Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 67) (1885 09 01)
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Copyrighted, 1885, by BrapLe AND ADaMs, Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Sep. 1, 1885, $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, i VOL. VI. a Year, No. 98 William Street, New York. Pile oehes NO. 67, Tiring ie 7, a 2 “IT IS GRANDPAPA AND GRANDMAMMA,”’ A WICKED HR ART t had been threatening all day, seemed but to y wait for the last red streak, left on the horizon : by the setting sun, to fade away, ere it came . ; ; Or, THE FALSE AND THE TRUE, down with a fearful fury. The trees in Chiltern Park swayed back and forth in the wind which remorselessly tore from BY 8. LAXTON. ee age oe them the gree sre “ goes had edie a turned to brown and gold. ere were huge = EVENING was caer a= 3 oaks, though, which refused to bow their heads — aa ast closing in; the storm which | or bend in the blast; and the storm, as if in re~ ¥ “se
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ar Ae Ngee Ces TE et OR et I ee ! x . — = “eon aes Lik venge, spapped off branch after branch, and burled them to the ground. The Munor, witb its he»vy masonry, frowned ominous!y in the gathering gloom; scarcely a light shone from its windows. No sounds of merriment were ever heard within its walls. Most of the servants had grown old in the Squire’s service, and they had learnt to mount ye a | eX ay Seat al Po) ay = aes the broad oak staircase, and move about the 3 have one of those nervous fits which had been so frequent of late. Perhaps it would be wiser to ring for Abigail; - he did not like being alone with his wife when she became excited. Poor Mrs. Chiltern! Eighteen years ago her mind, never very strong, had received a shock, and, though not exactly imbecile, she suffered from the most painful nervousness. She rose from her seat, and, approaching her husband, laid a hand upon his arm. _ There was something pitiful in the way in ‘which she touched him; fear of him was so _ plainly shown in her half-sbvinking figure and the tremble of the thin white hand which resi- ed, half-deprecatingly, on his sleeve. “William,” she said, in a voice little abovo -_ awhisper, ‘do you remember what day this is? Eighteen years ago, on just such a night ; ! ee saa A WICKED HEART. ' held me back. Had she come to ask forgive- | save your husband! . artist. ' “J shall never forget his airs of equality, nor the cool, impudent way in whigh he asked for — into a passion, entering into the details of bis: — 2S a Oe we eS Ss ee bo es 2 en & Se 7 > me eT et a ~ 4 { as this, she left us. ‘No, no,” she continued, , as he shook her hand off roughly; “I am not going to mention her name, i promised you I would not, and have not broken my word in all these years; but something makes me think - of her more than usual this evening. Perhaps it is the storm. Hark how it moans and sighs through the trees! Tkere!—do you hear? I could almost fancy I heard a child’s voice, just as I heard her child cry when you cast them out.” The Squire raised his hand as though to push her away; but she clung to him. 3 “T must speak,” she cried—‘‘I must! Oh, to know even if she be living! To-night it all | comes back to me as if it were but yesterday. Ican see her nowas she knelt before you, holding her infant up to mutely plead with her. How I longed to clasp her in my arms, but you <4) ness, I think you would have pardoned her; but she had come to plead for him—her husband— the man who had stolen ber from us, and you ~ would not listen to her. I hear your words now. How stern you looked as you drew your- self up, and pointed to the door! Each word you uttered entered my heart, and seared it like a burning coal. ‘Go, leave my house!’ you cried, ‘Not one farthing will I give to Let him die!’ Then she turned to me, appealingly, with tears stream- ing down her cheeks; but I was spellbound— powerless to move. I tried to go to her—tried to speak, but my limks refused to obey me; no words would come. She had sent the fly, by — which she had come from the station, back to — Blexby; for she thought we would surely keep her that one night, but you would not let her | stay. Out into the wind and rain she went, pressing her little frightened baby to her — breast. And, oh! worse than all—far worse than all!” she wailed—‘‘ thinking that I, her mother, was also barsh to ber; that I had let her go without one kind word, without one ef- — fort to detain her!” : Her voice rose almost to a scream, and sink- ing down on her knees, she covered her face with her hands. “Why will you agitate yourself in this — way?” said the Squire. ‘Mabel sacrificed all — consideration from us when she left her home to become the wife of that beggarly Italian — Confound him!” he went on, angrily: — my daughter—as though he never dreamed OF a refusal, when all the time he must hav? — known I had as good as promised her to Wil * fred Gray.” a The Squire was gradually working himself , fancied wrong, and trying to justify himse* for the harshness of his conduct.- ad a But, somehow, now that so many years bi Be
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ca ee * % an. 9 A WICKED HEART. ‘ . a Passed, he could not help viewing it ina differ- | the discussion that was going on near her with 5 ent light, “Was it possible,” he asked himself, “ that an indolent expression, half-scornful, half amused. he had been unnecessarily cruel to his only * Presently she caught sight of the old couple daughter?” It was late in the day to take this view of the case. Mabel must be not far from forty now. Bah! why did he let his thoughts rest so on the past this evening? Was it possible he was Towing nervous and excitable, like his wife? Just then a loud pealrung out from the front door-bell, causing Mrs. Chiltern to rise to her feet, with another cry, and cling once more toher husband. Even the Squire looked dis- concerted, The arrival of a visitor was an almost un- eard-of event at the Manor, and to-night of fury, few persons, unless obliged, would care to ventura out. “Tt is she!” in an awe-stricken tone whis- red the old lady. appen to-night. You wiil not send her away gain, William?’ she went on, pitifully. ‘She new you could not really mean her to walk all the six miles to Blexby through this dread- ful storm. There,” she said, smiling feebly through the tears which coursed each other down her withered cheeks, “let me go and Meet her, and bring the baby in here to the fire. Poor little thing, it will be quite cold.” The poor lady’s thoughts had gone back to that. night so long ago, fanoying only some fused shelter. All forgotten were the eighteen | Weary years of sorrow which had slowly dragged themselves along since then. been answered. Voices in the hall, broken English in a high-pitched tone, A Bentler voice now and again interposed more Quietly, ign Chiltern’s heart died within her as she rts ned, a look of intense disappointment steal- . ae her anxious countenance, Neither -,P0ke in the weil-remembered accents ox her eloved daughter, hed paeiinely she poll her husband, who 0 the door o 6 stud 1 both looked into the hall, oer ing: alpus, the old butler, was weakly protest- Pine east some heavy boxes beihg-eurried into vite Suse from a hired carriage which stood Redes the steps, while a stout, dark-browed, tnsis a woman was gesticulating wildly, and en 0g upon her orders being obeyed. last Pres floor, herp J OUnE girl, tall and exquisitely beautifu al : > tall and exquisitely beautiful oldegrgtined With infinite grace against tho all nights, with the storm raging with unbated | ; , more composed of the two. “T felt something would | standing near the study door, and, with a — smile, approached them. ‘ “It is grandpapa and grandmamma!” she said, in sweet, soft tones. ‘‘I should have re- cognized you anywhere from dear mamma’s description of you. Ab, how often we have talked of you!” 2 There was not a shade of embarrassement in her manner, and before the Squire well knew what she was about she had thrown her arms around his neck and embriced him warmly. He wus so tiken aback, so altogether startled and bewildered, that words failed him. sare It was Mrs. Chiltern who now looked the She passively allowed the young! to kiss her, but did not return the embrace, “IT do not know you,” she said, in accents that were almost fretful. ‘t You are not Mabel. Why do you come here; and’ why do you call me grandmamma? I have only one grand- child—she is a little baby, a little weak child; I heard it cry as it left the house. I hear it cry now very often when the wind moans in the trees,” ae The girl took both the old lady’s trembling hands in her own warm soft ones; and gazed down at her sympathetically, saying, in clear, distinct tones, though not without a slight minutes had elapsed since Mabel had been re- | foreign accent, ‘Dear grandmamma, I will — explain everything to you presently. May we not all come into this room where I see a fire | is burning? Iam tired and chilly, for we have In the meantime, the hasty summons had | There were now sounds of , A woman was speaking | - How dark it isin here!” she said, asshe entered | the study. ® succeeded in having her way, and the of the trunks was soon deposited on tho oned carved fireplace, and regarded | had a long journey. Come madame,” she said, turning to the other lady, “help me to tell my dear grandparents all that has happened, anda why I come to seek a home with them. The shaded lamp left the corners of the room in obscurity. ‘May I ring for more light? You hav: z hardly seen me yet.” : Without waiting for an answer, she pulled the bell-rope, which none but the Squire himsel: had dared touch before. ‘“‘T must be as a daughter to you now,” she _ | said to the Squire, as if in apology. “T do not want you to look upon me as a stranger.” 7 From the first she seemed to master the situa- tion. Sinking on her knees before the fire, she held out her small white hands to the warmth, “Ah, I am so glad to be home!” sho mur- mured as if to herself. One would have thought she was a loved daughter of the house just re- turned after a short absence. ea The Squire resigned himself to the inevit- 7h able. He, who had ruled every one with a rod of — a ae
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Taghs ee ee at took a seat near the old lady. well, grandmamma; tell me if you do not a > s iron, seemed gentle as a child in the presence | of the young girl, He felt that he should let her have her own way, ask what she would. She took everything so for granted—was so sure of a welcome—so certain that her arrival at the Manor could not but be a pleasure to them, ‘When the candles, were brought she rose and Then, smiling on her, she said, ‘‘ Look at me think you could love me. I am not like my ag mother in appearance, but I will try to love Pare * ae tf om An ee - - have told us of yourself, but you have not in- dead! story. until Tam rested, and we have had some re- turned to his wife. _ *Jisten for her now, nor expect her to return,” you both as much as she would have done.” It was a beautiful countenance on which : Mrs. Chiltern gazed. A pale olive complexion, with eyes almost unnaturally dark, that one could not fathom, fringed by long silky lashes black as night; lips small and red; but these, when not smiling, were ap close too firmly over white teeth, and the®® was a haughty curve about the well cut nostrils. “Tlove no one but Mabel!” said the old lady, turning away her head, and beginning to - rub her hands together in the old nervous way. «¢ Where is Mabel? Did not some one say she was coming?” “‘ There—there! come this way, and speak to me!” said the Squire to the young girl, who was looking a little surprised at the way iv which her advances were received. ‘“ You 1 | formed us who this lady is—-not related to your father, I suppose?’ he added, determined, if such were the case, to make some show of re sistance should she contemplate remaining her¢ also. Oh, I beg your pardon; I had quite for- gotten. This is Madame Veroust, my dear iend and governess. I hope you will allow her to remain with me fora time, for she has been very good to me since my darling mother | died.” “ Dead!” echoed the Squire. When did she die?” “Dear grandpapa, it is all such a Jong, sad May I not postpone the teling of it “Your mother fréshment? Madame, if you will be so good as to ring, we will ask to be shown to our | apartments.” As the door closed behind them, the Squire “Did you hear, Caroline? Mabel is dead. You will never s2e her again! You must never | She looked hastily up at him with a startled, | hunted expression, ~ “Tdo not understand, You mistake, Wil- | liam; it is not Mabel who is dead, but this. ‘stranger’s mother.” | .. | ‘Yes, yes,” he answered, impatiently; “‘ but this stranger’s mother was Mabel.” **No—oh, no; that cannot be. Mabel is a little baby.” “Can’é you—won’t you remember that eighteen years have passed since you saw that child? She has grown up into this handsome young girl. How am I to make you under- stand?” he went on, fretfully. He always grew angry when his wife was in this mood. ‘¢T do comprehend you quite well, William,” she said, speaking slowly and distinctly, enun- ciating each word clearly. Poor lady, she seemed conscious that she often talked sense- lessly. ‘‘ You wish me to know that Mabel is dead. I shall never see her again, you say? Ah, yes! she will visit me in my dreams, and she will tell me that this tall young lady who calls me grandmamma is not her daughter, Did you not see? She is dark and foreign-looking; she has neither Mabel’s eyes, hair, nor voice. — Oh, I tell you I should know Mabel’s child! My daughter’s child would be more like her- self!” The Squire turned away impatiently. It seemed hopeless to argue further with his wife. He knew well when she had a settled convic- tion on any subject it was hard to change it. “Perhaps we had better go to the dining- room,” he said, presently, ‘‘and I trust I shail not have to complain of your conduct toward our granddaughter, but that you will receive her with the kindness which she has every rea-_ son to expect at your hands, After supper she will give us, I doubt not, the details of her mother’s death, and the reason why she has come to us in this unexpected way. I mus insist that you do not interrupt her while she is speaking, as you so often are fond of doing with people. If you cannot make up your mind to behave in a proper manner, I shall re-— quest that you sup in your own room,” Of course, his poor wife promised anything; she was always submissive when he spoke to her in that way. In the meantime Christine Vira, and her governess had been shown into a large apart: ment, 3 They shuddered involuntarily as they crosse@ the threshold, There was a musty, moldy scent in the air; the room looked as though had not been slept in for years. Christine took the candle from the serv ’s child | above her head, looked around her. A four-post bedstead was at one end of the roo hung with faded chin’z, which once, doubtle blossomed over with brilliant flowers, but w. now, alas! showed but little trace of any ¢0% heavy wardrobes, uncomfortable couches, Ti
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Ate eee A WICKED HEART. Be Seger 5 ety, spindle-legged tables, each more old-fash- -joned than the other. She turned to the servant in some dismay. “Ts this the most habitable room you can offer me?’ she asked. “It is almost the best in the house, ma’am,” answered the woman, indignantly. “Adios Mabel herself was the last to occupy it.” “ And that was exactly eighteen years ago,” mused Christine. ‘‘Ts it possible no one has slept here since?” exclaimed Madame, uplifting her hands and eyesin horror. ‘‘ You will die of rheumatism, My poor child! And where, then, am I to sleep to-night?” she inquired, in some concern. “Mr, Grey’s room is opposite this, ma’am. The housekeeper thought you could take that until he arrives, and we can then prepare an- other for you. My master sees so little com- pany that extra rooms are seldom required.” “Yes, of course,” interrupted Christine, “we quite understand. If you will havea fire lighted here, and see that the bed is well aired, and light plenty of candles, I shall do very well, I daresay. Whois this Mr. Grey?’ she asked, as the servant was about to withdraw. “My master’s nephew,” replied the old Woman, in‘a way which showed she was not fond of being questioned. ‘‘Mr. Grey is evidently a constant visitor,” "said Christine, when they were alone, “TI must make a friend of him.” “You will probably make more than a friend of him,” repiied Madame, “unless he _ prove very different from other men. But come; we must not waste time talking here. am dying ofhunger, and the antiquated do- Mestic informed me supper would be served in _ a few minutes.” They shortly after descended to the dining- room, where they found the Squire already Seated at the head of the table. Mrs, Chiltern Was opposite to him, looking nervous and un- eh Starting every time her husband spoke, } ao lest she would do something which _ Should call forth some rebuke from him. B he meal passed almost in silence. Christine mas thoughtful and preoccupied, while Madame *¢roust was too intent upon satisfying her ap- Petite to trouble much about conversation. eat last the cloth was removed, and the ser- oe S left the room. Christine drew her chair ; toy. her grandfather, and commenced her 4 4 6G x : Bi eeey begin,” she said, “at the time when int other left this house, and, carrying me ~~ tion arms, walked through the storm to the ° OCT, Raat a hardly necessary,” interrupted the . acre to revert to that, I think.” ¥ vec: only mention it,” went on Christine, ause that d , ter fosiinea ay commenced my father’s bet- a “When my mother returned, ill and tired with her journey, and sick at heart with disap- i pointment ”—she dwelt upon the words as though determined to spare her grandfather ' nothing, —“she found a lady with, my father. She was his sister, who had, a few years be- | | fore, married @ rich English banker, and then | resided in London. My father had written to | her repeatedly; but she had been from home for ' some time, and had not received his letters. / On her return she at once hastened to the poor lodgings my parents occupied, and, as soon as the invalid could be moved, insisted upon our going to her own house. rr ‘My father, as you know, was an artist, but what money he earned by his paintings was | generally spent as soon as received; so, when he fell ill, my poor mother found that, at the end of a few weeks, the little money she had by her was almost exhausted. It was in this emergency she, aS a last resource, besought | your assistance. “Tender nursing and good living soon par- tially restored my father’s health; but the doc- tors insisted that the air of his native country ing that a winter in England would be most prejudicial to bim. ; “We accordingly went to Italy, Mrs. Blount, my aunt, providing my parents with ample means. “Here my father was soon strong enough to ~ commence his painting again, and his pictures were much sought after, No tamiiy could be happier and more united than we were. We traveled about all over Italy and the south of France, seldom — coming further north than Lyons. ‘It was at that city, when I was ten years old, that we first became acquainted with Madame Veroust. She was then but lately a widow. Not being able to afford to keep up — the large house she had occupied during ber — husband’s lifetime, she was forced to let the greater part of it, and we became her tenants. “A strong attachment soon sprang up be- tween my mother and her; and her daughter Juliette, a girl about my own age, and I were fast friends. ; “Poor mamma had up to this time under- taken my instruction herself; but she was not strong, and, as she disliked my being taught by | teach me with her own daughter. “From that tinie we were inseparable, for, “when we traveled, Madame let her house and accompanied us. | «Within the last few years my mother’s health began to fail, and we resided almost en- | tirely in Lyons, my father having several rich patrons in that neighborhood. |” «Tast year he was engaged by a M. Dupont, ‘the proprietor of a fine chateau a few miles was necessary for his perfect recovery, declar- — | strangers, it was arranged that Madame should
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“One day, when the work was almost com- pleted, my mother expressed a wish to see it, and arranged that she and I, Madame Veroust ‘and Juliette, should all drive to the chateau, M. Dupont being at that time from home. the floor inlaid with colored marbles; the walls hang with trophies of the chase and ancient armor; but it was the ceiling which attracted and dome-shaped. The paintings upon it repre- _ sented a boar-hunt, and were magnificent works | of art. My father, as we entered, was in the act of putting the finishing touches to one of the principal figures. a “He stood upon a narrow platform composed | _. of a few planks of wood. My mother shud- dered as she beheld the insecurity of his-posi- tion, and begged him to descend. ‘He laughed down at us merrily, saying, ‘How glad lam that you did not come while I was at work on the center figures. I had to paint them lying on my back. The position was altogether much more perilous. But I will “come down to you now if it alarms you to see me here;’ and he proceeded to walk along the platform in order to reach a ladder which stood at one end. “He had gone about half-way when he turned, and looked back at my mother to smile reassuringly. At that moment bis foot slipped. He vainly tried to recover his balance. There was a wild, awful shriek. He fell. mother rush forward, and raise my father’s head. It was frightfully disfigured. Never shall I forget the sight. I fainted. ‘“‘When I at last came to myself, I heard thet I had been ill for two days, and learnt that “my mother was at the point of death. -©T insisted upon going at once to her bed- side; but I was only in time to listen to her dying request, which was that I should go at once to England; for she felt sure that you, my dear grandparents, would receive me when you knew I was an orphan.” Christine paused, and looked inquiringly at the Squire, “Yes, my child,” he sail; “you did right to come. Let us hope we shall make you happy here, and get you in time to forget this fright-_ ful tragedy. But you say nothing of your - companion, Juliette. How is it, Madame — Veroust, that you did not bring ser also to England?” _ ‘* Ah, monsieur, spare me!” cried Madame, raising a handkerchief to her eyes; “the fate of my poor daughter is even more terrible than that of Christine’s parents. My darling Juli- ette had always been of a very excitable nature. Only to see an animal in pain would make her | shock of that moment, “The hall was, indeed, a noble apartment; — | such cases, most of our admiration. It was extremely lofty | , some time, and, as it was already late, Madame daughter was speaking. It is doubtful if she had heard half that was said. I saw my . jetty masses far below her waist; then threw fire. for some time, y locket which she wore concealed in her boson) lips; opening if, she gazed long. upon the and forth in an agony of grief. | never see you more! Already I begin to reg the step Ihave taken; but it is too late—™ much, I wonder?’ she went on, brushing once more to her lips. a | happy days when we thought only of our 1ov™, you after to-night!” * hn _ from the city, to restore some beautiful paint- | quite if]; and often have I known her to faint * ings which decorated the ceiling of his hall. if I did put cut my finger. Monsieur will readily suppose how great was the shock to this sensitive child when she saw Monsieur Vira, precipitated from that fearful hight, fall almost at her feet. Her brain never recovered the Ihave been forced to put my beloved Juliette under the care of a medical man: Fortunately for me, my brother- in-law is a doctor, and much experienced iu He undertook to receive my daughter, but strongly advised my not even attempting to see her until he had had charge of ber for some time. Ah, monsieur,” she — | sobbed, ‘‘ you may imagine how bitter it was for me to promise not to see my Juliette; but — it is for her good. I would not selfishly con-— sider my own feelings. I therefore devote myself to my other daughter,” she said, smil-_ ing sadly, and patting Christine’s hand, ‘and hope to find some consolation in being permit- ted to remain near her.” The telling of Christine's story had occupied suggested their retiring. Mrs, Chiltern was gazing at the dying em- bers, ber hands clasped on her lap; she had oc- cupied the same position allthe time her grand- I” CHAPTER II. ; MADAME Vproust would have entered Christine’s room with her, but the young girl wished her good-night at the door. a ‘‘T would rather be alone to-night,” she said. tT have so much to think of.” es She changed her dress for a loose wrapper; and unbound her hair, which fell in heavy; herself wearily into a large arm-chair near th@- Resting her head on her hand, she mused Slowly the tears gathered, and taking a she pressed it wildiy again and again to be trait of a young man; then she swayed bam “ Auguste, Auguste!” she moaned, “I shal late! I cannot now go back! Do you miss ® tears impatiently away, and pressing the 1o “ Ah, me! those W and forgot that we were poor. Fancy me wife of a poor man!” she laughed, scornf “No, no, Auguste; it was a pleasanb Gree” while it lasted; but I must think no more © ots ~433 “
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¥ Saying this, she drew the portrait from the locket, and, without one more iook at it, cast it into the fire. She watched it curl and shrivel in the heat, and at last disappear; then she rose, and walking to the toilet table, looked earnestly at the reflection of herself in the glass. “IT thought I was above such weakness!” she muttered, bitterly, as she saw her t ar-stained cheeks. ‘Bah! I am not like myself to-night; it must be that Iam tired.”” Looking round the room, she shuddered a little involuutarily. “Tt is lucky Iam not afraid of ghosts; this looks the very picture of a baunted room. If Spirits did visit this world, surely the last occu- pant of this chamber would appear to me to- night. How foolish I am! I will hasten to bed, and forget my fancies in sleep.” But it was many hours before Christine closed her eyes. Every sound caused her heart to beat so that she could almost hear it. The Jong disused furniture cracked and 8roaned as the fire died down, and the storm, _ which still raged outside, shook the windows so Violently that Christine thought every moment the casements would be dashed in. At last, worn out by sheer fatigue, she fell into a heavy sleep, and did not wake until it was broad day- light. With the darkness disappeared whatever - gloomy forebodings she might have had the ' night before, and Christine ruse, determined to make the best of her position. took place at the Manor. “which had been disused for so many years, had the covers taken off its furniture; the piano was tuned, and once more gave forth sweet Sounds beneata Christine’s supple fingers. The conservatory was robbed of its choicest blos- Soms, notwithstanding the old gardener’s re- Mmonstrance, and the vases filled with fiowers. 4 smart lady’s-maid arrived from London, who Scandalized the staid old servants by her giddy Manner and grand dresses. Christine’s bedroom underwent a complete transformation. Signed to an attic, and was replaced by a pretty _ Wardrobes, chairs, and lounges. A room ad- _ Joining became a charming little boudoir. _ Other, and were received by Christine with _ Such dignity and® grace that the Squire was - ™ore than ever charmed with his granddaugh- ter. He was seldom out of ber society; if ) Christine were bored by him, she had too much tact to show it, Mrs, Chiltern kept more than ever to her Wn apartments. She had taken an instinctive ia Unaccountabdle dislike to Curistine, and by ‘“esrees ceased even to take her meals with og others, Her husband, now that he bad “ier things to occupy him, took less pleasure in A WICKED HEART. Not many weeks passed before great changes The drawing-room, | Tho old furniture was con- | French bed, dainty dressing-table, modern The neighboring gentry called one after the worrying her, and in the company of her faith- ful maid Abigail the poor lady suffered much less from the fits of nervousness to which she had heen accustomed. She would sometimes walk up and down the terrace with Madame Veroust, but did this more out of politeness to the Frenchwoman than for the sake of any pleasure derived from her society. “Wilfred Grey will be here this evening,” said the Squire one morning, after reading a letter which had just arrived. ‘‘He is anxious to make your acquaintance, Christine. I trust” you and he will be good friends. He was at one time greatly attached to your mother, but she had the bad taste to refuse him and his ten thousand a-year for that—ahem!—I should say, | for your father!” ““He is now no longer young, I conclude?’ , said Christine. | “ Not young!” exclaimed the Squire. “ Well, that depends entirely on what you consider /young. Wilfred is barely forty, and one of _ the handsomest men I know.” | Christine took some pains with her toilet that ‘evening. She looked dazzlingly beautiful as | She entered the drawing-room, clad in a robe of rich ruby silk, with ruffles of costly lace at her neck and wrists. No matter what dres: _ She wore, she always looked as if it were the . very one that suited her best, Mr. Grey was standing near the fire-plac \, talking to the Squire. Christine could not — help smiling a li: tle secorafwily to herself at the thought of having taken any pains to please the very ordinary-looking gen‘leman b-for -her, Surely she would find it not very difficuls | to captivate this man; and yet, if she were not mistaken, his expression showed more of dis- appointment than admiration as their eyes met. She advanced with hand extended, and a smile on her lips, not waiting for the Squire to , introduce them, ““We are cousins,” she said; ‘we shall be. friends also, | hope.’ And soon they were conversing as easily and | naturally as if they had known each other for years. Some days passed, and though Chris- | tine used ail her arts, tried ali her fascinations, ‘she felt that Mr. Grey’s heart was as safely in his own keeping as ever. One evening, after dinner, Christine, com- plaining of the heat cf the drawing-room, passed with her cousin into the conservatory, which was adjoining. An arbutalon wound is delicate tendrils round a carved villar near — tiem. Plucking one of its bell-like flowers. she offered it to Mr. Grey, with one of her most captivating glances, He shook his head, and, smiling gravely, said, “T nover wear flowers; the practice always seems to me eficuminate, There is something so incongruous in the fact of ornamenting the
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teed he ep aN ag ee ‘ ~ day with a flower.” “Tt never struck me in that light before, but _ I dare say you are right,” said Christine, bend- ing her head, and fastening the flower in her own dress to hide her discomfiture. As Mr. Grey watched her, his locks fell upon a bracelet which she wore, composed of flat medallions of dead gold. He started as he caught sight of it, and begged to be allowed to examine it nearer. She unclasped it, and handed to him at once. “T recognize it,” he-said as he took it from her. ‘It is one which I myself gave to your mother. It used to contain my likeness.” “* Really,” exclaimed Christine. ‘‘ You sur- prise me. I was not aware there was place for any likeness, Has it any secret spring?’ ** Yes; see here!” As he spoke he touched a spring and ono cf the medallions opened, disclosing a beautifully- painted miniature of a fair young child, with large expressive eyes and thick clusters of curl- ing golden hair. For some time neither of them spoke. Wil- fred Grey seemed strangely agitated, but Christine was too much occupied in Jooking at the portrait to observe him. “Who is this child?” at last he said, in as careless a tone as he could command. “Tt is the daughter of Madame Veroust,”’ she answered. “Dear Juliette and I were very much attached to each other. I shall value the bracelet still more now I know that it contains her likeness,” “ How strange that you should have known nothing about it!” he said, regarding her ‘fixedly. “Yes; is it not? I must ask Madame to explain it. She probably gave it to mamma. You see, this was taken when Juliette was quite a child, so it is not astenishing that I should have forgotten the circumstance.” That night Wilfred Grey paced up and down his room in the greatest excitement. He knew not what to thiuk—what to do. The innocent young countenance which had looked out at - him from the bracelet was so exactly like what Mabel had been at the same age. The same pleading expression; the clustering curls grow- ing in the same rebellious manner over the low white brow. Surely this could not be the portrait of the daughter of that dark, swarthy- looking Frenehwoman! And then he remembered how he had heard that Madame Veroust’s daughter was insane; even now under the care of some medical man —probably in some private asylum. _ His mind was filled with the darkest fore- bodings; he hardly dared own to himself what he feared. Often had he wondered how it was Christine was so totally unlike her mother; and, indeed, unlike her father, too, He re- i " » I eg hE aR dad oll A WICKED HEART. severe and prosaic evening dress of the present - membered well the weak, handsome Carl Vira, and she in no way resembled him. He seemed to be able to account for everything now; and yet, if his surmises were correct, what ought he to do? He could not accuse this young girl of being an impostor, just because the face in the por- trait was more like what Mabel’s daughter should be. The very idea was preposterous; and still he — ' could not let the matter rest. He shuddered at the thought that perhaps the daughter of his | old love was, even now, incarcerated in some foreign asylum, where she might %e ill treated; while the girl who had preten ed to be her | friend for so many years was here filling her place. ’ Before he went to bed that: night Wilfred Grey had resolved that he woul: himself go to | Lyons and hunt up this Doctor Veroust, Ma- _dame’s brother-in-law. At the jast, if he were unable to see the young girl under his charge, he would, if necessary, call in “he aid of the police, but that must be only as a last resource. | He was fully aware how important it was to — arouse no suspicion until he hac vroved beyond a doubt that she was indeed M *bel’s daughter. It was rather late when Mr. Grey entered the breakfast-room next morni.g. Christine rallied him playfujly upon his Jazi- ness, She was unusua'ly avimated; while Madame, deep in thought, held a pencil ina © contemplative way against her lips, as she bent over a sheet of paper which was on the table — before her, and on which was a long list of names, “You are the very person we want,” said — Christine. ‘‘In fact, we cannot get on aft all without you.. I have a grand piece of news. — This morning grandpapa has given his consent ,to my having a ball on my birthday, and as there is barely a fortnight before that import-— ant day, I am anxious to send out the invita- | tions at once.” | And what does. aunt say to this arrange- ment?’ asked Wilfred. {6 will hardly suit _ her quiet habits, I think.” : Christine made a little move of annoyance. — | “Surely it is enough if grandpapa makes nQ_ objection? Grandmamma will, of course, keep te her own apartments.’’ b ‘““You seem to have settled it all your ow? — way already,” he replied, oRtaly. “T should — have thought”—glancing at the black dres? — which she wore—‘ that it would have been a@ Visable to wait a few months, " ‘My goodness, monsieur!” put in Madame; “ would you have the poor child dwell foreve? on her bereavement? We are only too thank ful, M. Chiltern and I, that she endeavors 5° bravely to find distractions,” > An expression of keen contempt for a 10 — ment crossed Wilfred’s features; fleeting as it ee
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had been, Christine noted it, and the hot color - rushed tu her cheeks. She bit her lips to hide her confusion. She felt that this man despised her, and it piqued her beyond endurance. Why did he see faults in her which no other man had dared to do? She was used to flattery, ad- miration—adoration, even—and yet from this cool, impassive cousin she had heard no word which showed that he even considered her beautiful. Already, though their acquaintance dated back but a few weeks, he had shown by his manner that he thought her heartless, self- ish, and a coquette. Oh! it was humiliating, she thought. to be treated thus by a man old enough to be’her father, and one whom most girls would consider plain and uninteresting. Had Wilfred sought to gain her affections, he could not’ have gone a better way to work; but this he had no desire to do, Indeed, much _ 4s he strove tg master it, he had always been conscious of a feeling almost amounting to aversion for his lovely cousin. As may be well imagined, thése sentiments were tenfold in- oveased since the discovery of the portrait. He perceive’ Christine’s annoyance, and had n0 wish to qui.trel with her. a ‘¢ Will you »6t give me some breakfast?” he asked, smiling 2nd seating himself at the table, ‘*] see Mary his brought me some fresh tea, May I ask you to pour it out forme? We will talk over this wonderful ball in the meantime, Where is my uncle?” “ Grandpapa rode off to Blexby the moment he had finished his breakfast, to order pro- grammes,” “Ye gods! what a victory!” Jaughed Wil- | fred, ‘Do you mean to say you have so far i. Conquered and subdued the Squire as to get him to run on errands for you? I tremble at what I may be expected todo. What do you require of me, oh, charming, yet despotic, Vrincess?” , 2 only wish you to be serious,” pouted Christine. ‘That is easily done,” aié‘said, looking grave tasmediately, “Ts that really all?” si u Oh, of course it is not. You are to tell adame the names of all the people who are © be invited, in order that she may add them her list.” “It seems to have reached a gigantic length already,” he said, running his eyes over what Was written. ‘I see you have left out the De eres, the Grants, and the Campbells, to say Rothing of Major Sandown, who would bring aneing men from Blexby.” Chre? of course; how stupid of us!” said “* Stine, taking a pencil and quickly writing 1@ names mentioned. ‘‘I was getting nervous about the scarcity of dancing men. We shall _ Set on finely now you are here fto help us. _ And mind, sir, I shall expect you to dance A WICKED HEART. every time; I will even give. you the first waltz as an inducement.” “But I am not at all sure I shall be here,” ‘‘Not be here?’ echoed Christine. “I — thought you were going to stay until next month.” ‘ ‘“‘I fear it will be impossible; I have some important business which must be attended to, I start for town to-morrow.” ‘Oh, it is too annoying!” — And tears of vexation rose to Christine’s © eyes. ball; she never looked so well asin a ball-dress, — and was determined to wear one that should eclipse all others, Then she danced divinely, and had hoped that even he would on that night succumb to her attractions. ‘Could you not return in time?’ she asked, eagerly. “T fear not,” responded Wilfred; “butifit ‘ be possible, I will do so.” They were interrupted by the entrance of the Squire, who had just returned from his ride. A long consultation was at once com- — menced as to tbe desirability of having the house plants, etc. Fi The refreshment-room was to be turned into She had hoped great things from this _ ball-room decorated with evergreens and hot- — _ + Ret. ay ° Nop Sloe ‘> . -« fo. SS eae Ce re a ae a perfect bower of flowering shrubs and ferns; - tiny fountains were to spring out here and _ there from beds of moss; the whole to be dimly — illuminated by Chinese lanterns, This was entirely Christine’s idea. ‘¢ Will it not be charming?’ “ Just like fairyland!” “What, with Malpus as presiding king, popping champagne corks, and directing the movements of his satellites as they dispense chicken and other solid food?” remarked Wil- fred, laughing. E “Oh, cousin, what shocking ideas you have!” cried she. ‘I never knew any one so fearfully prosaic; but I will not quarrel with youif only you will promise to return for my birth- day.” “Why, Wilfred, you surely are not ing of leaving us?’ asked the Squire. she exclaimed, think ‘“‘T am very sorry, sir, but I fear it cannot be avoided.” “ Ah! miles would probably stand between him. and Chiltern Manor by that day. The next morning he was to start eariy, and thought to leave the house quietly, without dis- turbing any one; but he found Christine down looking superbly lovely in a soft cashmer@ , wrapper, Mr. Grey was silent; but he knew well many. pet
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orks a ew. " T knew if Idid not get up and look after you, you would very likely go away without any breakfast,” she said, as she gave him her hand. “T am afraid I must plead guilty to some such intention,” owned Wilfred, smiling. “ And you do not get to London for more than four hours! How thoughtless you men are! riage will be round in ten minutes.” Mr. Grey felt just a little uncomfortable; he would so greatly have preferred not to see Christine again. Why would she not quarrel with him, or, | better still, ignore him altogether? It would have made his task so much easier. He hated that she should be so careful of his welfare, so thoughtful about him, when all the time he was contemplating her destruction. She remained on the steps as he drove away, , her white figure standing out clearly against the dark gray stone. He sighed as he turned his head away, and, for the first time, almost thought of relinquish- ing his journey; but the remembrance of the pleading, wistful eyes of the miniature of her whom he really believed to be Mabel’s daughter once more decided him. CHAPTER III. CHRISTINE turned, and, with a sigh, entered the house. She hardly dared own to herself how greatly she should miss her cousin: she was already getting to care for him too much for her peace of mind; she wondered how she could have fancied herself in love with Auguste Le Roy. It was now nearly five months since she had seen him. They had left Lyons so suddenly that she had not even wished him good-by. Madame had sent a letter to his lodgIngs to explain; that was all. Yes, that was all; but Christine sighed a little as she thought with what anguish he must have read tbat letter. She knew too well wt.at it contained, for she had helped Madame to compose it. How each word must have struck him to the beart! _ Poor Auguste! she was not so sure, after all, that she did not love him still. The feelings she had for Wilfred Grey were more engender- ed by pique and vanity than love. It is doubt- ful if a girl of Christine’s ambitious nature could really truly love any man; self-love was | ever too strong with her. She had returned to the breakfast-room, and she saw that in her absence the letter-bag had been brought in, and put on the table by the Squire’s place. She knew where her grand- father kept the keys; she would open the bag, and see if there were anything for herself; it would help to pass the time until the others de- 3 scended. \ Yes; here was an invitation to dine at SE eg eae ort ty Sain al 10 A WICKED HEART. Come, you have no time to lose; the car- | Springfield Hall, and here a note from her dressmaker. But what was this? A foreign letter for Madame, bearing the Lyons post-mark! From whom could it be? She ran with it to Madame Veroust’s room, where she found that Jady bullying her maid for some trifling carelessness, Christine signed to Ler to dismiss the girl, and as soon as they were alone, produced the letter. “From whom can it be?’ she said, “TI thought no one in Lyons knew our address,” Madame took it from her excitedly, and as she saw the writing, gave an exclamation of surprpise and annoyance. “Tt is from Antoine Veroust! How could he have discovered we are here, and what can he mean by writing?’ ‘¢ Would it not be as well to open the letter, and see what he says?’ responded Christine, | impatiently. ‘He knew the object of. our journey to England. You might just as well have confided entirely in him at first. I dare say he discovered all he wanted to know from . | bis patient.” “Ab! of course; that is it! How stupid of me not to huve thought of that before!” Saying whicb, she tore open the letter, and eagerly read its contents. - “ Ab, my child, we are ruined! It is fright- ful what he asks! He says that he has dis- covered Mr. Chiltern is enormously rich, and that, doubtless, you have command of large sums of money. He demands—listen to that; demands !—that we send him six hundred | pounds a-year for the maintenance of the | young lady under his charge. She bas already ‘been nearly six months with him, and he re- | quests that three hundred pounds be sent within | the next fortnight.” him the night we left, and under no circum. stances to ask more.” “Surely you know Antoine better than to put much faith in his word!” said Madame, bitterly. him! would have been any the wiser. I wish, scruples!” ‘ “For Heaven’s sake, do not talk like that!” her companion by the wrist. ‘‘ Would you have had us stain our soul’s with—” “There, take away your hand—you hurt_ me!’ said Madame. Some one will hear us. 4 best be done. How much money have you! ‘““Why excite yourself? . —— > _ | ‘But I thought be had promised to be satis- : ' fied with the two hundred pounds you gave — “Ob, what a fool I was to trust “4 You know what I wished to do; no one ~ ‘now, that Ihad not listened to your foolish ; | Let us think what cap ‘‘Not more than fifty pounds, though I dare_ say I could easily get grandpa to give me 4 check for a hundred on the pretext of payi?g — ae a Ae og said Christine, turning very white, and seizing — ¥ se
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for my ball-dress, but I dare not ask him for -— ss _ more.” * “And that would only be half the sum re- quired,” sighed the Frenchwoman, hopelessly. _ “You must write to him, and say it is im- Possible for us to send more at present, but that We will endeavor to forward what he asks be- fore the end of the year.” “Ah, I know Antoine; he is determined, ~ Merciless.” ) Signed. _+fladame was still far from easy on the matter. : ; * 8h _ 8nd the rooms are so warm. We might go on- | ; White Shawl, which some But, nevertheless, Madame sat d6éwn before her desk, and wrote what Christine suggested. Pe . A WICKED HEART. chair near them, he wrapped it round her shoulders. ‘How calm and peaceful!” said Christine, as she gazed on the landscape spread before her. ; The moon was almost full, and every object in | the park was rendered distinct as by day. “What is that moving there, by the trees? Surely it is a carriage coming along the | drive?” The letter was sent off that same afternoon, | and the money inclosed. The Squire raised his eyebrows a little when Christine stated that it was impossible to get anything fit to appear in at the ball under a hundred pounds; but, as usual, she had her own way, and the check was Days passed, and no answer arrived from Doctor Veroust. Christine began to hope that he would trouble them no more for a, time, but “His very. sileuce makes me nervous,” she Said. ‘Who knows but what he may be even now on his way to England?”. “That is not at all probable,” answered Christine. ‘In the first place, he could fot easily leave his patient. Any way, we will not meet troubles half-way; we have enough | to think of without that. To-morrow is my birthday: let me enjoy myself without think- ing of disagreeable things.” Tn the meantime nothing had been heard of | Wilfred Grey. Up to the last moment Christine | thought that he would have returned in time | for her ball. She evensent the carriage to the Statiofi in the evening, on the chance of his ar- Tiving by the last train, and great was her dis- appointment when it returned empty. _ She had never appeared more lovely in her life than she did that night. Her dress, of rich cream-colored satin, almost covered with clouds of delicate lace, was fastened, here and there, with wreaths of deep red roses; a cluster of the Same flowers were in her hair, Her ornaments ne Tubies and diamonds; these the Squire ad insisted upon his wife lending, though it Was not without some show of resistance that 8. Chiltern consented, . The ball was at its hight, and Christine, lean- gon the arm of her partner, passed into a_ Small drawing-room which opened from the -~room, She sunk into a chair, with a sigh (Of relief, “Do you mind our not dancing this waltz?” | © asked her companion. “I am a little tired, | to the balcony for a few minutes—the night is autifully fine.” | th ‘Tmust not let you take cold, then,” said oy, SOung iran, smiling; and, taking a soft, one had left on a “Yes, it certainly is,” said her companion, looking in the direction she indicated. “Some of your guests arriving rather late.” ; “That cannot be,” she answered; “ for all have arrived whom we expected. It must be Mr. Grey, my cousin, but I cannot understand how he can come at this time. be he,” she cried, as the carriage drew up near the door, and a gentleman stepped out. took a rosebud from her bouquet, and, leaning forward, let it fall on his head. He looked up, aud Christine, giving a ery of surprise and alarm, drew herself back into the shade of the window. Soon she made an excuse for quitting her companion and hastened from the room. In the hall she met the gentleman who had just arrived. He came forward, and took her hands eagerly. “How glad amI to see you, dear younz lady!” he cried. ‘And my sister—I hope sho Yes, it must — She | is well? I thought I would come and give you — both a little surprise.” “Come into this room,” she said, trying to ' speak calmly, to hide the annoyance she felt. “ John, let Madame know that Doctor Verousi: is here. Then, closing the door, she looked round haughtily at him. ‘“‘ Why have you come? You might naturally guess that your presence would not be welcome here. And your patient—what of her?” Madame Veroust here burst into the room. **Ts it possible, Antoine, that it is you?” she cried, much excited. England?” “You do not, either of you, seem very pleased to see me,” said their visitor, casting — himself into a chair, and, throwing back his head, he laughed out, as though it were the best joke in the world. “You ask why I am here; I will tell you. _ First, I discovered your address in England. My interesting young patient bad often heard Madame Vira speak of Chiltern Manor, near “What brings you tv Blexby, and I guessed it was to the grand- et parents you would go. Well, I thought it probable that the old gentleman was wealthy. So many English are. I, therefore, sent off the little letter, to which I received an answer just ten days ago. I soon came to the conclu- sion that a young lady who could send one hundred and fifty pounds by return of post could possibly be made to give much larger sums without much difficuity, To-night T ar
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dinner, entered into conversation with the waiter. From him I hear of M. Chiltern’s great wealth, and also of the beautiful grand- - daugbter who has but lately returned from France, and who already rules the Manor, as - though the whole place belonged to her. His news charmed me, as you may suppose, and though I had not intended coming on here be- fore the morning, I changed my mind, more especially as I heard there was a ball in hohor of Mademoiselle’s birthday; so I knew I should find every one up. Besides, I felt sure that so _ dear a friend as Iam would be made welcome at any hour. I, therefore, propose stopping _ the rest of the ‘night here, and starting for _ France by an early train to-morrow. But, - first, wo have a little matter of business to ar- range.” - gave another unmusical laugh, greatly enjoy- __ ing the discomfiture of his listeners. Madame had sunk helplessly on a couch, and was sobbing hysterically, behind her handker- chief. two, without speaking; then turned and faced him like a hunted animal at bay. What is it you want of us?” she hissed, _ through her clenched teeth, “I have already ~ sont 1 all the money I possess,” zi t you will ask the good grandfather for ; more. I do not expect it to-day, nor to-mor- row; I give you a week. Listen! I will be candid with you. Iam tired of the quiet, re- _ tired life I lead. I have my little ambitions, like Mademoiselle here; in fact, I am about to get married.” He sighed and simpered as he spoke, like a school-girl. ‘‘My betrothed is fond of gayety, and wishes to live in Paris, _ Of course, I desire to please her in all that is in my power; but Paris is expensive—very expensive! You will, therefore, easily com. prehend that I shall require rather a large s 1m can I turn under such circumstances but to my ; dear friends here in England.” - **How much do you ask?” interrupted Chris- tine, fiercely. Just one little thousand pounds.” “Tt is impossible! I could as soon get you ten thousand pounds.” _ “Really, then, ten thousand pounds be it!” at ‘murmured their visitor, resignedly. “ And he jokes about it!” exclaimed Ma- > dame, through her sobs. See here!” said Christine, ‘It may be— nay, it is almost certain—that I shall not suc- ceed in getting this thousand pounds. Suppose I cannot do so?” “No, no!” he said, softly. ‘We will not ee anything that would Jead to such seri- upon which to begin housekeeping. To whom | > hivda at Biexby. I went to the hotel, had my Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he | _ Christine fe the room for a minute or | { she found, to ber inexpressible relief, that the rd ¥ or ? ; “yer 4 Pry Le TP ea & ' full” Ga : Pall tenors ar ; # ‘pu “« Be AS ate < Tee ES ‘ heh ore eek oars, OR eet GBS ae. a mW r NI ee ee SP ee et iy if a4 a : age 9 ae ~~ , roe A ee HEART. Bharat ous consequences. You have your rings, your laces, your jewels,” he went on, looking at her with the eye of acovnoisseur, ‘‘ In a word, you havea rich and loving grandfather, who refuses you nothing. I feel sure that you will | get over this little difficulty. Ishall not re- — quire the money for a whole week. Itisthen | that my marriage takes place.” “¢ And your patient,” asked Madame—‘ what is to become of her if you go to Paris?” ‘¢She is delicate, poor child! The close con- finement to which I have been compelled to subject her has affected her health. It may be that she will succumb.” As he spoke, he look-. ed up to the ceiling, and sighed heavily. ‘Should such be the case, I could, of course, make no further calls upon your generosity.” Christine sprung forward with a ery, and fer seizing his arm, looked wildly at him. es ; “T understand you!” she cried. “ You mean that she shall die? Ob, to what has my ambi- tion led? Say—tell me the truth!—would you kiil her?” He smiled down upon her, calmly. ; “You make -use of such unpleasant terms!”. Then pushing her from him roughly, and rising to his feet, he said, haughtily, ‘‘Evenif Icon- templated what you say, why should it shock — you? I tell you the life you have condemned — her to is worse than a hundred deaths,” . ““Wretch! What have you done to her?’ asked Christine. “ He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly. “ My house, like all others where insane per-9 sons are confined, is, as you may be aware, visited at stated periods by inspectors. Now, — of course, it would have been particularly awk- — ward if a sane patient had been found with — me. I, therefore, was under the painful neces- — sity of taking means ‘80 to affect the brain, — that—” ‘‘ Monster, say po more! Oh, this is fright- And Christine sunk, half-fainting, into a cbair. f ““T was about to say, my charming young: lady, when you so rudely interrupted me, that your little friend, for whom you seem to feel such sudden sympathy, is now perfectly in-. sane—in fact, one of my most hopeless subjects.” When Madame descended the next morning, : visitor had already departed. She hastened | to Christine’s room to inform her of the fact. rg The young girl was in a nervous and excite¢ state, and had evidently had no sleep. es) “That is well,” she exclaimed, when she 14 heard, “I am at least spared the fate of seei him again! About this money,”—speak fast, and pressing her hand to her heat brow—TI have a plan, a fearful, a dangero one, but still a means by which to oviats ity? og
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: no £ A WICKED HEART. ew * _ a s - ~ ss a mnt: TET Ses Z at knew you would,” exclaimed Madame, check-book, and abstract a.page. Then they looking at her-admiringly; “and, perhaps, it | both hastened from the study with beating Will be the last sum that will be required of us. | hearts. How clever you are! Tell me your scheme.” . An hour later they were driving along the = “Tt is this: Grandpapa keeps his check. | road to Blexby. SoS. book in the little secretaire which stands neaw ‘‘T sball cash the check at once,” said Chris- = the window in his study. I must manage to tine; ‘‘my mind will be easier when it is tear a leaf out of it, and make outa check to | done.” myself for the sum asked.” “How calm you are!” remarked Madame, “But it would be at once seen that it was | neryously. ‘1 tremble like a leaf.” not in his handwriting, and suspicions would “Ttis lucky, then,” Christine answered, ‘that be aroused; besides, surely, in any case it | I am able to act for both of us.” A: would soon be discovered.” At that moment she pulled up before the lawyer, complain of the Squire’s great careless- | a firm step. ness about money matters, T believe he keeps There were a few minutes of awful suspense no sort of account of the money he spends in the year; and, as regards the handwriting, see here.” Christine went to a table, on which stood her desk. Unlocking it, she took out several sheets Of paper, written closely in a small cramped hand. atiet The same sentence occurred on them over and over again,—‘‘ Pay Miss Vira £1,000—one ‘housand pounds.” This was how Christine had passed the few hours since the departure of her guests. Madame Veroust could not suppress a ery of _ exultation as she looked. “ And this is your doing? Itis wonderful; ~ho.one could tell it from the Squire’s own writing.” As soon as breakfast was over, Christine said She wished to drive into Blexby with Madame eronst. | “T won’t ask you to come with us, grand- Papa,” she said to the Squire, “for we are R0ing to do some tiresome shopping, and I know how you dislike being keps waiting out- Side. I wish, by the by, if you do not mind, that you would walk round to the stables, and Sok at Lightfoot. The last time I drove her it | Struck me she went a shade lame. I spoke to : Omas about it, and he could see nothing | aoe: Perhaps it is only fancy; but I should 7 More satisfied if you looked at her your- The Squire, fearful lest anything should | h ve happened to the beautiful mare, at once | JUrried off to the stables; and Christine, know-~ ng he would stay fussing about there for some see Made the best of the opportunity. Sign- “T believe,” answered her daughter, “ that and knew by Christine’s look that all was well. On the way home no word was said on the subject. Madame could not speak without betraying her excitement, and they had to be — cautious, lest the servant behind them should notice that something unusual was going on, The next day the money was sent to Doctor Veroust, and Christine hoped that, at any rate, for a time, she should be at peace, CHAPTER IV. : WILFRED GREY was quite right when he surmised that it was the daughter of Mabel Vira, and not of Madame Veioust, who was confined in Doctor Veroust’s asylum. The real Christine, on the day of the frightful accident. which bappened to her father, was brought home in a swoon, and for some time her life was despaired of, ; Madame Vira only survived her husband three days. Juliette also suffered from the se- vere shock to her nerves, but i5 was not long before she was able to assist her mother to nurse the invalid. A few nights after Madame Vira’s death, Madame Veroust and her daughter sat whis- pering together in Christine’s room. ‘* Let us hope,” Madame was saying, “ that we shall find sufficient money to pay for the funeral. We must have it as quiet and inex- pensive as possible. Do you know, Juliette, . where Madame Vira kept the money? It was she who always took charge of what there was. I have often heard her say her husband was too careless to take care of it.” “T think not. Ihave heard, Mr. Wilson, the | bank; and, descending lightly, entered it with Study. Perhaps I had better go and see,” ai keys were in the secretaire, where the Saying which, she went out, and soon re- he Mire often left them, Even if they had not | turned with the desk in her hands. ib ~~*n, they could easily have been found. Unlocking it, they soon found what they the ing heavy, her grandfather never carried | sought. There were two hundred pounds in m™ in his pocket, but kept them in a small | notes and gold. tae re drawer in the same room. “Not so bad,” muttered Madame. I am _~* Was but the work of an instant to find the | surprised there is so much, But what is to be- f : ol bg =f © » We edn ae ve ee BE to Madame; then she saw the young girlreturn, _ ‘ ? eo Madame to follow, she made her way to | there is some in the little desk in her room, — “e
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keep ber for nothing. Out of this two hun- dred pounds I am atready owed fifty pounds fir rent.” “Had vot Madame Vira rich parents living in Englani?’ asked Juliette “Yes; but they were not on friendly terms. I believe they quarreled at the time of her marriage.” “That may be, but they might be willing to receive the granddaughter, especially now she | isan orphan. Supposing we look over these papers; we may find out something from them, Ah, yes; I thought so; here is Madame Vira’s diary. Now we shall soon know all we wish.” As Juliette spoke, she took up a little red leather book, and on opening it a photograph of Chiltern Manor fell out from between the leaves. “What a noble-looking place!” Madame Pres cried, as she picked it up, and examined it of the grandparents. ; carefully. “This is, doubtless, the residence having them to go to.” Juliette paid little attention to her mother. She was already busily engaged in reading the diary. Presently she looked up thoughtfully. “Tid not Doctor Veroust say that it is pos- sible Christine may not recover from this ill- ness? In that case, an idea strikes me.” “T hope it is something by which we can make some money,” sighed Madame. ‘The death of our friends will make a great differ- .~ ence to us,” : -“T see by this diary,” went on Juliette, that Madame Vira’s parents have never seen » their granddaughter, and that their daughter never wrote to them since she left England, _ therefore they can have no idea what she is like. Now, what I propose is this: that, if Christine should die, I go to Chiltern Manor, instead of her, people, and probably I should inherit. the property.” ‘Ah! my child,” cried Madame Veroust, throwing her arms round her daughter, “I should be glad indeed to see you the mistress of so fine a place; but I would not let you go to England without me. You would not wish to leave me, Juliette?’ she said, plaintively. ‘*Of course not, mother; you would accom- pany me as my valued friend and governess. but itis quite possiblé that Christine may re- cover; in that-case, it is she who will be the : 4 ~-1uture mistress of Chiltern Manor, and not I.” — * Juliette,” said her mother, ‘it must not _ be; now that I see such wealth within our _rcach, I cannot bear the thought of relinquish- ing it. Christine’s life hangs but by a feeble thread. One little overdose of this medicine, : “No, no, y EeOeC”, and Juliette shuddered; 2% wick HEART. come of ‘Christine? ‘thi is teaboaatite that t can Christine is lucky in The grandparents must be old | even a little less care in nursing ber, and she | _‘kever recovers.” natn xo iL SE ne RTT “anything but that. I have a better plan. My uncle, ia @ensideration of a sum of money, would take charge of her, She would be as much lost to the world in his asylum as though she were dead!” ‘ But there is another difficulty,” interrupted — her mother. ‘If we left Lyons, Auguste Le Roy would follow us; I know bim. As future mistress of Chiltern Manor, I should not care to marry a common clerk.” Juliette thought for a moment, “Stay,” she said; ‘‘there is one way in which everything could be arranged. He has not seen me since that accident; he knows that I received a great shock—that I was ill. You must tell him that it has affected my brain, and © that, for a time, you intend to place me under — the care of Doctor Veroust.” | But he will come here, and insist upon see- | ing you?” | Well, then, you must write to him, and not — | post the letter until the day we leave.” A feeble cry from Christine interrupted — | their conversation, and Juliette instantly cross: — ed the room to see what she wanted. “You are better, dear?” she said, as she held — | acup, containing some cooling drink, to the — ; parched lips of the invalid. “Yes, I am much better now,” sighed Chris- tine; “but, if it were not wicked, I should wish that i bad died with dear mamma, It | seems ungrateful to say so, I know, with you and Madame so good to me; without you two I should have no friend in the world.” Juliette’s conscience must have smitten her | as Christine spoke. : Day by day the invalid grew stronger, avd at the end of a fortnight Doctor Veroust pro- - ; nounced her well pees to be removed to bis ; house, a Auguste Le Roy had called several timed | hoping to see Juliette, but her mother insisted | that the girl was too unwell to see any one; and each time he left the house sad and disap- pointed. : It was arranged that Madame Veroust an@ Juliette, the latter closely vailed, should leav@ Lyons by the night train; and that a few mi pe utes before their depar ture, Doctor Verousty having previously given her a powerful nar~ | cotic, should Nas a close carriage for Chrit tine. t She was carried from the house in an — scious state, wrapped up entirely in a ee shawl, On the way to the station aad p posted a letter to Auguste Le Roy, evertakes of the fearful malady which had overtake her daughter, and saying that» she was to? cad much overcome with grief to be able to 8 him before her departure. ia When Christine recovered consciousness, | was surprised to find herself Pees! ina riage, opposite. Doctor Veroust. .
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A a ‘¢ Where am I?” she cried, looking around in much alarm—“ and where are you taking me?” é “Do not distress yourself, my dear young lady. Lam taking you home.” “ Home!” echoed Christine. my grandpsrents? It is there mamma, before she died, made me promise I would go.” The doctor was interested, and soon, as we have recorded, found out Squire Chiitern’s name and address, which he at once entered in his note-book, Then looking up with a smile, he said, in a soothing way, “Why will you persist in keeping to this absurd idea—why mistake your own identity? You have no grandparents that I ever heard of; and your mother, Madame Veroust, is still alive.” “Madame Veroust my mother!” cried Christine, ‘‘Is it possible that you take me for Juliette in this half-light?” “There, there; do not excite yourself, or you will be ill again! M. Vira’s terrible death bad such an effect upon your brain that, ever since that time, you have been haunted by strange fancies, the strangest of all being that you im- _ agine yourself to be his daughter, and persist in calling Christine Juliette.” For a time Christine was stunned. She knew not what to think. She had always disliked and mistrusted this man, and felt that he had some sinister motive in speaking ashedid. She saw also by his manner that he did not believe what he said. Feeling it would be useless to argue with him, ‘She asked presently, in as calm a tone as she | could command, ‘“‘ Where are Madame Veroust and—and my friend?” “My sister-in-law is accompanying Christine to England, where she is going to join her grandparents.” Christine could not restrain a cry. She saw it all now; they were pretending she was mad, in order to send her out of the way, and Juli- ette had gone to usurp her place. “Tell me,” she said, looking at him wildly, “where are you taking me? Say, is it to your . house—to the asylum for mad people?” Before he could prevent her, she dashed her nity through the window, and shrieked for elp, The next moment she was lying helpless at the bottom of the carriage, with the doctor’s handkerchief tied tightly over her mouth. “There!” he said, leaning back complacently | in his seat, ‘Why will you compel me to use such harsh measures? Luckily we’re in a quiet road, where there are few people likely to be walking at this hour; but I may as well warn you that a second show of such violence will hecessitate my putting you in a strait-waistcoat Upon our arrival.” Poor Christine! It is impossible to describe ae agony of mind she endured during that ve, “Do you mean | A WICKED HEART. , of this man, She felt that she was entirely at the mercy She thought for a time that she really wou'd become the maniac he affected to believe her; but before the carriage stopped - she reviewed her position more calmly. No, she told herself, she would noé go mad;. she would not go mad, and thus play into her | enemy's hands; slie would let nothing he could say excite or annoy her, but she would make it apparent to the keepers and servants that she was sane, Perhaps, too, one of them might — befriend her, and in time help her to escape. Under no circumstances would she despair. Hardly had she come to this conclusion, when the carriage came to a standstill before a large, dreary-looking house, The doctor put his head out of the window. “ Here, Jeau! Guillaume! one of you, come here! I may require your assistance!” ; Two rough looking men ran forward in an- swer to his summons. He then raised Christine with no gerille hand, and, taking her in his arms, carried her into the house. If he had Ss calculated that she would resent this, andmake some resistance, he was disappointed, for Chris- _ tine lay perfectly still, never moving a limb. “ Ah!” said the doctor; ‘‘she is quieter now, and time, too. Ihad to gag her, as you see, and she has driven her hand through the carriage-window.” A severe cut on Christine’s wrist bore testi- mony to his words. How bitterly she regretted this rash act of hers, now that she saw how it could be used against her! At any rate, is s rved as a lesson to show how careful she must be for the future. Hk ‘““Where is Madame R ux?” said Doctor Veroust. ‘I left orders that she should be one ready to receive this young lady as soon as we arrived. Ah! there you are!” he exclaimed, as a tall, masculine looking woman came from an adjoining room, ‘Here is your patient, —__ Madame Roux. I shall place her immediately os under your care. She wii!l, doubtless, give ii you some trouble; but you can always call me 4 if she is more than usually violent.” . ms Madame Roux smiled grimiy as she casita contemptuous glance over Christine’s slightamd = delicate figure. “ “T think I shall be a match for her, sir, les her be as wild as she please, Come, young lady, follow me!” a And, mounting a flight of broad stairs, she : proceeded along a corridor, from which many doors opened on either side, numbered like — those in a hotel, : Tae Stopping before one, she selected a key, which was attached with many others to a cord — round her waist, and, unlocking it, they en- | tered a barely furnished apartment, with white- ea _and heavily barred, washed walls and a small window, placed so high that it was impossible to look out of it, 4
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ee Net et és a “sympathy! are Sa al Sot Ba iS % FR Ag ee Yast hates Bey ae 6 A WICKED HEART. * Well, mademoiselle,” said the woman, | Then, seeing that Christine’s hand shook so “how do you like your quarters? You see, we waste no thought on little luxuries, Just a chair and a table; your bed, too, is hard and healthy. Sit down on it while I relieve you of ‘the handkerchief with which Monsieur has so affectionately protected you from the cold, Ah! he is a good gentleman; but apt to be a little determined if the inmates are unruly.” Christine felt that any attempt to win over this woman would be futile; she, therefore, re- mained perfectly silent, though the gag was now’removed. Her wrist gave her great pain, | though, and she presently asked quietly if she could have it bathed and bound up. ‘Oh, I have no time to waste on such trifles,” was the answer, ‘‘ but my daughter will be up presently with some coffee Monsieur has ordered for you. I will tell her to look to it.” _ Christine’s heart beat with hope at the men- tion of a daughter; a younger woman would - perhaps not be so hard, so heartless. For some minutes she was left alone, but she had beard the key turned in the lock as Ma- dame Roux departed. She sighed as she saw how hopeless any attempt at escape would be, and shivered with cold as she sat dejectedly on ‘the edge of the little bed. There was no fire- place in the room, and her teeth chattered in- ecssantly; her limbs, too, were cramped and aching, but she was brave at heart, though her body might be weak, and determined that she would not despair. At last steps sounded in the passage, her door opened, and a young woman entered bearing a # tray, on which were coffee and a small roll. How eagerly Christine gazed at her; how anxiously searched for any signs of kindness or But the features on which she a were utterly devoid of expression of any a Be did not even look up as she placed the : » Sees on the table, and would have lett without ‘a word, but Christine detained her. “Your mother said you would bind up my -wrist for me; will you not do so?” _' The girl looked up now, at the unusual soft- ness of the voice, and gazed for some moments | _ on Christine; but made no further sign to show ‘that she had ‘heard. Going out of the room, she relocked it behind her. In less than five minutes, however, she re- _ turned with a basin of warm water and some ‘soft linen rag, and proceeded so gently to bathe the wounded wrist, that Christine ventured to _ address her once more; but before she had said three words the girl interrupted her. “Tt is no use your talking to me,” she said bluntly, “for I am not allowed to speak to any of the patients. You had best take your coffee when it is hot, for you seem a poor weak | thing enough,” ‘cold you are! that she could not help herself, she took the coffee-pot roughly from her, and poured out a cupful, “There, take that down quickly; you shake so that I cannot bind up your wrist. How I never felt such icy hands. You had best get into bed to warm you. I shall catch it if my mother hears me. tallk- ing. ” “Stay one moment,” said Christine. *Do ' you really think that I am mad?” “Mad! why of course you are, and most likely when you think you aren’t, it’s just when you are maddest; that is the way with you all. But I can’t stay here talking. Your gas will | be out directly.” There was a tiny jet of light fixed high up on the wall; Christine had not been alone many moments before it began to grow less and less, and then died away. She made her way, as | best she could, to bed in the dark, though it was hard work undressing with one hand, and she found it impossible to use the other. Wearied out in body and mind, she soon fell asleep, and, for a time, forgot the troubles which seemed to overwhelm her. She awoke with a start and a strange feeling of terror upon her; her heart beat so that she could distinctly hear its pulsations. There was no ray of light in the rcom, and Christine sought in vain to pierce the impenetrable dark- ness. Sleep was banished for the rest of the night, and the poor gitl fixed her eyes on the little barred window, longing for dawn, yet dread- ing the con 2 Acement of another day. The first gray streaks of morning soon began to appear. Then she heard the twitter of a robin. Oh, how she envied it its freedom! Before long, people were moving about the house; then there were hurried steps overhead. A voice called out shrilly for Madame Roux, and Christine wondered what was the matter. Suddenly she remembered the sounds she had heard in the night, and she looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes remained there fascinated. What was that dark stain, looking almost blackin © the imperfect light? Her eyes fell from the ceiling to the floor, and what she saw there caused her heart to stand still with horror; then, with a half-stifled cry, she buried her face in the pillows, Only too well had she discovered what was the stain on the ceiling. Ob, what was this fearful house to which she had becn brought? What were the dark deeds which went on beneath its roof? The door opened, and Madame Roux entered. * Ah!” she exclaimed; ‘‘here is nice work!— as though there were not enough to do up-stairs already. Come, young lady,” she went on, a8 — ae 4
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_on the evening before. have shivered a little, and small blame.” ‘‘ Had some one killed him?’ Christine asked, in a whisper. : “Hear that, now? A good joke, indeed! No. 40 killed himself.- Monsieur has received no money for bim this last eighteen months; he’s well rid of him, I’m thinking.” | Christine could not help wondering if poor No, 40 would not have been taken better care of if the money had been regularly paid. Madame Roux led the way to a room oppo- site. This room, though simple in the extreme, and plainly furnished, was luxurious compared to her own. It was lighted, not by a small barred loop- hole, but by a good-sized window, which looked out onto a pleasant garden. A few pots of flowers stood on the window-sill, and several colored prints adorned the walls. “Hi, Marie!” galled the woman. ‘Come here and see to No. 6, while I go and lJookafter Jean. ou can bring the soup and the rest with you.” ; oF And hurrying off as soon as her daughter entered, sbe shouted to Jean to come down. Marie looked gloomier and more stolid than She placed the basin of broth with a huge piece of bread before Chris- tine, and then, half turning her back upon her, took up a piece of work and began to sew away diligently. “‘T wish you would give me some work to do,” said Christine, after a long interval of silence; “the day will be so long to me if I have nothing to do.” “ Against orders,” swapped out Marie. “TI have already seen Monsieur, and he insisted you were to have no exercise, do nothing, Speak to no one,” Was Christine mistaken, or did she really hear the last words spoken almost with a sob? She turned round, and though Marie bent low over her work, she saw something very ike a tear on her cheek. _ “Marie,” Christine said, going over to her and taking one of the hard brown hands in mers, “ you are sorry for me; I can see that you are. I believe you know that I am not Mad as they pretend.” “NotI,” answered Marie, jerking her hand away. “ Who should know better than Doctor Veroust? He says you are mad. Anyway, t you stay in that room from month’s end © month’s end, without anything to do, and Only the bare walls to look at, and never go out in the open air, I know one thing, if you _ &fen’t mad now, you very soon will be.” Peers BN tari trtns re ee ee eo ast oar eee nish ct che Se nd we ~ rane oe “2. a SRI aS ae Qtek - gonfinement arid such idlenes:?” she asked. ol Ri ee! 7 = ei ar oo "ve u Christine recoiled, shuddering. “Ts that why I am doomed to such close * Marie shrugg+d her shoulders and continued — her work without replying. i oneal “Here comes my mother,” she said, “sol can be off!” ee And, rising, she took up the tray and left the room, As she did so,she let something fall. ee Christine sprung forward, and, picking it up, CAR put it quickly into her pocket. are: ee It was a small ball of worsted, in which were stuck a couple of knitting needles. Wasitby accident that it had been dropped? Christine felt that it was not, and already began to look upon Marie as a friend. When she returned to © her own room, she found it had been swept and tidied up a little. . mont Days, weeks, months, even, passed, dragging out their weary lengths, and yet Christine bad — not given up ail hope of one day effecting her escape, but bore up bravely under her confine- ment, : She portioned out the day into equal parts, — taking regular exercise up and down her room every morning and evening; tnen, fora time, she knitted, undoing her work in order to be- — gin again #s soon as the ball of worsted was finished. aj 5 a? She discovered that by placing her chair upon the table she could reach the little win- dow, and from it she could see the trees and the fields, and even the white road leading to- Lyons. It was this last she loved most to watch, ; \ Sean Sometimes a peasant would pass with a heavy load of wood, drawn by a yoke | sturdy oxen, or a woman driving her cows pasture. Sometimes Doctor Veroust himse would drive along on his way to town, lit thinking that his patient was watching him. He had only visited her twice since her ar- rival, and each time seemed surprised to fin, her in such good health. On his last visit, ter feeling her pulse, and asking a few que tions, he turned to Madame Roux, who was present, and asked, “ Have my orders as strictly attended to? Do neither you nor y« daughter hold any conversation with this p tient? She, of course, has not been allowed 1 amploy herself in any way?” “ Of course not, sir,” answered the woman, meekly. ‘‘ No one comes near her bus Marie — and myself, and you know you can id upon us for doing what you say.” ae «J must have recourse to some other treat- ment,” he mused, ‘The young lady is cer- tainly not quite what I should wirh to see her. The inspector will’be calling here before tone rby the =F ihe ot J ms *. ar and I hope to see a great change in her time he comes,” a 2 - : ae
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ii Peas, pel N anxious that Christine should appear in better health; but she felt sure that he intended to try some other and more sre means by which b: to deprive her of her reason. z Marie, that evening, she found her nervous and excited, with flushed cheeks, dreading what new ordeal she was to pass through. Marie held up her hand as a sign for silence; _ then said, gruffly, “‘I have brought you some medicine; drink it down and make no fuss; I have no time to waste on you!” And, to Christine’s astonishment, she placed the chair on the table, and, mounting it, opened ____ the window, and, passing her hand through the _._ bars, emptied the contents of the glass into the garden below; then, stepping down more lightly than one would have thought possible, she _ - placed her mouth close to Christine’s ear, and whispered, huryiedly, ‘‘Do not speak; my - mother is in my room, and the doors are open.” - ~Yhen she continued out loud, ‘‘So you have swallowed it at last; and time, too! I thought you would never have done sipping and smell- ing. Ishall not bring you your coffee for an hour later to-night, so you will have time to get an appetite.” m Christine wondered much what all this could mean, and anxiously looked forward to Marie’s : 3 ‘second visit, hoping then to hear some explana- “Did Doctor Veroust mean to poison her?” she asked herself. ‘If so, would it be sate to eaf or drink anything that was placed before her? As well, though, die of poison as of starvation!” It was so long before Marie came, that she had almost given up all hope of seeing her again that right. At last the door opened, and _ she entered, closing it behind her. Putting down her tray, she seated herself on M é the edge of the little bed, and regarded Christine | intently. _* Are yo brave?’ she asked. ‘“‘Can you hear quietly what I have to tell you? Could you see fearful visions, have specters appear to you, and yet not go mad?” Qh! what do you mean?” cried Christine, s a excitedly. “ Listen, and I will tell you. I have waited before coming to you until I was sure my mother was safely out of the way. Dcctor fe -Veroust is busy at the’other end of the house, F - You saw me throw away the medicine which was intended for you; if you had drank it you would new be suffering from a severe head- - ache, and would be far more excited than you are at present. It is, supposing you to be in _ this ne°vous state, that Doctor Veroust now contemplates giving: your brain such a severe shock by causing sudden and awful fright, that he calculates your reason will at last give Be eS AONE PR ica hed A WICKED HEART. | = ‘He spoke cheerfully, as though he were only Be Oh, Heaven, give me strength!” cried the poer girl, folding her arms on the table before her, and letting her head fall on them. ‘ How woak, how helpless [am in the power of this man!” “Do not give way,” said Marie, laying her Arnd on her shoulder. ‘“‘Am I not here to help you?” “Dear Marie, I am not ungrateful, believe me. See, I will be brave;” and she tried to smile through her tears. ‘‘ Tell me all you know, I beseech you. What will this he like, and when will it appear to me?” ‘“‘ Between twelve and one o’clock to night. It is intended that you should be startled out of a restless and feverish sleep by seeing a tall figure standing by your bedside. It will be - clothed in white, and chains will rattle at each movement. Through its cavernous eyes will shine a pale blue flame. It will hold a naked sword in one hand, while with the other it tries the edge of the blade. The moon which is full , to-night, will render to whole still more ghastly | by the feeble rays which will penetrate your ; than death! window.” Christine shuddered. She felt that, had so fearful an object, appeared ‘before her unex- | pectedly, and without any warning, she would, indeed, have lost her reason. Throwing herself on Marie’s neck, she em- braced her. “Oh, Marie, you have saved me from worse What would have become of me if you had not proved my friend? I thought _you cold and harsh at first; now I know how | good, how kind you are!” Marie gently put the young girl from her. J “Do not call me good,” she said. ‘Iam wicked—ah, you do not know how wicked! You would not call me your friend if you knew all, Listen to me This tyrant— the man who has caused you so much mis- ery — Doctor Veroust—I loved him—loved him so that I was ready to lose body and soul -to please him. And he accepted the sacrifice. I have seen most fearful things done ' under this roof; I have even assisted him. What cared I so that I won his approbation? I | was even happy; for I believed he loved me. Blind fool that I was! Only two days ago he told me he was about to be married. The news sent a chillto my heart. I had felt that some day it might come, but was not prepared for what followed. He said be intended giving up the asylum, and going to live in Paris. ‘And I? I asked, as calmly asI could—‘ what is to become of me# You will not leave me behind? He laughed contemptuously. think my wife would be likely to object t0 your accompanying us. No,’ he said; ‘you must stay here with your mother. Iam even willing to make you some small allowance, 5° that you shall never want.’ I threw myself on “74, is +30 pat thd Z nae a, a
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Re ORNs eds ne WICKED HEART. ; tny knees before him; I wept—implored only to be his servant, to see him sometimes; but he would not listen to me. He grew angry at last, when he found bow persistent I was, and told me he had long ceased to care for me, that my presence even now was repulsive to | him, and, pushing me roughly from him, left me. Then my mother came to me, and begged me to listen to reason. She said if only I would be sensible, the doctor had promised to allow me five hundred francs a year, and also to stipulate that the next proprietor of the asy- lum should keep on her and me at a good sal- ary. At last I allowed my mother to suppose she had persuaded me, and in the evening sought Doctor Veroust, and asking his pardon ‘for my ill-humor, said that I agreed to accept his terms; and even told him that, after all, I believed I should have been sorry to leave my mother and Lyons. So well did I deceive him, that he patted me on the back, well pleased, saying, kindly, ‘Now you are a sensible girl, and yourself again. To show my confidence in you;,-I will even ask you to assist me ina little masquerade which Iam contemplating.’ And then he told me of the diabolical plan by which he intended to deprive you of your rea- son. I complimented “him .on his cleverness, - and myself undertook to pérsonate the specter. It was simple enough. A chemical prepara- tion which burns with a blue flame is to be put within a skull. my head. Christine; must do. conscious, upon you. shock?” This is to be fastened above A large sheet will entirely envelope me, and chains will be attached to my wrists.” ‘‘ Then it will be only you, after all?’ smiled ‘Cand I shall not be at all alarmed.” Obs but you must,” answered Marie; ‘‘ or, rather, you must feign alarm. Do you not see, if Monsieur supposes that this trick fails, he will concoct something still more fearful, and perhaps next time I may not be so fortu- nate as to be informed of it. This is what you Instantly upon seeing me, you must utter piercing shrieks, for Dcctor Veroust and my mother will both be within hearing; then, alter a time, you must pretend to become un- No one will approach you again before morning, when Doctor Veroust will come to see the effect which the fright has had He has no doubt that, having been already rendered in such a nervous state by the medicine, he will find you insane. You must not undeceive him.”.. ‘* What, then, am I to do? Will he not soon perceive that I have not suffered from the “Let us hope not,” replicd Marie, ‘* You must feign madness.” “ But how?’ asked Christine, hopelessly, “TI have never even seen a mad person.” “Do and say anything that is outrageous; | laugh when you should weep; talk senselessly ;_ 4 with so fierce a hate that, were he dying ati “sing, dance—do anything. He will ‘be -r to believe, for he will not doubt but that you” , are really mad.” figure enter, and approach her bed. Although she had been well prepar could scarce repress acry at the sight « awful apparition, and involuntarily shrv against the wall. ; Never had she seen anything so ghastly, unearthly. Instantly the white garment was parted under the bony chin, and Marie’s face out. ue “ Take courage,” she said. ‘Remember it i but I who am near you. Do not seream ur after I speak.” Then the face was again covered, and deep and stern voice came the words, ss and meet your doom!” followed by the per, ‘‘ Cry out now as loud as you can!” And Christine made the house be : with heartrending shrieks, 2%; She sprung out of bed as though ep sical * the monster; but it pursued her, and, with a — ery more wild than all the rest, she fell to: ground, apparently in a faint, “Tt is all right,” called out Marie; ‘ she swooned,” ,
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20 A WICKED HEART. “Not dead, I hope,” ” ‘said Doctor : Verou-t, eoming forward, followed by Madame Rioux “T do not wish that, if it can bo avoided.” “No, no,” answered Marie, ean detect a feeble flutter at the heart.” “Then come away quickly,” said the doctor. “€T wish her to be alone when she recovers; and, if I mistake not, the inspector will find her mad enough when he pays us his next visit.” In a few moments Christine was alone again, and, soon growing calmer in her mind, she composed herself to sleep, knowing that she would have need of all her strength on the morrow. Long and soundly she slept. In fancy she was a child again ard free, walking through green fields, hand-in-hand with her mother, and she stepped along so lightly, that she scarce «bruised the grass beneath her feet. She was enjoying the fresh perfume of the flowers, and the song of birds filled the air. Her heart seemed full of happiness, and she awoke with a smile upon her lips. Marie stood beside her: “Ah, mademoiseile, how imprudent!” she exclaimed, as Christine opened her eyes, ‘¢ What, think you, would my mother have thought had she been the first to enter your room? [ought to have found you wandering aimlessly about, crooning a song or muttering disjointed sentences; and here you are, looking calm and having had a refreshing sleep. Do you not know that the insane sleep but little?’ _ Christine looked up brightly. “T do not know how it is, Marie, but to-day I feel full of hope. Have I not reason, now that you have proved yourself sodevotedly my friend? Oh, how much stronger I am now that there are two of us to plot together against Dector Veroust! Youshall see bow well I will play my part to-day. But, Marie,” she went on, eagerly, ‘‘ you will do still more for me, will you not? You will help me to escape from _ this house? We might leave it together, you and I.” “It is impossible,” said Marie, moodily. ‘I dare not. Besides, what would become of my mother? If you escaped she would be blamed, perhaps dismissed, and would then find herself without any means of support. No, we must not think of running away, but I will befriend _you, nevertheless,” “ How,” asked Christine, sadly, ‘‘if you can not hold out any hope of my leaving this hate- ful house?” *T did not say that; I only told you that you must not run away, "But _it is quite possible your friends, when informéd that you are here, will come and fetch you.” “T understand. You mean that I should write to them; that you will find means of “She lives; I | posting a letter for me; but you do not know how unfortunate I am.” And in a few words she told Marie her story. - “You see,” she concluded, ‘‘if I wrote to my grandparents, they may by this time be much attached to Juliette; it would be difficult for them to believe her an impostor, and they would not readily credit what Isaid. Juliette is so clever, that if she found out I had writ- ten, she would soon inform Doctor Veroust of it, and who knows what fate would await me?” ‘But, surely,” interrupted Marie, ‘ there is some one else to whom you might apply?” “T can think of no one. We made so few friends, moving about as we did from place to place. There is M. Le Roy, but he and Juliette are engaged to each other, and he would perhaps be against me, Ah! yes, there is some one, though,” she exclaimed, eagerly. “‘T had forgotten. Ihave an aunt in Eng- land; my father’s sister. She is good and kind; I remember her well. She once visited us in Rome when I was quite a child, but I believe she has not left England since her husband died, which was nearly eight years ago; so, though she occasionally wrote to my mother, I have not since seen her,. I feel sure that she would do all in hergpower to rescue ine,” “That is well, then; itis to her you must write. I will, if possible, bring you ink and paper to-morrow. Hush! here comes the doctor! Laugh—scream—do something! My word! ycu look as mild asa kitten. At least get out of bed, and pull your hair over your eyes!” she went on, imploringly. When Doctor Veroust entered, Christine was seated on the boards, her hair falling over her shoulders in the greatest disorder. She was nursing her pillow like a doll, and singing softly to it. The doctor looked at Marie with a meaning smile, and she nodded back at him. “You see how it is, monsieur; I dan do nothing with her, Here is half an hour aud more that Ihave been trying to get her to take her breakfast.” ““Never mind the breakfast; she will take it when she is hungry.” Going up to Christine, he placed his hand on her head and made her look up, It was a trying moment, but she avoided meeting his gaze by shutting her eyes and making a grim- ace of pain. **Go away.” she said; “you hurt me, and you will awake dolly. Do you not see she is asleep?’ Then throwing the pillow aside, she leaped to her feet and rushed to a far corner of the room, And she pointed wildly to some imaginary object, crying out, “ What is that frightful being? See its glaring eyes! Ob, what is it
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he Be srs ¢ —what is it?’ and she screamed out again and again, ending in a burst of wild laughter. “We have succeeded beyond my most san- guine expectations,” said the doctor, as he left the room. A few minutes after, Christine sunk, quite exhausted, into a chair. ““T am so glad he is gone,” she said. ** I was getting quite tired, and my throat is as sore as if I had been singing all day.” ‘‘No wonder,” replied Marie. “I never heard any one cry out so finely. I must con- gratulate Mademoiselle on the strength of her lungs.” ‘Oh, Marie, if you only knew how I longed to strike him or scratch him in my mad trans- ports!” ‘“‘Never do that,” was the answer, spoken with unusual gravity, “Cor you would see what effectual and severe means are sometimes re- sorted to to subdue refractory patients.” ‘Do you mean to say that Doctor Veroust actually punishes mad people—poor things who who are not responsible for their actions?” ““Indeed Ido. I have seen them rendered | almost insensible by semi-drowning in the bath- room. I have known a man beaten till he could hardly stand; women faint for want of food. Only last year Guillaume caused the death of a man by striking him on the head with a heavy stick,” “ But do not these dreadful things get known? When a patient is discharged, for instance, he would naturally complain of the treatment he had received.” ‘That does happen sometimes; but, after all, who would believe him? A man who has but just returned from an asylum is generally looked upon as more or less mad, - Sometimes a Case of sudden death is taken up and inquired into; as happened when Guillaume killed the man Imentioned. But Doctor Veroust brought up witnesses, among them myself, and we all Swore that the man was most viclent, and that Guillaume bad to strike him in self. defense,” “But was that really the fact?’ interposed Christine, ““No; the poor fellow was a tailor by trade, and Guillaume, thinking to have a suit of Clothes made cheaply, bought some cloth, and Set the man to work, The suit was almost completed, when one day he left him alone for a tew minutes, and when be returned the cloth Was all cut uv into strips. Guillaume was furi- ous with rage. Rushing up to the man, he struck him on the head. ith a stick he hap- pened to have in his hand. .[.do not think he Yeally intended to. take bis life, but this will _ Serve to show you how éntireiy the inmates of an, "ga are at the mercy of their keepers. a wil if you ever wh iy into the matter, . on Doctor Veroust, but I could not betray _ to her aunt, but at last. the Jetter was w ‘ to London; then, supposing Mrs. Blount sh send some one to Lyons, that would take ‘find how very seldom it is that a keeper is charged. The fact is, they know too well wt goes on; and, asa rule, dcctors and keeper: on very good terms. If it were not for my mother, I would myself publish some of the crimes T have seen committed, for I should care what became of me if I could be revenge without implicating her!” It was not for two days after this that Mz procured paper and ink for Christine to w. The difficulty was, how to post it; for M seldom got a holiday, and did not dare to gi it any one to post for her. — Fate favored ber, however. The next tn ing she entered the kitchen, where J . seated at breakfast. “‘Good-morning, Mademoiselle Marie, said. ‘‘Have you any commissions for me? I am going to the town at.once.” ° ‘“‘Oh, indeed,” answered Marie, ‘ What take you there? Is it anything important? ' the post, I suppose, for one thing, as I see yo have the letter-bag?” “Yes, I go to the post with a lot of lett for Monsieur, but I also have to call at t } eler’s for a smal packet; doubtless a for the bride. I hear the doctor contempl marriage.” ; He eyed Marie inquisitively, but she s no sign that his words had wounded her, “To the jeweler,” she said, ignorin latter part of his speech, “If you will kind, perhaps you will take a brooch of min which requires a pin put to it. Just wait 0 moment, and I will get it for you.” ; She soon returned with in her hand. “ Now, see, Jean, that you are caref do not lose it. It is a brooch to which I attac great value. Let me see; the letter-bag wil be the safest place, I will put it in myself.” — He had slung the bag round over his shou! so could not see what Mare was ogee : she went on, apr Pe all the time her beat with anxiety lest Jean should turn r and see her. She gave a sigh of Rood as tine’s room she told her the good news. Christine began to count how long it w from it, There would ba two days for ene Ah! how she hoped that ber “A days more, would herself come in search of tise
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then, it her aunt came, she would have to make mie preparations before undertaking the ney; she would hardly be able to start at moment’s notice. Well, even supposing that no one came for a ole week—let the days pass ever so slowly— week could not be very long. She grew nervous and excited as the days lowly dragged themselves along. Five days assed, six, a whole week, and still nothing curred. On the eighth day Marie entered the om in some agitation. \ demoiselle,” she said, ‘I have news. ieur starts to-morrow for England; he has ttoid me so. Nothing could be better ie hing of your aunt ina few days, you hal regain your liber ty without ber. I have how this. suspense is telling upon you; I I that if you remain here much longer you @ really ill, and I will not allow that, ps your letter has miscarried, or your may ba from bome; at any ‘rate, you no longer depend ‘upon her. Doctor Veroust is to be married in less than a fort- tb; he told me of it proudly, at the same praising tbe beauty of his future wife. wed me her portrait—she is lovely; even own as much. Perhaps he showed it to prove how impossible it is that he iow think of me; he might have spared 1e humiliation. I hated him sufficiently fore, and am reckless now. I care not for lf; I will follow him to Paris when he is d, and be revenged on lim. I could ‘him arrested now onthe charge of having aused the death of two or three patients; but I will not until he has “made that beautiful N an his wife. How will she look, I wonder, roe Jearns that her husband is an assassin? ijl turn from him in horror, Then, per- 16 will sue for her love as I did for his, e will spurn bim. Ah!” she laughed, uld give my life to see that—to see him s knees, and his wife turn away from him oathing. He would think of me thea, d remember how I would have clung to him hall if he had-but been true to me.” stine endeavored to soothe her, “Dear Marie, you are unlike yourself to- nig! Vhink of her—how she would suffer voman who has never knowingly wronged vas if you would but forget this wicked ey 1 lucky enough to escape, we could go ray and live quietly together. Even if my ub is dead, which i fear may be the case, | my grandparents refuse to believe that I Bestiine Vira—even thee. we chivas man- “A WICKED HEART. See ae | ty cottage, r I have determined that, should you | do not believe you really wish to harm | I believe you would be happier if you | ere once away from this frightful house. If | gether, 1 asecehag by sewing, or could parhape give lessons in English and music, Oh, how pleas- ant it would be! I fancy Isee us in some pret- nos too near any town—no, we must be where there are trees, and fields, and flowers, Ah!” she cried, in an ecstasy, “ the happiness of walking once more in the open air, with nothing overhead but the sky and tho free breath of heaven fanning one’s temples! Marie, I believe I should never tire of hearing the birds sing.” The poor girl fell sobbing on Marie’s neck. The thought of freedom unnerved her even more than the cruel hardships of her imprison- » ment, “There!” said Marie, stroking the golden curls; ‘if you go on like that, I shalt never be able to tell yow what I have planned. Try and compose yourself, for I must not wait here long. To-day is Saturday. Next Friday my mother, taking advantage of Doctor Veroust/s | absence, intends tospend the evening witha | friend; that, then, will be the time for us to fly. I will leave a note for my mother, telling ‘her that I have started for Paris to await | Monsieur’s arrival there. | after my departure, finding yourself alone, you | made your escape.” She will think that, ‘“¢ But how could I do so with the door lock- | ed?” asked Christine. ‘“‘T have thought of that. I must turn the key in the lock when the door is not quite shut; she will, perhaps, think it was done by acci- dent. Any way, we must risk that. It would not make much differ ence if she knew we were together; but I would rather she thought you had gone alone. She will know all before long. | What I wish is for us to get a start before they ' commence a search for you. | not think of returning before Sunday, and in Monsieur does three days after he sturts for Paris for his wed- ding. e Tell me, dear Marie,” said Christine, fear- ful lest the girl should break out into another fit of wrath and jeaiousy—“ tell me how you propose we'‘shall make our escape? If we calmly walk out of the house, will not ‘some of the servants seo us, aud insist upon detaining me?” ‘Certainly they would, if we contemplated anything so rash; but [ have no intention of letting them see us. You know my room; you were there once, I remember, the day i made you a present of my knitting.” ‘Dearest Marie, how I blessed you for it” “Well, to continue, you doubtless noticed that the window is large enough to permit us to pass through it. Do not look so startled! I do not mean that we shall jump; it is too far — from the ground for that. We must tear your — sheets into strips, and knot them firmly to-_ When wo ee what we consider Ps
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ourselves down, hand under hand, until we % manage it?” “Yes, indeed,” said Christine; ‘I could do much more to effect my liberty. But why do you suggest tearing up the sheets? Could you not procure a rope without much difficulty ?” 7 “Probaby I could; but it would, in that case, be seen at once that you had had aid, whereas I prefer it to appear that you have made your escape alone.” “Qh, Marie, Ican hardly realize that there is almost a certainty of my being free in six more days; and perhaps, after all, my aunt may come and fetch me even before that time. I do not know how it is, but the days seem er a sure of my liberty. But) tell me, Marie, shall we not want money? I have a little. For- tunately, I happened to have my purse in my pocket the night {i was brought here, . See,” she said, taking a little purse, and emptying its contents into Marie’s lap. ‘‘ Over fifty francs; not a large fortune, but it will take us some distance, will it not?” “Yes!” Marie exclaimed, in some surprise. “JT had never thought of your having any- thing; but Iam glad of it for your sake, for I may run short. I have one hundred and eighty francs; but we shall need it all, for I that there was « stroug resembiauce between yourself and your mother; therefore, when your your story.” “And you, Marie—will you not ccme, too?” “No,” she answered, firmly; “TI shall have other work to do.” And Christine felt that she referred to Doc- tor Veroust, and forbore to urge her further, knowing how useless it would be. _ Doctor Veroust visited Christine the next Morning, before he set out on his journey, and She had to keep up the farce of madness, as Usual, whenever he came to see her, which was generally about once a week, Either she was growing careless, or she was f ‘Unable to act her part so wellin ber present ©Xcited state, but the doctor seemed anything Ut pleased with her appearance. He looked at er steadily once or twice,'and then felt her Pulse, “Tam not very satisfied with the state of Mademoiselle’s health,” he said to Marie, “TI think it would be as well to administer a little ™ore of the medicine like she took before—in- ‘Seed, it would be better for her to take it twice 8 Week during my absence. _ “er take the first dose myself,” ft He left the room, returning at the end of a tow gy with a smal bottle and a glass, CA ee a i intend that you shall go to England. You say | grandparents once see you, they will believe | A WICKED HEART. sufficient length, we will fasten it to the bed- | post which is near the window, and must let glass with water and handed it to Christine. reach the bottom. Do you think’ you could soothingly. longer and more unbearable now that I feel | Stay! I will see saying. “I want to leave this bottle maepe charge, I wish No. 6 to take some of it twice — less effect upon me than it would have had Peng out a few drops, he filled up the “There, drink that, dear child,” he said, “TE will do you good. 3 é Christine turned pale, and trembled with fear. x . What could she do? She did not dare refuse, — and if she swallowed the medicine she would, perhaps, be very ill. i Just then, Madame Roux’s step was penvaoite if the passage, and the doctor walked to the door Fs and called her. Se In that instant, Marie snatched ‘the sae é from Christine’s hand, and drank its Si tents. ‘Come here, Madame Roux,” the d a week, Ah, she has drunk it!” he said, ashe _ perceived the empty glass. “That is right. It is lucky for her that she is pretty tractable, for I am not given to standing any nonsense. Well, I must be off. The carriage is alread: at the door.” Saying which, he left the room, — followed by Madame Roux. Christine threw herse!f on Marie’s neck, ant embraced her again and again. “Oh, dear Marie! why did you do it? shall never forgive myself if you suffer from | taking this medicine! I ought to have taken: it myself. Why should you suffer for me?” ‘* Because I am stronger,” answered Mari “T may be ill for a short time, but it will ha: upon you. I must take care that I, and not my mother, bring you the next dose. There is n knowing what the consequences might be i you were forced to take much of it.” — i Poor Marie! When she went to bed that night, her head was sacked with pain; and when at last she fell into a feverish sleep, she was haunted by fearful dreams. xe When she entered Christine’s room nex morning, she still looked ill and pale. She made light of it, though Christine she was still suffering. “It is nothing,” ‘she said. ‘My head alittle, that is all, Ishall be quite we: morrow. I tremble, though, when I think the effect it might have had on your de } frame, Perhaps, even, we should have had to relinguish our plan of ge? or, at least, had to postpone it.” How anxiously Christine waited for ; Friday night! It seemed as though the time would never pass, Nothing was heard of her aunt, and Chr tine felt that should she fail in this attempt escape, she would most probably be a priso here all std life. ment otitis at ieee the time for action bad rived,
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24 —— Marie came in about eight o’clock in the eve- ning, bearing a bundle, which contained a few of their clothes, a warm shawl and a hat for Christine; then shutting themselves in, they both set to work tearing up the chects. Christine made a poor hand of knotting them together. her if they would have reached the ground without a broken limb. Luckily Marie understood such work better. She had a cousin who was a sailor, and had learned from him how to tie a safe knot, little thinking when so learning how useful the knowledge might prove to her. Listening for amoment at the door, in case any one should be near, they passed into Marie’s room, bearing their long rope with them. Christine gave a sigh of intense happiness as she paused for a moment by the open window, drinking in the freshness of the cold night air. But Marie would not let her waste time in that way. “Come,” she said. ‘Which of us is to de- seend first? Ihave already attached the rope | firmly to the bedpost.” “T will,” answered Christine, without a mo- ment’s hesitation, though the window was a great distance from the ground. She stepped out on to the sill, then taking the rope firmly in her hands, let herself down, It was a more difficult task than she had cal- culated on. Her body swayed against the wall, and her knuckles were bruised by the stones; but at last she felt the soft earth be- neath her feet, and shook the rope, as a signal to Marie that she was safe. A few moments later the two girls were hur- rying along the garden. The night was dark, though a few stars shone overhead. More than once they stumbled over the root | of a tree, and Christine gave a sudden half-sup- pressed cry of alarm asacold branch swept across her face. ° “T fear we have missed the path,” whispered Marie. ‘‘ But never mind; we have but to keep straight on, and we must come to the wall. I hope you are good at climbing, for we must seale it.” ; As she spoke, she almost fell forward into a ditch. : “Take care,” she called out to Christine, who was close behind, ‘‘ Here we are, at the end of the garden. We must walk over this soft ground, and, for all I know, there may be water in the ditch; but we cannot jump, for it is too wide, and there is no firm foothold on the other side. Keep close to me,” They stepped bravely forward, their feet sinking deep into the soft earth, and both gave a little gasp as they splashed suddenly into water which reached oyer their ankles, It is doubtful if it had been left to | A WICKED HEART. “What is the matter?’ Marie asked,. as Christine paused. ‘‘ What are you waiting for?” “T have lost my shoe,” answered Christine. “Oh, whatever shall Ido? How can I get on now? I cannot find if, for it has sunk in the mud.” ‘Tt cannot be helped,” Marie said, taking her by the wrist and pulling her forward. ‘‘We must get on, come what may. I will get on top of the wall first. There, that is accom- plished; now hand me the bundle; now feel for a foothold, and give me your hand.” This was done, and they were now standing on the top; then Marie threw down the bundle, and jumped after it. “Now, mademoiselle, can you see just a ' glimmer of my white apron? You must jump straight for it, and I will endeavor to catch you in my arms; for should you alight upon a stone, you might bruise your foot and be un- able to walk to the station.” Christine did as she was desired; the. result was, the two girls found themselves lying on | the road; but fortunately they were unhurt. They had not proceeded far betcre Christine began to limp; her toot was cut and bieeding | from the stones. She bore it bravely for some | time in silence, but at last the pain became un- ' endurable, and she begged of her companion to rest a little. | ‘How thoughtless I am!” said Marie, “TI had quite forgotten your foot, Here, 1 will tie our handkerchiefs round it, so that you may not feel the stones so much.” She knelt on the ground, and was about to do as she said, when she caught sight of car- riage lamps quickly approaching. She sprung once more to her feet. | “Quick!” she cried, ‘‘Let us keep close to _the opposite hedge. I would rather no one saw | us until we are further from the asylum.” They both crouched together as close as they could, hoping that they would not be discoy- ered in the darkness. But as the carriage drew near, the lamps flashed upon them, and the horse shied, refusing to pass, ‘““Why don’t you drive on?” said a voice, which made the girls tremble with fear, It was Doctor Veroust! “T can’t, sir,” answered the coachman; “ my horse is startled by something in the hedge, and won’t move.” “Then get down and lead him,” was the reply. ‘Why it’s nothing but a couple of girls, after all,” the man said, with an cath. ‘ What are you hiding here, for? Up to no good, VU be bound.” “ Two girls hiding, did you say?” and Doctor Veroust sprung from the carriage. In a mo- ment he discovered Marie and Christine, and instantly understood the facts of the case. ‘Here, leaye your horse and help me-with —
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Rann saree 8 : Wee these women; they have escaped from my house.” _ Christine struggled to free herself from the doctor’s arms, but she was like a child in his »* grasp. The coachman would have held Marie, but _ she shook him off. : ; “Do not touch me,” she cried, sternly; _ even Doctor Veroust dare not say that [ am P,.-dnad:” “No,” said he; ‘‘but she is assisting a patient to escape, and we must detain them both.” It is doubtful how all this would have ended, for Marie would not have been mastered with- out a struggle. _ So occupied had they all been, that two car- riages had approached quite close before they were aware of them, Marie was the first to see them, and she called out loudly for assistance, ‘*Fullo! what is wrong here?” cried the near- est coachman, as he pulled up sharply. “A lunatic, escaped from Doctor Veroust’s asylum!” answered the man, who was still en- “deavoring to seizo Marie. ‘ Doctor Veroust himseif is here.” “ Doctor Veroust!” exclaimed each and all of the occupants of the two carriages, And, soon, no less than four gentlemen and a lady joined the group. “Gentlemen, I appeal to you,” said Marie. “T am aiding this young lady to escape because she is not mad. She has suffered greatly at Doctor Veroust’s hands, and 1 am ready to bear witness to the fact.” ‘Mercy on us!” cried the lady, who had ‘how drawn near to Christine; “it is my niece!” And she folded the poor girl, who was half- faint with fear, fondly to her breast. *‘My poor, dear child!” she exclaimed, em- bracing her warmly; “what you must have Suffered! How thankful I am that we have ar- _, Tived in time to save you!” It was Mrs. Blount, who, accompanied by ioe legal adviser, had come to deliver Chris- e A gentleman, stepping forward, laid his hand ©n the doctor’s shoulder. He was no other than the chieg of police from Lyons, _ “TI arrest you, Antoine Veroust, on the Charge of falsely imprisoning Christine Vira, ‘nd treating her as a lunatic, though you _ “new her to be in perfect possession of her b Senses,” be te “And I,” said Marie, can testify to ais hav- & caused the death of Jacques Fernand and _ Yeanne Le Blane by ; " : rishment !” The doctor spoke not; but he cruelty and lack of proper fixed a look on A WICKED HEART. | ' out of the light of the lamps. , the expression of which was so full of | His mind was filled with conflicting emotion ‘knowing that your beloved Juliette is as guilt, | would not let it go. ; Blount wishes to have everything + ee ei uel BEES Tiak ay Nae ee = = hatred and malice that she shrunk from The other two gentlemen were Wilfred Grey and Auguste Le Roy. When Doctor Vero caught sight of the latter, he smiled grimly. “So you are against me, too, M. Le At any rate, you will have the satisfaction as I am in all that concerns this young lady. ‘“‘T know it!” answered the young © hotly, ‘‘and I do but seek to be revenged 1 you both!” a ‘Mr. Grey,” said Mrs. Blount, implo “do help me to carry this poor child to carriage; she is trembling with cold and while we stand here talking!” sii But Christine had hold of Marie’s he “Aunt Claire,” she asked, “do not i Marie behind. Let her come with me.” “Of course, dear!” Mrs, Blount answer kindly. ‘Get into the carriage also, my goo girl. I know what a friend you have been my niece, and you shall not be unrewarded.” — Few words were spoken as they drove Lyons. Christine clung to ber aunt as though fearful lest she might yet be recaptured, that lady clasped her closely, and kissed soothed her as though she were fondling a child, pete es Marie looked on with a strange pain at heart. How happy they were! Christine not want her now, she told herself. No wanted her—no one loved her! ; When the carriage stopped before the en- trance to a large hotel, she slipped quietly away unperceived, ae Meanwhile, Mr. Grey, Mr. Wilson, and 1 Le Roy had already arrived, and were hold a little consultation. : “What do you intend to do?” Wilfred asking the lawyer. ‘‘I suppose you will tele graph to the police to-morrow morning, and have Madame Veroust and her daughter rested?” ee “T think noi,” replied Mr, Wilson. “: quietly as possible. I shall start for E myself to-morrow, accompanied by a de from this town, and shall see that the rested with as much secrecy as possib. brought quietly. I feel sure that Squire tern would wish to avoid all possible s “3 nL quietly. : . pe tant sti 2 wat “Probably a term of imprisonment from ’ prison. Ree
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26 * as he walked to bis lodgings a few minutes later. True, he told bimself, she had proved that she did not love him—had deceived bim cruel- A WICKED HEART. ly; but he could not forget the many bappy — days they had passed tagether. Even as chil- dren he had ever been her little friend and champion. Should he not try to save her now? He took out his watch, and paused under a lamp-post to examine it, the mail started for Paris at eleven. He hurried to his room, and, putting some money into his purse, threw a few clothes into a traveling-bag, and hastened to the station, He was but just in time. Before he bad well realized what he was about, ne found him- self already in the railway carriage, being borne swiftly on his way. CHAPTER VI. Tr is right that we should now give some ex- planation of how Mrs. Blount, Wilfred Grey, and Auguste Le Roy happened to arrive all together, and at so opportune a moment for ‘Christine. '.When Mr. Grey reached Lyons, nearly a fortnight later than he intended, owing to some business which had detained him in London, he drove straight to a hotel, had some refresh- Half-past ten, and — ment, lighted a cigar, and strolled quietly along | in the direction of Queen Street. Madame Veroust’s house was situated in this street, and —yes, there was the house, and still unoccupied, with the words ‘To Let!” painted in white, on the windows. ; Next door was a pastry-cook’s, and he turned in, in the hope of gaining some infor- mation. There was a pretty girl behind the counter. He commenced the conversation by giving a large order for cakes and bonbons. “Perhaps Mademoiselle could inform him how long the house next door had been va- eant?? And Mademoiselle, who was not averse | to a little gossip, in a very few minutes told him the whole story, most of which he had known perfectly well already. “The saddest part of it all,” concluded the girl, ‘‘is that Mademoiselle Juliette was en- gaged to be married to Monsieur Auguste Le Roy, and the poor young man looks more mel- ancholy and desponding each day. He passes this door on his way to the office in the next street, and my heart bleeds for him! Ah, it is worse than death to lose one’s reason!” she said, sighing. “And Mademoiselle Juliette was so beautiful, so very beautiful!” Here Wilfred interrupted her by taking a photograph from his pocket, and handing it to her. ‘ ‘‘ Why, monsicur,” she exclaimed, ‘‘it is aet- ually Mademoisellé Juliette herself! And here Ihave been chatting away, telling Monsieur | | an exemplary young man. what doubtless he knew far better than I do! Perhaps Monsieur is a friend of the family?” Wilfred laughed, but made no reply. faking up his purchases, and wondering much what he should do with them, he left the shop. . A couple of little gamins, ragged and dirty, were gazing into the windows, their hungry looks fixed on the tempting sweets spread out there in such lavish profusion. Opening the bags, Wilfred divided their con- tents between them, and left them standing open-mouthed with astonishment, and too utterly overcome by such generosity to speak. “That must be an angel come down to feed us!” said the younger, looking after the retreat- ing figure of their benefactor with awe and ad- miration. ‘‘ Who else would give us such cakes? Just look, brother; they are neither stale nor . broken, but the richest in the whole place—all chocolate, and sugar, and cream! Oh, my gracious! What a feast we will have!” Wiifred’s next visit was to tie police office, and he very soon Jaid the facts of the case be- fore M. Pitard, tue chief. ‘Tt is rather a delicate case,” said M. Pitard, musingly. ‘‘ You seem to have so little to go upon.” ‘fT cannot see that,” answered Wilfred. ‘TI told you that the girl in the confectioner’s shop identified the photograph of the lady calling herself Christine Vira as an exact portrait of Juliette Veroust.” “Still,” said M, Pitard, ‘TI should have liked some further proof; photographs are so decep- tive. Doctor Veroust bears a high character here. I will, however, accompany you to the lodgings of M. le Roy. I know him well; he is If there has been any plot, he certainly is not aware of it. He will at least, though, be able to give us a full description of the two young ladies,” They found Auguste Le Roy at home. His astonishment and rage knew no bounds when he heard how he bad been fooled and deceived. He recognized Juliette’s photograph beyond a doubt; he himself possessed one exactly similar to it, on which her nsme was written. He de- | scribed Christine, showing the great dissimi- larity which existed between them; and volun- teered, moreover, to accompany M. Pitard and Wilfred that very evening to the asylum in order to identify Christine. He was ready to do anything, for he was furious at the thought of Juliett»’s falseness. Bat M. Pitard suggested that it would be time enough if they went there the next morn- ing. When Mr. Grey returned te his hotel, he found in the hall a little stout gentleman, of unmis- takable English origin, endeavoring to ask some questions of a waiter in very bad Frencb- The waiter who persisted in trying to
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A WICKED HEART. oe! ee Poa pee oa eters er eee ee ee EE English, succeeded in’ making himself equally unintelligible. ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you,” said Wiltred, going forward. The little man looked up suspiciously; but was apparently prepossessed by Wilfred’s ap- pearance. He smiled and thanked him, “T fear,” be said, “‘I have forgotten a good . deal of my French since my school days. I find lam not able to ask the simplest ques- | tions. Perhaps you know this city, and can inform me where I shall find the police-sta- tion?” ‘‘ Certainly,” answered Wilfred. ‘(I have but just returned from there.” “ Indeed!” said the stranger. ‘‘ Will you further oblige by asking the people here if they isnow of a Doctor Veroust, who keeps a lunatic | asylum a few miles from here?” Wilfred started. this seemed more than a coincidence. ‘‘Itis very strange, sir, but I have myself been making inquiries about this same Doctor Veroust.” “Bless me! You don’t say so! if your visit: to the police was in any way con- nected with this gentleman?” ‘Tt was,” answered Wilfred; ‘‘and I am go- ing to call at the asylum to-morrow morning. {i you will come up-stairs to my room we could talk more at our ease, It strikes me as heing just possible we may have arrived here on the same errand, and if so it would perhaps be more advantageous for us to work together.” Explanations soon followed, and Wilfred learned that his little friend was Mrs. Blount’s legal adviser, and that she herself was at that moment in the hotel. Mr. Wilson hurried off to inform her that | Mr, Grey, the cousin of Christine Vira, had also arrived on the same business as them- selves, He soon returned witb a request that Mr. Grey would:come to Mrs. Blount’s apartments at once, She had been much excited since her arrival only an hour before, and had insisted that Mr. Wilson should immediately communicate with the police, in order that they should that very evening restore Christine to liberty. “JT shall never forgive myself,” she said, “for being from home when the poor child’s letter arrived. What must she have endured at the thought that I let the days go by and made no effort to rescue her? It is impossible to say what tortvre that man, that fiend I Should say, may not have made her suffer!” When Wilfred entered, be found Mrs, Blount pecing up and down the room in great agita- ton, Sbe came forward and took his hand. “How stravge that we shouid both arrive ere with the same Object, and on the very Might I ask | | samé day! Mr. Wilson tells me you propose | not going to the asylum before to-morrow. I cannot postpone my visit until then, I think must not allow her to remain a single hour in the power of Doctor Veroust more tban is ab- solutely possible. I propose that we drive im- mediately to the asylum, M. Pitard accompa- nying us.” to comealso,” said Wilfred. ‘*Certainly; it is a great many years since I | have seen my niece; she may be much altered; but this young_man was, probably, well ac- | quainted with her, as he was engaged to Juli- ette, and will be able to recognize ber at once.” Mr. Grey volunteered to go in search of M. Pitard and Auguste, and Mr. Wilson went witi him. Mrs. Blount entered her bedroom, and began to put on ber bonnet and shawl. “You surely will not go out, madame,” said her maid, “ before eating something? You have had no dinner.” “Oh, Louise!” her mistress answered, sink- _ing into a chair, “I am so excited at the thought of sceing that poor dear girl, that I cannot think of anything else. Get me a little wine, it is impossible for me to eat.” Louise went out, soon returning with the wine; but she brought a plate of chicken also. “Come, madame, you must not refuse to try and take a little; suppose you should faint on the road, and not be able to go as far as the asylum?” Mrs. Blount allowed herself to be persuaded, | and managed to swallow a few mouthfuls, “Touise,” she said, looking round, “T think my tiece would prefer sleeping in my room to- | night, she may be nervous. Give orders for | another bed to be made up here, and have a fire lighted; it is chilly this evening. Poor | child! I wish that she should see everything | looking pleasant and cheerful. You might go | out and buy some flowers, and fill these vases; — 'I dare say she hasn’t seen any for months. | Hark! I hear a carriage stopping outside. Go see, Louise; it may be Mr, Wilson and Mr, Grey returned.” “You are right, madame,” said the girl, ' looking from the window; “and they are ac- companied by two gentlemen.” “Thank goodness!” exclaimed Mrs. Blount, with a sigh of relief. ‘‘Then we can start im- mediately! Follow me with these shawls. We roay be glad of them.” And she hurried down the stairs. So it hsppened that Christine was rescued, owing to tho indefatigable efforts of her aunt. Had her friends not come before the next day, ‘there is no knowing what fresh troubles she would have expericuced. : what that poor child may be suffering; we “Perhaps it would be better for M. Le Roy ~ SNe Oe | ae SY See aS
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~ * What a charming morning, is it fot, grand- | papa?” cried Juliette, for we will now call her by her right name. ‘‘ The first glimpse of spring? I shall go directly after breakfast; aad see if there are not any snowdrops out yet in | the park. Will you not come, too, madame?” “No, indeed!” answered Madame Veroust, “Tt is too dreary under those great trees. I prefer to stay in, and finish my book by the fire.” Juliette was feeling happy and at ease at Chiltern Manor now. She had grown so to love this luxurious life; she wondered some- times how she could ever have put up with the existence she had previously led in Lyons. She smiled as she thought how she would now miss her pretty carriage, with its handsome | ponies; her thoroughbred riding horse, her | costly dresses, the thousand and one little lux- uries which went to make up her present life, In | three months more she would go to London, and | Her head was full of the | anticipated pleasures of this her first season in | would be presented. England, as she stepped lightly along through the park, swinging a little basket in one hand, A man was just coming through the lodge gates, walking quickly. ‘‘ What a hurry he is in!” she thought. figure seemed to strike her. eagerly as he approached. “Tt is Auguste Le Roy!” she cried, amazed. What can bring him here?” She stood still, trembling and white with fear, awaiting him. have heard all, or he would not have come. “ Juliette!” he said, coming close to her, and laying his hand eagerly on ber arm. ‘‘ How fortunate that I have found you alone and so soon! Icome to warn you! You musi fly! All is discovered!” ‘* What is discovered?’ she said, drawing her. self up proudly. ‘Tell me what you mean?” He frowned impatiently. ° She watched Kim Then something in his | She knew well that he must | “‘ There is no time for trifling!’ he said, in | hard, stern voice. ‘Think you I should have traveled night and day for nothing? Christine has escaped. from the asylum, and Doctor Veroust is already in prison. In two days, at latest, you and Madame Veroust will be ar- rested! You see there is no time to be lost; you and your mother must leave here immedi- ately!” She realized her position instantly. “Yes; we must go at once; but where? If we could but gain a few days it would be something!” “T think Paris will be best for the present,” he answered. ‘‘Once there, we can arrange what is best tobe done. Go now to the house; inform Madame what has occurred; order a carriage, and drive to Blexby; you can pick me upon the road. If we lose no time, we may eatch the London express.” | were here. ‘utterly useless to argue further. A WICKED HEART. Juliette was about to hurry to the house; but she paused a moment, and held out her hand. “ Auguste, can you ever’ forgive me? You have saved me; it is more than I deserved!” He took the hand, and raised it passionately to his lips. Strive as he might, he could no more help loving her than he could help living. “T tell you I won’t believe a word of it!” said the Squire, trying to work himself up into a passion, to hide his evident agitation. He was closeted in his study with Mr. Wilson, who had arrived a short time before. “I insist upon believing that the young lady who so un- accountably left her home two days ago is really my granddaughter. I have no doubt that she will return soon, and explain every- thing satisfactorily.” “T think not, sir,” answered Mr. Wilson, dryly. “If you will allow me, I will once more go over the facts of the case, and—” “T tell you I will not listen!’ roared the Squire. “If she is not my granddaughter, E re- fuse utterly and emphatically to acknowledge any other. J insist upon your taking no fur- ther proceedings against this young lady. Do you hear, sir? I insist that she shall not be followed nor molested!” “T am acting for Mrs. Blount, Miss Vira’s aunt,” said the lawyer, coldly. “Then you can let her know my wishes on the subject. You say you have got the girl out of the asylum; I don’t see what more you want.” Mr. Wilson rose to depart; he saw it was After all, perhaps the wisest thing would be to write to Mrs. Blount. She might not wish to go against the Squire in the matter. : ‘ By return of post came the answer, saying ' that Christine herself was most anxious that no further steps should be taken. “Tam very. much troubled about my niece,” Mrs. Blount wrote. ‘* She bas been very unwell since you The young girl who assisted her to es- cape has ce Hee acd disappeared; in fact, no one has seen her since the night she drove with us to Lyons. Her mother, a woman named Madame Roux, has been arrested as Doctor Veroust’s accomplice, and shocking revelations are expected to be made about the asylum. It is thought that this woman, in hoe hopes of mitigating her own sentence, will con- ess,” Poor Christine was indeed very ill, suffering from a low fever brought on by excitement and exposure to the night air after her long confinement. She dreaded the day of the trial, for she would be compelled to be present, and felt nervous at the thought of having to give her evidence before so many people. This last ordeal, however, was spared her in @ way no one had looked for. The very morning of the trial Doctor Veroust was found dead in the prison. He had taken pcison, but how he had been able to procure it = ——s ee
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ll i oe il Lm ne eT A WICKED HEART. 7 29 was never proved. Madame Roux, owing to the insufficiency of evidence against her, was | discharged. Poor Marie’s fate was ascertained shortly | after, Her body was found one morning by | some washerwomen among the rushes on the | river’s brink. She had been dead many days. || Christine was greatly affected by this sad | ws of her poor friend, and bitterly blamed | herself that she had lost sight of Marie fora moment. It had so bad an effect on her health | that Mrs. Blount insisted upon their starting for Cannes immediately, where she intended to stay some months, in the hope that an entire change of scene would keep Christine’s mind | from dwelling so much on the past. Wilfred Grey accompanied them south. He had taken a great fancy to his little cousin, | and Christine liked nothing better than to sit near the window in the hotel, gazing listlessly | on the deep blue of the Mediterranean, while he read to her. | Wilfred, as he looked at her, forgot the long years that had passed, and almost fancied it was Mabel who was listening to him. As the days went on, Christine grew stron- ger, and was able to take long drives into the country with her aunt and cousin, How pleasant those drives were; how brave- ly their little Barb ponies climbed the hill, and then what glorious glimpses of the sea! The soft, balmy air that fauned their temples came bearing with it the sweet scent of the orange tree, Those were happy days; but, by-and- by, a little cloud came over their horizon. No one seemed quite to know how it began; a feel- ing of constraint, a coolness, gradually arose between Wilfred Grey and his cousin. Ever since their arrival at Cannes he had | gone to some trouble to procure a bouquet for Christine, and each morning she found it by her place at breakfast. Sho loved such little attentions from him, and generally wore for the rest of the day one of the roses or a few of the fine St. Jean violets of which her bouquet Was composed; but latterly she had omitted to do this, and Wilfred thought she no longer cared for his little offering; so one day there were no flowers, and Christine shed a few tears over their loss when she was alone. One evening, a telegram came for Mr. Grey to say the Squire was dead. He would have to start immediately for England, in order to be in time for the funéral. “Dear Wilfred, how we shall miss you!” Said Mrs, Blount. They had grown very in- | timate during the close intercourse of the Jast few weeks, “Treally do not know what we | Shall do without you.” © glanced at Christine, but she was bend- | Og Over some needle-work and made no re- | i Presently, she rosé and stepped out | ough the open window, onto the baleony, | | heart, | cheeks. | good! s¢ Christine will not miss me much, I think,” he said, a little bitterly. ‘‘ I’m afraid my com- any often aunoys her.” “Why should you think that?” asked Mrs. Blount, ; “There is so much difference in our ages,” he replied, gloomily; ‘‘it is too much to ex- pect that a young girl should care for my so- ciety. I fear I have done a rash thing for my ~ | own peace of mind in coming here; I ought to have gone back to England when we. left Ly- ons.” =: “Oh, how blind, how very blind you men are! See! continued Mrs. Blount, laying one hand on his, and pointing with the other to- ward the window; ‘f Christine .looks very pretty out there, does she not, with the soft moonbeams falling on her hair? Shall I tell | you what her thoughts are? I can read them as well as if I could see into her pure, loving She is thinking how hopeless is the love | she bears you, and wondering what the days will be like when you are gone.” ‘‘Do you really think it possible she can care for me?’ “Go and ask her yourself; you will soon know.” With what a glad heart he joined the young girl on the baleony! She started as she heard bis step, and turned away her head, but not before he had perceived traces of tears on*her He took her two little trembling hands in his. “Are you angry with me?” he said, very tenderly. “Angry? Oh, cousin Wilfred, no! How could [be angry? ‘You, who are so kind, so It is that I feared I had offended you, because—because—” ‘Christine, answer me!”—and his voice was hoarse with emotion—‘“‘ tell me that you do not hate me—that some day you will even try to love me! Oh, my darling!’—her head had sunk upon his breast now, and she was weeping happy tears,—“ my little wife! It is too great happiness to think that you can love me, Tell me,-my child, could you really be happy with a man almost old enough to be your father?” Raising her head, she gave bim one timid, tender glance, and Wilfred clasped her to him. What need of words where looks could speak so well? It would be happiness to die now, Christine thought; but to him it seemed life had but just begun, ‘So you have made it up,” Mrs, Blount said, as they entered the drawing-room a few min- utes later. -‘‘Do you know it is nearly twelve o'clock? I dare say,” she said, addressing Wil- fred, “that you have not thought of telling your man to pack up yet?” He was bound to acknowledge he had made no arrangements for the morrow’s journey; so ,
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Aunt Claire, I have so much to tell you,” | Christine, with hot cheeks, seating herself a stool at Mrs. Blount’s feet. ‘I do not ow how to begin. It will so surprise you.” nee “ Shall I guess what this important news is?” | asked her aunt, smiling, and tenderly smooth- g the golden curls, “Ts it that Wilfred Grey as told you he loves you, and you have prom- sed one day to be his wife? My pet, I.saw it ood ll so long ago! I suppose we must be thinking of returning to England now before long. May | will soon be here, and Cannes will be getting too warm. What do you say, little one, to our ting in a fortnight? “Do you think Ww ilfred | will be glad to see us by then?” “T think you are the very best of all good | aunts,” said Christine, kissing her warmly; | “and I believe I am the very happiest girl in,| he world.” ages <R t one last look at Chiltern Manor. is more than three months since the Squire | arried to the family vault, and Mrs. Chil- ooks ten years younger. Her old nerv- | its occur very seldom now. She never cs of her husband but with the utmost af- ion, and clmost persuades herself that she | never get over his loss, “Yet one would think she is almost happy evening, asshe trips from room to room e that everything looks comfortable and ne-liko for the expected guests, Her deep low’s mourning and snow-white cap suit her volously wcll, Surely,” she asks Abigail, for the hun- b timo, “it is time they arrived? There) I hear the sound of wheels upon the gravel; it must be they at last!” adi ~The door was thrown open, and Mrs. Blount . | Christine entered, followed by Wilfred. ne Old lady tried to welcome her guests, and receive them with proper dignity, but she uite broke down, ‘My darling,” she said, throwing herself nto Christine’s arms, “it is like baving my own label back to me!” And she let her head fall the young girl’s shoulders. ‘pe a Seamer a a that wae) They all ‘Mrs. Chiltern to Her granddaughter. ‘But I look dite Christine as my sceiting ” | tine, thoughtfully. A WICKED HEART Oe A = hing them both good Hien, he went to give lady. ‘And you will both live here, of ecessary instructions. course? Oh, Wilfred, if you only make her as kind a hushand as dear William was to me, she will indeed be happy!” And she shed a few silent tears as a tribute: to the Squire’s memory. Poor loyal old lady! Almost the only kind | thing he ever did was when he died and made her a widow. “ Grandmamma!” “Yes, dear”—the old lady passed her hand lovingly over the golden curls which rested on her lap—for Christine had taken a stool at her feet. “There is one thing I should like before I go to bed to-night. I bave so often heard my mother speak of this dear old house. I long to see the rooms she occupied ; and Wilfred says there is a portrait of her in the picture gallery, painted when she was a young girl.” “Will you not wait until to-morrow, Chris- tine?” said Mrs. Blount; ‘‘ you must be tired, my child. Wait until then, and we wil! go through the house together. There is always something interesting in an old family man- sion.” “Please do not be offended, Aunt Claire; but I think I should like to see these rooms alone, | first.” “Well, well, child; have your own way.” “ Abigail will show them to you, dear,” said her grandmother. ‘‘She was your mother’s | maid; but I fear you will find the rooms very different to what they were when my poor girl oceupied them. I had always wished them to remain as they were when she left us; but it was not to be.” Mrs. Chiltern sighed, and a tear stole slowly down her withered cheek. “This is the boudoir, Miss Christine;” and Abigail threw open the door, and stood aside to let the young girl pass. ‘The dressing-room leads out-of it and the bedroom is beyond. They are a handsome suite of rooms, but very different to what they were in my dear young mistress’s time.” Christine stood on the threshold, with a troubled look on her sweet face. The room ap- peared to have been lately occupied. A gardea hat was thrown carelessly on the window seat; near it an overturned basket half-fuil of with- ered violets, A water-color sketch, unfinished, lay on the table; but the flowers in the vases were faded and dry, and the dust lay thick — over everything. os: “Nothing has been touched sincé Miss Juliette left,” said Abigail, softly. “Tt was = Squire's wish. This is_the first time the — room has been opened since his death.” . “Tt was her room, then, too,” said Chris- “Did he love her very — mauch?”
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: se erg that he did, miss! Mange fhe: time I | l never known trouble when ‘tha was p _ have heard him come bere at night, when he | she was light- hearted, with the happin has thought everybody was in bed, and pace | child. But there is a depth of saduess still 4 up and down for hours together. Shall ‘we go | youreyes which, with Heaven’s help, Iv lt | on to the other rooms?’ to change in time.” % “No, not to-night. I thought T should have They had turned away, and were sow y found something that would have reminded me leaving the room, when Christine stopped of my mother; but these are Juliette’s rooms— denly, and clasped her companion’s — ar everything speaks of her presence.” — some agitation. ss She turned away with a weary sigh. Wil-|° ‘Ob, Wilfred, look!—it-is Juliette!” _ fred was waiting for her outside. ‘I knew There was some excuse for her nervousnes you would be disappointed, darling,” he said, | the painting was so exqusitely executed ti _ drawing her hand within his arm; ‘‘but there | one might almost think duliette herself s is still the portrait, Shall we go and see it? before thém. You might have stood for the model yourself “How beautiful she ist Wilfred, Ie —it is marvelously like you.” bear to think that we cannot even learn w They walked down the long corridor, and | she is.” entered a room on the right. Christine was ‘«My darling, why distress yourself a very silent. The little boudoir she had left , her? I daresay she is happier than she deser had brought Juliette forcibly before her—she | —perhaps married to Auguste Le Roy.” was thinking what that proud, ambitious girl “No, Wilfred; Auguste would never marr must have suffered, preparing for her hurried | her atter she had so deceived him. He rescued departure, then flying, like a thief, from the her from a sense of duty, but he would omelets : home she had learnt to love so well, ‘and staked | her unworthy to bear bis name. at haa So much to win. i A slight pressure of her hand against Wil- A little eriwed was collected. outside fred’s side brought her thoughts back to the | Kursaal at Monte Carlo. present; they were Senate before her mother’s! ‘What is wrong?” asks a young man 4 picture. | his companion,# whose superior hight enables : Christine gave a little cry of astonishment him to command a better view. as, raising ber eyes, she met those of the por- Before he can answer, the crowd divides, trait; she might almost have been gazing at her | a lady walks through their midst, escorted Own reflection in the glass—yet there was! two gendarmes. pe _-Something different, and she could not at once She flashes her black eyes defiantly discover what it was. people as she passes. She has been dete t __ “Wilfred,” she said, looking up in his face | Cheating at the gambling-tables, — ~ Somewhat puzzled, “what is there in the ex-| There is something familiar about _ Pression of the portrait that I have not?” haughty carriage of the beautiful head, He stooped down and kissed her fondly | queenly grace of the perfect figure. : before replyi ing, ‘‘Dearest, your mother had Was it Juliette? THE
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PAA 1A Bride of a Day; or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh, By Mary Reed Crowell. 2 The Girl Wifes or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Cumpbe lt. 8 Was Lt Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wm. Mason Turner, M.D. 4 Married in Haste ; 3 or, A Young Girl’s Temptation. By Rett Winwood. b&b Will She Marry Wim? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reéd Crowell. 6 Wis Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adop- tion.. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. ? A Falr Wace; or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. 8 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. A, Denison. 9 A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 10 The Broken Betrothal ; or, Love versus Hate. By Maury Grace Halpine. 11 The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home, By the Author of * Alone in the Worl 1,”’ ete., ete. 12 A Palr of Gray Eyes; or, The snerald: Nec klace. By Rose Ke» nedy. 18 Without a Meart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 14 Alone in the Werlds or. The Younz Man’s Ward. 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By Henrietta Thac heray. 29 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, the Lost Heir, By Avile Penne. 80 Chariotte Temple. By Mrs. By Margaret All is not Gold that By. Mrs. Rowson, 81 The Little Heiress 3 or, Undera Cloud. By Mrs. y Mary . Denison. 82 Leap ¥ @ur 3 or, Why She Proposed. By Sara C ax- ton. 88 ae eee of Merselfs or, Jeanette’s Reparation, R. Sherwood, 84 Her Facew aa Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine. BS The Cuban Helvcess. or, The Prisoner 6f La Vin- tresse. By Mes. Mary «. Denison. 86 Only a Schoolmistress 5 or, Her Untold Secret, By Arabella Southworth. PUBLISHED EVERY TUESDAY, THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. a POPOL AL LLL ADL AP IEF APPL PG PGP PARP a _ 87 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 88 W as She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Hetriettn ‘Thackeray, 89 One Womun’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George S. Kaime, 40 Love-Mai; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and— By Wm. Mason ‘Turner, M. dD. 41 For Her Dear Sake; or, Saved From Himself, By Sara Claxton. 42 The Bouquet Girl; or, A Million of Money. By Agile Penne. By Arabella South- 43 aw the Prjma Donna. wort 44 The Ebon Maak3. or, The Mysterious Guardian. Ky Mrs. Mary Reed ‘Crowell. 45 Lucy Temple. Daughter of Charlotte. 46 'T he Three Sisters; or, The Mystery of Lord Chalfont. By Alice Fleming. 4? The Creole Sisters _or, The Mystery of the Perrys. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. 48 A Marriage of' Cony enlence . By Sara Claxton. 49 ‘the Wife's Secret; or, “Uwixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis. 50 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen of Hearts, By Arabella Southworth, 51 Led Astray. By Ociave Feuillet. 52 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 58 The Maniae Bride; or. The Dend Secret of Hollow Ash Hall, By Margaret Blount. 54 Pledged to Marry; Sura Claxton. 55 Cecil’s Deceit; or. The Diamond Legacy, Jennie Day is Burts. 56 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth, ° 57 Without Merey. By Bartley T. Campbell. 58 The Baronet’s Secrets ov, The Rival Hal -Sisters, By Sara Claxton. 59 Sa ee Iope, the Actress; or, the Romance of a Kuby Ring. By Win. Mason Pur er, M.D. or, In Love’s Bonds. By By Mrs, | 60 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. Py Rachel Bernhardt, G1 Bid We Love Wer? By Pa ley T. Campb 1. 62 Almost in His Powers 0°, More Sinned Agal et than Sinning. By Lillian Lovejoy. C8: She Did Not Love Him. By Arabella South- worth, 64 Bessie Raynor, pee Work Girl, By Wain. Mason Turner, M. ; 65 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshi.e at Last. By Alice Fleming. Lord Reth’s Sings or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Georgiana Dickens. Ready August 25, a A Wic ed Hearts or, the False and the True. By Sara Claxton, Ready Sept. 1. 68 Wis Weart’s Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. Ready Sept. 8. 69 aBe OGuly Daughter; or, Brother against Lover. By Alice Pleming. Ready Sept. 15, TO Why I Married Wim? or, the Woman in Gray, By Sura Claxton, Ready Sept. 22. 66 67 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 Tok: — Rt ae eee PIF I OD OOOO RN OO eee a ee eee