Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 70) (1885 09 22)
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SRT Ey VOL, Vi. 2429, ER re ee No. 98 Wiliiam Street, New York. _ Price, Five Cents. SSS ey WHY 1 MARRIED HIM? Or, THE WOMAN IN GRAY. BY SARA CLAXTON. CHAPTER I. THE STRANGER. I Rememper that night as well as though it | deep-mullioned windows with small, “STANDING AGAINST THii SILENT FOUNTAIN WAS THE WOMAN IN GRAY.” were yesterday. It was that on which Mrs.’ Harding, the housekeeper, had told me the le- gend of the curse. : , It was just the piace and just the night for such a legend. A low-ceiled room, with a great beam across, dark wainscoted walls, a great carved fireplace, befere which I could picture Elizabethan ladies in ruffs and farthingales sit- ting on winter nights, ponderous oak furniture oie latticed ,
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rs, sa human form had come between my eyes and ‘WHY I MARRIED HIM? panes—and all this seen in the dim light of a beautiful in man or woman before; it was ono wet summer evening. of those sympathetic voices whose tones go Outside there was a leaden sky, anda steady ‘straight to the very soul. rain was falling; and the drip, drip from the His countenance, too, was very handsome. eaves and gable-ends of the old Tudor house, Dark-eyed, delicately chiseled, of a thoroughly _ was a mcst appropriate accompaniment to the aristocratic type; and a smile, almost as fasci- "words sbe was uttering. nating as his voice, was playing over his lips Lost in the wonder of it, I made no com- whilo he spoke. ment when she had finished, but sat staring | Almost unconsciously I had come forward, out of the window at the little globules of rain and now stood just behind Mrs. Harding, that hung from the point of every leaf. | drawn irresistibly, I believe, by the sweetness Suddenly I started; for, all in an instant, a of his tones. And these and his pleasant smile were not without effect upon the housekeeper. the pendulous drops. “ Really, sir,” she said, “you will have a There was nothing very terrible in the figure. long walk to the nearest inn; it is nearly four It was that of a slim young man in a light miles.” waterproof coat, his head covered by a broad- ““Oh, I don’t mind that, if I find good quar- brimmed white hat of soft felt, and in his ters when I get there,” he answered, cheer- hand a camp-stool and a small case. | fully. As Ihave said, there was nothing to startle ‘The ‘ Avondell Arms,’ I believe, gives very ~~ mein such anapparition; but at that moment, good accommodation to travelers. It bears in the overwrought condition of my nerves, I the name of our house, and has always been believe the sight of a hare or a rabbit scud- | | patronized by the family,” replied the old lady, ding across the grass would have made me sententiously. start. ; | “Ts this house called A vondell?” inquired the “What isthe matter, my lady?” cried Mrs. | stranger. . Harding, all of a tremor, for the story had “© Yog, sir; this is Avondell,” replied the made her as nervous as if had me. | housekeeper, proudly, ‘It is a well-known “ There’s a stranger,” I said, pointing. /name, and has been from the time of bluff But by this time I had quite recovered my King Hal, when this house was built, You'll presence of mind. | find a deal about it in the coanty history.” “What does he want, I wonder?” she said. | “It is a gloriousoid piace,” he said, scanning ~ “Go and see, Mrs. Harding,” I answered. _ the five old porch, the muilioned windows, and She went out into the hall, the door of | the ivy-covered walis wite the appreciation of which was open,-and stood upon the step. ln une taste. 4 must have another day’s Too restless to be left alone, I followed, but study of it before I leave. Thank you very Joitered behind in the shadows, where, how- | much for your information.’ ever, I could see and hear all that passed. | Here he caught sight of me, and fixed upor Upon perceiving tho housekeeper, the me a gaze, the intensity of which made my _ stranger advanced, and politely raised his hat. eyes drop and my cheeks burn, although its | “T beg ten’ thousand pardons, madam,” ke admiration was utterly free from rudeness. said, with rather a strong for eign accent, but He again raised his hat, said ‘‘Good-night, can you direct me to any inn or place where I ladies, ” and was gone, may get a bed for the night? I have no doubt $6 What a very nico man—quite like a you will think both my intrusion and my gentleman; and what a sweet voice!” re-— question a great Jiberty. I am an artist on a marked the housekeeper, as we went ye" 3 to sketching tour, and for the last two hours the room. have been sitting underneath a tree sket:hing | I made no reply. this glorious old mansion, as it appeared half- | But, a few minntes aferward, I observed, buried in foliage. For a long time my leafy | ‘In the old days that I have read about, wo covering withstood the pelting of tho pitiless should not have turned a stranger away from rain; but it had to give way at last, and, the door, but have offered him hospitality.” ~ when the drops began tu fall upon my block, i ‘‘Avondell was always famed for hospi- | thought it time to retire. Then I found I had tality,” replied Mrs, Harding. ‘But then, wandered out of the road, and had not the things are so changed.” slightest conception where I was. I could “Net for the better, I am afraid,” I make nobody hear at the lodge, so walked on answerad, in the — of meeting a gardener or some = ** Had there been a master, and a house full “one,” of servants, and everything as it used to be— — This long speech was given with an easy but we could not have taken a stranger © t evinced the man of good breed- whom we knew nothing into the house, ; lady; it would not have been proper.” I had never heard any ss “J suppose not,” I answered, ‘is voice! w
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- WHY I MARRIED HIM? All that evening I could not get the ercey tones and handsome features of the stranger out of my: thoughts. And it seemed I was not the only person he had so impressed, I could not remain by my- self in that great, lonely room, especially after the story I had heard, and so begged Mrs. / Harding to sit with me. . All of a sudden, after a long silence, she looked up, and said, ‘‘Do you know, my lady, I have been puzzling myself about that stranger,.”” “‘Tndeed!” I said. *¢ It seems to me I have seen him somewhere before to-night, or some one very like him, but | I cannot for the life of me tell where or | when.” As she left me at my bed-chamber door, she remarked, ‘‘ You look pale and low-spirited, my lady. It’s that dreadful legend. I am sorry I told it to you. But you must not put any confidence in such superstition—I don’t; and I’m sure no wicked curse could fall upon such an innocent young head as yours. Be- sides, you are not of the direct line. Don’t let such thoughts worry you.” “Oh, no; I’m not at all superstitious—only a little dull, vy replied, smiling faintly. But the tenderness of her voice and.manner so touched me that I threw my arms round her neck, and kissed her as though she had been my mother. As she went up the stairs, I heard her mutter to herself, ‘I oughtn’t to have told her; Tam sure I’ve done wrong. Plague on my tongue; it always does run away with me,” I certainly did feel nervous and timid, although Thad my maid to sleep in the room With me, and slumber did not come for a long time, I kept wondering whether the stranger had found the inn; then bits of the house- eeper’s story would cross my mind, until the two ideas became strangely jumbled together, ike the incongruous images of a dream. There was a strange, vague feeling upon me, like a shadow. “Was it the shadow of the curse ?” T thought. CHAPTER IL THE WOMAN IN GRAY. BRIGHT sunny morning dispelled the i i of the night, and asI strolled into he woods for a walk before breakfast, I felt | half ashamed of my sunerstitious fears of the | ark hours, here was a cloudless blue sky above my head; the air was cool and refreshing after | the rain: and a sweet, damp smell rose from the earth and the dead ‘leaves, As Iwas retu x tothe h b ‘path rning otoe nouse y & narrow | way, quite over-arched by trees, I saw | advancing toward me a tall, “gaunt-looking <3 _ woman, Her clothing seemed to be little more than an old ragged gray dress, draggled with mud, and clinging to her as though it had recently been soaked with rain.-and a thin old shawl, out of which all color Wad faded. Her head ~ was uncovered, and her gray hair struggled from the knot into which it was twisted at the ' pack, about her face and neck. Her features, tanned b¥ exposure to the atmosphere, were as swarthy as a Gipsy’s; and — there was a strange, wild lock about her Bech . : set black eyes that gave a suspicion of in sanity. : I was very much startled at this grim Pe rition, and would have avoided it by a retreat had I not perceived that it had caught sight of me. es “Some poor beggar-woman,” I thought, | feciing if I had my purse in my pocket, and advancing with as bold an aspect as I could summon, although my heart was beating fast. I found a shilling loose in my pocket, and, — armed with this, I thought I was safe, Rsk: She was now leaning against a tree, eve oe dently waiting for me. All of a tremble, I stretched out my hand with the shilling in’ it ¥ as I came up to her. 3 She made no movement to take it, but | drew herself up with a haughty air. “Have I asked you for alms?” abe do- manded. ““No; I—I beg your pardon,” I said, feeling my face all on-fire. “But I-I—” I could not find a finish for the sentence, “When your dainty ladyship saw my ragged clothes,” said the strange wen iris ; bitter irony, ‘‘ you said to yourself, ‘Here is — some horrid tramp; I must give her a shilling, — afi because I’m afraid she’li molest me, But if Vd come to your door when you had your servants about you, you would have told them to drive me away.’ ” : “Indeed I should not,” I replied, becoming very frightened, and yet afre Born. a move, for she held me as did the pees Mariner the Wedding Guest—by the “ glitter- = ing eye.” ¢ a You; no doubt, think yourself very bani tiful,” she went on, eying me with a look scornful superiority; “but I have had dolls ' when I was a child much prettier than you. — I was beautiful once, and men that would not — have bestowed a second glance on you have — | knelt at my feet for atouch of my fingers.” “She is mad,” I thought, and I coula feel _ my limbs almost sinking beneath me. im ‘: What could Ido? If Iran, she would over take me. Oh, howI prayed that the gard or some of the servants would pass this ae es Hanes men aiicaat at my | a * a rating Whee iaihe. ust ha eet) ani tet CIae Ae As Abroe mie Vr. re
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ne. they would shudder at the sight of me now!” _ she cried, with a bitter laugh, that made my blood run cold. : Then, with a sudden change of tone and look—‘“‘ As you do now; but as I am, so may you be one day, dainty as you are!” The extraordinary creature paused as though she expected some answer; but my tongue was cleaving tomy mouth. Icould not speak. I could only glance piteously up and down the paths, veyed me with the same look of scorn her - countenance had worn but a moment before. “Had a vagabond like I am now used sueh Tanguage to me when I was your age, I would have struck her. fright. Don’t be afraid; I shall not harm you. hurry away. __ Thad not gone many paces before tT heard __ her strident voice calling after me. . What is the name of the house I see among the trees?” “ Avondell,” I replied, without turning. peremptory ‘*‘ Come back!” ae But, once started, fear gave me wings, and my feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground as I fled on. As I came to a turn in the path, which the next moment would bring me in sight of the ‘house, I could not forbear glancing round. ee The woman was standing just where I had f Jett her, like one transfixed; but as she caught fe pice, she raised one of her skinny arms, k it threateningly. ot almost ran against Sampson, the gardener. Then I felt safe, and stopped to take breath. “Any thing the matter, my lady?” he in- quired, touching his hat. “You look a little fearsome.” “Yes; Ihave been frightened by a woman. I think she’s mad,” I answered. ‘Where is she, my lady?” * I walked with him to the spot where I had last looked round; but she had vanished. _ “ & moment age,” I said, “sho was standing : close to that tree,” pointing to a large oak, whose gnaried roots rose high out of the ground. spot I indicated, looking about on all sides, and the next moment turned in among the trees, d Tlost sight of him. .. hile I was at breakfast, Sampson sent in b maid, who was waiting, that al- searched the woods in all direc- could not find any stranger. ioe to hear its for if the poor creature “Theard a shriek from her lips, and then a had not gone many steps further when I. _ “But do not be rough with the poor creature,” | fee: & added; for Sampson was running toward the "WHY I MARRIED amt ae 3 ee was indeed out of her senses, T should have been very much grieved to have heard she had been treated with any roughness, I resolved, however, not to take lonely walks through the woods for the future, Asa matter of course I told Mrs. Harding of my ad- venture, and it put her into great indignation. ‘* Why, my dear lady, she might have mur- . dered you, and got away just as she has now! I do hate those low tramps! Let me catch any | of ’em about here again, and I'll send for the Folding her arms upon her breast, she sur- i You can only tremble with | constable! Deary, deary me, what an escape you’ve had!” Unknown to me, she sent the men-servants about the neighborhood to endeavor to discover the woman; but no one had noticed such a personage, and no trace of her was to be found, | which I thought rather remarkable, as such a rive me your shilling "and go, poor chicken | | any one’s attention. I was only too glad to hand her the coin, and | | far from being finished. / and as my eyes fell upon the white, lifeless | one of the men. strange-looking being could not fail to attract But the adventures of the day were as yet While I was sitting reading at the open win- — dow, a little before luncheon-time, my maid, looking very white and scared, rushed into the room, exclaiming, “Ob, my lady! my lady! Johnson, the game-keeper, has been and. shot somebody !” ‘Oh, heavens! not the woman?” I cried, my thoughts instantly reverting to her. ‘** Oh, no, my lady; it is a man!” “He is not killed?’ ‘TT don’t know! They are bringing him up — to the house!” ‘ And at that moment I heard a trampling of heavy feet upon the gravel; and looking ~ through the window, saw four men bearinga ~ body between them. Before I could take a second glance, I felt a trembling hand grasp my arm, and draw me away from the window. It was Mrs. Harding’s. “ Don’t look—don’t look, my lady!” sbe said. “Who is it? Is he dead? How did it hap- pen?’ I asked faintly. “T don’t know any thing about it! Oh, dear! oh, dear!” exclaimed the old lady, wring- ing her hands, I heard the heavy feet mount the steps with- out, then shuffle along the hall. An irresistible curiosity drew meto the door, face that hung forward upon the blood-stained — chest, I recognized the stranger who had in- quired his way on the previous night. I could -only articulate the word “ Dead?” with an inquiring glance of terror. “No, my lady; he ain’b quite dead,” replied — “Thank Heaven!” I ejaculated. “Take @ 7 horse, one of you, and ride off for Dr. Graham! Don’t lose a moment!” ;
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= “Now, my lady, if you'll leave everything to me, [ll see that all is done that can be done,” said Mrs, Harding, who had by this time "recovered something of her nerve, leading me back into the room. with any surgeon, and you may trust to me till the doctor comes. But if you don’t calm | yourself after all the excitement you’ve passed through this morning, you’ll be ill.” I was not so silly as not to perceive the truth | of her advice, and endeavor to profit by it. But I could not in any way compose myself until I received a message that there was no | danger—that the shot had lodged in his shoulder, but no vital part had been touched. Relieved from immediate anxiety by this report, my sympathies for the unfortunate man burst forth in another direction, and I ordered that the gamekeeper who had fired the shot should be brought before me. I bad not. liked this man from the first; he ‘was a big, burly, uncouth-looking fellow, and | as he entered the room there was a dogged, _ sullen expression upon his face-—an evident un- concern about the accident, that quite exas- _ perated me; and, speaking very sharply, I de- | manded how it had occurred. “Twas all his own fault,” replied the fellow, | sulkily; ‘She was trespassing. What did he | want perched up in a tree? How should I | know he was there? I fired at a bird, and he got the shot.. ’Twill be a lesson to ‘im, and it sarves him right!” The insolent brutality of these words, and | the tone in which they were uttered, filled me with disgust and indignation. But Ianswered very quietly, telling him to go to the steward and receive what wages were | due to him, and never set foot upon the estate any more. I shall never forget the astonished | look he cast upon me when I had finished | speaking. “What, my lady, you discharge me?” he | Cried, Why, I’ve been on this land ever since I was a boy, and my father afore me, and his father afore him; and you turn me off for a mere accident?” “T do not turn you off for the accident, but for your brutal speech,” I answered. “1 would not have you in my service anger hour on any consideration,” I had never felt so relentless against any Person in my life as I did against this man. Small, deep-set eyes, as he turned insolently ‘Upon’ his heels, muttering words, of which J wy. caught something about “ upstart,” and “a disgrace to the old family. ” yY outward calm was only a mask covering _ the excitement that burned within. I could not the insilts of this ruffian, and, 5 i ; . et ae WHY 1 MARRIED 1 oe “T can dress a wound | | this idea has come of later events; but 80 it I saw the hot color mount into his sunburnt cheeks, and an evil expression come into his | frig. up, called out, | peremptory, a Cone ack!’ % | He turned round. | ‘* Beg my pardon for your insolence.” i | He hesitated a moment, but there was some- — thing in my look—I am sure my eyes were flashing and my cheeks as red as fire—that vee brought him to submission, _ et | T beg pardon, my lady, I—I—” “Now go!” I said, poiiéing to the door. meee His parting look told me Thad made atleast one enemy that day. ey As soon as I saw Mrs. Harding, I acquainted % her with what I had done, but without men- | tioning his muttered words, which I would gd ee condescend to remark upon. : ie She looked very much astonished, and rather doubtful. | §* Why, the Johnsons have been gamekeepers_ x _at Avondell for more than a century,”she said. Bra ‘““Tf they bad been so for a dozen rae xe I would not keep that man another day,” I~ replied. “« Ah! now you do indeed look an Avondeli™ exclaimed Mrs. Harding, admiringly. 4 When the doctor came, he confirmed the olin hm | lady’s report upon the wounded man, who was, | however, inclined to be feverish, he said, and must be left at perfect rest. a CHAPTER IIT. , IN THE. WOODS. ; Or all the days of my life the fortnig which followed the eventful morning I : | just described is the most indistinct in my memory. I cannot believe I was a free agent c T was under the influence of some occult powe which it is impossible for me to define — understand. That I, an impressionable, romantic girl ‘eighteen, should fall in love with a handsoi /young man, of refined manners and - "temperament, was not at all astonishing; i it was the most natural thing in the | even though I was the Lady of Avonde he a poor artist of unknown parents, things have been common since the | began, and will continue to be so while | world lasts, But it seems to me there w kind of glamour in the whole thing. — Per and I cannot shake it off. Within a week, his wound was well enoug for him to leave his chamber. As his hurt | been inflicted by one of my servants, and, 2 5 shuddered to think, might have proved fatal, I : ' felt myself responsible for it, and was m eager to testify this feeling in every fp way; and when he was able to come « stairs, I talked with him, read to him, play:
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0 ay ae _ to him, sung to him, showed him my own humble attempts at drawing, listened grate- fully to his criticisms and instructions; in fine, was never weary of listening to the delicious mousic of his voice. Had there been any one possessed of the =¢ most ordinary worldly experience near me, _ they must have perceived the danger of such an intercourse; but there was only Mrs, Hard- ing, who would not have thought it possible for any person with one drop of the Avondell blood in their veins to demean themselves by what she would have considered an unworthy passion. Although I did not trouble to investigate the cause at the time, I think it was highly letters to my uncle I never once mentioned the presence of Adrien Sylvester at Avon- ~ dell. For a few days after he left his chamber, ha had to content himself with first inhaling the ae “fresh air from the window, then with taking a — _* few turns up and down the terrace; but one | ; ' face before. evening he felt quite strong enough, he said, to ‘walk through the woods. Not thinking of - what Iwas doing, I offered to be his com- _-panion. It had been an oppressively hot day; but toward seven o’clock a light breeze sprung up, andit was then that we strolled out into _ the open. rete ti have not felt so well and strong since my _ accident. as I do this evening,” he said. -. “7 am very glad to hear you say so?” I replied. abet “The satisfaction is damped for me by the thought that I must now bid adieu to this ely place, and to the happiest days of my ife. ” “Indeed, Mr. Sylvester,” I said, earnestly, « you are welcome to remain here as long as “it; pleases you. I shall be delighted—I mean, it is my duty, after all that—” Here I became confused between the idea of being too warm and then too cold. _ “Yon are very kind, but I could not tres- pass too long upon your hospitality, which I never shall forget to the latest moment of my Jife,” he answered, mournfully. tow my heart sunk at the thought of his ing away! ‘“HowTI shall miss him!” was amy inward ejaculation, We walked on in silence for some minutes. . My life has not been a very happy one,” 2 resumed, presently. “I never knew my I was reared om tte One night, a poor French artist, ge 2 ale while * crossing the Pont na significant that, although I wrote two or three | way I MARRIED HIM? i “Back, ‘ k parapet. Believing, from her manner, she was about to jump into the river, ho ran to her, ' just in time to draw her back, and snatch a did everything I could to while away tho tedium of convalescence, while, for my part, I | bundle from her arms, which she had evident- ly intended to drop into the water. With a wild cry, she fled, was lost in the darkness, and seen no more. When he opened the bundle, he was astonished to find it contained an infant only a few weeks old. At first, he thought of sending it to the Foundling; but he was a bach- elor, who led a quiet, sedentary life. He was fond of children, and determined to adopt me. He gave me a respectable education, and brought me up to his own profession. When I was about ten years old he came over to England. Five years afterward my dear benefactor died, and since then I have been alone in the world, fighting the battle of life, and a tol- erable hard.one it has been. But I am still young, and thore is plenty of time to gain the victory yet.” He had begun to speak in a tone of deep sad- ‘ness; but when he spoke of the future, raised his head, and his lips and nostrils quivered with energy and pride. I thought I had never seen so handsome a “Tf talent will win it, [am sure you will!” I cried, enthusiastically; ‘‘for you paint very beautifully. That is to say, I am no judge, but—” “Do not spoil the most precious flattery I have ever received from human lips,” he broke in, earnestly. ‘Your sympathies and noble heart have, I know, overwhelmed your judg- | ment; ant memory to me in my hours of toil and but those words. will be such a pleas- loneliness.” I could have cried at my own mal-adroit- ness. This was the second time I had spoiled areal outburst of feeling by some cold words that seemed to rise to my lips without my | volition. I instinctively understood his motive in making what, to a proud man, as I was sure he was, must have been the humiliating con- fession of his doubtful birth. It was that he wished me to know him truly, without false , impressions. And I, on my part, felt embarrassed that he should regard me as a being so infinitely supe- rior to himself, when I owed my grand posi- tion only to chance. Except that there was no mystery about: my parents, my position in life a few months back had not been so great- ly above his own. I felt that it was due to his generous confession to make him a similar one, “Your story somewhat resembles mine,” I began, a little eagerly. He stared at me, so that I could not help smiling, as I continued, ““ Tndeed, it does. I was not born to all this
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ts a ee eee Re rr prandent.. I have not even a right to the uame of Avondell, except so far as the law has given me the ‘right to adopt it. to a distant branch of the family. I lost my father, who was an officer in the army, when I was ten years old; my mother, when I was fifteen. They left no provision behind, and _ a bachelor uncle took me into his home out of ; charity.” I felt a pleasure in using that word as he had used it. “ About six months ago Sir Geoffrey Avon- ’ dell died childless, and I received the astound- ing intelligence that no heir stood between me and the Avondell estate; vhat I was the head of the ancient house. I had often heard my mother talk of its grandeur, and of her cousin Geoffrey; but never heard there was any coni- munication between them. We were far too bumble people to be noticed by such a grandee, I suppose. I haven’t lived here a month yet. My uncle wanted me to wait un- til his business would allow bim to take a holi- day, and come down with me; but I was bura- ing to see the grand old ancestral mansion, and was too impatient to delay my visit; but. i ex- pect him down now in a few days. I shall be so glad when he comes, for it will be very lone- ly when you are gone.” Again I felt my tongue was running away with me, and again could feel the color mount- ing to my face. This time he stepped in to relieve my em- barrassment. ‘‘ You will have plenty of visitors, no doubt.” “T suppose so, when the London season is over; nearly every one is away now. | I have received a few calls of congratulation from the neighboring gentry—very stiff po ple, that I did not at all like. So, you see, I am not such a very great lady, after all, and eet is not such a wonderful distance between us.’ I spoke in a half-jesting tone the aa a that was uppermost in my mind. I desired to put him at his ease—to divest his mind of that inflated. idea of my superiority, which, I felt, must be humiliating to him. If I had been asked why I was so anxious to put him upon an equality with myself, I should have pro- tested it was only out of good-nature, and that I should have said precisely the same things to any other person in the same situa- tion. But as, in speaking the last.word, I raised my eyes to his, and caught their passionate, yearning glance, a sudden revelation came to me, ove; bepeuming me with shame and confu- sion. ce 4-0 had better return,” I said, quickly: “8h wind is chilly.” Harrically leading the way among the sina- ~yos Jar rings of the wood, we came at length ay 1 1 MARRIED nm T belong | into the watt, and nearly” farevontis ae ‘spot where I had seen the gray woman. 4 The sun was fast sinking, and its crimson rays, glinting through the leafy branches, fell 2 | upon the rugged bark and twisted roots of the oak tree: and there, standing close beside it, __ ew in the ruddy beams, was the woman her- . x se tS % Her face was turned away from us, and she | , did not seem to perceive our coming. I stopped and turned to my companion, who was a few paces behind me. pine “Look there!” I said. are “ At what?’ he asked. 4 Tn that instant the figure had disappeared. “ Did you see a woman standing against that = | tree?” eas “No,” he replied; “‘ but I was not looking i ig that direction. He Was it fancy—a mere hallucination? If e | it was marvelously distinct. | He asked what I had seen. : And, glad to find some indifferent topic of 7 | conversation to relieve the embarrassing si- ae lence which had fallen upon both since my <i . last blundering speech, I related my adven- * ta ture. - ‘Some poor, half-mad creature, who is Bal eee 3 dering about the country, I suppose,’ he eeu eH “Tt would be a charity to do something for — her—to place her under proper restraint, Be agit necessary.” “T will speak “to the steward about her,” I said, eagerly, ‘‘and if any thing can be done, it shall be. Poor creature! perhaps she is wan- ; dering, homeless and starving, about these Amd lands, while I have more money than I know _ what to do with, and more luxuries than are good for any one. It is very wicked of me not man to think of these things!” ° ts “You “are a noble-hearted creature, tis. a Avondell!” exclaimed Adrien, warmly. “[ would that all the rich and great thought like you; there would be far less misery in the world!” aa CHAPTER IV. : 2 : ge IN THE MOONLIGHT, es Upon returning to the house, I went up-— Rae ‘stairs to my room, for I wished to be alone; ~ — and, sitting down at the open window, watched ae : the crimson glow of the sunset fade into the purple grayness of twilight, lost in a reverie, in which many images, shadowy and indis- r tinct, floated in a hazy, dreamy fashion, one Presently there was a knock at the door, a Vexed at the interruption, I bade the in- truder, in rather a sharp tone, “‘ Come in”, Tt was Mrs. Harding. Se “T hope Iam not intruding, my lady? she rom said, hesitating a little. es T ue sl tes “Oh, no; not at all, What is it?” -quir ed.
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“Well, I did want to say a few words, if—” “Come and sit down, then, Mrs. Harding. ‘Nothing the matter, I hope?” “Oh, no, my lady; nothing the matter, It was only something that came into my head just now I wanted to speax to you upon; but I “hope you will not think it a liberty upon my part. ‘You are avery young lady, and I am an old woman, and—” “Speak out, Mrs. Harding, I am sure you “will not offend me, whatever you say,” I inter- rupted, with a guess at what was coming, ‘Well, then, it is about that young man. Do you think it is quite right for a lady in your position to be quite so familiar—or, I should say, condescending—to a person like him? Iam sure you have never thought about * it.” x E “This time twelvemonth I should have re- garded Mr. Sylvester as quite my equal,’ I re- plied, quietly. ‘* He belongs to a glorious pro- ___ fession, and is decidedly a gentleman.” ie Mrs. Harding was that intensest of all aris- tocrats, an old servant, and she looked at me as though I bad uttered the most dreadful blas- phemy. To talk about any person who had not a family tree and a rent-roll being a gentle- man, was, to her, Communism, Red Republi- eanism, Socialism, and every other ism com- bined. Iam sure that in that moment I sunk ‘fathoms in her estimation. “ But, my lady,” she cried, “if your uncle were to hear—” : ' What is there for him to hear? A gentle- man meets with an accident close to my door; : ‘he is brought apparently lifeless into the house ; G, I give him a shelter, and while he is here treat ‘him as an equal. Surely, not one of my an- -_ eestors would have done less?—or the one that ae would, I should not care to acknowledge.” ae _. I spoke very warmly, for I felt greatly past “annoyed, more by her manner, more by what ce - she left unsaid, than what she spoke. “TJ am sure, my lady, I did not mean any offense!” she stammered, “No, no; I am aware of that,” I said, her ; mortified looks making me sorry for having _. spoken so sharply. ‘‘Mr. Sylvester is going _. away, so it is not worth while to say anything more about the matter.” I saw her face brighten at this announce- ment. And without further remark, she a changed the conversation to some question of domestic affairs, and then retired. This interruption changed my mood from one of dreamy reverie to restless excitability. Strange questions began to rise up in my mind —questions to which I dared not seek the answer even in self-confidence, The atmos- phere of my chamber became hot and oppres- mh. we, Leaning upon my window:sill, I looked out ae upon the night, Chae : x %j WHY I MARRIED HIM? The full moon was just rising in the cloud- less, starless sky; all looked so calm and cool, ' and ‘delightful without, so dingy and gloomy within, that I left my room, descended the stairs, and passing through the hall, stood upon the steps for some minutes. } One of the Avondells, of Queen Anne’s time, had raised a terraced garden along the front of the house, in imitation of the French style, and adorned it with a fountain, and statues, and huge vases. But the last owner of the — estate had suffered these things to fall into decay; the fountain was dry, the figures not quite so perfect as the gods and goddesses they represented are supposed to be; and the urns and vases were cracked and lichen-stained, which imparted ratHer a melancholy aspect to the terrace. Walking a few paces from the door, I leaned over the stone balustrade, and gazed absently into the darkness of the leafy depths that stretched before me. There was not a sound to be heard, save the rustle of a fitful breeze now and then among the foliage. Gradually, as the moon rose higher and higher, a soft, fleecy light was suffused over the whole scene, save where the woods cast their black shadows. Suddenly I heard footsteps coming from the direction of the house, I turned, and saw the figure of a man advancing toward me. How my heart leaped!—what a strange trembling came over me! Had there been time, I would have fled. “T have been seeking you, Miss Avondell,” said a silvery voice, ‘‘to say good-by. I found a letter waiting for me when I got back from our walk. It is from a friend, telling me to return to London at once. Some mysterious personage has been seeking me; refuses to tell his business; but says it is most important, and admits of no delay. An order for a picture, perhaps, that is to make my fortune. — I shall be gone before you have left your room — in the morning.” He spoke hurriedly, with an air of lightness that I could feel was only assumed, © _ : ‘‘ Perhaps it is sone one~-some relftive who has succeeded in tracing you,” F ‘8served, always ready for a romantic solutf9A. “Then he must be supernaturally clever,” he replied, with a forced laugh. ‘Phere is n° fear that any one will ever trace ine in that way, or desire to do so.” 5S ary - “Stranger things than that bh» , ~°% to ass.” , : 3 pee “T hope that may never come «” © 8% “Fam — afraid that any discoveries up . itt would be far from satisfactory < st repudd, gloomily. 9 A eas ne He was leaning against the hb»: 2, yO beside me, with eyes fixed upum vue Found: be “T shall always think of the few deys I & “ oe log BE oS
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a . Bee ee Ng Ae oe a a Pak NL eS WHY I MARRIED HIM? ~ have passed beneath this roof as the happiest of my whole life,” he said, looking up after a pause. ‘It will be a memory sad as sweet, since the reality can never return.” ‘¢-You have no reason to take such a gloomy view of the future,” I answered. ‘‘ You are young, have talent, and are certain to rise in your profession; and who holds a prouder po- sition in seciety than the successful artist?’ ‘* But it is only a hollow one,” he responded, bitterly. ‘‘ Would one of the grandees, mer- chant, or squire, or noble, who is so delighted to welcome him to his drawing-room, to show him with his pictures and old china, and other curiosities, give him a daughter in marriage? Such a proposal would be received with indig- nation and scorn. That is the only test of a man’s social position. Dukes marry brewers’ and distillers’ and bankers’ daughters, even although the fathers may have begun life as errand-boys; but who ever heard of an aristo- crat or a plutocrat giving his daughter to a man solely in consideration of his genius? No; not though he were a Shakspeare or a Michael Angelo!” “But woman’s love is not mercenary,” I answered, warmly. ‘History and romance teem with proofs that love levels all ranks. No true woman ever loved a man for the accidental advantages of fortune, but because he was good or noble, or brave or clever.” ‘ But women are seldom their own masters; the artificial restraints of society hem them in so closely that they are powerless to act as their hearts dictate.” “Then they are eowards.” Catching one of my hands in both of his, he said, in a low voice that trembled with emo- tion, “‘ And you, Miss Avondell, could you be one of those true, those noble women who could scorn the conventionalities of society?” Oh, how overwhelmed with shame and con- fusion I felt at that moment? What had my words been but a most unmaidenly invitation to such a declaration? I snatched away my hand, and drawing back, exclaiined, “Oh, Mr. Sylvester, do not misun- dersts 11 me! I speak so foolishly, so reckless- ly, at timios!” “T beg,your pardon, Miss Ayondell,” he Said, with a mortification as deep as my own. “T, too, was carried away. Let me beg of you not to think of it any more. I forgot my- Sel” * ajLmever offendagain. Farewell, and Hea >a i SS you!” He «. « ugrying away, but I could not let moet” hat, to everraore think.of me as a Pt ab te 2 as nm discreet. ~ al, and then scornfully repulsed im. Uc. hing was better than that! “Stay, Mr, Sylvester,” I said; “there is no “sutal coquette, or an empty-head- _ &d, romant’ ‘girl, who had lured him to an in- 7 se seo. " presumption. It was not any such thought that made me shrink from you, but a fear that you would misconstrue my words.” | “I did misconstrue them,” he answered, coldly, “and I am rightly punished for my | “presumption, Oh, Miss Avondell,” he burst forth, “what can you think of me? How you must despise me—a poor, nameless, unknown waif, who might have died but for your gen- — | erous hospitality! And how have I requited it? By insult, by— Surely I must have been ' mad!” In his agitation, he had clasped his face in imagination had conjured up. ; I laid one of mine gently upon his arm. I ered his eyes, and gazed down upon my up- turned, tear-stained face, upon which the moonlight fell full. Something he read there that produced in him a strange revulsion of feeling, for the next moment my head was pressed close against his breast. “Can this be possible,” he murmured, “or am Lin a dream?” . I made no response, for I was still half _ ashamed of the part I had played. There was silence for 4 moment, then an interruption which made us both start, It was a low, grating, mocking laugh. We turned simultaneously in the direction whence it came, and there, standing against the woman in gray. = “Tt is a pity to disturb a pair of silly fools in their paradise,” she said, moekingly. “Like Adam and Eve, the dark angel will soon drive — you forth. And so an Avondell woman stoops — from her high sphere to love a nameless man! — That is reversing the old story. But the end will be the same—the end will be the same! You can’t alter that!” ae “Is this the woman you spoke of, darling?’ — he whispered to me. “Yes; let us go and call the servants.” = Low as I spoke, she caught the words. — _ hog ‘*Call your servants!” she cried, with the — same mocking laugh, aed “Is there any thing can be done for you?” said Adrien, kindly. ‘Miss Avondell wishes , to be your friend—to rescue you from your | present miserable life. Come to the house how and—” “Enter that house,” she answered, with a — shudder, ‘‘to be shut up in some dungeon or — Jone room, and left to perish of hunger? Ah! — you would like that, wouldn’t you?” she burst — forth, wildly; ‘‘to be never troubled by me — ‘any more—never to be haunted by my aveng- — ing shadow, so that you might sleep in peace, — without any thought of the future? Gepera- — v4 = eh cape ns * 2 his hands, as though to shut out the picture his felt him thrill beneath my touch. He uncov-— ee: came the silent fountain, in the pale moonlight, was
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is an ago a curse was launched upon that roof. hen, and it has never touched them; but its a % - fulfillment is fast approaching. ‘The name of _ Avondell shall pass to the stranger, and be borne by the outcast, whom no man will own ; then shall the pride of your race be struck _ down into the dust, and your house be leveled _ to the earth |” _ Asshe half-chanted the last sentence, with ep: her bony arm extended and shaking menae- ingly, I shrunk close to Adfien, appalled, _ for in those words I recognized the burden of _the curse. _ Then again she burst into a wild laugh, and _ darted toward the flight of steps leading to the _ > terrace, 5 4 _ As she reached the top, she turned again, sai in a tone of savage hatred, added, ‘‘ And I will be ever near you till it has come to pass!” The next moment she vanished into the dark- _ ness beneath, — CHAPTER V. BAD NEWS OR GOOD? Since I had been at Avondell, I had accus- tomed myself to ris@ very early; but a restless night, after a day of strange agitation, made -me drowsy the next morning, and I awoke quite two hours beyond my usual time, to find my maid at my bedside with a letter in her hand “Mr, Sylvester told me to give you this, my lady,” she said, Ere I broke open the envelope, I could feel _ my face flush crimson, and then grow pale. “You can leave me for ten minutes,” I _ I could never suppress the outward signs of motion, and did not wish to have a witness near while I read the letter. It was fortunate _ took this precaution. t ran thus: and susceptible into such a between us last night; such myself when I think of it—that I, an outcast, owned . by no man, should dare aspire—but it is past! You _ will soon become ashamed of your 1 oment of weak- ness. All Task of you is not think too hardly of me. You will ever be to me a hallowed memory —my first and only love! Farewell! ADRIEN.”’ sunk back upon my pillow, overwhelmed © conflicting emotions which this epistle valled forth. He was gone—forever; and it seemed as if F . ; Many an Avondell has lived and died since | WHY I MARRIED HIM? | bright sunlight. ‘ciprocated. all the joy had departed out of my life—as if J had suddenly been cast upon a barren, illim: itable moor, over which I was doomed to wan- der until death. Then came a glow of hot, How nobly he had acted— what a noble nature he had displayed! What ‘woman, if she had not loved him before, would not love him for such self-sacrifice as | this? I kissed the letter—bedewed it with my tears—and vowed I would remain true and faithful to him through all time, and that if - _ he were not my husband, no man should be. Suddenly the clouds rolled over me darker than before, for my eyes had fallen upon the phrase, “J, an outcast, owned by no man !” What strange fatality made him quote the words of the curse? Yet that might have been but the unconscious echo of the woman’s words, that seemed so appropriate to him. Terribly appropriate! The fatal malediction seemed hurrying onward with giant steps to- ward its fulfillment! In my person, the name of Avondell had passed to the stranger; and it was so willed by the late Sir Geoffry that my husband should — | take the family name; and if Adrien were to become so, would not he? What was the house of Avondell to me? I was not born to its state and grandeur—they oppressed me. Why, then, should I sacrifice my own happiness and that of another to its — upholding? Let it perish! Here my meditations were interrupted by the entrance of my maid. I was about to ask her, with some irritation, why she did not wait until I rung, when she directed my thoughts into an entirely new channel by announcing that Mr. Etheridge, my uncle and guardian, had just arrived. I dressed as quickly gs I could, and descend- E ed to the breakfast-room, where I was told he — awaited me. ‘ ; Mr. Etheridge was a man about fifty years of age, a wine merchant in the city, and, as I have before intimated, became on the death of | my parents, my only friend. He was a wid- — ower, and childless, and I had conceived a — great affection for him, which | am sure he re- To my surprise there was no smile upon his — lip, and his countenance wore an expression 0 gravity such as I had never before witnessed upon it. : “What is the matter?” I inquired, anx- ; iously. ; “ We reust breakfast before I -%.h tek,” be answered. “I left London by the mail last night, and feel rather sharp-set.” “4 But although he made a great pretense of eating and enjoying his meal, I could perceiv? he had no real appetite, i
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longer, he pushed aside his plate, and, rising, said, “Let us take a turn in the garden.” In a few minutes we were upon the terrace. ‘ eae eee ae Lee a oe Ee eee 3 mn ate is ees : kee ae ie hex AES) Ni ae Le WE v - WHY IMARRIED HIM? = At length, unable to keep up the farce any | I spoke almost cheerfully. ty Isaw him glance round upon the grand old | house, and upon the woodland landscape bathed in the golden light of the morning sun; then he uttered a deep sigh. “What a lovely spot it is!” he exclaimed. T could make no reply; I was too anxiously watching him, and wondering what could have made him so sad, so different from his usual self. ’ : ‘Mabel, my child,” he said, taking one of my hands and placing it within his own, “TI have bad news for you—very bad news. very early for you to experience the disap- pointments of life, and the instability of all - earthly possessions; but I think you have for- titude, young as you are, to bear up against it.” I saw him turn away his head to brush a tear from his cheek. What could it mean? A thousand sugges- tions were rushing through my mind, but no suspicion of the truth—as how could it? ‘ Suppose,” he continued, after a short pause —‘sippose, now, that all this was a dream, and that you were to awake in your little chamber at Canonbury, and find you had never ~ been, except in imagination, the Lady of Avondell; never been the possessor of this grand old mansion, these broad acres; never been a rich heiress at all, but simple Mabel Etheridge;—would the awakening be so very dreadful?” ; “Do you mean to say that I am not Sir Geoffrey’s heiress?” I inquired. “T fear it will be brought in so,” he answered. ' I, too, then glanced around, and took in the — coup ad cil of all I had lost. Was there a living heart that would not have felt a pang at such a contemplation—at _ the thought that a few moments before I had _ believed myself the mistress of all that lovely landscape, of all the wealth and power it sug- gested, and now it had passed away from me? Tt was the sharpest pang | had ever felt But there is no evil without an attendant thought, ‘‘ Now, the barrier between me and _ Surse no longer rests upon me.” _.I could feel my uncle’s kind but keen eyes ed upon me while these reflections, in less time than it will take to peruse them, darted through my mind. “We alwaya feel a little disappointed after -Aawaking from such dreams,” I replied; “but the disappointment soon passes away, What the use to cry for shadows?” It is | Iwas not so deserving of his exalted opinion _as he thought 1 was. : | were buite ignorant of such gossip, and _ breath of it ever penetrated to any of my sur- | roundings, ods | this: in love witha very beautiful woman _ &ood, and my heart leaped high again as I Adrien is broken down, and the.shadow of the — ‘her, there is no doubt that it was the re | when a young man suddenly came forw: “My brave girl!’ he said, kissing head; and a hot tear followed his lips. qe I could not help feeling a little awkward, fo: my fore- — the pressure of — Dive on: eee Ge Had there been no love and no superstition in my mind, should I have acted so heroically? — I fear not. B er “Tell me all about it,” I said, anxious turn his attention from what I regarded as n hypocritical, pose. : aise We sat down upon rustic seat under ti shadow of a tree, and he told me the story. Sir Geoffrey Avondell, the last of the direct line, had, it had been supposed, lived and died a bachelor. He had resided the greater part of his life abroad, and was a man of gloomy and — misanthropic habits. iis It would appear, however, that in bis youth — there were stories in circulation that greatly invalidated the bachelor theory; but as years rolled on, these stories came to be regarded as false, and were remembered only by a few, and even those few put no credence in them. Moving in quite a different sphere, a never holding any communication with Avondells, it was no wonder that my parents 20 The true story of Geoffrey Avondell we When about thirty years of age, aft jeading a by no means decorous life, he - of huml birth, cies € we, He used every art to win her unlawfully, but finding at length that she was inflexibl to every allurement save marriage, his affectio es Fae They were united privately, afterward went abroad, ' He soon afterward became dissatisfied his wife’s conduct; grew jealous of so friend; and when a child was born, declaz was not his, ‘ Upon this his wife fled from him, takin infant with her, and was heard of no mor Mingled with his real or affected jeal he had another motive in driving the u tunate woman from him; for, from the storie I afterward heard of his insults and cruelty adeliberate plar. That motive proce a dread lest he should be the ~ at bringing ruin and disgrace upon bis hy so cause the fulfillment of the fami his person. _ a ee Th appeared that I had not beon ins what all considered my right many —
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way I iekens aD ; : hee yee: and plated to be the son of Sir Geoffrey. “ing the good old housekeeper with what had — - Upon leaving her husband’s roof, Lady Avon- happened. dell had, according to his showing, wandered Her grief and consternation went beyond all from city to city in Europe, earning her living bounds, in various ways, now as a lady’s-maid, now as “The fellow’s an impostor!” she cried. an itinerant singer—she had a very fine voice; ‘‘I’ve heard about that woman, but she never _——s now as a hawker, now as a fortune-teller; and came beneath this roof; and I am quite sure aie he had been the companion of her wanderings; that such a grand man as Sir Geoffrey would | but until she lay upon her death-bed she never never have married such a creature.” revealed to him the name of his father. | But such a prejudiced opinion from one who Strange to say, the date upon which she ex- really knew nothing about the matter, and her pired was just seven days later than that on vehement advice to go to law, could have no which her cruel husband breathed his last. effect upon our fixed determination. She committed certain important documents to his hands, including her marriage certifi- cate, that of. his baptism, a miniature of Sir St Pree Nae Geoffrey, etc. Armed with these, he repaired THE RIGHTFUL HEIR. to London, and put his case in the hands of a I DARE say the good old soul was greatly sharp attorney, who very soon, by the help of | surprised to see how cheerfully both myself advertisements, ferreted out very much more | and my uncle took our fall; and in her eyed _ important evidence in the form of witnesses, | there could not have been a worse fall than to including Sir Geoffrey’s confidential valet. lose the Avondell title and estates. My uncle had early received information We passed the day picnicking in the woods, that there was another claimant in the field; | and rambling for miles about the country, but, regarding it only as an imposture, had not and were almost as light-hearted as though Mey mentioned the circumstance to me, and, strange | that sort of thing were to go on indefinitely. as if may sound, nothing of the matter had “Well, at all. events, you have got a good been heard at Avondell, holiday out of it, Mavel, and I a bréath of But, omitting all further tedious explena- | fresh air that will sweep away the cobwebs; tion, suffice: it to say the proofs in favor of the | and we'll go to Scarborough, or the lakes, or young man being the rightful heir were over- | somewhere after this, before we settle down in ~ whelming. ‘our old obscurity.” _ Wecan throw the estate into Chancery,” As we were crossing a field on our way home said my uncle, in conclusion, ‘and sift the | to dinner, on the third day, we came upon 4 — _ proofs in open court; but neither your lawyer | man lying down under a hedge, in whose stl- — ‘nor mine believe we should have a leg to | Jen features I recognized the gamekeeper I had ~ stand upon—not even upon the will, which, as | discharged. _ the title and estates are strictly entailed, is no He rose at ovr approach, and, putting his better than waste paper.” finger to his hat, saluted me with g Good after- — | “Oh, no, no,” I said; “if he be the rightful | noon, my lady !” There was an evil grin upon ie “heir, I would not, if [ ‘could, contest his claim | his lips, and an irony in his tone, that fully — for. one moment. I am ready to quit Avon- | conveyed his meaning. “f _ dell this very hour.” I was glad to find that my uncle, who was J We need not be quite so precipitate as | talking at the time, did not remark either. that. I will write at once to the lawyers, and | Had he done so, it might have led to an ex: 1 - make known your determination. I never for | planation into which I did not wish to enter a moment doubted what it would be; and | for the present; for Adrien’s name had nob ad before we finally renounce our grandeur, I | been mentioned. 4 ‘should like two or three days at least out of As we approached the house, we found Mrs. — ‘the holiday I fondly promised myself among Harding on the watch for us. She was looking: your ancestral woods,” very pale and disturbed. a ‘Then he added, in a more serious tone, ‘He's come!” she said, in a choking voice. _ “Never mind, Mabel, my girl. Thank Heav- “ Who?’ demanded my uncle. [ en, you have a comfortable pg and one “The fellow—the impostor! I won’ stoP~ loving heart, at least, to return to. By-and-by jin the house! Tl leave to-morrow mornigg! we shall laugh over this little adventure, and ]’]1 never demean myself to call a tramping © regard it as quite a little bit of delightful Gipsy master. #3 ‘romance woven into the sober prose of our ‘‘ Hush, hush, Mrs. Pape at said my pe oA ar: 5 a é 2~ a Bs ® ps > Pu rR ae 3 = 8 Nn 2 “5h as ® — b Coe the servants’ hall that something was coming, or to have waited a fow dies. wt 21 B Of course, we lost no time in caquaint- is hef?
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__ "He and another man, who looks like a awyer, are in the oak parlor, sir.” _ I telt very nervous and embarrassed at the approaching meeting. It could not possibly be a pleasant one. ___ My uncle wished to see him first; but to — this [ objected. . _ “T would rather get it over as quickly as possible,” I said, ‘and should not like him to Suppose that I shrunk from the meeting.” _ “That’s my brave girl again!” he said, | ‘&pprovingly. We sent a footman to say that we were ready to receive Sir Geoffrey Avondell and his friend in the drawing-room, _ “While we are here we will keep up our State, eh, Mabel?” he said, smiling. _._ Very soon afterward our messenger came . back; and, throwing open the door, aunounced Sir Geoffrey Avondell and Mr, Lovett, The next moment there entered the room a tall, very dark young man, dressed in quiet ood taste. He was decidedly handsome; but it was a bold, keen face, with the hard, wily fook of a man of the world. An assumption Of refinement and gentlemanly ease sat but ill Upon him; and, with all his care, the under- ‘bred man would break through the thin veneer Occasionally. _ I suppose it was but natural that I should be prepossessed against him; and my first impres- Sion did nothing to weaken that feeling, _ But the ill-concealed look of admiration with which he regarded me told me, without any 'Yanity, that I ‘had been fortunate, or unfor- tunate, enough to create quite a different kind of feeling in him. “T am very sorry,” he said, extending his hand to me, and bowing over it, “‘to be so ominous and disagreeable a visitor to my fair | Cousin, I can assure you it quite damps the Pleasure of my good fortune. But,’”—and here the ill-breeding began to peep out,—“‘ of “ourse I could not be expected to relinquish my rights,” : 3 As they are your rights, Sir Geoffrey, What need jis there for apologies which must be oy embarrassing to both parties?” inter- upted my uncle, hanghtily. Mr. Etheridge. I hate cere- d am a firm believer in the old ‘The least said, the soonest mended,’ the matter may not be ag bad as it : We may be able to effect a compro- Se agreeable to both parties,” i “hoa 2? ® Cough attracted my attention to the | nd visitor, Mr. Lovett, the solicitor, a gore, elderly, precise-looking man, a very | ‘Rodel of legal respectability, who had not, as | Yet, uttered a word, ‘ 7 Saige was a familiarity, mingled with a con- | air of superiority, in Sir Geoffrey’s | manner that was any thing but agreeable to me, and it quite annoyed my uncle, ‘ e ‘** Miss Etheridge desires no compromise,” he replied, even more freezingly than before. “The moment she heard that there were satis- factory proofs of your being the rightful heir, she fully admitted them, and resigned all claims. To-morrow morning we shall depart for London.. Had we known you had been in such haste to take possession, we would have — left before.” a ey “Well, I suppose,” he said, taking the hint, “it would have been the correct thing to have dropped a line; but I thought it would be more — friendly to come down upon you unawares,and = without ceremony. As to your leaving to- morrow, I could not hear of such a thing. You must not hurry away on my account. I shall be delighted with your company as long as you like to remain.” Here Mr, Lovett, who could perceive that his client was heaping coals of fire upon my uncle’s head, interposed. : “Tt is very good-natured of you, Sir Geof- frey, to propose this; but such a stay would — scarcely be agreeable to the Jady under the cir- cumstances,” > eaoge I took quite a liking to the good lawyer for this touch of delicacy. nee “Oh, well, we shall seo about that,” re- sponded Sir Geoffrey, vee At that moment dinner was announced, and he offered me his.arm, which I could not re- fuse, aft, as At table he was almost embarrassingly po- lite and attentive. He hada flowof conversa- tion, and could talk even cleverly upon such ~ subjects as could be mastered by observation — only. Books he did not touch upon, Although his manner did not please me, I endeavored to ‘cha talk on constantly,as a man of his caliber would have mistaken any stiffness upon my part for spleen, and that was an interpretation — which I could not have endured. . So I did my best to be agreeable with him; = and as I was determined notto remain another = day at Avondell—a gentleman would never — have thought of breathing such an invitation— I sought about in my mind how [ could gloze stad over the refusal, and take from it all the ap- pearance of wounded pride. What couldbo better than to ask him to dome a favor? That = was a capital thought. Ripe nc: “Oh, Sir Geoffrey,” I said, in a lull of the — conversation, ‘‘there is a poor beggar-woman = wandering about here—I think she is insane, I feel a strange interest in her, Ifyou would — seo into the poor creature’s case, and if any thing can be done for her, I should consider myself under a great obligation,” eye “T wish the subject of your petition been a worthier one,” he answered, wi
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hard ‘eat would have found yourself terribly imposed “upon, Never trouble yourself about this cun- ‘perhaps is connected with a gang of thieves, and reconnoitering the premises. depend upon it, li deal properly with Pray think of some other favor, Miss _idge.” ie 1 could feel my face was a burning scarlet. IT was so mortifie.l and indignant at this coarse refusal, and the terms in which it was couched, that, the meal being finished, I rose without a word. “Oh, pray do not be offended, Miss Ether- idgel” he said, in an altered tone; ‘‘I will do any thing you wish, even to giving my money to. a begging impostor. x Here his speech was interrupted by an ex- ation that at that moment burst from my ther- ica i oriel windows almost to the nd, It was not yet dark; indeed, the last it rays of the setting sun were just fading, when | iny eyes happening to glance toward the center window, Isaw a wild-looking face pressed close against the glass. There she is!” I cried, involuntarily. Sir Geoffrey’s eyes took the direction I nted; he was raising a glass of wine to his — > and so much did my exclamation seem to startle him, that it dropped from his fingers | with. a crash upon the oaken floor, and he utched at the ba f his chair. runcle and Mr. seats, and every eyé was turned upon the dow. "Bach person distinctly saw the face; as it drew back, an arm was raised, and en menacingly. ‘Then the apparition dis- +. k Pursue that woman! Send the servants out in ali directions to scour the woods,” said uncle to the footman, who.was waiting. ‘Stop where you are!” cried Sir Geoffrey, a voice of thunder. (he man looked bewildered. ‘I will go myself,” said my uncle, darting t of the room, I was following him, to seek my own room, LD ies Sir Geoffrey ran atter mo, and laid a hand upon my arm. ir ness,” he said; ‘‘ but you really so startled me mae not Imow what I said. I cannot think eats is needed, Sir » Geoffrey,” I ro- coldly. ‘‘You are master here; it is a who should semi for forgetting t,” ‘ etm afraid, if your i Ghana perisities had been allowed full play, you” nH vagabond, who is only playing a part— You may her. © pei both rose from | see t beg ten thousand pardons for my abrupt- | _ or what ist choose to construe into a a 1 am sure ae etree Sngeeed the ‘utmost contempt as I brushed past him ‘and left the | room, ' I at once proceeded to pack my boxes, as- sisted by Mrs. Harding and my maid, the lat- ter shedding tears all the time. “T have written my notice, and given it to James to deliver,” she said. ‘* Ob, that ever I should have lived to see the name of Avondell | degraded in such a person! Poor Lady Bridg- — et’s curse has fallen at last!” : My wardrobe and goods and chattels were not extensive, and an hour sufficed to get every thing ready for starting next morning. | We had just finished, when a paige camo to the door. It was my uncle, My two attendants having left the room, we were alone, | The mysterious woman had contrived to bafile his pursuit, as she had everybody else’s, | Full of the subject, I began to express my ' indignation at the insult he had received. “Well, Ido not really think it was inten- tional,” interposed my uncle, ‘‘ No man could apologize more profusely than he has done since. You see, he is not precisely a gentle- man; for which, perhaps, circumstances are more to blame than he is, I have no doubt he has had a hard battle to fight with. fate, and such experiences make ‘nen skeptical toward © their fellow-creatures, fle thought your girlish romance and tender heart were being imposed _ upon, Of course a well-bred man would have — ‘humored you, even although he might have — laughed in his sleeve, and sent your protegee to prison as a vagrant the next day.” | I was very much amazed to hear him speak in this manner, and still more at the apologetic — | tone in which the words were uttered. . “He is very much charmed with you,” he went on; “was quite enthusiastic, indeed; and | | expressed his regret at the awkward position he had placed you in in the most handsome — manner,” : Then he stopped again. | “Jndeed,” he added, after another pause, ‘1 | am the bearer of a very important commu-— nication from him to you.” | “To me?” I exclaimed. 3 | “Yes,” he replied. ‘‘He has actually made | me a formal offer for your hand.” “For my hand!” I iterated. ‘‘ And what re- — ply did you make?” is “The reply I leave to you, my dear Ma- — bel.” - “Then my answer is no—a thousand times, — no!” I answered, with an energy that quite startled him. a “My dear, you are much too hasty. Bul that is the way with you women; you take the most unreasonable dislikes for me single wo ay
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He really conscientiously believed you were being imposed upon; but I am sure he would give a hundred pounds to recall the unthinking words he spoke. He is not a polished gentle- man, but he is a sharp, observant fellow, and will very soon pick up in good society the tone he lacks, He is good-looking, and very few girls would refuse him if he were even much less than a baronet. You know I am nota mercenary man, and shall make no attempt to coeree your inclinations; but I think ita very good match, and it would get over the awk- | wardness and mortification which you must feel, and will be made to feel still more by kind friends who were envious of your sudden ele- vation. Now, sleep upon it, and by the morn- ing you will be more fitted to judge.” No, uncle, it is impossible! I could never love him!” I answered, firmly. _ : ‘“‘Not another word to-night. I will see you again in the morning. Good-night, dear!” And he kissed me and went away. I cannot describe the state. of agitation this offer threw me into. “Oh!” I thought, ‘how those two ideas, fortune and position, can sway even the best of human hearts, as they have my uncle’s!” Even had my love not been already given, I could not have consented to become the wife of Sir Geoffrey Avondell; for I had, from the first monient my eyes fell upon him, conceived one of those unaccountable repulsions of which we have all had experience in our time. My uncle was knocking at my door at six o’clock the next morning. J I was already up and dressed, so came out, and we walked down stairs onto the terrace, without exchanging a word beyond our ordi- nary greeting. “Well,” he said, when we had taken one turn down the center walk, “what is the result of sleeping upon it?” “T have not changed my resolution in the least,” I answered. + Then you have decided to refuse him?? *¢ Positively!” “TI think ivs a pity,” he replied, with a look of disappointment. ‘But then you have only yourself to please, so we will say no more about it.” Very much relieved by that declaration, I threw my arms about his neck, and kissed him very gratefully. “Tt would have made me miserable for life —I am sure it would!” I said. “Then it is much better as it is; and, under these circumstances, we had better catch the first train to London.” “Oh, yes, yes—by all means; I am quite _ Feady!” I replied, eagerly. . As soon as Sir Geoffrey was out of his - have sent him a line, to tell him of my | réoin; ‘with him. | position she has refused, Will you permit 1 dream, or of an exciting romance, tha my Gadi sought a iia ee: I afterward heard that he was gre tonished and very much annoyed at my Se tion of his offer. a ‘TY am not in the habit of easily giving ie cs any object I have once set my mind upon,” — x he said; ‘“‘and I certainly shall not prove false — to myself i in this case. Of course, the young © lady is a little piqued at my unexpected ¢ ap SS pearance when she thought herself sole mis- | tress; but that will wear off in time, and then nt - she may think more kindly of me and the to make a call upon you in London?” My uncle could not very well refuse this, even if he had been inclined to do so, which was not, and so it was agreed. But I was not told a word aboutit, When we made our farewells, Sir Geof frey’s manner was coldly polite; mine, I sure, was freezing. y Only for a moment did my eyes resti upon him, and that glance still further increased my prejudice, for his countenance wore anyt a but a pleasant expression. 3 ‘<I wish you good-by, Sir Geoffrey,” said, “T wish you au revoir, Miss Btheriage!™ he replied. We entered the carriage that was to ¢ us. to the station, I cast one lingering upon the grand old mansion of which I so recently been the mistress, and we driven away. CHAPTER VIL A MYSTERY. AND so, after being * my lady ” fo brief weeks, I quietly settled down in little suburban home again as Miss Ethe All my friends were, of course, in a d ate state of grief at my downfall. — they meant it; perhaps they felt the o: It did not matter whether they did And it was soon forgotten in sarge: newer ject of interest. Within a fortnight I had come to regar late grandeur much in the light of a very made a deeper impression upon me than But there was one person, one event, no lapse of time could strip of reality. _ Since I recorded his farewell note I made no direct mention of Adrien; yet he never out of my mind, esi Had I known where to address, I should — of fortune; but then, I thought, th esti having got into the newspapers, he wou most probably, see it or hear about i 2 our conversations at Avondell I had n B's
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WES a ee ee -S _ Canonbury as being the locality of my uncle’s - residence. A ‘‘Directory”’ would soon supply him with,the name of the thoroughfare and the number of the house, and I daily expected to hear some news of him. _. This expectation, however, was not un- mingled with anxiety. My uncle was a proud man, and what would he say to my rejecting - @ baronet for a poor, unknown artist, who owed even his name to the charity of a ‘stranger? = As Ihave before observed, he was the most kind and indulgent of friends; but how would he be able to understand this suddenly-con- ' ‘ceived love for one whom I had known but a i ' few days? Could I understand it, or explain | rare WHY I MARRIED ‘HIM; ¢ : A wees _Then I took off her bonnet and shawl, and leading ber to a couch, sat her down beside me. She was associated with my memories of him, and it seemed to me as though something of that time was brought back to me with her presence, Then I asked her the news of Avondell. She had carried out her threat, and left the old house. ‘If I had not done so of my own accord,” ' she said, ‘“‘I believe he would have sent me away; all the servants are under notice. But he has taken on Ralph Johnson again, that you discharged, and Ralph seems high in favor with his master.” To my more direct inquiries, however, she it even to myself? But who could ever under- | was obliged to admit, although very reluc- stand the glamour of love?—why a _ heart _ should go forth to one among the crowd, who is neither better, cleverer, por handsomer than many others—at least, in the common eye— _ pathies are among the greatest mysteries of our being. Yet, unless the case be our own, _ @ passion as mine as a mere fancy, that ought - to be very peremptorily dealt with. _ The days, and then the weeks, passed on, and still no sign came to me from him. Once ___ or twice I found myself in the neighborhood of Tottenham Court Road, I made some excuse to myself for being there, but my real object ‘was the hope of meeting him, I was doomed to disappointment. Before leaving Avondell my uncle had pro- posed that we should have a month or six _ weeks at the seaside or the lakes; but on re- turning to town I heard no more about it, and, as I had had my holiday, it was not my place to - mention it, I could not help remarking that _ day by day he lost more and more of his old _ cheerfulness; that he had long fits of gloomy _ reverie, Was I the cause?—was he annoyed _ with me for having refused Sir Geoffrey? I uld not help thinking so, and the thought began to fret me. Alas! I was soon to be deceived, and to learn that his dejection re- ulted from a far more serious matter. ust one month after our arrival in London, i I was sitting at work one morning, the ser- vant entered to announce that Mrs, Harding esired to see me. ation than I had displayed for many a ye _ And the next moment I had both the dear, aithful old creature’s hands clasped in mine, and was kissing her honest face; while she, Sd overcome, began to sob like a child, and _ threw her arms round the neck of her ‘dear _ lady,” as she still persisted to call me, and re ed me as though I had been her own oA whom we meet with indifference? Such sym- | most of us, both young and old, regard such | “Show her in,” I exclaimed, with more ani- tantly, that Sir Geoffrey’s behavior was not open to any complaint upon the whole; that he treated everybody very well,an 7. behaved him- self in a very respectable ms had eve “ But he is not the kind ¢ began town I have been accustomed to,” shelt he had recy: “he is not an Avondell! All hit-shiphety is only put on till he feels himself a little sure in his seat; then he’ll show himself in his true colors, depend upon’t!” Although I was prepossessed against him, | I was of a different opinion. I believed that _he would always endeavor to fulfill the obli- gations of his position to the best of his ability, but did not vex the old lady by saying so, ; “J thought it would have been my death to leave the dear old place, that I had lived in from a child!” she said, the tears coursing fast down her wrinkled cheeks, ‘‘ It was as if you uprooted one of the great trees in the | woods, and carried it away to grow somewhere else. But I felt I.couldn’t serve that man—I , couldn’t demean myself to it! And now, don’t | you think, my lady,” she added, with a sudden | energy, “‘there’s something in such a feeling? | —that it’s a sort of a warning? If he’d been a real Avondell, my heart would have gone | out to him, if he’d been ever so bad. It must —it would have been but natural! After | eating their bread for three generations, it would have come by instinct, as a mother | turns to her child; but, instead of that, I took ~a dislike to him at once!” “Perhaps that may be partly accounted for by your affection for me?’ I suggested. That might have had something to do with it,” she amswered reflectively; ‘‘but Ihave a feeling apart even from that.” Such arguments could not fail to have some | weight with me, who was always disposed to | look upon the romantic side of anything. |’ But changing the conversation, I asked her what she was going to do now, She had taken a cottage about a mile from Avondell, and was going to live there with one of her nieces, who was a widow. : | !
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| &T shall bo able to see the old house, and | tol he old familiar spots,” she said, with a sigh; . “and be buried in the old church with those | who have gone before me.” _ She had come up to London for the sole pur- pose of seeing mo, and I berged her to remain — two or three weecks—an invitation with which — She was delighted, but which she accepted with ‘Some scruples. “By the by,’ I said, suddenly, ‘has any- thing more been seen or heard of that poor ) mnd-woman?” “Ah, my lady, that reminds me of some- thing that happened a few days after you left. You know you gave orders through the stew- ard that she should be taken whenever she was found, and brought to the house, Well, Sir Geoffrey countermanded this, and gave strict orders that she was not to be mclested, or in _ any way interfered with, and from that time _ she has never been seen, “But that is not what I was going to tell you, although it put me in mind of it. We had it very hot down at Avondell the first Week after you went; and the butler, who is a Very stout man, as you know, could not sleep at night, and used to sit at the open window of his bedroom, which overlooks the terrace, Well, one bright moonlight night—he said it Was between twelve and one—looking toward the steps that lead up out of the grounds, he Sawa man coming up them, carrying some- thing over his shoulder, At first he thought it was a robber, and was just going to give an alarm, when, as the man paused at the top of the stops to half-rest his burden against the balustrade, and lifted his hat to wipe his fore- head, standing full in the moonlight, he saw it Was Ralph Johnson. “Well, he thought this very strange, and Wondering what he could be doing, watched is movements very closely. Presently he | raised up his load again, and made toward tho | Ouse. As hé came nearer, Edwards got a | tter view of what he was carrying, and said 2 felt all of a shiver, as he thought it looked like a human body, covered over with a cloak, or something of the kind, Johnson made for pe little door, you know, at the end of the Trace, which leads by a private staircase to or iglise usually occupied by the family, and he ich are used by Sir Geoffrey. Edwards had autiously put his head out of window to Watch, He saw him standing before the door, hen heard a low whistle, and after a while the Sea Seemed to be opened from the inside, and ‘Shnson went in, Ra Very much excited by what he had seen, ~~ wards continued his watch, and in about a : ‘ter of an hour, saw the gamekeeper come a. gain, walk along the terrace, and disap- = ¢ ’ & Sy, =, ae . | ‘My advice,’ I said, ‘is to keep it to yourself _ off with my common sense again,” I thought. I had. been recently puzzling—he hea _we always dined at six—and provide some- _ thing extra, as he was going to bring a gent ar down the steps the way he had come. He > é told me alll about it the next morning, and. asked my advice.as to whether he ought to mention what he had seen to Sir Geoffrey don’t mention it to anybody. Depend upon it, | Sir Geoffrey knows all about it.’ ” : “<But what do you make of it, Mrs. ing?’ he asked. “¢T don’t know what to make of it, Mr. i Edwards,’ I said; and I do not, Wasn’tita strange thing, my lady?” . Lee eee “Very, indeed,” I answered, thoughtfully, = “T must tell you that Edwards has got h‘s_ notice with the rest, as I should have done bat I given the new baronet the chance.” Mrs, Harding did not seem to have tho slightest idea of connecting this strange affair with the disappearance of the woman in gray. And why should I? But the two events became inextricably a sociated in my mind. ne When I came to recall Sir Geoffrey’s pec liar manner from the moment he caught sight of that wild face pressed against tho glass, I could not help thinking it was very strange. _ He did not strike me as the kind of manwho could be so startled by a woman’s nervous ex: clamation as to drop a glass of wine from bh hand, and turn pale as a ghost, The tone of voice, too, in which he h ordered she should not be pursued, and th marked uneasiness with which he saw my uncle quit the dining-room, seemed far more than tho occasion. could possibiy call for, 7 All kinds of strange and horrible solution: began to present themselves to my imagina- tion; but I drove them away, very angry wit myself, jpstte ‘There is my old silly romance, running ia a So I abruptly changed the conversation, an soon afterward my uncle came in, He received the good old housekeeper v cordially, and added his invitation to mine. I thought he inquired with a very marked interest about Sir Geoffrey; and when she had unfolded her budget—of courso she made nx mention of the little mystery over which a sigh, and fell into one ef his reveries. Rae 0 ‘He is thinking of my refusal, and regret- _ ting it,” I thought, ees : 4 CHAPTER VIII. COMING EVENTS, @. Two days after Mrs. Harding’s arrival, received, early in the afternoon, a telegram from my uncle to put off the dinner to seven— ~ = man home with him, = = *:
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mee _ thought some one was to dine with us?” said. rk “So there will be,” he replied; “he ig coming later.” “Any one I know?’ I inquired, indiffer- ntly. Ves: but the last person in the world you would expect a visit from.” Struck by the peculiarity of his tone, I looked upat him. There was something in the xpression of his face that gave me the clew. “You do not mean—” ‘I faltered, and could not finish the sentence. “Tt is Sir Geoffrey Avondell,” ho said, turn- away his face. _ His tone, his look, his movement would have told me why Sir Geoffrey was coming, and his - next words confirmed my impression. “Mabel, dear,” he said, after a slight pause, id speaking very earnestly, “T wish you to make yourself as agreeable as possible to him, a reason which I will explain by and by.” Very well, uncle,” I answered, as calmly ithin me! ‘When I told Mrs. Harding who our ex- pected visitor was, she was rather surprised. all of my trouble, I told her of his offer of arriage, which I had not mentioned before, nd of my fear, amounting to certainty, that 8 was now coming to renew it. expected a burst of indignation; but, to my astonishment, she took the announcement very quietly. _ “Well, my dear young lady, it would give (rang your own again, and wo e should have ; husband?” ii nant, indignantly. do not think him at all worthy of you, ‘it would give you back your rightful heri- my lady,” she replied. Money, name, position, those are the only hings a woman has a right to marry for, tee E hought, bitterly. ‘Such is the doctrine of 16 world,” : r Geoffrey: arrived about half-past six. Hoe ; most profuse in his compliments to me, | I received them with as good a grace as I assume, thought his manner had toned down a ittle since I saw him last. acknowledging that he was decidedly good- looking, and that he might easily have taken pick from among girls of tar greater pre- ions in every respect than rayself. Why, then, did he persist in addresses which he must i _pereeive were disagreeable to me? ; “iggweeid - aula seay uncle’s desire, andmoate: myself agreeable to hfs: ut I certain my manner was easialien” This, however, he did not, or would not, perceive. | I could not help observing that my -uncle seemed to be very far from being at his ease; that he drank more wine than usual, and that his spirits were foreed. ‘‘Gh, by the by! Ihave made every effort to discover your mysterious beggar-woman | since you went away,” ‘for her without thoroughly investigating her } I could. "Bat, oh, how my heart sunk very steadily in the face. | | | | I could not help °* ‘suppose she tho ‘never had sufficient capital to extend said Sir Geoffrey, in the course of conversation, ‘bus without success; she seemed to disappear with you. I ught she would not find my heart quite so tender as yours.” “Sho never had but one shilling of me,” I answered. ‘I should not have done anything case.” “That I fully intended to do could I have found her,” he answered, hastily. “And, had she proved deserving, for your sake, "Miss Etheridge, I would Lave seen that she was pro- vided for.” “Then you were not able to find her?’ I re- marked; and, by a sudden impulso, looked him Did he flinch, or was it only my fancy? “‘No; nor even hear any tidings of her,” he replied, and then abruptly changed the con- versation, At length, the evening was over, and our guest departed. ‘¢T shall call upon you in tho city to-morrow, Etheridge,” he said; and I fancied there was — something very significant in the tone in which — _the words were uttered. When he was gone, my uncle lapsed into gloomy silence. I watched him for some minutes, until, unable to exdure the anxious — suspense that was torturing me any longer, I went over to him, knelt down beside his chair, and took his hand. 7 “Ts anything the matter, uncle dear?” I~ inquired. ‘‘You seem so dull and low- © spirited.” “T am,” he answered; “I am trying to ~ nerve myself for a very ges ea busi- ness, Ls 4 “Ts there anything I can do for you?” I faltered. ‘ “Yes,” he answered, placing his hand up 2 my head; “but I know not how to ask you.” “Surely you should not hesitate to ask of me anything; you, my best and only friend. I spoke bravely, but my heart was beating wildly with the dread of what was coming. | “You know,” he said, “there is a grea commercial depression just now. I have” never been a rich man, far from it, as I have transactions. A firm failed the other which was largely indebted to us, a
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mee Ve a I eit ae Me ‘Mabilities are very considerable, and unless I ean raise ten thousand within a week, I must | declare myself a bankrupt!” This was a blow I had not anticipated. ‘‘Oh, if I were only mistress of Avondell | now!” I exclaimed. ‘‘I have never regretted my loss till this moment.” | ' “You may be so again,” he replied. ‘Sir Geoffrey has renewed his offer. By some means, too, he has heard of my embarrass- ment, and has generously offered to advance me the ten thousand pounds on the day you become his wife. But DP’ve promised not to coerce your inclinaticn, and would sooner let’ all gos than do so. It must be of your own tree will, or not at all!” I never knew what agony could be concen- trated into a moment of time untilthen. Idid all I could to prevent my face betraying what nay, that you even dislike me; but I ha I felt, but could feel my lips whiten and grow cold as I said, ‘‘I will accept Sir Geoffrey’s offer.” “Of your own free will?’ he said. ‘‘Of my own free will,” I repeated. “That is a brave, good girl!” clasping me in his arms, ‘‘ And I’m sure you'll never repent the resolution. If I thought such a marriage would lead to your unhappiness, you know I would not sanction it. But I cannot perceive any possible objection; there isno previous at- tachment in the way, I am sure, and the love that comes after marriage is worth all the ro- mance that comes before. Lovers anticipate so much that the reality is always disappoint- ment. Sir Geoffrey must be fond of you, or he would not have renewed his offer after the severe snubbing you gave him. He cannot have any ulterior motive in making you his wife, as you will bring him neither fortune nor additional position. Had he been mercenary or ambitious, he would have sought a wife in some poor but aristocratic family, and borrow- ed from her a luster to highten his own shady antecedents. I’d stake a good round sum that within a month you will be as happy and con- tented as any woman need wish to be.” “A month!” I repeated. ‘Yes, Mabel; I must have the ten thousand within a week. Sir Geoffrey is impatient; and if you are to be his wife, I see no reason to delay the matter.” About noon the next day, the servant brought me Sir Geoffrey’s card. He was in the hing-room waiting toseeme. | I looked in the glass; my face was white’ as marble, I called up all my resolution and de- Scended the stairs, His manner was grave and courteous, and — he was altogether in better form than | had €ver seen him before. This at least was a re- ie lief; had he shown his usual effusiveness, I am afraid my resolution would have given way. “I know,” he said, “you donot love me— -ostentatious marriage than I have; and all tion, always talking, always in a state of | ish excitement. fo fear of nob winning your affections. A wife must have a very hard heart, if a devoted husband who will anticipate her every wis cannot win it, and I am sure your heart is n hard. It may have been too impressionable times.” i i The last words were spoken so significantl and accompanied by a glance that told me m. secret was known to him; andif he had been in doubt, I should have betrayed myself — : the hot flush that overspread my pallor. re He had uttered the first part of his spee with such unaffected earnestness, that my heart had quite softened to him; but the last sentence spoiled ali. Had he not been very deficient in — tact, he would not have been guilty of such an — indelicacy. ae ‘¢T have no reason to dislike you, Sir Geof frey,” I answered. : a8 ‘* Your uncle,” he went on, not noticing speech, ‘‘has delighted me with the hope | you will not plead for any delay to my hap ness. Jam sure you have no more wish fo circumstances of our relative positions co! ered—I mean, of course, in regard to | Avondell estate—the more private it is, better. Most people will regard such a uni as the most uatural thing ia the world—as very good adjustment of rival claims. I, then, fix Thursday next for the day?? mn ‘““T thought it was the lady’s privilege the day. Is that the one on which my liabilities become due?” re He colored up at that question, but answe quietly, ‘‘I think it is.” On Thursday next, and this was Satur Although Mrs, Harding did not disa of the match, she was very indignant at_ hasty manner in which it was to be celeb Of course I had not explained to her the1 cessity. 3 “Tll venture to assert,” she said, “t from the day that Sir Guy fought at the of Agincourt, there has never been the like it. The marriage of an Avondell has al been a great event to all the country rov time of festivity and rejoicing. I do it, Miss Etheridge; I don’t like it, It 1 if the old house was going to the dogs.” Think on what was coming I dared not, remain a moment alone. I was always I often saw my unc . with an uneasy look in them; but I n couraged him to speak. I could not endi the thought of any conversation nos s ect. 2 ; : Once, indeed, I was half tempted to t myself at his*feet, and tell him my heart irrevocably given to er; but could
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‘Mrs. Harding ‘and my uncle undertook the urchase of my trousseau, and all other things mected with the event, even to the selection my dress, I am sure my uncle was very much troubled in his mind when he saw that my aversion to _ the marriage did not in the least diminish; but Is consoled himself with the reflection that all this must change very soon. Z the Tuesday I received another visit from Sir Geoffrey. He came to say that, with <, ‘permission, he should like to have the nup- | celebrated in Avondell Church. time the family first settled in Kent, there “never been one married out of the old | tion; indeed, I am superstitious enough to | it would be ill-omened.” place? And, if a choice had been possible din preference to any other, It was arranged that we—that is, my uncle ¢ and myself—should go down to Avondell on brought me a magnificent present of nds—fit, my uncle said, for a queen. et they had no luster in my eyes; were the glittering manacles that were to bind life-long misery. 3ut my future husband did not seem to be ¢ least way ruffled by my coldness or in- and I could not help thinking that meekly must be very great, or that he CHAPTER IX. A MEETING. bondage was to begin. m Sir Geoffrey took his leave, I felt so 1 for some time, and finding the air of use oppressive, and the sense of restraint erable, I left word that my uncle was not t dinner for me, and went out. d no definite purpose, but wandered on mdom, trying to escape from myself—or, from my thoughts. I took no heed of ‘route I was pursuing; had a confused sion of passing vehicles and hurrying . of turning now into some quiet street, ruined? No; the sacrifice must be made! the aide night, when T found myself in ¢ a square of old-fashioned, gloomy-looking houses, I asked a servant-girl, who was standing at one of the doors, the name of the place. “ Fitzroy Square,” she answered. Even then I had but a dim idea as to where I-was. ‘How far am I from Islington?” I inquired, ‘Oh, a mile or more; but, if you take that turning,” pointing to an opening, ‘itll bring | | | ‘hat did it matter tome where the sacrifice | os ) Wednesday night, while Sir Geoffrey , would sleep at an hotel in the neighboring — | eit was my last day of liberty; to-morrow | you into the Euston Road; then turn to your right, and it’s a straight line to the Angel.” Ihad just turned round to follow these di- réctions, when I almost ran against a ie ea They tell me,” he said, “that from the man. “T beg—” I began; then stopped short. “Can it be Miss Avondell?” exclalmiod the arch, and I have no desire to break up the stranger. It was Adrien Sylvester. After that ejaculation, we stood for some seconds in an embarrassing silence. “What a strange meeting!” he said, at ne, I should have selected the place pro- | length. | “It is, very,” I answered. My heart was beating wildly. With a passing ‘‘Good-evening,” I would have hur- ried on, but my feet remained rooted to tne spot, : ‘How long have you been in town?’ he inquired, after another awkward pause. “We remained at Avondell only two or three days after you left,” I answered. ** Indeed! not? You had no intention—at least, you did not mention it—of leaving when I was there?” © ‘Is it possible? have you not heard?’ I ex- claimed. “Heard what?’ he inquired. “I have heard nothing of Avondell since I left it.” “T am no longer mistress of Avondell; I am now only Miss Etheridge,’’ I replied. My embarrassment was now rapidly disap- - pearing, since we had found a subject to con- verse upon, ‘What do you mean?’ he exclaimed, with | an energy that caused a passer-by to turn s that, after wandering about from room | | round, and stare at us. “Tf ” he said, ‘‘we were to cross over to the ‘side of the inclosure, we might converse more freely. May I offer you my arm? For Heaven’s sake, explain this mystery to me!” “*Ts it possible,” I said, as we began to walk ‘slowly round the inclosure, ‘*‘that you have gain, into some main artery; until, at Serer I know not how long, it oc-' _ Avondell?” . Yes; and on psmsiened morning i am to a not heard that a son of the late Sir Geoffrey has come to light, proved his birth, and taken possession of the estate and title?” ‘(A son of the late Sir Geoffrey?” he re- peated, “Yes; it was in all the newspapers. 2 ‘ack did not see it; and this man is now at become his wife,” That was very sudden, was if
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4 i} T blurted out the sentence as quickly as. I | was able. I could not endure that there | should be a moment’s misapprehension be- tween us now. His arm dropped from mine as if it had been suddenly struck down, and he stared at me with a blank look upon his face. Then, grasping one of the railings, his head drooped forward upon his chest. Knowing not what to say or do, I remained silent, although I yearned to speak. Suddenly he looked up, and said, ‘Do you love him?” “ No. ” “Do you marry him, then, for the sake of regaining the estate?” “Yes,” I replied, after a pause. What else could I say without betraying my uncle’s position?—and that I had no right to do to a stranger. A Jook of questioning wonder was succeeded by one of almost contempt. It stung me, and I added, with some bitter- ness, ‘ You rejected the love that was offered you through pride.” “IT make no claim,” he answered, naourn- fully. In these words there was a yet sharper sting; they mortified me—humiliated me; and I could scarcely repress the angry tears that were swelling in my throat. It was as though he had a second time refused the love I had been so unmaidenly as to almost thrust upon him. © At that moment I felt glad that I was about to become the wife of another. “This marriage is very hasty,” he added, immediately. “‘T am anxious to return to Avondell,” I re- plied, lightly. “T wish you could delay it,” he answered, quickly. ‘*Oh, quite impossible; everything is pre- pared,” ; “‘T am sorry for it,” he replied, sadly. No woman likes a faint heart in man—more especially in a man to whom she has given encouragement. It is an insult—a reproach to her. “Were I in his place,” I thought, ‘I would not take the loss of the woman I loved so tamely.” I did not know him then. rt “Good-by, Mr. Sylvester!” I said, holding Out my hand, and not appearing to notice his last words, ““Good-by, Miss Avondeil!” he answered, reluctantly; avd would have retained my hand, but I snatched it brusquely away, and, | without another word, hurried on. Once I cast a surreptitious glance behind, | and saw him standing on the same spot, justas | Thad left him, . | WHY I MARRIED HIM? As Ientcred tho Euston Road, a cab hailed me, I got into it, and told the man to drive to Canonbury. Then my tears found vent. Anger and mortification were their source. “Thank Heaven,” I murmured to myself, ‘‘this meeting has happened! It has’ disil- lusionized me! He has passed oug of my life’ forever!” a It was nine o’clock when I arrived home. — I ran up-stairs to my room, bathed my - swollen eyes, brushed my hair, and removed all traces of my ‘recent agitation, “Good gracious, child! where have you been?” exclaimed my uncle. ‘‘I was getting quite uneasy about you.” I don’t know what excuse I made. “What a color you have, and how your eyes are sparkling!” he remarked. ‘I have not seen you look so well for a long time!” “Tt is the anticipation of my return to Avondell—of being once more called ‘my lady!’ I answered, gayly. ‘‘Would you not like some music, uncle dear?” I said. And Isat down to the piauo, and began to play and sing with a nerve and brilliancy I do not believe I had ever displayed in my life before. : “What ails you to-night, Mabel?” again asked my uncle, coming over to the piano, and regarding me with a curious expression, not unmixed with uneasiness, ' “Would you not sooner see me in good spirits than moping and melancholy, as I haye been these few days past?’ I asked, laughing, and running over the keys of the piano, “Yes; but you are unnaturally excited.” “One extreme is usually succeeded by another,” I answered, oracularly, and began to sing another song. I could feel his gaze fixed upon me all the time. He could not at all understand it, CHAPTER X. THE LEGEND OE THE CURSE. and the morning found me listless and heavy- eyed once more, intruded a thought that I might have mis- judged Adrien Sylvester—that I had felt angry with him because he was nobler, more unselfish, more sensitive to.honor than the ordivary race of mankind. But I relentlessly crushed the suggestion. What good could it do now? Better far that I should think the worst of him than have any lingering doubts festering in my mind to poison my future life. When I came down to breakfast, my uncle met me with more than his usual affection. “Tam glad to see you a little calmer this © morning,” he said. ‘Do you know you quite alarmed me last night?” 21 2 ce es Bi Ff My high spirits evaporated during the night, — Into my mind there had a > an ¥ al
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22 spirits?” I said, smiling. “They were not natural spirits, Mabel.” After a silence of some minutes, during which he absently chipped an egg, he spoke again. “T am afraid I have put your duty and affection to a severe test in this marriage,” he | said. ‘Do not talk of that,” I replied, quickly. “Tf you still look forward to this match with aversion—with a conviction that it will render you unhappy—tell me so frankly and fearlessly. It is not too late even now. I would not have your young life made miser- able.” Had he spoken those words to me four-and- twenty hours previously, my fortitude, I be- lieve, wouid have given way; but the words, “JT mako no claim,” came back upon my memory to strengthen me with bitterness; and | I broke in calmly with ‘‘I am quite willing to marry Sir Geoffrey Avondell. I have no desire whatever not to do so. It is entirely of my own free will.” “You don’t know what a burden you have taken off me by those words, my dear Mabel!” he said, pressing me in hisarms. “I have worried over the matter until I was be- ginning to beliove I was a domestic tyrant, a sort of ogre, a stony-hearted parent, and I don’t know what. Now I feel quite happy again. I am sure you are doing the right thing. Such amatchis not to be lightly rejected by a por- tionless girl.” : It was late in the afternoon when we left | London by the Ludgate Hill Station for Avon- dell. Mrs. Harding accompanied us. She was going down there to settle, and begged to be allowed to dress me for my bridal as she dress- ed the late Sir Geoffrey’s mother. I was only too pleased to have such a faithful attendant with me at such an hour. The journey was little more than thirty miles, and the sun was still shining brilliantly when we arrived. Sir Geoffrey was, of course, there with a carriage waiting to convey us to the house, At the sight of him, all the old repugnance returned. But, catching my uncle’s gaze fixed upon me, I overcame my emotion, and met Sir Geoffrey with a smile. “Do you see nothing, dear?” he said. IT looked around, and perceived that the sta- tion was decorated with festoons of flowers and some flags. “That is in honor of to-morrow,” he whispered. ‘It is to be quite a local event, I assure you. Short es your stay was among them, the people took a great fancy to you, and are immensely delighted that youare to be their mistress, after all,” WHY I MARRIED HIM? - ‘You were alarmed to seo me in good! - There was a good number of loiterers outside the station door, who gave a very hearty cheer as I stepped into the carriage. ‘Heaven bless her, she’s as beautiful as an angel!” I heard an old woman say. ‘‘ May she have all the happiness that I wish her, and I’m sure she’ll have enough!” I was trembling like a leaf when I took my seat beside my uncle—the thought of a demon- stration was dreadful to me. Dinner was waiting for us. Sir Geoffrey placed me nextto him. His manner was unex- ceptionally gentle, but never obtrusive. No person preseat who had been ignorant of the circumstances would ever have imagined that we were shortly to enter into such close rela- tionship with one another. Yet there was uo coldness in his manner. I felt grateful to him for this consideration. After dinner, he rose to take his leave. ‘‘ A few hours more, and I sball be the bap- piest man in the county of Kent,” he whisper- ed. ‘‘ Good-night, my darling!” | He had both my hands clasped in his, and he now drew me to him, and kissed my lips. H@w hard I tried to repress a shiver, but did / not succeed; and was conscious that he felt it, _ for a dark look suddenly succeeded the passion- | ate one of the previous moment. But it van- | ished as instantaneously, as he bowed and lett | the room. All within the house was bustle and prepara- tion for the morrow; and, after we left the _ dining-room, the servants Began to prepare for the breakfast. “Tt will be worthy of the old family, after all!” cried Mrs. Harding, enthusiastically. “¢ All the villagers will be out for miles around, and there will be such a concourse as the old church has not witnessed for many a long day.” “T am sorry for it,” I said. “Sorry!” ejaculated the old lady, almost forgetting her respect. “.Would you have an Avondell married like some common ‘person? | If that was the case, I shouldindeed think that Lady Bridget’s curse was about to fall upon the old house.” |” “Tady Bridget’s curse—what is that?’ in- quired my uncle, who was present. “ Ah! you have not heard that story,” I re- marked. ‘Then I will tell it you.” It was just the time for such a ghastly story, in the mysterious gloaming of a summer's night, a dark purple sky, with here and there a twinkling star, upon which the woods cast their deep shadows. The birds had all gone to rest, and not the sound even of a shaking lea came through the open windows. Within the spacious room all was dim obscurity. The 1” fluence of the hour and the scene was upoP me; and, drawing my chair very close to MY i ail | .
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WHY I MARRIED HIM? 23 uncle’s, I began, In an awed and subdued tone. “In the reign of Charles the Second, Sir Gilbert Avondell fell in love with a young maiden of humble birth, whose father, during the troubles of the Commonwealth, had shel- tered him, and saved him from arrest. was very beautiful, and with a distinguished air and manner that might have become the finest lady in the land, although, as I have said, her parentage was of the humblest, her father being only a working man. Love and gratitude both prompted Sir Gilbert to marry her; and, for some years, they lived very hap- pily together. But there was one cause of dis- content that, year by year, became more serious, Lady Avondell bore no heir to the name and estate, which at Sir Gilbert’s death, would consequently pass to his brother, and to his brother’s children. Sir Gilbert was now ever reproaching her with this, and declaring that it was a judgment upon him. “<The pure blood of Avondell will not min- gle with your muddy stream!’ he said, arro- gantly. “For a long time she bore these cruel taunts with patience; but her nature was as proud as his, and after a time me rebelled, and gave him scorn for scorn, Then dreadful scenes ensued. One day the brutal husband raised his hand, and struck her upon the breast. From that hour they lived in separate apartments, and no communication of any kind passed between . them. “But far more dire even than this were the effects of the blow. It produced a cancer of a very virulent kind, which caused ber the most dreadful agony. For two or three years She endured a life of constant torture. At length, the end came. One night a servant brought a message to Sir Gilbert that Lady Avondell was dying, and requested to see him. At first he refused to go to her; but ere the Messenger had left the room, his conscience touched him, and he went. ‘It was a terrible sight that met his eyes Upon entering the chamber of death. His lady Was propped up in the bed by pillows; and what a seatiss tn taken place since last he Saw her! The once fair, round face was little More than the bony profile of g skull, over Which was drawn a livid, parchment skin; the = rosy lips were bloodless and fallen in te the want of teeth; the sparkling eyes urked dimly within their cavernous depths; 4nd, to make the contrast more terrible, she — arrayed herself in her bridal costume, and ie eorcled her ragged gray hairs, that had once aled the raven’s wing in blackness, with a aplet of orange blossoms. $ Sir Gilbert started back, horrified, She gave a low, bitter laugh, She | “¢What!? she murmured; ‘are you fright- ened at your own work? ‘ “Then, bursting forth with startling energy, she invoked a terrible curse upon him and his house, pronounced with the air and certainty of a prophetess. ““* Never,’ she cried, ‘shall a child be born , to you; but your heritage shall go to the man you hate! From this hour a blight shall fall | upon your race; never shall they know hap- piness more, and the name of Avondell shall pass to the stranger, and be borne by the out-.. cast whom no man‘will own! Then shall the pride of your house be struck down, and ley- eled with the dust!’ “Then, with a low, wailing scream, sho fell back, and expired.” + As I uttered tho last words, my uncle star- ted; and, wrought up by the legend I was re- lating, I could feel my face blanch, and my hair stir; for upon the deathlike silence of the night there broke a shriek, just such as I was describing—low, wailing, as of some soul in its last agony. “What was that?’ inquired my uncle, ia an awe-struck voice. ‘Mercy on us! what could it be?’ ejacu- lated Mrs. Harding, who was standing behind my chair. We listened breathlessly. All was again silent. “Tt must have been an owl, or some other night-bird,” suggested my uncle. ‘“‘T never heard any night-bird utter such an awful sound as that,” replied Mrs Harding, trembling. “It was like the voice of some evil spirit. Lor’ ’a’? mercy upon us!—there it is again!” But this time it was a shriek of laughter. It seemed to come from-a long way off, and ceased very suddenly. I and Mrs. Harding crept close together, overcome by terror. My uncle sprung up, and rung the bell violently. Several minutes elapsed before the summons was answered; for wo were ina room of the suite of apartments which had formerly been mine, and which was far away from the part of the house where all the servants were congregated. ; When the footman appeared, he brought lights, thinking it was for those we had | rung. ‘‘ What noise was that just now?” demanded my uncle. “Noise, sir?’ inquired the man, “Phere was a shriek, as if some one was being hurt, and then a laugh like a maniac’s.”. ‘“f never heard anything, sir; I have been. in another part of the house. I daresay it was the owls; they do make a dreadful noise out in. +he woods sometimes,”
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eae Rey S - vants if they heard anything. Stay! I will go “4 myself.” — . Oh, don’t leave us!” I cried. s “Stay with your lady until I return,” he said _ to the man, and hurried away. He was gone some time, during which we maintained un almost breathless silence, ex- pecting every moment that the same or some _ other awful sound would break upon us. But all was silent again. ; When he returned, ho sent the footman away, and then told us that he had questioned heard it. “There is nothing astonishing in that, how- ever,” he added, ‘‘for they are making noise enough to drown a thunder-storm. I believe it must have been the owls, after all.” ‘Tt seemed like an echo to the words I was speaking,” I said, shuddering—“‘ as though the linn of the unhappy woman whose story I was telling was hovering round the scene of _ her former misery, and rejoicing in the coming _ fulfillment of her curse.” “I am surprised at you, Mabel, entertaining a Smnight expect them from your maid, but not from an educated lady. Every old house and - family has its legends and its curses, and its | _ ghosts and superstitions. I wonder they don’t : heal walks; that her spirit is seen at certain Par 6 You had better go to bed, Mabel,” he said, or you will be ill to-morrow.” joe. “Sleep with me to-nighi(” I whispered to the f housekeeper. _ “T should be toa pleased, my lady, for ae ae do not think I could dare to sleep alone,” she A acpi. >. “But no moro horrors,” said my uncle. “Don’t terrify yourselves further by dwelling a this subject, and raking up all the horri- stories you can possibly remember, which | . Eglo usually do under such circumstances, | lepend upon it, the explanation is simple enough, The darkness, the silence, and the story had brought us into that electrical condi- | tion that the slightest sound was certain to be magnified into something ghostly or _portentous; and so the caw of some be- lated crow, or the scream of some sour-tem- nation, into the cry of an evil spirit.” He spoke lightly, jestingly; but I felt cer- es ae “There! good-night, dear! Heaven bless ‘ou, ane eran a from all évils, fancied or [ ‘pered owl, became exaggerated, in our imagi- | ' hall. ; ‘‘Good gracious! why, my lady?’ she asked. tain that he was not so easy as he pretended to “Because it would have seemed as if tho — WHY I oe tae aS f | ~-@Go and inquire among your fellow-ser- Wied Tk se x I threw myself, sobbing passionately, into his arms. “This won’t do, Mabel,” he said, a little se- verely; ‘this is childish. » “Oh, it is not that!” I exclaimed. morrow—” I could proceed no further. “Yes,” he said, understanding me, ‘ this is the last night of my guardianship. | forth you will belong to another,” every person in the house, but no one had | Here his own voice gave way; and, unable to any longer endure the painful scene, he led me to the door, and passed me to Mrs. Harding, who was standing without. I sobbed myself to sleep on the good old creature’s breast, and silumbered until she | aroused me next morning. My uncle came early to my dressing-room, He looked pale and heavy-eyed, as though he had not slept all night. | ITvremarked upon it. “‘ Well,” he answered, “I did not go to bed until daylight. I and some of the servants | searched the house from top to bottom, hoping to find some clew to that noise we heard last | night. But nothing came of it. into the woods to listen for the owls.” “ And did you hear them?” I asked. Oh, yes; and am quite convinced it was they who frightened us. “‘T hope the rain will keep off—at least, un- til the ceremony is over,” he said, turning to the window, and looking up at the dark, low- ering sky. ‘‘There will be a great concourse of people, and I should not like them to get a | drenching. I think, however, the wind is too high just at present for the rain to come down. If it lulls we shall have rain to a cer- tainty.” CHAPTER XI. A WEDDING AND ITS SEQUEL. At ten o'clock the carriage arrived to con- _ _ vey me to the church. I was ready and wait- ing. Only myself and uncle started from the _ house; the bridemaids were to meet us at the church. There were only two, friends of mine, who had come down from London by a late train the previous night, and slept at a hotel. ‘Mrs. Harding, the butler and my own maid preceded us in another carriage hired in tie | village. “Yam glad it is not a sunny morning!” I whispered to the housekeeper as I stood in the e d, / ‘ , oy ee Mn Cee Re "very heavens were mocking me,” I answered. “Now it seems as though they were sad.” As the carriage rolled on, I know not what if _ felt, except that it was no strong emotion. It "was the lethargy of adream, I was scarcely ot as ee Ae. wg But to- — Hence- © Then I went —
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- conscious even of the event that was about to - happen; mind and memory were a blank. I gazed listlessly through the closed windows upon the gray, somber, wind-swept landscape; upon the rocking trees, through which the wind - howled dismally; upon the grazing cattle and sheep; and upon the people plodding along the road, through the blinding dust, in the same_ direction, of whom all the men took off their _ hats, andall the women courtesied as we passed. As we drew nearer, the clang of the joy- bells wa's borne upon the blast. At that sound I shivered. My uncle, who had been fixedly and anxious- ly regarding me, took my hand. “ Mabel, my child,” hesaid, ‘‘ you look more like a vestal going to take the vail than a bride. There is a look in your face which makes me feel a guilty man. If this marriage brings you unhappiness, it will break my heart, _ for it has all been my doing.” “JT dare say I shall be very happy,” I an- swered, wearily. At that moment we entered upon a lane of people who lined the road on each side to the church, which was still nearly a mile distant, and who cheered more lustily as we drove between them, thus rendering further conversation im- possible. : ‘We drew up at the old lych-gate, where Sir Geoffrey was waiting with the bridemaids and bridemen. He assisted me to alight, pressed my hand, and whis; ered a compliment, I saluted the ladies and gentlemen, and the crowd pressed forward to catch a glimpse of me, Then I took my uncle’s arm, and we walked slowly up the long lime-tree avenue, the village girls strewing the path with flowers before me. But it was all unreal—like a dream. Ilooked neither to the left nor to the right, and my face was expressionless as marble. How cold and proud, how haughty and disdainful they must bave thought me! , Passing beneath the low Norman porch, we entered the small, ancient building. Then ‘there was a rush; in a few moments it was crammed with people, and the doors had to be closed in the faces of numbers who still pressed for admittance. I stood before the altar, with my icy hand grasped in his hot, feverish one, and took the vow to love, honor and obey one man, when my heart was given to another. Ah, the agony of that moment when the ir- revocable words were spoken which raised an eternal barrier between me and love—which rendered the very thought of it a crime; and _ yet his image would stand between me and my husband! I tried with all my might to banish _ it, but it was the one vivid, real thing that was about me] ak ae a WHY I MARRIED HIM? ~ laughter, | but my eyelids burucd as though the very. _ ing, and then finding myself alone in the —+ res ee T could have burst u.tt. -bricks of source of tears had beeu iorever stopped. | At length the ceremony was over. I felt my husband's kiss upon my lips; then I had a hazy sensation of people pressing forward with eager congratulations, of signing my name in — a book, a great crowd, of shouts and bell-ring- - ae riage with my husband. eee I heard afterward that it had been generally es remarked that they had never seen a yOsSE ag bride so calm and self-possessed, and one ob- — *. served that it might have been supposed that € such an event was an every-day occurrence to : 4 me, so indifferent did I seem aboutit. Then came the breakfast. Here, again, my remembrances are all confused. A number of zs people, a buzz of conversation, the popping of champagne corks, some speech-making, a mov- ing to and fro of servants. This is all I can recall, Ras Until suddenly Isaw the door dash open, and a white-faced, affrighted man rush into the — room, exclaiming, “Sir Geoflrey—gentlemen —the house is on fire!” All sprung to their feet, and made for the door. I felt myself carried away by the crowd into the open air. Then an appalling sight met our eyes. From the windows of that part of the building fur- thest from the dining-room, and in which Sir Geoffrey’s private apartments were situated, — flames were darting and yolumes of smoke. rolling, while a strong wind, which hiew from that direction, was sweeping them toward us. — The rapidity with which the ure inereysed : was marvelous; tongues of flame borne by the ga.e advanced with great rapidity, until the — dense black smoke surrounded the whole place. It was soon apparent that no effort could save it—that the mansion and all its contents — e: were doomed. Me es: I heard cries on all sides of “Is there any ie one left inside?’ ‘No, no; everybody is ont half a dozen % voices replied. But as if in scivteaisteiicee to the answer, there suddenly rose above the roar of the ere a a long, wailing shriek. It came from that part of the building in which the conflagration had originated. —_ All my lethargy had disappeared before oe these horrors and excitement, and I cried out, “Oh, there is some poor creature! Save her a : —save her!” for the voice was that of @ wo- man. Sir Geoffrey, with his arms claSped round es me, had hitherto remained an almost passive __ spectator of the scene. He had forbidden the servants to endeavor to save any thing. “IT won’t have lives risked a a few patty << *,
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; “Whoever it may be,” he ‘shouted, “they are beyond all human aid, “It is madness to than half a dozen!” » _ But no one heard this callous counsel, the : sound of which made me shrink away {r om him. He did not heed the motion, did not _ seem conscious of it, for his previous phlegm had suddenly given place to an excitement - quite as marked. _Eyerybody had rushed in the direction of z ‘the sound, leaving me standing alone. ibe it directions, rendered objects within a few feet of us sometimes invisible, always obscure, Seemingly forgetful of my presence alto- gether, he turned his back upon me, and was fixedly staring toward the crowd. _ Now the black smoke assumed a lurid hue, . and was full of fiery sparks, and the blasts of heat became so intolerable that I was obliged to retreat close against the balustrades, But Sir Geoffrey never moved, although the rks were flying all round him, until a loud er broke from the shouting, swaying crowd, nd there was a movement as though some- ing fresh had happened. “ Ah,” I exclaimed, ‘‘they have saved the oor creature!” -y exclamation reached Sir Geoffrey’s ears; turned round, and cast upon me a glance _of fury, then ran forward. our men were bearing something, dead or alive, toward the steps that led down into the woods. Icould no longer repress my curiosity, but rushed forward into the jostling mass. _ « Alive?” I asked, eagerly. “We don’t know, ”” some one replied. _ Who is it?’ I again asked. _ We don’t know at all. to the house,” was again the reply. the top step, and as those who bore the body ‘slowly descended, could look over their heads, It looked to be only a bundle of half-burned rags, with a face, blackened by fire, emerging _ from them. ‘Yet I instantly recognized the features as _ those of the woman in gray. CHAPTER Xit. IN THE GAMEKEEPER’S COTTAGE. _ Tuy bore her through the woods to John- son, the gamekeeper’s cottage, that being the nearest place of shelter. _ It was a wild looking cortege. All the ladies attempt their rescue? better one should perish . flocking through the woods, each moment swel- - The wind, beating the smoke about in all | 4 The servants aN the algiesteas were Nobody belonging | - I stood leaning against the balustrade upon b ackened with smoke; several without coats. There was also an immense crowd of country- people, who had come to Avondell to partake of the feasting and festivities which had been so terribly interrupted, and numbers of others, who had seen the flames in the distance, came ling the concourse. Suddenly | felt my arm grasped.. It was my uncle. His clothes were torn, his hands and face scorched. It was he who had rescued the unfortunate creature, “Where is Sir Geoffrey?—how has he left | you alone?” he asked. “T don’t know. He was on the terrace a few moments ago,” I answered, looking around. But he was nowhere to be seen. “Very strange!” muttered my uncle. Then, putting his arm around me, he said, sadly, ‘‘ This is a terrible wedding-day for you, my poor child!” I shuddered, but made ro reply. There were two medical men among the guests, and upon reaching Johnson’s cottage |they peremptorily forbade any one entering | with the body except the men who bore it, and myself and uncle. ‘“ But where is Sir Geoffrey?” inquired one. ‘“‘He may be able to identify this poor wo- man.” ‘Here he is, sir!” answered a voice from little to allow him to come to the front. I thought there was a reluctance in his man- fancy. ‘the skirt of the crowd, which now shifted a “ner as he advanced, but that might have been We now entered the cottage, and the body ~ was laid upon a bed. “Do you know this woman, Sir Geoffrey?” | inquired one of the doctors, while the other — | applied himself to ascertain if any life yet ' remained. “No,” he replied, without glancing in that — direction. “She was found in a vaulted chamber, — of which none of the servants knew the exis- tence,” “Then how should I, who have only just entered upon possession of the house, be ex- pected to know of it?” replied Sir Geoffrey, ir- Fr ritably, and turning away to the window. The doctor looked surprised at his tone and manner, But at that moment hit colleague drew bis ; attention by exclaiming, “fone is ceemg ing, to try and get a eho) of what ms taking place within,
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He seemed to Tenis or forget : my existence, at least, he took no notice of me. I could see my uucle’s sharp, angry glances cast upon him. “My child,” he said, ‘this is no place for you. Sir Geoftrey, is there no conveyance by which Lady Avondell may be taken to some house or inn, or place more fitted for her than _ this?” _ “A carriage cannot be brought into a wood!” he answered, insolently. dell will have to walk for half a mile. “ Lady Avon- | There » will be one waiting directly to take us to the | station.” ‘Surely you are not going away?—not going to leave Avondell in the midst of this dreadful calamity?’ exclaimed my uncle, “Oh, no, no! I could not go away now!” I eried, clinging to him. ay That is as J please now!” replied Sir Geof-~ frey, with a malignant sneer. ‘‘ You are my wife; and, however much you may hate me ? “eel | will have to do as I choose!” | At these words, my poor uncle grew as white as death; and I heard him murmur to himself, Oh; Heaven! this is my work!” I ‘pressed his arm and whispered, “You should not notice what he says now; he is ex- cited, naturally. It is a dreadful calamity, re- member. Then, turning to Sir Geoffrey, and anxious to prevent a scene, I said, ‘‘I am ready to go. The ground is quite dry, and the air is warm; I shall not take any harm.” He cast an jrresolute glance toward the bed. “Ts the woman likely to survive?” he in- quired. _ “Oh, yes; I think so,” replied one of the doctors. “She has sustained no serious injury by the fire, although the smoke was rapidly | killing her. She is recovering.” That is the poor woman I was speaking to you about, Sir Geoffrey,” I said. “Yes; I know,” he answered, quickly. _ Then, turning to the doctors, said, ‘‘ She is a - ™mad-woman—quite mad. You must not at- tach any importance to anything she may say. | Union at once.” “She cannot be moved at present,” replied | One of the doctors, quietly. Nonsense! What is all this fuss about a ~™ad vagrant, who has had to sleep under | hedges all her life?” “She is a human creature, and should be treated as such!” interposed my uncle, sternly. “What is it to you? lam master here—not you!” retorted Sir Geoffrey, fiercely. _Tndignation and astonishment were imprint- don every face. What a change had sudden- Y¥ come over this man! The polished baronet a suddenly been transformed into a coarse, | | iat will give orders to have her conveyed to the | thought he had. Then, when he found ““Come, madam!” he said, to me; “ the ‘coat will be waiting for us.” “Tt will have to wait, then!” said my uncle; placing his back against the door. “My niece does not go until I have had some private con- 2 versation with you!” “Tf it is the money, to save you from bank- nis ruptey, you want, and for which Ne sold your niece to me, I ‘have a check for ib in = PS es pocket-book.” While he spoke he was taking out. his book, and, at the last word, presented the check. s My uncle snatched it from his hand, tore it to shreds, and threw it in his face. F “You scoundrei!” he cried, trembling ies h passion. ‘But she shall not go with you!” — ‘We'll see about that!” said Sir Geoffrey, livid with passion. ; And he grasped my wrist so firmly that could not repress a ery of pain, — With a Paene ejaculation, my unc ree men would have been at blows, had not ie one of the ddctors interposed. | traordinary te Poe Ex ay collect yours. You have hurt Lady Avondell.” “What’s that about Lady Avondell?” brol in a hoarse voice. ‘‘There’s only one ° Lady fi “Avondell, and I am she!” , sitting Upright, and gazing wildly hore “ Ay, Lady Geoffrey Avondell!” she — peated, with a vacant laugh; ‘‘not quite beautiful, nor so finely dresséd. as I used to but if I was only a poor tradesman’s daughter, — and am now oid, ugly, and in rags, that can’t untie the knot the parson made, and I am : Lady Avondell! “Ah! don't let him harm me,” she cried, with a sudden change of voice, and pointing to Sir Geoffrey, upon whom her eyes had ae moment fallen, ‘‘ Though he’s my own he’s treated me cruel, cruel, cruel!” Her voice fell to a ‘whisper. “He tried to smother me in Paris! here, he had me sliut up in a cellar. But had my revenge! Hark! And she clutched the arm of the dootise, tee stood beside her, and drew her mouth close to | his ear. “Twas I set fire to the house. Ha, ha, b It’s gone now— dust and ashes; the curse fulfilled. The proud house is leveled with t dust, and the name of the accursed Tace 1 borne by the outcast that no man owns, : though | Sir Geoffrey did cast me off to avert 4 —to—” B Here her voice died away, and she fel upon the pillow, where she lay half ins and uttering low moans, er st
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WHY I MARRIED s HIM? + oa” IR ee PTS AR EOS af DROPS SOV ote, Lat EEE) Ee if ; 3 eS It would. be impossible to describe the effect | -_ of her words upon those present. | , Consternation and unutterable astonishment | ‘were expressed upon every countenance, and — every glance turned instinctively upon Sir | _ Geoffrey. No marble was ever whiter than his face; _ but it bore aglook of insolent defiance, “T told you,” he said, with a laugh, “she would make some extraordinary assertions, Mad people always fancy themselves great per- sonages.” _“T do not remember you saying anything | of the kind,” replied one of the doctors, quietly. _ “Then you have a bad memory,” retorted Sir Geoffrey, savagely, and conscious of the blunder he had committed. “ You will tell _ me next you believe her story, I suppose, ie _ Well, at all events, if she is Lady Avondell, ___ she has acknowledged me to be her son, that is one comfort.” E Before any one could reply, a voice was _ heard outside the door, saying: “Is there a _. Mr. Etheridge here?” “Yes,” replied my uncle. ‘ What is it?’ “Tere’s a telegraphic message for you, sir.” He opened the door, and a countryman handed him a brown envelope. _. He tore it open, and read the contents, - Isaw his features change. “Good Heavens! what can it mean?’ he muttered. ‘ Who gave me this?” J did, sir. It wor given me by one of the servants just now. He said it came early this ek > morning, and he quite forgot to give it to you, gir? _ “Heaven knows what misery his neglect will cause!” exclaimed my uncle, passionately. _ “What is it—any bad news?” I inquired, anxiously, “Very bad, I fear,” he replied, He hesitated for a moment, then passed me _ the telegram, with the remark, “I do not see ‘om you.” awyers, and contained theso words: “We are requested by Messrs. Strickland and Carey, highly respectable solicitors, from whom we have received a communication that justifies us in doing so, to send you this message. ‘Delay your - nieco’s marriage .to the latest moment possible; - soinething may happen to break it off.’” The paper would have fallen from my hand had not my uncle caught it. ¢ “Whatis all this about?” Sir Geoffrey de- _ manded, brusquely. _*- “That is my business,” replied my uncle. “ As it seems to concern my wife, it is mine, OFY = ‘and into this Sir Geoffrey, myself, and my — three gentlemen who desired to see Mr, Hther-_ { “Here, fortunately, the dispute was again - interrupted by a man who pushed his way » through the crowd that surrounded the door, © and came up almost breathless withrunning. “Some gentlernan at the ‘ Avondell Arms’ wants to see Mr, Etheridge directly,” he said. “ T’ve_ been running about this hour and more trying to find ’im, Is he here?”? “T am Mr, Etheridge,” replied my uncle. “Come, Mabel—come with me.” ‘“‘No; she goes with me,” said Sir Geoffrey, | advancing. “Not after what this telegram has told me. Do you wish to make me read it'aloud before all the people, villain, tmpostor ?” It was a shot fired only by guess, but it told. Sir Geoffrey quailed before it. ‘¢ Well, Vl have no scene here, But she’s my wife, whatever I may be,” he answered, defiantly; ‘‘and where she goes, I go!” When we emerged from the cottage, the whole air was impregnated with~the smell of fire, and dim with smoke; and we could, although half a mile distant, hear the roaring of the flames, which were still raging with in- | creasing fury. We had scarcely passed from the trees into the open, when we heard loud cries behind us, and a crowd of panic-stricken people running at full speed. “The wood’s on fire—the wood’s on fire!” was shrieked on all sides, And, surely enough, we heard a gathering and awfui roar, distant at first, then growing nearer an:i nearer, mingled with a fierce crack- ling sound, until we saw a sheet of fire ad- vancing with lightning speed along the ground, devouring brushwood and fern, and leaping up the trunks of the great trees. A long continu- ance of hot, dry weather had parched and withered up the vegetation, rendering it an — easy prey, and threatening the woods with a— destruction as complete as the house. A carriage was waiting in the high road, — uncle stepped; and, with that awful roar in our ears, and with volumes of pungent smoke — pursuing us, we rolled on toward the village hotel. Upon arriving there, we were told that the — idge were in a private room up-stairs. My uncle firmly held my hand, and frey prepared to follow. “T have private business with these gentle- men,” said my uncle facing round. ; “Leave my wife with me, then!” “Not on any consideration!” “‘Very well, then; where she goes, I go!” — “Be it so; perhaps you'll repent it!” an- swered my uncle, after a moment’s hesitatiow. We all three entered the room, to which waiter conducted us. a ha an Sir Geof- i
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There were three persons present. Two | were elderly men, and strangers; the third | _ was ADRIEN SYLVESTER, 5 A film gathered before my eyes, and I should have fallen, had I not clutched my supporter’s arm. “You are Messrs. Strickland and Carey, I | presume?” said my uncle. | “We are, Mr. Etheridge.” | *¢ And this gentleman?’ “We vill introduce him presently. You received our message?” “Yes; but too late.” “Dear! how could that be? Then Miss Etheridge is married to the so-called Sir Geof- _ trey Avondell?” “So-called! What do you mean?” exclaimed a fierce voice, _ Are you the person?” inquired one of the gentlemen. | “JT am Sir Geoffrey Avondell.” Vou mean you are the illegitimate son of | Lady Geoffrey Avondell, born two years after | | her separation from her husband,” was the | quiet response. For a moment the miserable impostor stared _ dumbfounded at the speaker, Then he began to bluster. _ «6711 trounce you for this, my friend! It’s all a conspiracy, got up by you, you old bank- rupt, to extort money from me! But you — Sha’n’t ggt a farthing—you shall rot in jail!” _ . The mask which had been dropping bit by bit since the fire, now fell entirely, and exposed | the features of the low-bred ruffian.. “But whoever I may be,” he added, with | | & sneering laugh, “as this woman’s husband, I’ve got the Avondell property, and you'll | find it a hard matter to dispossess me of | that!” | “T don’t think we shall,” was the reply, uttered as calmly as before. ‘What's the wife’s is the husband’s.” “But upposing it is not the wife’s?” “Tf I am not the heir, she is.” “Perhaps not.” “Then who is?” “Tt may turn out to be this gentleman!” And the lawyer pointed to Adrien. CHAPTER XIII. SUNSHINE THROUGH THE CLOUDS. _ THREE months have passed since the events Scribed in the last chapter occurred. ,, The scene once more changes to our quiet home at Canonbury. __The summer is gone, and it is a chill autumn Right, ; _ Dinner has not been long finished, and my | le is dozing in his easy-chair before the fire, Tand another are seated upon a couch, ‘in the shadows. WHY I MARRIED HIM? Sir Geoffrey Avondelil, as he is now called. ' Etheridge, and the marriage ceremony gone That other is Adrien Sylvester—or, rather, The law has pronounced me to be still ‘Miss through with an impostor and a’ felon to be null and void. aon Henri Bautee, the name he was known Bidens x ee had been the companion of his mother’s wan- _ derings in boyhood, but had left her when pss he was about fifteen, and entered upon a — o career of fraud and swindling i in both France ae? and England. Seven years elapsed before they — met again. The unhappy woman had by this time become half crazed. ee He had formerly heard her telk in her" wiia way of having once been the wife of an English baronet; but such assertions had scarcely been — , noticed ‘by him at that time. Now, however, when she began to tell him | of her former wrongs, and call herself Lady Avondell, he drew the whole story ap her. How, when she found herself abandoned b her husband, she had rushed out at night wit her infant in her arms, and in crossing one the Paris bridges had been seized with th bolical impulse to cast the child—his « into the Seine; how some stranger had snatch ; it from her, and she had never heard anythin ae of it from that hour, Through all vicissitudes she had pr eserve the certificate of her marriage, of her child’s baptism, and a number of souvenirs, which together formed a considerable mass of proofs, ‘He now conceived the idea of personatit the lost son. All he required was some livin witness who could identify his mother Lady Avondell, and prove the birth of h child. The man who could do this was one ne Grant, who had been Sir Geoffrey’s valet an his agent during the whole time of his cor nection with the unhappy woman who bore his name, Henri advertised in all the French and English newspapers, and after some time th man was found, He had mentioned no word of this scheme to his mother, of whose acquiescence in it he was doubtful, and the wandering state « whose mind would have rendered such a con dence imprudent. a Even her very existence was a danger to him. One night he gave her a sleeping draughts then stopping up the chimney and every crev- ice of the room, lit a large pan of charcoal, and — locked her in, Fortunately, the fumes were smelt by #i occupants of the next apartment, and door was Eo ren, pe time to rescue victim. .
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® But of this the miserable matricide knew nothing. He never doubted the success of his murderous plot, and with his colleague and _ fellow-conspirator, was now on his way to England. Upon arriving there they found that Sir Geoffrey Avondell had been dead about a fort- night, and that a distant relative had succeeded ‘to the estate. It would not prove interesting to enter into Henri Bautee placed in the hands of his lawyer to substantiate his claims; they were certainly very strong. _ Had I chosen to bring them into a court of justice, to be sifted by clever counsel, they might not have stood such a test; but depend- _ing entirely upon the acumien of my solicitors, -_ which was thoroughly at fault, I had declined to dispute his right, which wonderfully simpli- fied matters for him, - But I now come to the strangest part of tha story. Adrien Sylvester—my Adrien’s father by adoption—was very fond of telling . the story of how his ‘‘ cher fils” was born to him, _as he use to phrase it, and no person could n his company half an hour without hear- g it. After he left Sir Geoffrey’s service, Grant, who was a very finely-formed man, became an Sylvester, he heard him relate this adventure to some friends. He had no conception at the time that the ‘principal actress in it was Lady Avondell, ie late mistress; he knew, as he was in her service at the time, that she and her infant ea disappeared, leaving no clew behind, but nothing more. - When, some twenty years afterward, ho again heard tho story from her own lips, it seemed to him he had heard something very like it before. After puzzling his memory for some time, he caught the clew. There were many of Sylvester’s old associates still living, whom he had no difficulty in tracing, or get- _ ting to relate to him the incidents just as the artist used to tell it. From them he learned that the young man had settled in London, and when he and Bautes came over to England, one of his first cares was to seek him out. For: it had occurred to Mr, Grant whether honesty would not be the safest policy, and whether it would not be more prudent to throw over the impostor, and take up the cause of the true man. At tho time he instituted his inquiries Adrien was at Avondell, and it will be, perhaps, remembered that it was in conse- quence of receiving an intimation of these in- _ quiries through a friend that he had returned o London, Not finding him on the spot at 3 it may be presumed that Grant artist’s model; and one day, while sitting for | nate Lady Avondell died from the ects of the fire which she herself had kindled, but not ‘WHY I MARRIED HIM? | of his frequent demands for money. | Avondell may be imagined; but it was not oe his mind, for Adrien heard no more of m. But on the very evening when, miserable and disconsolate, Adrien returned to his lodg- | ings, after our meeting in Fitzroy Square, he found a stranger waiting for him, That stranger was Simon Gran%, Bautee’s motive in forcing me into a mar- | riage—for we afterward discovered that ho had bought up most of my uncle’s jiabilities the details of the proofs and evidence that at a premium, in order to become his principal creditor—was to legalize his own position; fail- ing a direct line, I was next-of-kin, and, as my husband, he would, come what might, be the rightful possessor of Avondell. But this did not suit Simon Grant, who, under such circumstances, would cease to have any power over him; and he had already experienced a foretaste of what he might ex- | pect in the cool contempt with which he had recently been treated, and by a refusal of one Adrien’s astonishment upon its being re- vealed to him that ke was the real heir of until the next day, when, in Messrs. Strickland and Carey’s office, Grant recapitulated his assertions, and backed them up by proofs, that Adrien dared attach any credence to the | story. ig | The rest may be imagined. The unfortu- before she had once more related, in the presence of several witnesses, how her infant | had fallen into the hands of the French artist; | how, after her son had left her to perish, her | poor crazed brain had incited her to once more revisit the land of her birth—whether ' she really had auy defiuite purpose in doing so it would be hard to say. When Bautee saw the face of the mother whose death he believed he had _ secured, | pressed against the window of the dinfng-room of Avondell House, his consternation may be - imagined. f The next morning, Johnson, the gamekeeper, | applied to be reinstated in his situation, His — experience of the worst class of mankind told him that this man was capable of being made the tool of any villainy; and it was he whom He set to work, with certain instructions, 60 seck his miserable parent. One night. he ‘1 found her, half famished, in the woods, and brought her, as it had been arranged, to the private door leading to Bautee’s private apart ments. / aq It was Johnson who told him of the siou@ chamber, which, in old times, had been use@— as a place of concealment. ible It was impossi for any one long to survive in such a place, “ which no ray of light ever penetrated—
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that - Sighs, f ied ~ aeinaed favored me. which air was only admitted by a kind of | never shaw bie toost upon your face a shaft, down which the occupant had to be Then came the revelation of that neve lowered, and. by which she received her food in the same fashion. Thus he hoped to destroy her without committing actual murder. By some means it would appear that she succeeded | in clambering up this shaft, which resembled a narrow chimney, the rugged surface of the stones giving her some foothold, and forcing the trap-door above, which opened into Bau- tee’s bed-chamber. It was on the morning of the marriage. All the doors were secured, and she cou)d make no further’ egress. Finding herself still a pris- oner, and actuated by revenge, she had set fire to the place; then, when the flames began to mount, had descended again into the stone chamber. and fire began to invade even this sanctuary, that Jed to her discovery and rescue. Bautee was secured by a detective when leaving the “ Avondell Arms,” for a series of | frauds and crimes he had been carrying on for years, and soon after condemned. to penal servi- tude for life. But to return to the autumn evening on | which I opened this chapter. We had both been silent for some time, | when I said, ‘‘ Our love-story is the reversal of | the old adage, for faint heart has won fair lady. i “My heart was not faint,” he answered, lovingly. ‘From the first moment that I gazed into your dark blue eyes, as I saw them night peeping inquiringly over Mrs. _ Harding’s shoulder, you became my destiny. Noaver was there a truer case of Jove at first I could not tear myself away from the place, I felt that [ must see you once again, and, if possible, speak to you. An accident, which might have been my -death, most Then, day by day, I drank in your presence draughts of delicious _ poison. I felt that I was mad—that I was dooming myself to life-long misery; that, e could you read my secret thoughts, you would It was her cries, when the smoke | | never to see you again, never again t THE END. /as the old one; but let us hope that the ven ze- _ noblest and best of men give almost certainty that bope; and we have every reason to bel forgotten night. Huw can I describe m delirious intoxication when I aiscovered that — my passion was reciprocated? But when yo had gone, the glamour. was dissolved, — ra fi your weakness gave me strength, and z: fi But, ah! what I suffered! I made up my counter the temptation of your eyes, for s an effort as I had made could be made but once in a man’s life. All the sunshine—all ae ambition was taken out of my future. I faced it doggedly, determinedly. But when I you were to become another’s—if, on same night, a gleam of hope had not bro upon me, I know not how it might have ende ‘‘fiow hard, and cold, and mercenary | must have thought me, when I told you I was about to marry a man for whom I confessed had no love, merely to recover the estate?” ““T confess it was a blow to me; but— Here my uncle stirred in his chair, yaw and called out, ‘‘ Where are you, Mabel? And so broke up our confidences for night, Three months afterward, I and Ge were married; but not in Avondell Chur | the remembrances of my former wedding vere too recent and too terrible. The old house was burned to the | every part of it, and everything in it, ay and the woods were also greatly injured I by the — fire. ay Another residence has, however, riven op the same site—not so grand, not sv imposi: ful spirit of the unhappy Lady Bridget has been at Jength appeased—and years of a uninter:upted felicity in the society 0 that with the death of the Woman in-Gray the shadow of the curse passed forever from the House of Avondell. we
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pe S/ 1A Bride of a Day; or, The Mystery of Winifred Leigh. By Mary Reed Crowell, 2 The Girl Wife; or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Caiypbell. 8 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wa. Mason Turner, M.D. 4 Married in Haste 3 or, A Young Girl’s Temptation. By Rett Winwoud, & Will She Marry Wim? or, The Masked Bride. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 6 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adop- tion. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. ® A Fairy Face} or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. 8 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. 9 A Daughter of Eye; or, Blinded by Loye. By Mrs. Mary Reed CroWell, 10 The Broken Betrothal ; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 11 The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. By the Author of ** Alone in the World,” etc., ete. 42 A Pair of Gray Eyes; or, The Emerald Neckiace. By Rose Keyinedy. 18 Without a Heart; or, Walking on the Brink. By Col. Prentiss Ingrabam, 14 Alone in the Worlds or, The Youne Man’s Ward. By the Author of The Bride of an Actor,” ete., ete. 15 Motheriess; or, The Farmer's Sweetheart... By Col. Prentiss lograham. 16 The Secret Marriage 3 or, A Duchess in Spite of Herself By Sara Claxton. 17, Sister agatust Mister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 18 Heart to Weart; or, Fair Phyllis’s Love. By Arabella Southworth. 19 Saba for Gold; or, Alinost Lost. By Mrs. M.Y. j Vittor. 20 Entangied; or, A Dangerous Game. Ihackeray. 21 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 22 Trust Mer Notys or, A True Knight, Leicester, 28 Sinnei Against; or, The Winthrop Pride. By Clara Atgusta i 24.A Loyal Lever: or, The Last of the Grinspeths By Arabelia Southworth. 25 Tie Country Cousing or, All is not Gold that Glitters. . By Rose Kennedy. By ‘Henrietta By Margaret *26 Wis Vdol; ot, The Ill-Starred Marriage. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. “ } 27 Fiirtation; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Abarbanell (Ralph Reval). 28 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Marry Hit? - By Henrietta Thackeray. 29 Orphan Nell, the Orange Girl; or, the Lost Heir. By Agile Penne, 80 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 81 The Little Meiress 3 or, Under a Cloud. Mary_4. Denison, 82 Leap Year 3 or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Clax- ton. ‘ 88 In Pe of Herself; or, Jeanette’s Reparation. By 'S. R. Sherwood. $4 Wer Face W as Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine. 85 The Cuban Heiress; or, The Prisoner of La Vin- tresse. By Mrs. Mary a. Denison. 86 Only a Schoolmistress; or, Her Untold Secret, By Arabella Suuthworth. | 65 A Brave Girl; or, Sunshi-e at Last, 2 ee THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES, + 8¢ The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a Heart. By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 58 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Hourietta Thackeray. 89 One Woman’s Heart; or, Saved from the Street. By George S. Kaime, 40 Love-Madys or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and— By Wm. Mason ‘Turner, M.D, 4t For Wer fear Sake; or, Saved From Himself, By Sara Claxton. r 42 The Bouquet Girl; or, A Million of Money. By Agile Pevne. - 43 Mariana, the Prima Donna. By Arabella Southworth, 44 The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian, By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, 45 Lucy Semple. Danghter of Charlotte, 46 The Shree Sisters; or, The Mystery of Lord Chalfont.. By Alice Fleming. 4i The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery. of the Perrys. By Mrs. Annn e. Porters : 48 A Marriage of Convenience. By Sara Claxton, 49 ‘the Wife’ Secret; or. "Twixt Cup and Lip. By Col. Juan Lewis. 50 Sir Archer’s Bride; or, The Queen. of Hearts. By Arabella Southworth, &tL Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 52 Homeless 3 or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 58 The Maniac Bride; or, The Dead Secret of Hollow Ash Hall. By Margaret Blount. 54 Pledged to Marry}; or, In Love’s Bonds. By Sura Claxton. 65 Cecil's Peceit; or, The Dinmnond Legacy. Jennie Da-is Burton. 56 Beatrice, che Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth, 5? Without Merey. By Bartley T. Cambell, 58 The Baronet’s Secret; or, The Rival Hal -Sisters. By Sara Claxton, 59 Agnes Pope, the Actress; or, the Romanve of a tuby Ring, § By Wm. Masen Purver, M.D. 60 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt. 61 Did We Love Her? By Ba tley T. Campb Il. 62 Almost in Bilis Powers o-, More Sinned Agai st than Sirming. By Lillian Lovejoy, G8 She oe Not Love ihn. worth. 64 Bessie Rayner, the Work Girl By Mason Turner, M. Dy 3y Mrs. Wm. By Alice Fleming. 66 Lerd Roth’ Bing or, Betrothed at the Cradle. By Ceorgiann Dickens, , 67 AW “i <¢ Heart; or, the False and the True By Periatis axton, 68 His Heart's Mistress; or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth, | 60 he Galy Daughter ; or, Brother against Lover. By Mrs. } By Alice Mleming. TO Why I Married Him? or, the Woman in Gray. By Sara Claxton. %1 Honor Bound; or, Sesled to Sececy. By Lillian LOVEjON, 72 A Man’s Sin; or, His Lawful Wife. wood, Ready Oct. 6. %8 Wis Own Againg or, Trost Her Not. Southworth. Ready Oct. 13. V4. Adria, the Adopted. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Bur ton. Ready Oct. 20. Ry Rett Win- By Arabella The Waverley Library is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 28 William street, New York. ARAB LP AP AP ALA PAP. By Arabella South- , LLLP LL LL OO I OI I ear OK AR eee RPP fen ee eee eee oe