herself since tne day she had bidden farewell to every hope and anticipation. She» — had seen Frederic Trevlyn’s wife, and had met him — onee. She had striven earnestly to be calm and © cold, and had succeeded. but, after the interview was over her false strength le t her. ss Her cheelzs lost their lovely carnation, and her, 4 eyes gleamed with a luster that Lielthes the insidi-” — ous foe advancing so surely. so rapidly. Every available effort of skill was exerted for her, © but she grew no better, and, at last, when the holi- days drew near, she was a-captive in her room. “Te you have a wish, speak, my child, and it shall — be granted, it human love can accomplish it.” For a moment a bright spot glowed on either — cheek, and sho smiled gratefully at her mother. ‘*San] for him, then, and let me bid him adieu.” A cloud darkened Mrs. Elverton’s haughty face. for sie in her heart accused Frederic Trevlyn of the treachery that caused her darling idol’s death. But she promptly complied with the request, and the meszenzer carried the note to the Archery, ~ Frederic and Clare were sitting together, ho en- gaged with a drawing, she industriously sewing, when the man entered. ‘Frederick knew Mau le was dying, and he felt the keenness of the blow as no one else could feel. The messenger handed him the note. He read it with a visible start and deathly pallor, and then handed it to Clare. She read it and returned it. “ Go, Frederic, and comfort the dying girl.” “T shall not go unless you go with me.” The sun was just setiing whea they entered the sick chamber. Maule saw Frederic the moment the coor opened, and beckoned him to her, while a smile of unuttera- ble joy lighted her sunken eyes. c Qlare, with. choking emotion, retired to the win- dow, where she could not be seen, yet where, if she chose, she might witness all that passed. “God bless you, Frederic!” was whispered, as he knelt beside the low couch and raised her wan hand to his lips. “T knew you would come’at the last, and Tet me see a moment your dear face.” She passed her hand tremblingly over his features and smiled contentedly. “Your beautiful little wife Joves you dearly Frederic—better than you love her. I have stoo between you, Frederic; but forge gone, and make her lot what it_ most blessed of living women. and for hers.” Sf Her soul-lit eyes looked in h der pride; then, ater a long, 1 them slowly. “4 “ Frederic,” she whispered a moment liter, “tell your wife to come. She is here, is she not?”’ He beckoned to Clare, who, suffused with tears, obeyed hercall, | aR es a Maude took their hands and joined them in her little wasted one. . fg ieee ten- sed i se
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x. i, HIS IDOL. 31 on ——— “This is my last act in the world, dearest Fred- eric. Mrs Trevlyn, I loved your husband, I love him now; but you will forgive the dying girl, will you not? Oh, Mrs. Trevlyn, be fond of him; love him truly, love him dearly, and take him as my dy- ing gift, Frederic, cherish her as a true wife should be cherished, and when your happiness has grown perfect, remember Maude as one who worshiped you with a love that was more than mortal. Dear— dear Fred—” Her voice suddenly ceased; her arm fell by her side, and she lay motionless on the pillow—the rare, sweet old smil2 on her face. The physician entered, accompanied by her pa- rents. By the bedside they stood, silent and weeping. ue the physician spoke, solemnly and impress- ively: “Madam, sir, your daughter is dead!”’ % There were aching hearts at the Grange that night, when the distracted parents knelt beside the silent Maude, wan and wast:.d, yet exceedingly beautiful even in death. There were sorely-tried hearts at the Archery that night, that moonlight Christmas night, when from twilight till dawn Frederic Trevlyn paced alone the floor of his holy retreat, and with his dead child and his Bible, struggted for resignation, for peace, for the satisfaction of the quai cmerigtig of duty. And the answer to his prayers came, for, with the morning light, he went to their room, where slept Clare, her lashes still glistening with the tear-drops. He bent over ber and kissed her, | With a thrilling cry, she sprung up. “Frederic, Frederic! do you love meat last?’ * At last, my Clare! The other love is the love for an angel in Heaven; God has made me better for it —more worthy of you who have suffered so much, Will my recovered treasure forgive me?” She kissed his eyes, his mout, his hands. “ Oh, Fred, my precious husband, all the agony I have endured is well worth suffering for the bliss I ' this moment enjoy.” “Then is poor dear Maude’s wish fulfilled, and from the ashes of the past has arisen a new, a holy love for you, my sweet one. I never loved you so truly as now, my wife,” Thus the words Clare hod so long starved for came. frederic Trevlyn and Clare were at rest. CHAPTER XXVII. AFTER MANY DAYS. Tue spacious room of the Villa had been closed > and darkened for six Jong months; heavy folds of -_erape had hung from every window and door,and the glad spring sunsnine had been forbidden entrance in the grand gloomy rooms, — The family had been visited by the overruling hand of Providence, and death, who respected no ersous, had entered the palatial abode, and laid his oy finger on two of its members. ‘Helen Joyce. in all the area and glory of her womanhood, had been felled by the relentless hand, and slept side by side with her aged father in the dis- rant cemetery. : Ida Tressel was a widow, a virgin widow. Her husban1 had gradually failed, and, faithful to her | womanly heart, she had tended him, and striven to | ery whim. And in his last minutes he er and called her the star of his life. ved that the Villa, her Villa now. and elegances. should cast off nd once more let in the fresh, ye sunbeams. lease his elasticity of step, Day by day she Bod At last the year of mourning elapsed, and ‘da laid away her gloomy robes, replacing them with the colors she loved so well in her girlhood. | Since her husbanc’s death she had visited much _more than ever before, and she and Clare Trevlyn, the beautiful, happy wife of Fredcric Treviyn, now the proud mother of a noble baby boy, were best and truest of friends. Each had confided the story of her early life to the other, thus cementing the tie that bound them so closely. One bright afternoon, when the May flowers were peeping among the green grass, Ida, as was her usual custom, called the carriage for her semi-week- ly visit to the Archery. Jeatnie had superintended her toilet, and it being one of the few warm days in the glad, welcome spring-time, had irduced Mrs. Jovee to wear a white Marseilles. proud delight as she saw Lersweet reficcticn. ard the — days of her girlhood came Lack with forcible rower. That she cften thought cf one, still the dearest to her of any on earth, is nct strange, ard she and Clare, and Frederic, too, often spoke cf Gecrge Cas- semaine, and from them she learned he was travel- ing in Europe, still unmarried. “ And still true to me.’’ she would add, gently. The carriage carried her to the Archery, and, as usual, Clare met her with a warm welcome. “Do not alight, Ida, dear, for ycur ride is ret yet ended. There was a man tere a few rcments ago who desires to purchase veut old bcme—tte Cottege —and if you do not wish to keep it, 1 would advise you to let him have it.” Ida toyed ecareléssly with cne of Clare’s curls. “Perhaps Ihad better Crive dev n and see what he says. Jump in, Clare. It wen’t take Icrg.” Ila playfully dragged her a step nearer. ‘‘ Bless you, my child, I cannoi! Fred and Fred- axe calling me. Tl see youwhen youreturn.” — "She threw Ida a merry kiss, while the carriage drove rapidly up to Rose Cottage, were Ica sprung ut unassisted, and ran lightly and gracefully up the narrow path. Every thing was just asit was two years before: the same white curtains—the same old oaken chairs on the porch. The door was ajar, and a youngster peering through the railings told her * amen went in there.” y Carelessly, and humming a merry air, she ascena- ed the steps that led to the diring-rocm. There stood the stranger. tall, graceful, stylish. She abruptly paused, and he suddenly faced her. : For a moment her heart seemed rumb; then, with a thrilling cry of joy, she went straight up to him, and lifted her lips to his. _ “My darling! I knew you would come!” He twined ‘his arms closely about her, and she laid her head on tis bosom; he looked tenderly down in her happy, true eyes. “And you trusted me, my loving little one? and rive me to-day all the wealth of love I came for two years ago?” * All, all, and more!” He kissed her fondly, and stroked back her wave- ing hair. 4 **The two years have been dark. aiid dreary to me, : trusted and waited. now this is my Ida, but my reward.’ 2 2 “And J, dearest, bore my burden patiently and fai hfully, praying for stre: gth, and looking forward to my reward.” bs ‘* Does it meet your expectations?” He smiled lovingly as he asked. She laid her little hand over his lips. “You know it does. You know we both have reasons for a lifetime of gratefulness and thanks- — giving to a merciful God who, in his infinite compas- sion. no less than omnipotent wisdom, has crowned our life with es oa ‘And Jove—for He is love,” added Casselmainc, reverentially, THE END }da blushed with
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A as a Nn Ps PSE IIL SI SS: ‘POCKET EDITION. betcha! Library. PUBLISHED: EVERY TUESDAY. Fach issue a complete and unabridged novel, covering the field of Love and Society Romance, by an author of established reputation—perfectly ae in tone, spirited and captivating in story, as the title '‘ Waverley ” implies. Everything to please and nothing to avoid— . WHOLESOME, VIGOROUS AND FRESH. A me ite hae a Day; or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. By Mrs. Mary Reed rowell. _ Whe 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 Haste 3 or, A Young Girl's Temptation. By Rett Winwood. Will She Marry Him? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Wis Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adoption. By Mrs, Ann §. Stephens. -A Fair Face; or, Outin the World, By Bartley T. Campbell. A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary-A. Denison. A Daughter of Eves or, Blinged by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 10 The Broken Betrothal; sf versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. li The Bride of an Actor; or, vriveg from Home. By the Author of ‘‘ Alone in the World,” etc., etc. 12 A Pair of Gray Eyes 3 or, The Smersid Necklace. By Rose Kennedy. 13 Without a Heart; 6r, Walking on the Brink, By Col, Prentiss ‘Ingraham. 14 Alone in the Worlds or, The Young Man’s Ward. Ly the Author of “‘'The Bride of an Actor,” éte., etc. 15 Motherless;3 or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 16 Whe Secret Marriage; or, A Duchess in Spite of Herself. By Sara Claxton. 17 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 18 Weart to Heart; or, Fair Phyllis's Love. By Arabella Southworth. 19 Sold for Gold3 or, Almost Lost... By Mrs. M. V. Victor, 20 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game, By Henrietta Thackeray. 21 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Ann 8. Stephens, 22 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight, By Margaret Leicester. Ready Oct. 2ist. 23 Sinned Against; or, The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Augusta. Ready Oct. 28th. 24 A Leyal Lover; or, The Last of the Grimspeths. By Arabella Southworth, : Ready November 4th. 25 The Country Cousin; or, All is not Gold that Glitters. By Rose Kennedy. Ready November 11th. 26 His Idol; or, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Ready Nove mber 18th. 27 WFlirtation; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell, (Ralph Royal). Ready November 25th. 28 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Marry Him? By Henrietta Thackaray. Ready December 2d. The Waverley Library is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Geadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 28 William street, New York. OO aan oer rrr WOWHAR WD mM eee —— — — — eee —— RRA EIS IP SIL I OOOO - sae! A = os re PPPOE PP PA PL PDA PLP OL OPP LLLP PPP POP PP OP OP PRI Pe tA — oor