Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 76) (1885 11 03)
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— = ee a ee ee eee ee ee BD 4 (he : | BARGES eso ._o7e ee ERE RDG | | Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Nov. 8, 1885. $2,50 a Year, VoL, VI. | PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, No. 98 William Street, New York. Five Cents Piet. NO: Vee ae BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM: Or, HOW WILL IT ENDP BY ALIC# FLEMING. CHAPTER I, Mipnient in Paris: a cold, raw wind driving | “MISS TAYLOR, MY SON IS WAITING FOR YOU TO BEGIN.” . through the streets; a thick, fine rain fi and distinctly above the many mingled sounds, came the tones of a woman’s voice, singing a simple English ballad. . i It was not a very powerful voice, nor was its from the leaden sky; sounds of life and motion — in all directious; for when does a great city find time to sleep? bags : Through the night air, ringing out clearly ei ; ES 4
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oe SHE LOVED HIM. compass anything remarkable; and the song was one which any school-girl might safely have attempted; but it was exquisitely sweet _ and full, every word was perfectly intoned, > ‘Still, the principal charm lay in its wonderful pathos—now rending the heart by its wild agony, now almost melting to tears by its in- finite softness and tenderness. Slightly apart from the motley crowd by which she was surrounded stood a tall, slight man, wrapped in along dark cloak. Why he remained there, listening to the street siuger, be hardly knew. He was no lover of music, _ tut some strange attraction seemed to have a drawn him thither, and tokeep him there as though chained;to, “whe spot. A The song ended, she who had sung it turned i toward her audience, holding out her band in a manner haif-shrinking, half-defiant. But ' those who before had crowded ani pushed, so 2 as to stand as near to her as possible, now , -- moved away. _ The crowd dispersed, and a few copper coins were all that she had received. _ With a heavy sigh, she drew her threadbare aie shawl more closely round her, and was about prs leaving the spot, when the man in the long : cloak stepped forward, and slipped a piece of . ows eh over it. Heaven bless you!” she murmured, and hurried away. - At that moment, the pale yellow light of a street-lamp fell full on her young, but pale and worn, countenance. ose two had met before; but the recogni- tion was on his side only, and, hardened man t of the world though he was, he shuddered as he remembered how and when he had seen that fair, innocent-looking young girl. _ His first impulse was to follow her; but he soon gave up the attempt as useless. Several figures were flitting backward and forward, any ene of which might easily be mistaken for hers in the semi-darkness. “Shall we ever meet again?’ he wondered, as he slowly retraced his steps in the direction of his hotel. Meanwhile, the object of his reflections was hurrying through a labyrinth of back streets To her he had seemed an angi] of mercy, and more than once she repeated, ‘‘ Heaven bless him!” as she thought of the many com- ) Ay 5: : forts which his gift would enable her to pro- ey _ cure for one who was everything to her, - At last she reached a large, dilapidated-look- ing house, one of theso mansions which former: ~ ly had been the abode of wealth and fasion, i aida now let out in Bimoene | rooms to some of the ae ragging her weary feu mp flight after _ flight of broken stairs, she pa:.s“1 for a few moments on a narrow landing to satiak breath; _ gold into her hand. The thin fingers closed | then opening a door, entered a small attic, through which a solitary candle diffused a dim, uncertain light. A table, one or two chairs, and a low pallet- bed were ‘all the furniture contained in that miserable room. And on the bed lay a man, pale and motionless. The girl’s light step seemed to rouse him. The heavy lids were slowly raised, and he faintly smiled. ‘¢Father!” she whispered, bending lovingly over him, ‘Eva, my child,” he said, speaking slowly and with difficulty, “‘why did you remain out so long? I was afraid that something might have happened to you.”’ “Tam very sorry; but I could not help it. I did not want to come back empty-handed. See what I have brought!” And she held up the napoleon. ‘““ Where did you get that, Eva?” “J sung in the streets, and a kind gentle- man gave it to me.” ‘Sung in the streets? Oh, Eval you must never do that again! lt was very, very wrong . of you!” “Our money was all gone, father, and I could think of no other way of getting more.” “So we are come to that; and it is all my ' fault!” he groaned. “Don’t tret, father! while,” ‘‘Sleep?—no, not yeb. You are tired, and need rest, my child. But there is something [ must tell you now, or it may be too late,” Eva pressed her hands more tightly together; her lips quivered, but tuere was no other sign of emotion. It was not now only that she learned that hus days, perhaps his very hours, were number- ed, and that ere lons she must be thrown, aloue and friendless, on a hard, pitiless world. ‘‘ iva,” he continued, and his voice was so low and indistinct that she bad to bend her head close over his in order to catch his words, Try to sleep now for a / “you know something of what my life has been, You know of one dark stain which rests on it, and yet your love for me has never changed. But when you have learnt all, you will turn from me in scorn and hatred; mau never think of me save to curse my memory.” “Never shail I do that, fatoer!” Eva inter- rupted, earnestly. “No matter what you may have been to the rest of the world, T shail know always what you were to me—the kind- est and dearest of fathers.” “Poor cbild! you little imagine, and shall not be undeceived, until I am no more, As long as I live, L would have you love me. Now, take this key, unlock my desk, and bring me what you will find in the under part.” The girl did as desired, and laid a small sealed package beside bim,
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BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. 8 “This will explain all, Eva,” he said. “ You see the address.” ; She took the package, and holding it near the light, read aloud: aut Henry Tremayne, The Elms, Darkshire, Eng- “Sir Henry Tremayne and i are’first cou- sins—brother’s children; and my real name is Tremayne, not Taylor. Henry’s parents, as well as mine, died when we were quite children, and our grandfather—old Sir Mark—reared us both. “My father was the younger, but the fa- vorite son. None of the property was entailed, and it had been our grandfather’s intention to divide it equally between him and his brother, and so I grew up, believing myself to be joint heir with Henry. “My cousin and I were of the same age. ° He had one sister, a year or two older than himself, and we were all very good friends; though, to tell the truth, I never really cared much for her, she was so cold, selfish, and proud, always thinking of what: would be for her own advantage; and very glad indeed I was when she married and went to live elsewhere. As tothe old man, I believe he was reaily fond of us; but he was remarkably strict, always making rules which it was almost impossible to obey, and punishing the least offense, real or imaginary, in the severest manner, “ Henry was a good, steady lad, and it was much easier for him than for me to obey our grandfather’s iron rule. As I grew older, I found obedience harder and harder. He was one who would brook no contradiction, and constant altercations took place between us. *- At last, one day, when I was about nine- teen, I defied our grandfather openly; and he declared that if I did not go down on my knees and beg his pardon, he would disinherit me. But I wasreckless, and laughed at him, “tT was going to leave half of my property to your father,’ he said, his voice trembling ’ with suppressed passion, ‘and always intended that you should take his place, I have absolute control over it, and can dispose of itas I please, and not a single penny shall come to you un- less you change the lino of conduct you have adopted,’ “But I was young and high-spirited, with an intense desire for adventure. What was the prospect of inheriting the Old man’s money, when compared witb liberty? Sol ran away from home, and enlisted in a regiinent which | had just been ordered abroad. . “‘T changed my name to Taylor, and no one suspected that I was a barouet’s grandson. “‘T had always believed that the life of a sailor was unalloyed enjoyment; but I soon found out. my mistake. The low companions with whom I was forced to associate, what I imagined the insolence of my superior officers, and the strict discipline to which I was forced . to submit, were very hard to bear. But [knew that there was no help for it, and worked on doggedly, until I-had almost lost sight of my real identity in that of Mark Taylor, the pri- . vate soldier. “When I had served my time, I thought T would return home, and find out how things had been going on during my absence, All there was changed. My grandfather was dead, and Henry was in possession of the title and prop- erty. : ; When I saw him so rich and prosperous, &, fierce jealousy sprung up in my heart. Halt of what he possessed had once been intended for me, and would certainly have been mine had I not quarreled with grandfather. “TI consulted some lawyers as to whether there was any chance of my recovering what I considered to be my rights. They all told me that it would be madness to attempt it. “ At last I found an attorney who was will- ing to take up the case. Whether he was more a fool or a knave I do not know; but be persuaded me that be could prove that half the property had been settled on my father, and that my grandfather had no right to alienate it from me. Iwas only too delighted to be- lieve him, and commence a lawsuit forthwith. | ‘Henry offered me a Jarge sum of money if ‘I would give up my pretensions. That only served to strengthen me in the delusion that he believed I would succeed. “IT was determined to have every thing or ‘nothing, Not even the thought of my young wife and my child could induce me tovaccepta ‘compromise. So we went to law. The verdict was given in Henry’s favor, and the costs of ‘the case swallowed up the little money Thad | possessed, the hard-earned savings of years. | “Do not ask me how my wife met me when every thing. That is a time of which I can hardly bear to think. “Sho died; beside her grave I vowed ven- geance on my cousin, and kept my word. He never suspected who desolated bis home and turned his cup of happiness to gall and worm- | wood. But 1 have written a full confession of my crime. “And you must go to him, ard place this package in his hands, and tell him that remorse for what I then did followed me te my last moments. “You thought that our money was exbaust- 'ed; but in my desk you will find sufficient for | your journey to England. Pcor as we were, I ‘was determined not to touch what 1 had laid | by for that purpose. | You need have no concern for your future; 'Jbave teken care to secure that, and you wiil never know what poverty is again, | I returned to her, and told her that I had lost- ao i ne? — ee DT ikee
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a. 4 "never grant me. * too deeply to expect forgiveness. ie k Tremayne will be branded with infamy; _the first speaker, a ‘stylish-looking 4 4 : : BECAUSE SHE LOVED HT. “When my cousin reads what I have writ- ‘ten, he will curse me. “J do not ask for pardon. That he can I have sinned egainst him The name of ut none of the shame will fall on you, dar- ling. The sin is mine alone, end so are its fruits. And, oh! the sting of a guilty con- science Las brought me the punishn cnt. I have deserved! ‘When you are rich, and happy, and pros perous, think of me sometimes with pity, and yemember that the one pure and holy feeling of my heart was my love for you. Yes, Eva, and that Jove was very selfish. It bas custa dark- shadow over your life, which I fear no future sunshine can entirely remove; but be- lieve me, no father ever loved his child more intensely than I have loved you.” He ceased speaking; his eyes closed, and scon his heavy LreatLing told that he slept. Tiva did not move from her place Leside him. She was thinking over the story which -she bed just heard. What was the secret of thatyackege? What fearful revelation did it contain, tiat it should make her sbrink from the futher whom she so dearly loved? And should her band lift the ‘vail which shrouded that mystery? Should she* add to the dishonor which covered his name? No—a thousand times, no! The confession ecntained in that package should never he read by mortal eye—least of all, by that of Sir Henry Tremayne. While thus she mused, the gray, weird light of early dawn crept into the room. Ghost-like shadows hovered round, and gradually disap- peared into the darkest corners. The candie, which had burned deep down into the socket, flickered and went out. ‘The weary, sin-stained i il had fle@ CHAPTER zy, “Tsay, Grantham, who is that girl playing the accompaniment for your sister?” Philip Grantham turned his head quickly. **T was just on the point of asking you the same question,” he said, “Then you donot know her? How strange!” “My good fellow, I only arrived in London this afternoon, and bave not been here more than half an hour. You certainly cannot ex- pect me to know every lady iu the room.” “ But I must find. out who this ote is,” said young guardsman. ‘She is perfectly loveiy! A little pale, perhaps; but her figure and fcatures are faultless. And her hair! Did you ever 2e more beautiful golden? Whata pity she is so badly dressed!” “She seems tu be in deep mourning.” *Soshe is; but mourning can be made to look more pretty and becoming than that. However, I must go and find out all about her.” He began to work his way through the crowded drawing-room in the direction of the group which surrounded the stately form of the hostess; while Philip Grantham remained standing in the same place, his looks fixed on the girl seated at the piano. Presently the young man rejoined him. ‘Prepare yourself for a disenchantment, old fellow!” he said. ‘‘She whom we were in- clined to fancy was some new social star is nobody, after all, but a Miss Taylor, your lit- tle sister’s new governess. They only let her in here because it is convenient to have some one who plays accompaniments well.” _ “Tf I were Mrs. Grantham, I would keep her in the school-room,” said an elderly lady, who had. been listening to the conversation, ‘‘I never allow my children’s governess to appear when we have company. I consider that the }pawing-room is no fit place for her.” Philip Grantham turned away with an im- patieut movement, and approached the piano just as his sister was finishing her song. She was a tall, sbowy- looking girl, with dark hair and eyes and a brilliant complexion, which some three or four London seasons had failed toinjure. A beauty, an heiress, it seem- ed strange that at the age of twenty-three she should still be unmarried. Many admired her immensely for a short time; but it was gener- ally acknowledged that she did not improve on acquaintance; and her cold, haughty manner seldom failed to repel those whom her beauty and wealth had attracted. “You here?’ she exclaimed, in surprise, as she saw her brother. ‘ Why, we all supposed you were in Norway!” “And so I was until a few days ago,” Philip answered. ‘I only arrived in London this af- ternoon.” “How good of you to come here! Have you seen mamma?” ‘‘Yes. She tells me that you return to Eastgrove after to-morrow.” “We do; the season is just over. coming with us?” “T think not; but I will follow you in a few weeks,” “Tl am so glad: to ieee town!” Mabel said, with a suppiessed yawn. ‘* Have you not been enjoying yourself?” “Oh, yes; but I am nearly worn out.” “You do not look so.” Then be added, in a low voice: ‘‘ What abcut Lord Cosgrave, Ma- bel‘—has he been much here?” “No; we have seen little or nothing of him. When last I heard of him, he was in Paris,” Are you
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- : : : : ¢ | tN See Nee eee ee "i > ee ae ae ee e 7 1. =i ar : ‘ ee Pt **T wish he would stay there!’ | “Why so?” asked Mabel, with an angry look. “Because he is a man with whose name I do nob care to hear that of my sister coup- led.” ‘“‘ And I do not care to be interfered with by you!” Mabel answered. He made no reply, but turned away with a pained look ow his face. Experience had al- ready taught him that any interference with his sister was perfectly useless, Just then Mrs. Grantham joined them, and asked Philip to sing something. “Please do, to oblige me!” she said, as he was about to refuse. ‘We have sb few mu- sical people here this evening; nearly all those f counted on have disappointed me, Mabel has been obliged to make such a martyr of her- self.” ‘“‘T suppose I must, then,” he said, looking — anything but well pleased. “Thanks so much! Here are some of your songs. This one, you say? Miss Taylor, my son is waiting for you to begin.” The governess bowed her head mutely, and resumed her seat before the instrument; but the angry flush which mantled her cheek did — not escape Philip’s notice. “Poor girl!” be thought; ‘wha a miserable life hers must be!” | | | And his eyes wandered pityingly from her pale, sad face, to her dress of deepest mourn- ing. The song ended, he bent over her, and whispered, “‘I am very much obliged to you. You played thas capitally; but you look very | tired! You must come with me, and let mo | get you some refreshment.” Once more she colored, this time not in anger, amid her tears seemed ready to flow. Words of kindness were rarely given to Eva Taylor now. “Please come!” continued Philip. “Do | not mind our not having been formally intro- duced. I should be neglecting my duty if I | were to let a lady in my mother’s house want for anything.” | She hesitated for a moment, and half rose. | ‘Play this, if you please, Miss Taylor.” The words, spoken in Mrs. Grantham’s haughtiest tone, made them both start, An- other song was placed on the piano; and with | knitted brows Philip watched the small white hands as they struggled to keep time with the very ad libitum style in which a retired naval officer sung, or rather shouted, a ditty which certainly was very little suited to a London drawing-room. “Tf Ican do anything to help her, I will!” he thought; ‘but I must be very careful. If my mother sees that I interest myself on her account, it will only make mischief,” | request his assistance. BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM, _ eS ae philip Grantham was right. His mother was fully determined to keep the governess in her proper place; and just then she was regret-— ting having brought her into the drawing- room at all that evening. Several of the gentlemen present had in- i quired who she was in a manner which plainly showed how her appearance had interested them; and the supercilious reply, ‘‘She is only my governess,” had not deterred more than one from requesting an introduction. ze ‘Miss Taylor does not expect. to be intro- duced to any one,” she had answered each time, in tones fhat would admit of no remonstrance, And she had begun to hope that no more notice would be taken of the governess, Very angry indeed she felt when she saw how her son lingered by the piano, and ob-. served the polite, deferential manner in which he spoke to Eva. As soon.as possible she in- terrupted the conversation by requiring Miss | Taylor to play another eccompaniment; and scarcely had the last notes died away, when she was told that she might retire, as her ser- vices would not be needed any more at present. Mrs. Grantham was the widow of a rich country gentleman. Out of a large family but three children survived—Philip and Mabel, | the two eldest, and Janie, the youngest, a girl | about twelve. Wishing to procure a foreign governess for this child, she had written toa distant cousin, who held an English chaplaincy in Paris. to Mr. Stuard had ac- cidentally discovered the Taylors, and had ' shown them no little kindness. On her father’s death Eva had asked him to help her to find a situation, and he bad proposed her to Mrs, Grantham. A young English lady, who had passed nearly all her life on the Continent, and was a good linguist and musician, seemed very suitable; and on Mr, Stuard’s recommendation Bva was engaged forthwith. Eva had.never flattered herself that the life of a governess would be an agreeable one; still she was quite unprepared for the haughty cold- ness with which she was treated. Her pupil did not seem toher a very interesting child, delicate, backward, and rather self-willed, and the hours passed in the dull monotony of the: school-room wére insufferably long and weari- some to her. : It was rather an agreeable surprise when one evening, about a month after her arrival, she” received a message requesting her presence in the drawing-room; but she soon was made pain- fully aware of the fact that it was infinitely pre- ferable to pass her free time in the solitude of her own room to being admitted on sufferance among a number of people who looked on her as their inferior, and very thankful indeed she felt when the moment of her releaso bad come, me tad GN coat viet it Sat Baye ee fe eT eT Ae S40 Pa ’ ~ Came ee Tt oe, } Rn 2 °T Cee eae -
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ee la, le Utterly lonely and miserable, she sunk on her knees beside her bed, and sobbed as though ‘her heart would break. ‘‘PWather, oh, father!” she moaned; “ why did I not die with you?—why did you leaveme alons in this cruel, wretched world?’ Carefully hidden in her trunk lay the sealed package which, placed in the bands of Sir Henry Tremayne, would, she had been told, secure her wealth and position. But she had never wavered in her determi- nation to shield her father’s memory by the sacrifice of herself. CHAPTER III. EASTGROVE, the family property of the Gianthams, lay in one of the western shires. Philip passed little cf his time there; and it was an understood thing that as long as he re- mained unmarried his mother and sisters were - to consider it as their home. A noble old place it certainly was. Terraced gardens and smooth greensward, dotted with oaks of unknown antiquity, surrounded the stately mansion; while in the distance might be had glimpses of the river, gleaming and glittering in the warm sunshine, and winding ‘like a silver thread among the wood-covered hills which bounded the horizon. A fairer picture could scarcely be imagined than that which met the view of Eva Taylor as sbe stood by the school-room window one July afternoon; but the soft, peaceful beauty of the landscape possessed no charm for her, The gaysongs of the birds grated harshly on her ears; and the bright summer sunshine “seemed only to mock at ber sadness. What was all the loveliness of the outer world to her? Mere beauty of scenery could bring no comfort to a lonely, griei-stiicken - heart! The sound of the luncheon-bell awoke her from her gloomy thoughts; and she turned slowly away from the window. Silently and unnoticed the young governess entered the handsomely furnisbed dining-room, and took her place at the table. She-and her pupil dined at Mrs. Grantbam’s luncheon hour, | and that was almost the only time when Eva came in contact with the mistress and her eldest daughter. To-day there was a strange gentleman sit- _ ting at the opposite side of the table, whom Eva heard Mrs. Grantham address as Lord ‘BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. quiry. He turned away his head, and con- tinued the animated conversation in -which Mabel had engaged him. She did not venture to look at him again: but she knew that he was watching her, and a vague, undefined feeling of dread began to creep over her, together with a consciousness that she had seen him before, where and when she could not recall ‘Janie is to come for a drive with me at once, Miss Taylor,” said Mrs. Grantham, as they rose from the table, ‘‘so you can spend | the afternoon as you please.” ““T will get a book, and find some nice quiet | place in the grounds where I can sit and read!” thought Eva. Deep down in the park, shaded from the bot rays of the July sun by the thick, overhanging branches of a clump of lime-trees, she found a small rustic seat, and, sitting down, opened her book; but it lay on her knees unheeded, the light breeze blowing the leaves backward and forward. Further and further back wandered her thoughts; one scene after another of the wild, | vagrant existence which she had led with her father rose before her mind. She shuddered, and pressed her hands to her | eyes, as though to shut out some dark memory, /some specter of the past.. A low, frightened ery escaped her lips. Now she knew why Lord Cosgrave’s features had seemed famiiiar. | Was it possible that he remembered her? Her ‘ heart almost stood still at the thought. Cosgrave. : He was a man of about five-and-thirty, with ._@ dark, handsome countenance, which, how- _ever, was rendered almost disagreeable by the cold, cynical expression which it constantly ‘wore, Looking up suddenly, Eva met his gaze. Jt was fixed on her with mingled surprise and in- | ee ee es 3 “ Well, really, what a pretty picture!” She looked up. Lord Cosgrave was stand- ing before her. Every trace of color left, and her frightened looks were fixed on him. ““T see you have not forgotten me, Miss Tay- lor!” he said, sitting down beside her, and lay- ing his hand on hers with an air of familiarity. She sprung to her feet, and fled along the narrow path as fast as her trembling limbs would permit; but he was by her side in a mo- ment, and she felt his strong, firm grasp on her | arm. In vain did she try to shake off his hand; he only laughed at her feeble efforts. ‘Come, now, Miss Taylor, that is -hardly kind!” he said. ‘“‘ I take the trouble of looking for you all through the park, in order to renew our acquaintance, and this is the way you treat me!” ‘“‘ Have you no pity?’ she exclaimed. “ Am I not wretched and friendless enough without your coming to persecute me?” “« Persecute you? Why should you imagino that I intendto do any such thing? 1 assure youl never felt more inclined to be on good terms with any one than I do with you,” “‘Then why are you here?” ee ee
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you.” She suffered him to lead neh back, and me- chanically resumed her place. ‘ - “ Are you afraid of me?’ he asked. neveae “i Why ” oan CS ster any need for you to ask? Would it be possible tor me to find another situation, if you were to teil what you know?” “Then you have not acquainted Mrs, Gran- __ tham witha certain part of your father’s his- tory?” ‘No; why should I? She has never conde- scended to ask me any questions about him,” ““ Who recommended you to her?” _ **An English clergyman who used to visit my father when he was ill.” “How long has your father been dead? “Not two months,” she answered, trying to force back the rising tears. “‘ And did this clergyman you speak of know that it was a mere accident which saved your father from being an assassin?” ~ be No. ” : “Did he know that you used to sing in the streets of Paris for money every night?” Eva started violently. “TI only did that once,” she exclaimed. “Really,” he answered, incredulously, ‘ how - strange that i should have had the pleasure of meeting you on eb one particular oceasion!” “You met me! Ido not remember. Stay! you certainly are not the gentleman who gave me the napoleon?” “T am.” Greatly ashamed and mortified she felt. This man had given her money, as he would have given it to any ordinary beggar, and she had thankfully accepted his charity! “‘T want to hear,” continued Lord Cosgrave, “if this clergyman friend you have told me about knew of the nights—I beg your pardon, I should say of the night—that you spent sing- ing in the streets?’ “No,” Eva answered, in a low voice. fe Then I presume you have not told Mrs. Grantham about it either?” “No, Could I possibly tell her? You know her quite well enough to understand that she would not keep me here another hour if she were told that.” ‘‘T dare say you are right. Ladies do not generally care to have a Street-singer as the governess of their children.” His words and tone stung her to the quick. ‘‘Are you a gentleman?” she demanded, in a voice trembling with anger and mortifica- tion. Are you a gentleman? I have done nothing to be ashamed of. My father was dy- at “Come back to the seat; I want to talk to Mrs. Grantham keep me in her house, or would: ;mate friend of the family, to a _your father furious. ‘ing; we had not a single franc left in the— world. TPT could have earned other way I would willingly ha but [ could not leave him. He wou bear me a minute out of his sight. On ing Ihad to go out—shall Tf tell you: which had been ‘given to me years ago. was my only trinket, and I was very fond ic. But we were ‘starving, and I thou that it might procure me a few francs. Whe: I gave it to the man, he laughed, and that it was not gold at ali, and not wor' more than a few sous. On my way back, struck me that_I might get something if were to sing, and I had heard of money long time; but in vain. The people 1 listen to me; but they hardly gave me a thing, until—” : She paused, and he said, in a kinder, ; tler tone, ‘‘I am very glad that I was — to help you, and do not fancy that I think of you for what you have done; but you must not be angry if I speak very plainly. You have entered Mrs. Grautham’s eraployme: nib under false colors. You must acknowle that. Granted she never asked you any ql tions, yet you are tacitly deceiving her do you not think that it is my duty, as as an | with what I know both about your fathe yourself?” “Stop!—in mercy, stop!” shecried. “Hi you no pity?) What harm have I done yo that you si sould have me turned out of me of my oniy means of support? | bi for me, you would not now be here to wel tale. You must know that.” , ‘““T owe you my sincerest eelitn Taylor; but for you, your father would been my assassin!” “YT know that I am complotely in power,” Eva continued, hardly appear hear him; ‘‘ but what object can you | destroying me? What harm can my | ing here do to any one? Indeed, I will perform my duty toward my pupil, and is nothing more required of me. § now, as I once stood between you and de: tion!” ; “You are right,” he answered, slowly. ought pot to forget that you saved my | night in Baden-Baden. It was a feart ment; the knife flashing before my sig I had given myse! for lost. when you rushed in, and cone arm. Had you delayed one moment | you would have been too late.” “Thank Heaven that I was able to shi you!” Eva said.
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n her an uring look—“ do you know oe ther attempted my life?” ‘Dic i he never tell you?” “No; he said that you were his enemy. and that you had insulted him. That is all.” _ And you believed him, I suppose?” “Certainly.” ae was not his true reason, I assev¢ Bias ae “What was it then?” «T will not tell you. He doubtless remen the proverb, ‘Dead mien tell no tales, we are wandering from our subject. Yoo ere, I believe, asking me to say nothing about ou | to Mrs. Grantham; but I don’t think I cay romise you that.” “Why not? Does it make the least differ ence to you who teaches her child? And to me _ it makes the difference between being able to earn my own bread, and being turned out a 1eless outcast on the world.” : on do oot to be bard ae ro, Miss ae r; only I must do my duty as Mrs. Gran- ra Sia friend.” ; ‘d. Think of what would become of me if I 3 were to lose my place! I have not a friend to whom I could turn for help. It surely could be no crime in you to let afriendless, homeless girl “support: herself by bonest work. If your iT ig is not made of stone, you will spare e ; ‘He smiled, and it was well for Eva that she d not see that smile. ‘I cannot give you any decided promise,” he said, slowly, “except that for the present, at all events, I will keep silence, It shall be our se- cret—yours and mine.” She drew a long sigh of relief. “Oh, my lord, I hardly know how to thank 1!” she murmured. Then give me your hand, and tell me that Vd will trust me,” he said, E Sho placed her hand in his: he retained it or r a moment, then raised it to his lips. oe an angry exclamation, she snatched it Tord Cosgravo laughed. “TJ can tell you that Miss Mabel would not re SO at me if I were to kiss her hand,” he cee Testead of answering, she rose, and began to walk: quickly in the direction of the hcuse, _ Are you angry with me?” he asked, over- king her, and walking by her side. ” “s py ecity did not mean to vex you. Will “ you forgive me, and let us be friends?” iow can there be friendship between us, lord? Remember that you are a noble- “TJ ean appeal to nothing but your pity, my’ ,, While I am nothing Lettcr than a ser- ~ ee ‘Friends or enemies, Miss He: eee your choice.” Eva trembled, and turned pale. Just then, steps were heard approaching. . “Twill leave you now,” he said, ‘It would not do for us to be seen here together. But remember that what I know remains a secret only so long as I shall choose to continue silent.” He disappeared behind the trees, and scarce- ly was he out of sight when, round a turn of the walk, appeared Mabel Grantham, CHAPTER IV. : THE two girls stood opposite each other in. silence. Eva’s looks were fixed on the ground, while Mabel was watcbing the governess's flushed cheeks and trembling hands, which were playing nervously with one of the crape folds of ber dress. “Thardly expected to find you here, Miss Taylor,” she said, presently. ‘Have you been exploring the park?” “7? Thad nothing to do, as Janie went out with her mother,” stammered Eva; “so 3 came here to read.” **T do not see any book.” “My book? Oh, I must have left it on the seat. I will go back for it.” She turned and hastily retraced her steps,.. Mabel following. The book was not on the seat, but was lying on the ground beside it. Eva picked it up, and began to smooth out the crumpled leaves. “May Linquire who your companion was, Miss Taylor?’ inquired ‘Mabel, watching Ler suspiciously. Eva looked quite as guilty as she felt, and her confusion did not escape Mabel. “Well,” she repeated, “‘ who was with you here?” “T was by myself, Miss Grantham.” It was the first direct untruth which she re- membered ever having told, and she apage it falteringly, and wit! difficulty. *‘ Really,” said Mabel, incredulously, eT was quite certain that I heard voices as I game along. «Have Mrs. Grantham and Janie returned yet?” asked Eva, anxious to change the subject. “Yes; they came home more than half an hour ago,” “Then I must hurry back.” “Tt would be no harm for you to doso; and, indeed, I believe some of the serva ts have been sont to look for you. Our uncle has driv- en over from the Elms tosee us, Janie isa great pet of his, and he has been asking tor — her governess.” “The Elms?” exclaimed Eva, starting back, “Yes; do you fing anything strange in the name?” Oe ee ee a
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I was thinking of The Elms—a place “No; fn Darkshire.” r “Then it must be the same. We are on the borders of Darkshire here.” “ And your uncle is?” “Sir Henry Tremayne.” How Eva reached the house she hardly knew. Her brain seemed to whirl round, and she found it impossible to collect her thoughts. But one idea was uppermost in her mind—she was about to meet the man whom her father had so greatly wronged, between whose life and her own there was so mysterious a link. As inadream she followed Mabel to the drawing-room. She knew that Mrs. Grantham was speaking to her, and that her voice sound- ed less cold than usual; but had not the faint- est idea what s!> was saying. Then she fe, her hand cordially grasped, and heard a kind, manly voice say, ‘‘I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Miss Tay- lor! My visit to-day is intended principally for you” y “You are very kindy” she said; and looked up. She'saw a tall, spare-figure, slightly bent; a countenance which must once have been very handsome, but now deeply furrowed with care, and with an expression of settled melan- choly. His hair was white as snow, yet Eva knew that he could hardly have passed his fif- tieth year, and a bitter pain shot through her heart as she fuily realized, for the first timé, what a wreck that unknown crime of her father’s must have made of his cousin’s life, “My sister has promised-to let Janie come . over to luncheon to-morrow, and spend the rest of the day with me, Miss Taylor,” Sir Henry said. ‘¢ You must come too, and I will promise to do my best not to let you find the society of av old man stupid.” “Tt is never stupid at The Elms, uncle Hen- ry,” said Janie, passing her hand through his arm, ‘You always make the time pass so quickly. I am very glad we are going there to-morrow.” ; The door opened, and Lord Cosgrave saun- tered intothe room, The greeting between him and Sir Henry Tremayne was formal and dis- tant in the extreme. He did not take the least Notice of Eva, but began to talk in a low voice to Mabel. ““T hope you had a pleasant walk in the park this afternoon?” Eva heard her say, “What do you mean? I was not there at all.” was the reply. _ “You surprise me, I thought I saw you going down in that direction after luncheon.” “Yes; I did go down in that direction, as I wanted to go home across the fields; but I was not in the park,” he answered. ** Home} * . is Paseo 22 eee ey vie Ve epee heats BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. You certainly do not mean to tell . | Af , ; cane me that you walked to Weodlawn and back — this hot day?’ said Mabel, fixing her black — eyes on his face. pat | “YT do mean to tell you that I walkedthere ' and back,” he answered, smiling. ; | “And left your horse standing in the — stable?” ' “Yes; is there anything so strange in that? | It is over six miles by the road, aad only one and a half across the fields.” dps ‘‘-You have often ridden across the fields?” _ “‘ By taking several fences; but Stella hurt her foot the other day, and I did not care to make her jump.” Mabel said no more; but it seemed to Eva ~ | that she did not look convinced, ae Lord Cosgrave’s property adjoined that of the Granthams. j Bh Woodlawn was one of the finest places in | the neighborhood; and, when the young noble- man had come of age, his rent-roll was a very rz 4 _ large one; but some ten or fifteen years of reck- less dissipation and extravagance had left | affairs in a state of almost hopeless embarr | ment. tus There seemed but one way of saving him — from ruin—a rich marriage; and for some | time past he had seriously thought of propos | to Mabel Grantham. But to-day a better pros- — pect had opened before him; and he turned his _ steps homeward with a triumphant smile. “T must contrive to be better acquainted with that little governess,” he said to himself. — ‘She is not one to stand any nonsense, I feel sure of that, and I like her all the better __ for it; but at any rate, I know how to make her treat me civilly. There certainly is a — strong flavor of romance about the whole business, but I must take care that I amnob running after a will-o.the-wisp; that would be rather awkward, with the Jews closing round = me like a set of harpies. Why is not Mabel Grantham like her? {could be sure ofa good round sum in that quarter, without any fur- ther difficulty. 1a that young lady would be only too become Lady Cosgrave if I chose to askher, and will be vather disappointed if I do not, But if I were to marry any one from choice, it would be the governess!” “3 Then he laughed aloud. ie | &T do believe I am falling in love,” he thought, ‘ but certainly I cannot do better than sift this matter to the utmost; andifTam right, | may yet save the old castle from com- ~- eo ing t the hammer, and have a charming wife Baa into the bargain.” 4 An@ he reined in his horse on the topofa hill, and surveyed the castellated building, just i visible among the trees of the demesne which lay before him, tqias) :
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to their tasks next morning. Janie’s oughts were fully occupied with the antici- _ pated pleasure of a visit to The Elms; while _her governess was unusually nervous and dis- turbed, and found it impossible to fix ber at- oF tention on her uncongenial work, _“Can I trust bini? ‘Will he betray me?’ was ya the thought which had racked her brain on through the long hours of a sleepless night, and which now made her tremble and start at every unexpected sound. The words, Re- : “member that what I know remains a secret ‘eahoed, and re-echoed in her ears, and she saw me how completely she was at this man’s mercy. see * At tad she had pect ibe to believe him a to hee as he had done by his sense of duty to- ward Mrs. Grantbam; but now the conviction as gradually strengthening in her mind that * make her feel his power over hoy $ principal object bad been to frighten her, 1 to make her frel his power over her, 1en would come the remembrance of meet- ing with Mabel Grantham, and the knowledge that the young lady’s suspicions had been used. The evident pleasure with which she d the notice of Eva, who felt sure that she 1d be closely watched in future. _ might really let me stop now,” exclaimed anie, suddenly closing her book, "and pu r chair back from the table. “Very well,” Eva answered; “half iu. wour Pesca or less cannot make a great deal of differ- ce for one day.” _ “What is the matter with you, Miss Tay- lor?” Janie asked, looking curiously at her gov- ; ~ erness. ‘Do you not want to go to The Elms to-day?’ ... “There is nothing the matter!” she answer- , almost sharply; “and, of course, I am very much obliged to your uncle for bis invita- fevtion.” She rose, and, standing by the window, rested her head on her hand. “‘ How will it all y _ end?—shall I ever be free from this mystery oh and deceit?” she asked herseif. “And a voice seemed to answer: In about an hour Eva and Janie started for fom Eastgrove. . - ° © So this was once my father’s home?” thought Eva, as the carriage rolled up the long -uvenue, and stopped before a low, irregular ar tb rather out of repair. : The shutters of many of the windows were ed, the walls discolored, and partly covered wh ole pe bad an “uncared-for and ‘neglected > - ns aL Neither pupil nor teacher paid miacte atten- ived Lord Cosgrave’s attentions had not es- | principal object had been to frighter her | | the powerful strokes of the boatmen impelling “It is nearly one o’clock, Miss Taylor; you | appearance. Still it was a lovely spot, more picturesque perhaps in its desolation than it had been when the hand of man had ruled supreme. Now nature alone bore sway, and a lover of wild, untamed beauty would have reveled in the unchecked luxuriance of the scene, Sir Henry was waiting at the hall door to receive them. He gave them a cordial wel- come, and brought them into a small but com- fortably furnished dining-room, where lunch- — eon was prepared. Nothing could have been more friendly than his manner to Eva, but she felt awkward and constrained; his kindness only served to make her utterly miserable, and never had the bur- den of her father’s unknown crime weighed _ more heavily on her. ; “}f he only knew!? she thought. ‘It seems so base and hypocritical to accept his hospitali- ty, and yet what can I do?” ‘* Would you care for a row up the river, Miss Tayler?’ Sir Henry asked, when luncheon _ was over. “‘Oh, yes, please, uncle!” exclaimed Janie, eagerly answering for her governess, ‘‘I am sure sbe would enjoy it; I bave been telling her how lovely it is.” They went down together to the place where the boat was moored, and soon were skimming along the smooth, clear surface of the river, them rapidly against the current, “This is slmost my only amusement, Miss Taylor,” said Sir Henry. ‘Every fine after- noon I spend some hours on the water. And, _ indeed, the weather must be very severe, that ! ean keep me altogether from it.” ' companions my books and my boat.” | | i | “her head low over the side of the boat, in -order to hide the tears which she could not re- “Never!” | e Elms, which was only a few miles distant | “peor ch'ld!” he said, with a smile. | “‘ Do you remain all the year at The Elms?” | she asked. “‘T rarely leave it now. ‘Years ago I travel- ed, until variety lost its charms for me. Now I almost lead the life of a recluse, my only There was a tone of intense sadness in his Jook and voice as he said this, and Eva bent strain. ‘‘When I grow up, uncle, I will come to live with you,” said Janie; ‘‘ you will not be so lonely then.” “You would find me rather dull company, “Tt does very well to come to me for an afternoon now and then, but you would soon grow tired of living here.” “T think not,” Janie said; ‘‘and you know I love the river quite as much as you do.” — Sir Henry was by no means a melancholy companion, Rousing himself, as if by an effort, he spoke on various subjects, Graduaily —
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Tiva’s oddnaiad vantilied, and aie fone aie i self talking to him quite freely. Once he asked her some trivial question about ber past life, but when he saw hey look of pain he dropped the subject at once, and afterward carefully avoided any allusion to it. E A change seemed to have come over Janie;. she was not like the same child as when at home, she was so gay and affectionate in her | manner toward her uncle. : “T thought her stupid and uninteresting,” - Eva said to herself; ‘‘but 1 suppose the fault was mine, because I did not understand her. I only tried to do my duty toward her, but now I mean to make her love me.” “We have nearly an hour before dinner,” ‘said Sir Henry, as they were returning to the house. ‘What had we better do?’ “Let us go to the portrait-gallery,” said Janie; “‘I never get tired of looking at the grand old knights and beautiful ladies there.” So to the portrait-gallery (hey went. It was a long, narrow chamber, extending along one entire wing of the house. Knights in their coats of mail, gallants in court dress, stately ‘ dames and fair young beauties, looked down on them from their canvas frames. To Janie they all seemed like old friends; she * : had some remark to make about each, or some 3 incidents in their lives to tell. f “How do you know so much about these people, who were dead long years before you were born?” her uncle asked at last. °“T make Mrs. Jones tell me,” answered Janie, looking very wise. “That is my grandfather,” said Sir Henry, pausing as they reached the middle of the gal- ler With eager interest Eva examined the stern visage of the old baronet; bis broad, high fore- head, heavy brows, cold gray eyes and tightly- drawn mouth, filled her with a feeling almost akin to fear. : “Ts your portrait here?” she asked, turning to Sir Henry. Ps “There I am; would you recognize me?” about the same age, standing armi-in-arm, a large mastiff lying on the ground at their feet. They were very like each other, but the looks of the one were thoughtful and earnest, those of the other bright and restless. “That is meant for yous ’ she said, pointing to the former. “Yes; and the other one is my cousin, Fe ee re ret te at have : He, probably, is dead, and I am the last of my name.” Little did he think that the girl standing be-_ ; side him was a scion of his ancient race, She saw before her two lads, apparently | Mark. We parted in anger years ago, and I ingly. heard nothing whatever of him since. | “Tr you please, Sir Honeys vba wants to speak to you for a few minu the Baronet’s housekeeper, appearing door of the gallery. “Very well, Mrs, Jones,” he saiwerae. iss him I am coming.” Then turning to Eva nd Janie, he added: ‘ Will you excuse me tor short time? There are some portraits at other side which Miss Taylor has not yeh. perbaps she might care to look at them.’ “Come this way,” said Janie, Jaying hand on her governess’s arm as soon as he uncle was out of sight. “There is a roo1 here I want so much to see.” e She drew her toward a room at the furt end of the gallery. There was a key i lock; turning it, she went in, Eva ‘fot her. They found themselves in a small, room, the only turniture of which arm-chair and a table, Three of the were covered with well-filled book-shelves the fourth hung the portrait of a lovely woman, dressed in a simple white dress, only ornament a spray of white jessami | her breast. She was bending over a crad which lay a child, several months old; i iS was radiant with "smiles, and its plump bi ' had clutched one of the long, golden its mother’s hair, “Those are his wife and child,” — | Janie; ‘‘I wauted to see them so meh, never Jets any one but Mrs, Jones come: | She knew his wife, and told me that Lady | mayne was the most beautiful young oe u to be found any where,” “ And what became of her?” “She and the baby died about a year | | that picture was painted, and he has never re- | covered the shock, He comes up here eve day, he says to read, but Mrs. Jones belie | he is grieving for his wie, and thinking ") the past.” | ‘Did she die suddenly?” Eva asked, ¥ | terest fully aroused. “‘T don’t know. I never eould get any to tell me about her, except Mrs. Jones, a: she does not like speaking of her. y mamma once what happened to her, b got very avgry, and told me that I naughty, inquisitive child, so I was afrai ; to say anything more.” ; Ts she not lovely? How afflicting it 1 have been to him to lose her!” mee =< er ‘Far worse than death!” a Both started. It was Sir Henry who. said that, and he was standing beside them, : ef Why did you come in here, Jani _asked, sternly, with a look of anger in his. which she had never seen there before, ‘ oie Sass } aor ans eae ee ate ae
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uncle, I am so sorry if you are angry; wanted so much to see the picture, ~~ You thought that I should never know anything about it?” he interrupted. “I did eet this from you!” : he hung her head, and did not answer. ‘I fear we have done very wrong, Sir ney, said Eva, timidly; ‘“‘can you forgive ‘Tt was not your fault,” he replied; “but | ne, dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” He let them pass out, locked the door, and ut the key in his.pocket. __ © Unele, Lam so very sorry!” Janie said, pen- mtly, taking his hind. . bent down and kissed her. ‘Say no more about it, dear. But do not orgot again that there are some sacred shrines, which we cannot bear those even whom | © best to enter.” Nothing more was said, and from his man- uring dinner, no one would have supposed anything had happened to disturb him. terward they went into a large paneled ing-room; the furniture was costly but ashioned, and the silk and velvet fittings faded and discolored. Tho sun had set, | @ shadowy twilight gave the room a e, almost ghost-like look. | “You are a musician, I believe, Miss Tay- ? Sir Henry said. ‘‘ Wiil you sing or play thing?” : With pleasure, if you care to listen.” “J Jove music! Shall I ring for tights?? No, thank you; I like singing in the twi- act 7? had a remarkable talent, for, with cely any training, she nad acquired an ex- on and brilliancy suck as ome seldom with an amateur; and now, forgetful of hing else, her hands wandered slowly ‘the keys, awakening low, sweet echoes gh the lofty room; then a voice, tremb- | _ ling and uncertain at first, took up the strain; | but it gradually gathered strength and power, ausing her listener to forget everything save , wild melody. | © do not stop; sing something more,” id, almost impatiently, as she paused. | so she went on, almost unconsciously, e summer twilight had well-nigh deep- ito night. ceased, and there was unbroken silence room. nie had stolen away to spend half an hour the old housekeeper. Sir Henry sat, his stood beside him, ‘There was just light enough for her to see that his frame was quivering, as though with some violent emotion. “Are you ill?” she asked, anxiously. He rose slowly, and placed his hands on her shoulders, : . “TY am not ill,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice; ‘‘but this eyening the past has come back to me with painful reality. There wasa time when one—she whose ‘portrait you saw to- day—used tosing to me in the gloaming, as * you have been doing, and, for a few moments I almost believed that she was there again, in _ her old place, that the tragedy which made me what I am was but some fevered dream, Such fancies. come to me sometimes, and, | oh! the sense of desolation which follows the awakening is almost enough to drive me ' mad?’ Janie’s step was heard in the hall. Sir Henry resumed his place, A few min- utes later, he and his niece were engaged in an _ animated conversation. Eva sat silent and thoughtful, a dull, aching pain in her heart. Had she found any clew to the mystery of the sealed package? “Miss Taylor,” said Janie, as they were driving home, ‘‘do you not like uncle Henry?” “Yes; very much.” “ And Iam sure he likes you. I heard him asking you to go there very soon again. That _is a great compliment from him.” “Ts it?” “Yes; he generally dislikes strangers so much, and hardly ever asks any one to The Elms. People say that he is a very strange old man. Do you think he is?” ‘‘ He may be strange, but he is very nice.” Then neither spoke again until they had reached Eastgrove, Just as Eva was stepping out of the carriage, the hall door opened, and a gentleman came down the steps. ’ I One glance served to show her that it was Lord Cosgrave. He raised his hat as she pass- ed him; she bowed as stiffly as possible, White as a sheet, she hurried through the hall and up to her own room, : Looking nervously round, she unfolded a small piece of paper, there were only a few words written on it, but there was the wild, frightened look of a hunted animal about her as she read them, “May I come in to say good-night?” said Janie, softly opening the door, 4 She started back as she saw the governess, Then, coming up to her, she put her arms around her. “Why do you look so miserable, Miss Tay- — “Do you not like being lor?’ she asked, here?’ —— se S.,CUl ee el Pe a ee
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‘er veoh -.”6hlUurLL eo 7 « Like it! on the rack!” Eva exclaimed. Then, startled by her own words, she added, “I have not very much to make me happy, Janie. It is very hard to be quite alone in the world, with- out a.single friend.” “Tt is very hard,” Janie said, softly; “ but. I like you very much, Miss Taylor, and I know I could be very fond of you if you would let me. care for me much, and I want very badly to have some one to love me.” The next moment Eva was sobbing bitterly, her head resting on the shoulder of the girl whom she had fancied a stupid, uninteresting Fg with whom her only connection was 4 ull, monotonous routine of lessons. Ah, little do we dream what treasures often lie at our feet, and how we overlook them! “‘T cannot tell you much about unyself or my troubles, Janie,” said Eva, at last raising her head; “but I shall be far less unhappy now that I know that there is some one who really cares for me.” ‘‘Miss Taylor, do you mean it?” _ “Yes, dear, I do !? “But Tam only a child. If I were grown up I might be able to do. something for you.” “ Love me, Janie; you could not do more for me than that.” “Tndeed I will, Miss Taylor,” Janie answer- ed, earnestly. And, from that moment, a friendship, deep, firm, and lasting, sprung up between teacher and pupil. Sorely indeed did Eva need some one to love and comfort her, for after that day her life was a constant martyrdom, “The note which Lord Cosgrave had slipped into her hand required her to meet him at an early hour in the park next morning, and she dared not disobey. “ Good-morning! I was beginning to fear you would disappoint me; it is past the time I mentioned,” was the greeting with which he met her. “Why did you ask me to come here, my lord?” se inquired. “Why, simply for the pieasure of seeing you and talking to you. I never have the chance of speaking half a dozen words to you during the day; so that our only plan is to meet here in the morning.”’ “T do not see the necessity of our meeting at all,” Eva answered, flushing angrily. - ; Oh, but Ido,” he replied, fixing on her a Jook of undisguised admiration, “I thought we settled, the other day, that we were to b© pated and detested him, and yet dared friends.” ' «You certainly are giving me peculiar marks of your friendship,” Eva answered, bit- terly. “What do you suppose I don’t think either mamma or Mabel | Ask the victim if he likes being | | before her, so as to bar her path, “and I would be were Mrs. Grantham to disco we meet here by appointment?” “ But how is she to hear it? There a: any work-people about the park at this _ and there is no One else to see us.” Re ‘Fear of Mrs. Grantham is not my reason.. I do not wish to meet you.” s “ Why not?” . : The proud blood of the Tremaynes ra Eva’s veins, yee “You think that because I ama poor, fri less governess that I have no self-respect!” sia exclaimed. ‘Our paths lie in different di tions. Can you not take yours, and leave me to follow my own in peace? Permit me to pass now, my lord. I wish to return to t house.” . “She certainly has a will of her thought Lord Cosgrave, as he placed the prospect of forcing it to bend to n Miss Taylor,” he said, ‘‘you are, of cour best judge of your own conduct, and you liberty to act as you think best; butIy you that it would be rather dangerous for to quarrel with me.” tg “T have no wish to quarrel with you ask of you is to leave me in peace.” — - “Am Ito understand from that that y will not meet me here again? se ec Yes.” ; “* Are you in earnest?” iT I am.” “You do not, then, wish for my friends! “c No.” af ‘““My enmity, then?” he said, approaching step or two nearer to her. | oie Wer courage well-nigh failed her. She si that it would indeed be dangerous to rou anger. “ Well,” he asked, as she did not “amIto be your enemy? If so, you what it means.” er “Tt means ruin!” she said, hopelessly. “1¢ does. So take your choice, Pron to do as I wish, Ido not ask much, only half an hour now and then in the morning, — Refuse me this, and I tell all to Mrs. Grantham this very day!” Ne Her pride-urged her to dare him to d worst; but fear of the consequences was str er even than pride. ies, “Bo it as you wish!” she answered. = And so she had to meet him there again ayain, in constant dread of being discov: She had to listen to his fulsome flattery expressions of undisguised admiration. — ' cross his will. Before Mrs. ever spoke to her, and that served all © and Miss Grantham he tn the result snore to make her feel how humiliating was her position, gene
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e means of escape. Many were the plans © made; but all seemed equally imprac- _ ticable, ‘and she could do nothing but live on from day to day, hoping that some happy cei might set her free from his persecu- “might be that he would grow tired bes , as he had doubtless tired of many ano! “woman, and then, perhaps, he would a her in peace; or, more probable still, might ake up his mind to propose for Mabel Gian- a whose fortune would help him very con- ( srably to clear his heavily-incumbered es- “Lord Cosgrave saw plainly how greatly she disliked him. She took no trouble to conceal xiety to win her. His was no unselfish ye, as he would fain have made ber believe, rabies supposed, and knew, too, that she bad claim on Sir Henry Tremayne which, could make it good, would render the governess ae all: was ready he would ask her to rry him. She, never dreaming that be ld have any inte: ested e wohies would 5 kts of Sir Henry icc - §uch were his plans, deeply and cleverly aid, incapable of failure, he told bimself; yet, to make all doubly sure, he resolved to seek certain parties himself, and to hear their eu with his own ears. s would entail an absence of a couple of re at the end of which time he hoped that ren dream would be near its realiza- going away for a short time. The sense freedom and security was almost enough to 2 her feel happy. Knowing that there was now no possibility of meeting him, she was able to roam about the sunlit park in the delicious morning hours; e could sit by the open school-rooin window efter Janie had gone to bed,and watch the Log omg gleaming on the trees, and grass, id listen to the wild, plaintive song of the htingales, without ‘the haunting dread of ig ts figure coming along the terrace, and ting his basilisk gaze. Sapte VI. me ; eS wildly, ‘dip jon to find © her aversion, but it only served to increase bis . eat was Eva’s joy when she heard that he now and then at luncheon, but more than. once she fancied that a look of recognition ere Ss. S “tbe question was ‘addressed to Mabel Seats tham; but her attention seemed to be too much — absorbed by her fancy-work to permit her to reply; and her mother, fixing a cold, inquiring look on her son, answered for her, “Certainly not. It is generally an wader- stood thing that the governess spends her even- ings in the school-room.” ‘“And do you never ask her in here?? — “ No. ” ~ “Not even when you have no Zusnaaian : “No; I think it better not.” “Why so? Though she is a governess, she certainly has quite the appearance of a lady.” Mrs. Grantham looked rather uncomforta- - ble. *‘T do not think it right to bring people 6ut of their proper position; and Miss Taylor would,. I fear, be only too ready to forget hers,” ’she answ ered, with some hesitation, She hardly cared to tell her son her true , reasons—namely, that she was jealous of the admiration which her pretty and attractive 4 governess excited, and also that she deemed it advisable to keep her as much cut of his way as possible. ‘‘How lonely the poor girl must be!” said Philip. ‘She has plenty to occupy her if she pre- pares properly for the next day’s lessons, — Then you must remember that I engaged Miss Taylor to teach Janay, and not to amuse her- self.” ‘*T would not like to be your governess, mo- 7 ther,” Philip answered; and in a few mir ates ; left the room, saying he would smoke a weed in the grounds, “What is it to Philip how Miss Taylor . spends her time?’ said Mabel, crossly, “I never remember his having taken any notice of Janie’s governesses before.” £ “He used to call Miss Haton a blue stock- ing, and laugh at Miss White for her affacta- tion; that is all.” “a T am certain that Miss Taylor is a flirt, 2 ‘*My dear Mabel, what grounds have you for such a supposition? She never has the op- portunity of meeting any of the gentlemen who come to the house; I take care of that. Have you seen or heard anything?” “No,” Mabel answered; ‘‘ but I do not trust ber.” Since the day when Mabel had encountered Eva in the park she had watched her rar- rowly. That was now nearly three weeks ago, yet she had failed to make any particular dis- covery. The governess and Lord Cosgrave never en- countered each other to her knowledge, except had passed between them, She bad not men- — tioned her ae ‘to her mother, ae: :
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| | thoughts. i 0 em that she might say something ‘either to Eva or | Lord Cosgrave, which, were there really any- thing going on between them, would put them on their guard. And so day after day passed. The man whose title she was so willing to share came frequently to Eastgrove. His manner was as polite and attentive as ever. Still the offer, for which she had now waited and hoped for more than a year, was not made. It had never occurred to her to look on Eva as a possible rival. The idea of bis preferring the governess to her would have seemed utter- ly ridiculous; yet she felt instinctively that Lord Cosgrave admired Eva; and that con- sciousness made Mabel hate her cordially. She longed to have scme excuse for asking her mother to dismiss Eva; kut until then it had seemed impossible to find any, for Janie , wus making far better progress with her than with any former governess. ‘Tf Philip speaks about her to mamma like that, she will not he kept here very long,” she thought; and then began to wonder how much longer Lord Cosgrave would remain away from home, and to build castles in the air as to what might bappen on his return. Meanwhile, Philip, having ligh Ma his cigar, walked slowly down the. terrace walk, which extended along one side of the house. ‘¢Shall I be able to speak to her at all,” he thought, “‘or do they watch her too closely? But I must contrive to have some talk with | her, and find out who she is, aad why she looks | so sad!” | A flood of light streamed out of one of the windows a little before him. His pulse quick- | ened, for he knew that window belonged to the school-room. Cautiously approaching he took up his posi- | tion in a place where he was screened from | view, but from which he could see the interior of the room, A large Jamp was burning on the table, books and writing materials lay scatter- ed about, but the governess had left her work, | -unbarred the shutters, and was standing by the window, gazing out into the night. From his place of concealment, Philip could watch the varying expression of the pure, lovely countenance, which, though only once | seen, he had been unable ‘to banish from his He saw her harassed, restless look, and the nervous quivering of her finely-cut lips. "But gradually the sifiievess of the night seem- ed to shed a soothing influence over her, and she smiled faintly; then, throwing up the window, leant out, and the night-breeze toyed lovingly with her bright, golden hair. Strange indeed is the power which music possesses of conjuring up images from the land of long ago, of making us live once more in the almost forgotten past. ‘ - seeavsn s SHE LOVED niu. ‘her. _ were accustomed to find him lounging over his, sar : |; they have seen him now! SEE ot SONS is Ses She left the window, and sat cee ‘iota the piano. Music, soft, dreamy, a and indistinct, 4 came floating out, blending with a rich, low voice, and, as Philip listened, the present van- . ished from his mind; he was once moreachild, sitting beside the-river in the balmy summer twilight, his head resting on the knee of a fair — and lovely lady, who was singing for him, and — him alone. He felt the soft touch of her hand on his brow as he nestled closer and closer hatte is The vision vanished; he was once more iad Ly: proud, passionate man of the world. All around was darkness; the window was. closed, — the music had ceased, and the singer had aie appeared. ¥ Pe But that night, for the first time in his life, Bes. Philip Grantham felt that he had met his fate, ‘ = — - The dewdrops were glistening on the grass and flowers, the birds were singing their moru- — ing carol among the trees, and a light, gray Se os mist, which the sun’s rays had not yet the — strength to disperse, hung on the sides of the. ~ hills as Philip left the house next morning. oe How surprised his London intimates, who breakfast at noon, would have looked could Still more surprised would they have been had they known that be had been induced to take this early wa k catching a glimpse of a woman’s dress. among ; the trees of the park. ey ‘¢ How fortunate that I should meet you here, — Miss Taylor!” he said to Eva, as he a icbpicn her on a narrow, shady path. The pale cheeks fl shed angrily; she pram | him a haughty, idtghane look, but took no no- : tice whatever of his extended hand. This was quite a new experience for him, ac- customed as he was to have his advances met with soft, flattering glances, even by tee mos celebr: ated beauties of the day. ““Your.memory seems less faithful mine,” he said, withdrawing his hand. you forget that I had the pleasure of meeting you at a reception at my mother’s house in London about a month ago?” Eva had not by any means forgotten it, but she answered coldly, ‘ Mrs, Grantham desired — me to play arf accompaniment for you, and igen . obeyed; does that constitute an acquaintance?” * “T believe she forgot to introduce us, but — does that signify so very much? Please do not — look so indignant; I really did not mean to be. papa rude when | spoke to, you just now.” “ As a gentleman, I supjose I must consider rs: you incapable of rudeness, ? Eva answered, be- ee ginning to move on, 2 Philip hesitated a moment; then, walkionges rae on beside her, said, “ At the risk of incurring © e: ne further displeasure, I must ask you ie S
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* to send me away just yet. _to you?” rushed again to her cheeks, I should like very much to know how one so her, I 6-16 7 an: ‘tego 2 _ BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. I want to’ know ‘if Tam right in supposing that my mother and eldest sister are not kind to you. This is my house, and not theirs; I am Janie’s guardian as ~ wellasmy mother; therefore think that Iam au- thorized to take an interest in her governess.” ‘You do well to remind me of my depen- dent position, Mr. Grantham,” Eva answered. “T see that Iam not to expect you to meet me as a gentleman is supposed to meet a lady, but as an employer his servant.” “‘Miss Taylor, you misunderstand me com- _ pletely. Indeed I meant to imply no such thing. A month ago I saw one whom a single glance convinced me wasa perfect lady. I saw her shamefully slighted, neglected, and spoken to as an inferior. I meet her again and my thought is that it may be in my power to make her feel that some one does not look down on her because ill- fortune -has rendered it necessary that she should become a governess, That is the simple truth, Will you pardon me now for having taken the liberty of speaking “Certainly, Mr. Grantham. to take offense where none was intended.” “Then we will say no more about it, Will “you let me ask you a few questions about yourself? Not from curiosity, believe me,” he added, quickly, seeing how the hot blood “But I confess young—” -He paused, as though at a loss how to finish - his sentence. “Why a girl not nineteen yet, and with the appearance of a lady, is obliged to earn her own bread?’ she said, With a bitter smile, **T can answer that question in a few words. My father was poor, but of good family; he died a couple of months ago, and I had no choice but to work or starve. There is but one course open to a girl circumstanced as I was— to turn governess, whether she has any talent ekOr teaching or not. But no one seems to think about that. ** will not ask whether you have the talent you speak of. I hear that Janie has been making great progress with you.” ‘*T do my best to get her on, and I am real- ly ver Se of the child; did I not care for ardly think I could stand stich a life,” “You must find it terribly lonely?” “Rather. It is hard to have to fight life’s battle entirely by one’s self. ‘‘ Have you no other relations{—no friends?” “None.” He looked as though he were going to ask her something more; but changed his mind, and said, ‘Do you know that you gave mea wonderful treat yesterday evening?” I was foolish , . * How so?” | a i | + heppentd to be on the terrace while you were singing in the school-room.” “You! I had no idea.” “Of course you had not. But how stupid of me to tell you; I might have had the same pleasure this evening.” “Y-very seldom sing, except when I go to The Elms; there I do it to please Sir Henry.” Philip started, and gave her a long, search- ing look. “Strange!” he said to himself. felt it, too? ‘You seem to have been very well taught,” he said, aloud. “No, Ifear not. As a governess, I suppose I ought to be asbamed to confess it; but I hardly know how I learned—it seemed almost to come of itself.”’ *‘ Were you never at school?” ‘Oh, no; at least, never more than for a few months at a time, when I was quite a child; but my father took a great deal of trouble with me, and used to make me read and study with him when he had any spare time.” ** Where did you live?” “In different places. But it is getting late, I must not®emain out any longer.” Tt is not half-past eight yet.” “No matter. Janie and I breakfast at nine, and then begin lessons at once. I have a good deal to do this morning, as I did not correct her exercise last evening” He went back part of the way with hr, stopping when they were almost in view of the house. “ Perhaps I had better not go any further,” he said. ‘But will you take an early walk to- morrow?” She shook her head. ‘*Please do. I shall be on the watch for ou.” She walked quickly toward the house; he watched her until she was out of sight, and then retraced his steps toward the other end of the park. He met her again at luncheon; but his mother’s looks when he attempted to engage her in conversation warned him that it would be not only wiser, but kinder, to refrain from taking much notice of her in company. “T shall see her again to-morrow morning,” he thought. But he was mistaken; it was in vain that he watched and waited, for she did not come. “Has he CHAPTER VII. “Ir certainly is rather hard to live in the same house with a person with whom one can- not exchange half a dozen words from morning till night,” was Philip Grantham’s angry oe Fate had been rather unpropitious to ‘him;
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BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. he had been at Eastgrove for four days, and, | with the exception of his conversation with — = That i is evading the isle. ‘Have Is sai or done anything to make. you dislike or me : Eva on the morning after bis arrival, had had tryst me?” no opportunity of speaking to her alone. He saw plainly that she avoided him, and was angry with her for it, and still more angry | with himself for minding it. What was this girl to him? he would ask himself 4gain and again. Young, rich, and handsome, he had but to make his choice among the noblest and fairest of the land. So argued reason; but his heart told him that no woman could ever be hal so dear to him as this charming gover- ness. well. found it impossible to shake off, made her mother feel so uneasy that the family doctor was summoned, “ A holiday, and change of air for a few weeks, would do her more good than any of my physic,” was his opinion; and, at Sir Henry’s urgent request, it was arranged that she and the governess should pay him a short visit. “Ts it not delightful here? Would you not like to live here always?” said Janie to Eva, as they strolled along by the river-side. Eva did not answer, but she felt that here she could be almost happy. Treated as a welcome visitor by a kind and courteous host, free to pass her time as she pleased, feeling that her pupil’s love for her was daily strengthening, she tried to forget her troubles, and to live only in the present. Now and then she thought that the delicious, ~ ‘dreamy existence must soon craw to an end; but she would try resolutely to banish that fear, and shut out the memory of the man who held her fate in his hands, and who of late had used his power so as to make her bend com- pletely to his will, Here she knew that, even when he should return home, she would be free from his persecutions; the master of The Elms regarded him with unfeigned dislike, and as long as she was at that’ place her persecutor could not intrude his unwelcome presence on her. “Here are uncle Henry and Philip!” ex- claimed Janie, in accents of intense pleasure, as she perceived two figures ccming toward them., She ran forward to meet them, while Eva followed more slowly. Philip’s greeting was polite, but distant, and Eva felt rather embarrassed as Janie, having passed her arm through her uncle’s, walked on with him. ‘“¢Why have you avoided me so persistent- ly?’ Philip asked Eva, ane uptly after some minutes’ silence. “Why should you suppose that I avoided you, Mr, Granthan?” | | to jom her and Janie in their morning walk; he generally made ‘one of the party in the ‘lite , tle boat as it shot along under the overbangi “No.” ; pee ‘i ie ‘Then what is your reason?” ia “ Since you press me so hard, I He SoS . > must give it. You know perfectly well that before your mother and sister you cannot treat me as your equal; and neither my sense of on duty nor self-respect would permit me to. meet x you on a different footing when they are not Pia, present.” ‘“There certainly is truth in what you oa 4 | he said; *‘ but while you m uncle’s visitor, + For some time past, Janie had been far from | ee parce Sit ie ot A severe cold, which the delicate child | I hope that we may be able to see something each other.” And before her stay at The Elms came to end, Philip and Eva had seen a great deal each other. Hardly a day passed the greater part of which he did not spend there; he used trees, or between grassy banks fringed with | Sir Henry had grown of her—the daughter | the man who bad wrecked his happiness; ago!” she used to say to herself, aga | return to Eastgrove!” Philip said to her, forget: -me-nots and water-lilies; and ofte the evening, as she sung to Sir Hea twilight, he would steal into the room, a listening with that vague, undefined fe that her voice was the echo of one which had heard in childhood. “How Sir Henry will miss you when : day, as they were walking together. “ seems almost as fond of you as he is of Jani: ‘¢He has been very kind to me indeed, answered, quietly; and Philip little guessed what pain his words had caused, She knew | ma that he had spoken the.truth; knew how fond could not but return that affection, and thought of how she was deceiving nin Vy misery to her, eye “jf I had only given him that packagi again. ‘But it is too late now, it—I cannot bear the thought of how he W hate me for being his child!” “ Just look at that house!” said Pbilip, pa u ing before the dilapidated old building. ‘ it not a* fit symbol of its master—a nob ven wreck, stately and grand even in its ruing? — = “Do you remember him before—bet bad changed to what he is now?’ Eva’ speaking with trembling tones. 5 “Not very well. I was only a boy ice happened; but I have a perfect recollectio my aunt. I was a petted darling of her she used to have me a great deal with her, — never grew tired of watching her. Iu: think that she was like an angel, IES The words, “Will you tell me all the stor +)
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trembled on Eva’s lips, but she had not the courage to utter them, and after that day she and Philip did not speak about Sir Henry’s a misfortune again. Far too soon the time fixed for the termina- tion of the visit arrived. “JT cannot bear to think that we are to go ack to Eastgrove tomorrow, ” said Janie, sad- 7, on the morning * of the last day they e to pass at The Elms. ‘‘ But here comes lip. Are you ready, Miss Taylor? I think he wants you and me to drive with him to the ruined abbey.” Eva was ready, and, in little more than an our, they had reached the ruins of what had ae once “been a fine old abbey, but now was little _ more than a mass of broken arches and walis, round which the ivy twined itself in untamed iXuriance, “How funnily those children are dressed!” said Janie, pointing to two little girls, who were sitting on a pile of rubbish, eagerly de- - -youring some food. Their dresses were bright red, but stained id tattered, and they wore a quantity of col- _ beads twisted round their necks, and among the matted locks of their dusky hair, “They must be Gipsies,” said Philip. “I vs ener hearing that there was an encamp, ment in the neighborhood. They have evi- deny come for the scraps left here by some Pp sea party.” Just then a tall, dark woman appeared from ‘behind a corner, and came toward them. er your fortunes told, my pretty ladies andsome gentleman?” she said. , yes, please!” cried Janie. “I have so to have my fortune told by a Gipsy. y hand; now begin!” The hi hand must be crossed first, missie.” zee Oh, dear! I have no money.” Here is some,” said Philip, taking out his 2; “though it is, indeed, a shame to en- ) you in such nonsense. ” hat Isee here is no nonsense,” retorted sy. ‘There is a bright future before my little lady. You have a good, kiud and will be rewarded yet for kindness wn to some who needed it. I can see you years to come with a group of fair-haired a rp mark my words; pride can never bring true happiness—love can. And then—” “No more!” he said, snatching his hand away. ‘Miss Taylor, have ae any ambition to hear your fortune?” “‘No, thank you,” said fives shrinking back. “Oh, yes, you must!” exclaimed Janie, ‘‘T am sure she will tell you something very nice.” After a little more hesitation her hand was laid in the Gipsy’s, crossed by a piece of ae from Philip’s purse. “Strange, confused lines!” the woman ‘ita: tered; “‘troubles past and troubles to come; secrets dark and dread, which, sooner or later, must come to the light of day. You are loved, my lady, passionately, fiercely; and there is one man of whom you must beware. One so young and fair bas no right to-have secrets, and yours may be your ruin. Heavy clouds are gathering round you, but behind them there is a glimmer of light. The sun might yet pierce through them; yes, I am sure it will, But take warning from the Gipsy —whatever it may cost you, speak the truth.” She left them, and calling the children, moved slowly toward the forest on the bor- ders of which the ruins lay. No remark was made about Eva’s fortune, for both Philip and Janie saw how she trembled, and how ghastly pale she had grown. ‘*Shall we return now, or do you wish to remain here any longer?” Philip asked her. “ Let us go back at once, if you please.” The horse, impatient at being kept waiting so long, was pawing the ground, and it was with considerable difficulty that Janie and Eva were able to get into the tax-cart. Then it started off at a brisk pace, and it seemed to | Eva that it gave Philip no little trouble to keep ' the animal in hand. On they went at an ever-increasing speed, trees and hedges whirling past, Philip’s face ' growing whiter and whiter, the veins on his temples changing into thick, knotted ropes, “Ts the entrance gate open?’ Such was the thought which occurred to each of them as they neared The Elms, but none spoke. Round a sharp corner they dashed. Their last hope was gone; the gate was shut! A sudden shock, a crash, a heavy fall, and Eva remembered no more. ‘‘Speak to me, darling—speak to me! Tell _ me that I have not killed you!” Such were the words which sounded in her ears, dreamy and in indistinct as a far-off sound. Slowly her eyes opened. Philip was bend- ing over her in agonized suspense. “Thank Heaven,*you are safe!” he whisper- ed, as she smiled faintly. |
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4 a wee « Janie—what of her?’ was her first ques- tion. i “Do not trouble about Janie; she was not hurt in the least, so ] sent her to the house for help. But do you feel any pain? Do you think you could stand?” “‘T think so; I believe Iam not burt.” Gently he assisted her to rise. ‘*Not much haru: done,” she said. ‘‘T feel better now, only my head aches a good deal. git look at your horse!” For the splendid animal was lying dead be- side them, the shivered fragments of the tax- cart scattered around. , * And do you imagine that I think of the horse for one moment now that 1 know you ‘are safe?’ he exclaimed. ‘‘Wbten I saw you lying thereI felt as if 1 should gomad. But take my arm, and let me help you to the house, My uncle will be in a sad friglit about you.” The accident had happened at the back en- trance gate, and they had not far to walk to the house. When about hall-way they met Janie, Sir Henry, and some of the servants. “She is coming! she is coming!” cried Janie. : “ And I thought she was killed!” “She had a wonderful escape,” Philip said, gravely. at the side of the lane ,the blow, in all proba- bility, would have been fatal.” CHAPTER VIII. “Sprak tome, darling! Tell me that I have | not killed you!” Was it a dream, or had she really heard those words from Philip Grantham’s lips? Eva asked herself, as, late in the afternoon, she sat’ by the drawing-room window. She was all alone, Janie and her uncle hay- ing gone to take their last row on the river. They had been very unwilling to leave her, but she had begged them to go, feeling that she would far rather be by herself. Had he really spoken those words? No, it could not be; and yet the fancy, if fancy it were, had seemed so real, And for a few brief moments a picture of wondrous beauty rose be- fore her mind—a picture of love and trust, and a strong arm to lean on—of one who henceforth would stand between her and all the ills of life. But scarcely was the castle in the air built when it fell in ruins at her feet. there never could be such-happiness; she must pass through life alone, shut out from the lot of other women by those two dark, miserable secrets. = Why had she ever come to The Elms? Why — had she been showna glimpse of the paradise into which she never might en er? She had known all along that sooner or later it must; come to an end; she had known that the child who still plays with the fire which is ’ The vain sophistry with which she had strive “Had ber head struck on the stones | For her | : already darting its lurid tongues amon “4 clothes could be called wise when compared to her; she had shut her eyes to her dang ing herself that she only theught of bim | friend, that it was nothing more than friend- ship which had made their intercourse so sweet, — But the delusion could be kept up no longer. to drown the voice of conscience could no Ic ger avail her anything. ..It was hard, terril hard, but it was her lot, and she must face bravely. < nb hes _ Sheinust not. meet Philip again.as she bad been accustomed to meet him of late; must never listen to the voice which had become 1 music to her; must never watch for the kin smile as he spoke to her. All must be at ¢ end 1ow—all must be changed. She wot meet him now and then, but never onee as her. The battle with her heart would | very hard one, but she resolved to fig bravely. oak iat aie And yet in that moment of anguish the was no feeling of bitterness or reproach aga him for whose sins she was suffering. _ And, even as these thoughts passed her mind, Philip was coming nearer and | He saw the well-known figure by the ope dow. A minute or two later he was sta beside her. a He took her trembling hands in his, gezed at her for some time without spe: She knew that she would need all her co now. fa) Oak In low, broken words he told her all— he had loved her from the first momen seen her; how he had tried to conqt love, which had become part of his ver He did not hide from’ her that pride ¢ had bade him forget her, and seek a e among those who were his equals in th eS | the world. Each time he had come to ' he had determined should be the last, b irresistible power had brought him to her a and again, That very morning he had ~ himself that all intercourse with her sh now come to an eud; but in that moment, he almost feared that he had lost her fo pride, ambition, and all thought of wha world might say, had vanished, and love gained the day. sa | “Do not fear that I shall ever regret w am now saying,” he concluded. “T am no | hurried away by blind passion. I have earn-_ estly refiected. I have weighed everything, and know that nothing which the world has to | offer can for one moment “be compaz your love; that, parted from you, 3 would be utterly worthless; that bad | dredfold as much as I possess to offer, I
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= zat a . sak value it because I could a it at your feet.” ke ‘She heard him to the end; and then, without raising her head, said, scarcely above a whisper, ‘but every word distinct: “ Mr. Grantham, I thank you most sincerely for the honor you ¥ have done me. No words of mine could make you understand how grieved I am that you _ should have cared forme. Try to forget that you ever saw me.” _ “Eva, you cannot surely mean it? Am I to understand that I am nothing to you?—that ais -you find it impossible to love me?” he exclaim- ed, in tones of amazement and vexation, AO “T mean what I ato Please go, now. This is equally painful to both,” she answered, quickly. rf “JT will not go until I know your true rea- son. What is there to hinder you from be- - coming my wife?’ TJ can never be your wife, Mr. Grantham!” ‘ «“ Why not? I will know!” “T cannot tell you my reasons.” Ts it because you do not love me?” he de- | _ manded. She was silent. The beautiful head bent wer and lower, and he could not see her face; paces Ts it “es you do not love me?” he ask- % ed again; but no answer came. | How sho longed for the power to say the : words “T do not love you—I never can care for you but as a friend.” But those words Ses she could not say—she dared not. “TJ have not deceived myself, then!” he ex- cs claimed, falling on his knees beside her, and clasping his arms round her waist. ‘She struggled to release herself but he would ot let her go. *“‘Thave not deceived myself,” he went on. _“Iknow—I feel that you love me, What there, then, to rrevent our happiness? Am not my own master? Am I not free to arry whom I choose? Are you thinking of iy mother? She has no voice whatever in the . What do we two care for her dis- leasure? Do not fear that all my family ll look coldly on you. My uncle knows all; ‘I told him to-day, and he said it made bim feel so happy; and Janie, 1 know, loves you e an elder sister. And we shall have each other, Eva. You must promise to be mine, I will take no denial.” ; wer cannot promise; I can never be yours.” _ He sprung to his feet, strode up and down i Gosbon oe the room two or three times; then, _ stopping before her, said, ‘‘ Tell me the rea- ag on of this, Eva, I demand to know. It is my right.” s eBhe looked up at, him for the first time—at ah she loved so Goan yet whom ber vx, To ™ -t CMT aN al ave Xs er - ony = Dd ee a "BECAUSE SaB LOVED b Hint, ae “T do n0b recognize that right, Mr. Grati- tham.” ‘You tell me that, Eva! You deny my right to question you! Does not the love of which I have just told you give me the right than which there is no better? Do you mean to say that you will send me away with no reason whatever for your refusal? You can- not do it—in common justice and honor you cannot!” “T have no choice but to tell you, ther?’ she said. ‘‘There is a shadow over my lite, which, had you known, would have prevented you from speaking to me as you have just done.” ‘‘T do not understand you. A shadow over your life?” ‘Yes, Mr. Grantham; the shadow of crime.” “‘T can hardly believe you; no, it is im- possible that one so fair and pure should have done aught to render herself unworthy of any man’s best love!” o ‘‘ And I have done nothing. The sin is not_ mine, but I must bear the punishment.” “You are speaking in riddles, Eva. you not tell me plainly what you mean?” “T cannot.” “Why not? How can the sin of any one else separate us?” ‘¢ Listen to me, Mr. Grantham. There are passages in my life of which I could never tell you. I have secrets that you could never know; and yet, I tell you again, that the fuult is none of mine—I am perfectly innocent.” “Eva, do you remember what the Gipsy woman said to you this morning? You start: I see you have not forgotten her words. She was right, then, when she spoke of secrets dark and dread; but do not forget what she said about their coming to the light of day, and her warning—‘ Whatever it may cost you, sprak the truth! Throw off all disguise now. Teli me your secret, whatever it may be.” “T cannot. You would shrink from and avoid me if I did.” ‘‘T swear to you I would not, Have you not told me just now that you are perfectly inno- cent? From the bottom of my heart I believe you. Let me hear all; I give you my word of honor it shall not make the least difference be- tween us,” “T repeat again, I cannot tell you.” He was silent for some minutes, then said, slowly, ‘‘ Eva, I am going to prove to you how strong is my love. Keep your secret; I shall never seck to know it. And now will you be my wife under that condition?” “No, Mr. Grantham, that cannot be. Ask. yourself seriously if you would be right in marrying me after what I have just told you? Could you bear the thought that there was a page in the history of your wife’s life which she could never dare to let you read?” Can
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Be RP ENED Se Oh oa rates Oe tenn ae ee oe (BECAUSE SHE LOVED HTM, Bs is Pe PF: He did not answer, and she continued, “ You | OHAPTER IX must acknowledge that I am right—that there is an impassable gulf between us.” _ ~ “No; it can be bridged over!” he exclaimed. “T know it can. Eva, once more I plead. Do not send me away like this. You love me—I know you do—and why should ‘you not trust me? Tell me all now. Are you afraid of ©: your secrets being discovered? If so, is not the world large? Could I not take you some- where where no memory of the past could fol- — Jow? Think of your life, then—think of what we could be to each other; we could make each other’s happiness, and no cloud ever come be- tween us.” And Eva did picture to herself her life as Philip’s wife, a dream-like, blissful existence; happiness, perfect and complete, because created by his love. But she answered, calm- ly and firmly, as before, “No, it can never be!” Philip started; a new idea seemed to strike him. “There is one thing at Teast that I insist on _. knowing!” he exclaimed. ‘ Have I a rival? Answer me!” She trembled, and changed her voice, but _ still she answered, “No.” ‘ “ Are you certain?” Wess” “Then it is not too late yet. Have pity on yourself, if you have none on me. I know how miserable your life at Hastgrove must be, and instead of returning there to-morrow as a governess, you could remain here till I bring you back as my wife and its mistress,” “Nothing that you say would make mo change my mind, Mr. Grantham. I have given you my last answer; do not force me to repeat it.” Philip made no reply, but strode out of the room. Half an hour later, Sir Henry found her in the place where Philip had left ber, shivering - with cold, and very pale. hand on the wounds, ‘« What is it, my child?” he said, gently tak- ing her hand in his. ey have just | seen Philip,” he said. ‘‘I did riot speak to him; but his look told me that the hope I had entertained is not to be real- ized. You know best, I suppose. I will ask no questions; but I want to tell you that what- ever may happen, you must always look on me as your friend.” She pressed his hand in. silence, while she repeated to herself, ‘‘ If he only knew |—if be only knew!” c---- There were no signs | of tears; anguish such as hers rarely suffers its | victims to weep until time has laid his healing | ' Miss Taylor is a flirt. Eva’s reception by Mrs, anid Miss Gr tham was stiff and chilling in the extreme, — Rumors had reached them that Philip had bene paying her a good deal of attention during her i stay at The Elms. % “ Driving with her, indeed!” exclaimed the ay younger lady, when the news of the accident _ arrived. ‘¢ Yousee, mamma, that I was right; in I should not be in the - least surprised if she were laying a trap for Philip.” “Nor. should’ J,” her mother =a “ But Philip knows very well how to take car of himself. However, I see that it will be as 2 well to watch her sharply in future.” “ My opinion is that it would be bette teite let her go, and to look for a more suitable person in her place,” said Mabel, who was at all anxious to have the governess thrown in Lord Cosgrave’s way. “But a suitable person is not so coslie found,” was the reply; ‘‘and she certainl does her work well. Janie has got on bette with her than with any governess she ever had. — Do you remember how tired we used to be 0 - Miss White’s never-ending complaints?” ** As you please, mamma. I only hope may not have réason to regret not having tal my advice,” answered Mabel. and he had never dreamed of the possi si being refused by the woman whom he sho a see fit to honor by the offer of his hand. Refused by a governess! ‘Two months he would have laughed at the idea. And she had refused him, and in a manner wi: left him entirely destitute of hope. “What can be that secret? Why she not trust me with it?” he asked hin for the hundredth time, as be leant again: trunk of an oak tree, his looks fixed on school-room window. The night was dark and chilly, a thick, v ting rain was falling; yet for nearly an fie did not move from his post, and at las patience was rewarded. A. light appeared inside, and oe could: ‘se ber moving backward and forward, rearran ing books and music in their places. Then : sat down by the table, and soon was, appare ob ly, absorbed in study. "ak But before long her attention seemed to flag, She pushed the book aside, and leaned back her chair. Philip could see how pale and rigid were | _ features, and knew that she was thinking i: suffering. But though he almost de himself for it, the sight of that miseralile z ae “9 ‘ 4: r,Y See: le Lyn en ee Lee eet
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it not a fresh proof that she really loved True, no one copld have given a more ded refusal than hers had been, but it was %t too late yet; might she not change her ‘mind, and give him the answer he longed for? Something appeared between him and the ow. It was a man’s figure, and Philip’s _ in dread expectation for what was to follow. ‘The girl inside seemed to interest him also, he stood still, and looked on. Then he ed lightly on the pane. ei "She started, rose, and crossed the room, Then she threw up the window, and Philip could hear the sound of low, cautious voices. _ She turned away, but a few minutes after- > -d reappeared at a small side-door, which she closed softly after lier. _ The man went forward to meet ber, and ey walked along together. They were com- in the direction of the place where Philip cuse yourself as you will, I say yuu have een true to our engagement! ‘What right you to leave Eastgrove without telling how I could communicate with you? I can re you that on my return home, very lit- see you.” er reply vas not audible to Philip; but he ld hear how Lord Cosgrave answered. You had better take care, or I will do it! ip Grantham to be so much with you? I bid you to have anything whatever to do ith that man.” iat prohibition is unnecessary, my lord,” aid, firmly. } much the better for—” had passed him by this, and the rest of ntence was lost. ip stood as one stunned. Vas it thus that Eva was deceiving him? had believed her so noble, so truthful! ad never doubted her word when sbe had im that it was no fault of hers which story of the secret which overshadowed ‘e must be an invention since there seem- ae osgrave. _ “Our engagement,” he had heard him say, et had she not declared to him that he had o rival? Was it, then, possible that she was aged to that man, who was almost ‘Jooked the future husband of his sister, and that self had been merely the toy with which — been amusing herself, or, worse still, e tool of which she had made ssi in order to her noble lover? d, and he heard Lord Cosgrave’s voice say, - now let me ask you, why did you allow | ‘him with : a feeling almost akin to joy. and Philip felt at that moment almost a desire beat with fearful violence as he waited , | would have made me go to The Elms, and | to kill her. © They were coming boedaed him again, and he. drew in his breath and listened. “T will not keep you out in the rain any longer,” Lord Cosgrave was saying. ‘‘ But, re- member, to-morrow morning, at half-past sev- en —the usual hour.” “* Very well.” s oT, shall wait for you at the end of the walk by the lime trees. Mind you are not late, as you were last time.” ‘“¢T shall be punctual.” He went with her as far as the door through which she had come out, and left her there, “T shall watch them, ‘and learn what all this really means,” Philip said to himself, ‘‘and she shall know that my love is not to be trifled with.” When Eva arrived at the rendezvous next morning, she found Lord Cusgrave awaiting her. He came forward eagerly to meet her, with outstretched hands; but she drew herself up proudly. ‘Say what you have to say, and quickly,” she exclaimed; “and do not keep me here any longer than necessary.” ‘‘ Eva, I did not expect this from you. Can | you not find something kind to say?” ““My name is Miss Taylor, my lord!” “Tam not quite so sure of ‘that.” “How? What do you mean?” “Simply this—that I know rather more about you than you suppose.” “What do you know?” ‘““When and where Mark Tremayne died, and what kind of a life he led for the last eighteen or twenty years.” ““ What have I to do with Mark Tremayne?” “There is no need for me to tell you; you know perfectly well.” She saw that he had discovered another of her secrets, and that it would be useless to at- — tempt any disguise with him. “Was it to tell’me of that that you asked me to meet you here this morning?” she asked. “No, indeed. I was pReRies hy a far dif- ferent motive.” “ And that was?” : “Can you not guess? Did you never ask yourself why I was always planning and _ plot- ting for a few moments’ conversation with you? You would have repelled me; would have re- fused to have any thing to do with me, had I not made you feel tiat I had some power over you. It may have been base and mean to make use ol! that power, but what was I to do? You must blame not me, but the love with which you bave inspired me.” “Stop, if you please, my lord! I cannot listen to such words,” mre | |
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~~ . a “You must and shall listen! Eva Tremayne, | “TJ will not!” — : | I tell you that I love you passionately; so much so that, forgetting the difference in our \ positions, the dearest wish of my heart is to make you my wife. I see I havestartled you. | You did not expect this. You did not know what barriers love such as mine was capable of breaking through.” Eva stood before him confused and bewil- dered, Never had she deemed it possible that Lord Cosgrave would make her such an offer. To her he had always seemed a kard, selfish, pleasure-loving man, capable of strong pas- sions, perhaps, but one who would never suffer himself to be so blinded by them as to lose sight of his own interest. She knew, too, that his property was heavi- ly involved, and that his only chance of saving it was a wealthy marriage. The love which he piofessed for her might be real, but could it possibly make him not only forget the cloud which bung over her fa- ther’s name, but also her own want of fortune, without which marriage for him would be cer- tain ruin? He knew who her father really was—did that throw any light on the subject? Then she remembered her father’s words when giving her his confession for Sir Henry : Tremayne, ; : ss “You will be rich, happy and prosperous,” | be had said; could it be that Lord Cosgrave knew what her claim on Sir Henry was, and that he hoped to secure a Jarger dower with her than with Mabel Grantham? Thoughts such as these flashed through her brain, and she felt that, even if she had not seen Philip Grantham, she could never love this man.” “Tam waiting for your answer, Eva,” he said, as she did not speak. ‘Do not keep me longer in suspense!” “Lord Cosgrave, if you have hoped to make me love you by threatening and frightening me, you were greatly mistaken. You have made me look on you as an enemy, and how can you expeet that I should think differently of you now?” G “There is no difficulty about that, now that a! eh,” i ee ae 3 2 he ~~ 1 ~ Rs D “ A oP Oe tn BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. _of manliness or generosity, you will not ref to listen to a daughter’s prayer to spare tk “Do you know that a few words from me would ruin you?” ee. 73 I do.” ‘¢ And you still refuse?” . #5 Moss” ’ toe “Eva, you are mad, ‘You, a penniless erness, with a name which, were the truth known, is blackened with crime; and yet, when a nobleman asks you to be his wife, you refuse — him! Take some time to think of this, then you will give me a different answer.” ¥ “<T have already given you my final answer, _ my lord. I never could care for you, andhave ~~ not fallen so low as to marry merely for a home and position.” ae ‘‘Do you know what the consequences 1 be if you change my love into hatred?? “ T can guess.” ee “Can you? Do you know that by to-mor- row you will not have a roof over your he that Mrs, Grantham shall know all, an you will be driven out into the world, » a friend? ‘You think, perhaps, that Sir will stand by you? You have, I hear, be tering and fawning on him, until you hay quite gained his beart. But what will that avail you when he knows that you are daughter of the man who slew his ehild?? ; Eva staggered back, and almost fell age the trunk of one of the trees. Clinging to for support, she turned toward Lord Co first, made your acquaintance!” aes His words brought conviction with t She could deny her father’s guilt nm and now knew what was contained in ed package, pny Should she make a further sacrifice of hh self to his memory? Should she promise wed the man whom she so utterly loathed! The thought was madness: yet what wa to do?. She would make one more effort. he loved her he might possibly be move ity. . i Lord Cosgrave,” she said, slowly, “] peal to your honor as an Englishman— nobleman. It is not my fault that I am give you my heart. Love is not to be boug! and sold. Do not think that I am goin plead for myself; but, if you bave one memory of her father. Revenge is s j they say; but can it give you any pleasure to crush a defenseless girl, whose only offense that she cannot love you?” 7a . Mts as N y Re iy mae ie) RRA e Ae ‘ “43 res Se ON een ane
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sa but only for one moment did he besitate. ~ “Do you love any one else?” he asked, coming a step or two nearer. She did not answer. “T believe you do. Philip Grantham is my _ rival; deny it if you dare!” Sul no answer. _ “T see it all now; and you think by fine _ Speeches, and appeals to my generosity, to make me promise to keep your secrets, so that you may be free to marry him. Cleverly ; _ planned, Miss Eva; but allow me to tell you _ that you have failed!” “é “You mistake me, my lord. Ihave already told him that we can never be anything to each other. My motives are not quite so base as you seem to believe.” Pardon me, Eva, for the suspicion. I really think that you are a noble, high-minded irl, and that you would give the same answer _whoever asked your love. Think, then, § your future life would be. Year after cai a in hopeless drudgery; no rest for -And, instead of that, you can be the SN ofa nobleman; may hold your own with e haug htiest ladies in the land; not a single 1 ungratified; not one rough spot left in seer ‘path, Do not stand in the way of your ; epi Tell me tbat you will be my wife!” he was driven almost to despair. There Genet no hope for her but to submit to her fate. — __ A little more or less miserable, what did it = 1atter—what did it signify what became of bp ? $0 she reasoned to herself, Then she “J did not ask for happiness, my lord; for peace. Will you wait for my final = until to-morrow?” CHAPTER X. fenton between Eva and Lord Cosgrave. wv Incealed from view by the thick shrubs, ip Grantham bad watched the woman he c loved coming through the park to keep her ent with the Earl, Unable to catch their words, he had seen ow “passionately and eagerly he was speaking; but ho told himself that there was no trace ither of love or happiness on her pale features, Why, then, was she there? That question could not answer, except by the supposition that she was a false, heartless deceiver. He knew perfectly well that he was playing | base, dishonorable part, but he could not ear self away from the spot—could not urn away his eyes from the countenance of e girl whom at that moment he hardly knew hether he loved or hated. n agonized suspense he watched them— eu a her for her baseness, now racking ee eta 1 3 Paco BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. © =n OR = o Fal Laan Phe “Bis better nature "totaled for the mastery} his brains to find excuses for her conduct, hoping that all might yet be satisfactorily ex- ‘gained. He knew that she loved him. She had not been able to hide that from him, yet she had told him that she could never be his, What, then, could be her connection with this man? Why should she meet Cosgrave thus secretly? Why had he spoken to her last evening as though he had a right todemand it? ‘*Oh, Heaven!” he moaned; and covered his face with his hands. When he looked again, Eva was clasped in Lord Cosgrave’s arms. The embrace lasted but for a moment; then she hurried away as noiselessly and quickly as she had come, “Gained at last!” muttered the nobleman to himself. ‘‘I have won the only woman in the world whom I ever wished for as my wife, and shali be the husband of the greatest heiress in the shire.” At that moment there was a hand on his throat, and a voice hissed the word “ Villain!” into his ear. For some minutes Philip Grantham and Lord Cosgrave closed in a fierce, desperate struggle; then, as though by mutual consent, they relaxed their hold, and stood scowling at each other. “Villain!” repeated Philip; ‘‘ what have you to do with her?” ‘Whom do you mean, Mr. Grantham?” “ Whom should I mean but Miss Taylor?” “Oh, Miss Taylor!” “Yes; and I ask what you and she have ta do with each other?” Lord Cosgrave stroked his mustache, and eyed his rival superciliously. “What have you and Miss Taylor to do with each other?’ questioned Philip again, his fury now thoroughly aroused, “And supposing that I refuse to pnlmert the other replied, coolly. “T tell you I will know!” ‘Really, Mr. Grantham, your conduct is slightly peculiar. I happen to meet a lady here for a few minutes, and you throw yourself on me Jike a maniac, as though you had a right to call me to account for my actions.” Philip paused for a moment. He saw that he would gain nothing by a display of temper, and, struggling to control himself, said, ‘‘ Lord Cosgrave, Miss Taylor happens to be under my protection as an inmate of my house. I dis- cover that a gentleman is in the habit of meet- ing her clandestinely; is there, therefore, any- thing strange in my asking him to explain his conduct?” ‘*Perhaps not; particularly when you hap- pen to take a very warm interest in the young lady,” sneered Lord Cosgrave. ‘‘ But that warm interest hardly excuses the meanness of
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7 ‘believe it or not as you like, Miss Taylor and I playing the spy on her, as you have evidently been doing this morning.” Philip felt that this taunt was merited, and bit his lip. “Have you anything more to say to me?’ asked Lord Cosgrave. “Yes!” thundered Philip. ‘‘ Let me tell you that I am going to give orders to the servants to horsewhip you off the grounds whenever you dare set foot inside my gates, unless you © give me your promise to exchange no word with Miss Taylor in future.” “That I can hardly do, seeing that she has agreed to be my wife.” “She has not. I do not believe you!” Really, Mr. Grantham, you use very strong language; but, under the circnmstances, I suppose I must excuse you. I repeat that, are engaged. ‘You look incredulous still! Let | me see; I have promised your mother to lunch | at Eastgrove to-day. I suppose you will be there, too; and then it is my intention to an- nounce the fact.” And, without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel, and walked away. The morning- hours dragged slowly on. With fevered brain and aching heart, Eva struggled bravely to get through her work. “T am sure you are ill, Miss Taylor,” Janie said, kindly. ‘‘Shall I ask mamma if we may have no more lessons to-day ?” ‘‘No, dear,” Eva answered; “‘my head feels rather bad, that is all. Go on with your history now.” But scarcely had the lesson recommenced when the door opened, and Philip Grantham Governess and pupil looked up in surprise, while the changing cheek of the former be- trayed how agitated she was, ‘‘Would you mind leaving the room fora short time, Janie?” he said, ‘‘I want to speak to Miss Taylor,” Janie obeyed, and went up-stairs, picturing © | | came into the room. | to hefself the time when the governess she loved so dearly would be her own darling sis- | ter. | After one quick, startled glance, Eva had | not moved since Philip came into the room. | He stood at the opposite side of the table, his arms folded across his chest, watching her with knitted brows, and an angry light in his eyes. “4 The silence became oppressive, yet she dared not speak, “Miss Taylor,” he said at last—and oh, how F hard and cold his voice sounded!—“I have come to thank you for your kindness toward me. You taught me what love and happiness really were, and lulled my senses to sleep in a pec Oe oe 2 ae is wah ate SG aa delicious dream. From hour to ' pleaded. {++ + day to day, I lived on, caring for and thin of you, and only you. You saw it, you knew it; and lured me on until I was passionately, — hopelessly in love with you, and all the ti you were laughing at me for my blind folly, and thinking of the time when you would be the wife of a man who had succeeded in win-— ning you, because he has a title to his name. Shame on you to trifle with an honest heart! The time may come when you will sufferasT am suffering now; then you may feel sone remorse for the wrong you have done me, That is all I have to say, false, treacherous ereature! Soon I shall be master of myself again, and then shall hate and despise you far — more than I have ever loved you!” ae He turned to go, but Eva placed herself be- — tween him and the door. He tried to pass her, but she would not move. Ve ‘Do not condemn me quite unheard,” she “There is truth in what you say, but you misjudge my motive completely.” “Are you going to marry Lord Cosgrave?” ‘“¢ T_T cannot tell,” she faltered. = ‘You cannot tell, indeed!” he exclaim “You met him yesterday evening; met him by — appointment again this morning. Perhaps you mean nothing by that either. You ir to draw him on as you did me—to throw | over and laugh at him afterward. You fancy, I dare say, that your beauty may draw a coro-_ net to your feet any day, and that you bave. only to make your choice, Can I wonder now — that you should have refused me, when you — have the prospect of becoming an earl’s — wife?” pepe “T do not want Lord Cosgrave or his tit’e indeed, I do not, Mr. Grantham.” » ‘ “Then why flirt with him as you have doi —why come between my sister and the man t whom she was all but engaged? Was that: or honorable of you?” . he dishonorable, — “JT have done nothing Grantham.” | “Then your sense of honor must be a rather peculiar one, or how could you have act so?’ “J could not help it—indeed, I could He—” q ¥ Bn “He let you see how he admired you, your vanity rendered it impossible for you resist the temptation of making a nobliin love you; there is no difficulty in understai ing that.” Sa “No, indeed, Mr. Grantham.” ‘¢] do not want to hear any of your excu: I know not what power forced me to s your presence now. But I could not rest un Thad let you know that you were unmasked that I saw you at last in your true colors. And — now let me give you one piece of information, —
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Bn eB at ee BAS hte ‘ _. BECAUSE SH a4 _ Lerd Cosgrave, nobleman though he be, is lit- tle more than a ruined bankrupt. How he is to live if he marries you I cannot imagine; and what is more, he is a bad, wortbless man. _ dt was in direct oppositicn both to my wish and that of Sir Henry that he was admitted so _ frequently to Eastgrove. Give your happiness _ to his keeping and you will bitterly repent it an WO our dying day.” sheers “You are speaking to me as though I werea _ free agent; but I am not. I would give worlds to escape the doom of becoming that man’s i. wife,” “Flattering to him, certainly! nis morning you promised.” “JT promised him nothing.” And only his own lips.” «Did he dare?” __ “¥es; he dared to tell me that you were : his affianced wife. And now I shall have the ~ honor of wishing you good-morning, Miss Tay- lor. Our interview has not been a particular- pleasant one; but, at any rate, I fancy that ‘understand each other.” ; “ Wait one moment, and I will tell you all.” __ He gave her a look of withering scorn. “TI might listen if I thought I could believe you,” he said. ‘‘ That not being the case, per- mit me to pass.” ; As he was opening the door, he was met by - one of the servants. The girl looked surprised to see him there; but went in, and handed a -. , small box to Eva. : “With Lord Cosgrave’s compliments,” he eard her say. passage leading from the school-room. _ “False, heartless girl!” he muttered. ‘‘ The - worst I can do is to let her alone, The course which she has chosen will bring its own punish- ment,” With trembling hands, Eva opened the box. contained a crimson rose, and on a piece of er were theso words:— “You must decide at once. I shall see you at cheon to-day. If you wear the flower I send you, [ shall know that you accept me, and shall tell Mrs, tham of our engagement. If I do not see the token, all I knowof your father and of yourself _ shall be told. Philip Grantham and Sir Henry will _ be there, and shall also hear the story.” The luncheon-beil had ruvg some time. very one had taken their place. There was put one vacant chair—that generally occupied the governess. “Where is Miss Taylor, Janie?” asked Mrs. Grantham. | “J do not know, mamma, ‘was coming.” : _ “Jt is very rude of her to come late!” said I thought she “$0 you say; but I had the contrary from | _ With a bitter laugh, Philip walked down the | Een Si te aaa ey aaa aT é ELOV ED HIM ee bright red spot burned on each cheek, Daz- vlingly beautiful she looked in her plain black dress. But she did not wear the crimson rose. CHAPTER XI. ‘Wir a nervous, scarcely audible apology to Mrs. Grantham, Eva took her place beside Janie. Sir Henry was sitting next Lord Cos- grave at the opposite side of the table, and gave her a friendly nod and a smile, which she did not seem to see. Not once during luncheon did she raise her head. She felt that Lord Cosgrave was watch- ing her. She had defied his power; she had dared him to do his worst, and was waiting | for his vengeance. Every moment seemed an age. Hach time ne spoke, or that there was a pause in the con- ' versation, she believed he was about to begin, until, the intense strain was almost more than _she could endure, and she longed for the storm | to burst. Luncheon cane to anend., He had told noth- ‘ing. Had his heart been moved to pity? Was he going to spare her? | “Mrs. Grantham!” at last, he said. | The dreaded m ment had arrived. | ‘The lady of the house looked up. Something in his tone surprised her, and made her wonder — | what was coming. “ Well, Lord Cosgrave?” she said. “There is a story which I think it is my | duty to tell you—all of you, I mean; for there are some here whom it will interest greatly.” | ‘You quite raise my curiosity. Is your story an amusing one?” | “By no means; and, as it relates to family ' matters, may I ask you to come into the libra- ry? Here, in the drawing room, we might be interrupted by servants or visitors.” “Certainly.” ’ | And she glanced at Eva. She looked on the | Boverness as scarcely more than an upper ser- vant. | “Miss Taylor must also favor us by her prés- | ence,” Lord Cosgrave said; and no further re- mark was made, 3 Wondering very much what the mysterious story could be, they crossed the hall to the li- brary. None was more surprised than Philip. This was hardly the way in which he had ex- pected Lord Cosgrave to announce his engage- ment, | As she reached the library door, Eva felt a hand jaid op her arm, and a voice said in her ear, ‘1 give you one more chance, Will you be mine?” Her answer was, ‘ No.” ‘‘Blame yourself, not me, then, I am sorry to tell all.” Shere was complete silence in the library.
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a a of & 2 see BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. Mrs. Grantham an4 Sir Henty had seated them- _ selves on a sofa; Mabel on a low chair near them. Eva retreated into the furthest corner, whither Janie followed her. Philip stood lean- ing against the window-frame, and his eyes moved restlessly from the motionless figure of the governess to Lord Cosgrave, who had a look of mingled anger and malicious triumph. “Sir Henry,” he commenced, “would you care to know something of the history of your cousin, Mark Tremayne?” Philip started. What could Mark Tremayne possibly havo to do with Eva? “Tf you know anything of my cousin, I should like to hear it,” the Baronet answered; ‘but, as I fear that you cannot have any very pleasant communication to make respecting him, I should prefer your telling me when we are alone.” “ Excuse me, Sir Henry; but all here must know what I have to tell,” Lord Cosgrave said, decidedly. “Very well; proceed.” “Do you remember how, not very long after your lawsuit with Mark Tremayne, you went with. your wife and child to stop by the sea- side, on a wild part of the Devonshire coast?” “Why remind me of that?’ groaned Sir iienry. ‘‘ Because it. is of that time I must speak. {i was then a lad of about sixteen, and had for some time been at a school in Devonshire. I hated it with all my heart—masters, place, end lessons. The summer holidays were over, and I was forced to return; no one I knew was traveling with me, and I thought what fun it would be to get out at one of the smaller stations, spend the day as I liked, and go on to school on the morrow. No one would ever bo any the wiser, and I had plenty of money to jay for a night’s lodging. By some strange chance, I got out at a station within a mile or two of the place where you were stopping, Sir Henry; though of course I did not know that at the time. I was walking along the cliff, esjoying my adventure immensely, when sitting under a grass-covered bank, I saw a jady and a child. As I camo near, I recog- i1.ised Lady Tremayne and her little girl. Tho child was creeping about, but the mother had fallen asleep. I was going to hurry away, thankful that I had not been seen by her, wnen I saw a gentleman coming toward them, so Lhid behind the bank. At first I thought that it was you, and wondered why you were so poorly dressed; but soon I saw that it was your cousin Mark. He went straight up to Lady Tremayne, and stood looking at her for a moment or two. Then he took out some toy, which he showed the child; she seized it at once, and let him take her in hisarms, A few strides brought him to the edge of the cliff—” es we ae So ‘No, no; it cannot be; he never could have done that!” cried Sir Henry. “fe could, and he did. He had vowed vengeance, and kept his word. Terrified, I hurried back to the station just im time to catch the evening train, Not even to one of my school-fellows did I ever breathe a word of what I had seen, I had read tales of cases where it had happened that the accidental witnesses of crimes were accused of having committed those crimes themselves; and it did not seam impossib’e to me that, were I to ac eget d cuse Mark Tremayne of having dashed your child down the cliff; he would retort the ac- cusation on myself. . Then whose word would have prevailed!—his or mine? Every one in the neighborhood knew that I disliked you, on account of you having informed my father of some of my boyish delinquencies which you had discovered. I had been severely punished, and had been heard to utter the wish that I might find some way of repaying you, there- fore the fear that suspicion might fall on me was not by any means groundless. So I kept — my secret. I heard how, Lady Tremayne hav- ing fallen asleep, the child niust have crept too near the edge of the cliff, and fallen over. I heard how the shock was fatal to the mother’s reason, and how her death a few months after- ward wasalmost looked on as a happy release, so great had been her anguish of mind; and none guessed that I knew what had really hap- pened to the infant.” Seer He ceased speaking, and for a long time no one broke the lence, Philip looked at Eva, and wondered again what connection Lord Cosgrave’s story could possibly bave with her. “Have you finished?” asked Sir Henry, “or is there any more?” “Three years ago, I was traveling on the Continent, and stopped for some days at Bacen- Baden,” Lord Cosgrave went on. “One eve- ning I went into one. of the gaming houses, and began to play. Suddenly a man stepped for- ward, and said that I had cheated. The charge was utterly false, I need hardly say; but lhed no way of disproving it. From the very first, the man’s features had seemed familiar, ard — just as he was repeating his accusation for the second or third time, and bad arrested the at- tention of every one in the room, I remembered where Ihad seen him before. It was Mark Tremayne. I knew how to silence him, then. The words, ‘Mark Tremayne, I know what you aid with Sir Henry’s child when you stole it from its sleeping mother,’ whispered to him, were quite enough. He humbly withdrew lis charge, begged my pardon for his mistake, and left the house. An hour or two later, as I was returning to my hotel, a girl stopped me in the street. She asked me if I was an Englishnian; and, when I said that I was, she begged me to
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a” oe eS : ea ay ; ; ‘come with her to her father, who was in great ‘trouble. The girl’s look and manner pleased me and I went with ber. She Jed me to a _ small house in the suburbs. I followed her in- to the sitting room, and whom should I find _ waiting for me there but Mark Tremayne. I ei 20ught he was going to beg for mercy; but in- _ stead of that, he began to threaten. That was more than I could bear, and I called him an as- _ sassin to his teeth. He flew on me like a wild BE evi Isaw the flash of something Jike a huge nife, and gave myself up for lost, when the irl, who had lefc us alone, dashed into the oom, and held back his arm, and before he had time to shake her off Imade my escape. At first I intended to set the police after him, but changed my mind, thinking it was no affair of “mine. Inever saw him again; but tbat was not my last meeting with the girl. I found her — : sainging for money in the streets of Paris some onths ago; but before I had had time to ak more than a few words, she disappeared, id I was unable to trace her.” _* And you have not seen her since?” inquir--) Mrs. Grantham, as he paused. ‘ Yes; I have seen her again, in your house, — your governess!” | There was a pause—the silence before a Then, her head thrown back, her fea- working with passion, Mrs, Grantham 1 the room to where Eva sat. | Vile, miserable adventuress!” she exclaim- “how dared you so deceive me? You, a _ street singer—the child of an assassin—to enter ‘my house under a false name! But here you ‘notremain. Go, pack your trunk; in an ir you leave Eastgrove. My house shall be luted no longer by your presence!” ‘No, mamma, no!” sobbed Janie. ‘Do not ‘send her away; I love her so!” _ “Love her! — that creature? Shame on ou!” cried her mother, pushing away the — iid. ‘Leave the room, Miss Taylor—that | is the name you intend to call ycurself by still, presume?—and remember, in an hour the car- will be ready to take you to the station. pay you your salary up to the end of the ter, and after that I hope never to see you ear of you again!” “Let me say a word,” interrupted Sir cara Sh “You are too hard on her, Mary; she is i answerable for her father’s crimes.” She knew of them; she came here under lse pretenses,” Mrs. Grantham answered. _ “T only knew of one!” said Eva, despair giving her courage to defend herself. ‘I knew that my father did attempt the life of Lord - Cosgrave; but that was all. Until my father lying, I had not an idea that we did not _ bear our real name. Then he told me, and also that he had wronged Sir Henry; but it v Lord Cosgrave’s lips that I heard for ime what he had really done, ry Ss Wuen t rt tag na ae oe ade Piet Se eas ig: Dat you engaged me as your governess, I knew not that Sir Henry was any relation of yours, It was very wrong of me, I suppose, to accept so much kindness from him; but if be only knew what anguish of remorse I felt for my father’s sin, he would forgive me!” “T do forgive you, my child,” said Sir Henry. ‘‘ You have been wrong, I confess. You should have told me the truth, but I pity more than I blame you, CanI ever pardon your father? I fear not. But his child shall not be punished for his sin. My sister says that you must leave this house at once. Will you accept of my protection until you shall have arranged your future plans?” With tears of affection and gratitude, and with a trembling voice, ‘‘ How noble and gene- rous you are, Sir Henry!” said Eva, ‘But I cannot accept your kind offer. No; do not urge me; it isimpossible. Farewell, and know _ that I shall never forget all your goodness!” “Wait one moment,” said Philip, speaking for the first time. ‘‘ I have a few words to add to Lord Cosgrave’s story. Much that before was a mystery is now explained: Eva Tre- | mayne—let me give her her real name—inter- ested me from the first moment I saw her, When I came here from London, I was determin- ed to be her friend. While sho was staying at The Elms I learned to know and love her. i asked her to be my wife, and she refused, tell- ing me that there was a secret in her life which was an impassable barrier between us. The evening of her return here, I saw her meot Lord Cosgrave; heard her make an appoint- ment with him for next morning. I was mad with rage and jealousy; I thought that sae had fleceived me; and when I questioned his lord- thip there, he told me that she had promised tomarry him. That promise, [know now, she never gave; but he thought to force her to submit by threatening to betray her secreb. Tell me, Eva—Am I right?” “Yes,” “ And can you forgive the words that I spoke to you this morning? But I thought that you had been playing with me, and felt that nothing I could say would be bard or eruel enough.” “Certainly I forgive you, Mr. Grantham. Please say no more about it.” “ Philip,” exclaimed his mother, “‘ what does all this mean? You cannot surely say that both you and Lord Cosgrave have proposed to this gurl?” “Tt is the case,” said Eva, quietly; “and you see how Lord Coszrave has taken his mean, pitiful revenge because I refused him, Road that, if you do not trust my word.” And she placed the note which she had re- ceived from him just before. luncheon in her hands. Intense amazement mingled with anger was Pa I
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depicted on that lady’s face as she read it. Then _ even as an acquaintance. ft she handed it to her daughter. Lord Cosgrave had tasted the sweets of re- venge.- Now he began to experience its bitter- ness. He saw the looks of scorn and contempt, and fully realized what a despicable part he had been playing. Never had he supposed that Eva would drive him to the fulfillment of his threat. She had | done so; his vengeance had been satisfied; but | what else had he gained? Nothing but shame and remorse. _T have only to say to you, my lord,” said | Mrs. Grantham, turning toward him, “ that I. hope this is the last time you will ever darken my doors. Henceforth I cannot look on you Good-morning!” He bowed in silence and left the room. “ va!” said Philip, taking her hand, She hastily withdrew it, and turned from him. “Eva,” he continued, determined that she should hear hira, “ the mystery is cleared up | now. I know all there was to be known, and | repeat what Isaid to you theother day. Here, | | in the presence of my mother, my sisters, and my uncle, I ask you again if you will be my wife?” : She looked at him in. mute surprise. Every one seemed to hold their breath while they waited for her answer. ‘¢You think that you are bound in honor to say this,” she replied; ‘‘ but I cannot accept the sacrifice,” “Tt is no sacrifice, Eva! Were you a | thousand times the daughter of Mark Tremayne, . your father the greatest villain that ever A. society, I would say the same, I ‘ou, and your love—nothing more.” . Grantham, again I say it cannot be! - [ will not bring a tarnished name into any family. I must bear the disgrace alone.” And she left the library, and went up to her own room, ——- CHAPTER XII. “On!” sobbed Janie, throwing herself into her governess’s arms, “ what am I to do with- | out you? I cannot bear to let you go!’ No) one will ever care for me as you do!” ; | “ Poor little Janie!” said Eva, tenderly kiss- ing the child’s tear-stained cheek, ‘‘You can- not be more sorry than’I am to part from rou,” d “Why will you not go to live with uncle Henry, or why will you not marry Philip?” continued Janie. ‘‘But you are going away | where I shall not see you again.” ‘¢14 cannot be helped, Janie dear,” Eva an- swered. ‘‘And now youmust not delay me. You know I have only an hour to pack up all | look at it. "some one ought to have, as I came dow my things, and I want to get away as possible.’ S57 ne ia ‘‘ Will you let me help? I would | much to do something for you,” asked — trying to force back her tears. yi “Thank you; dear! Well, you put - books and boxes in the bottom of the trun That would save me a great deal of trouble.” * Oh, yes! 1 will put them in so nicely!” And she set herself to work. : “ Miss Taylor!” she exclaimed, present accents of surprise. - a “Well, Janie, what is it?” A eee “Look at this.” , : o _And she held up a small sealed package, Bs Eva snatched it away almost roughly, = “What are you doing with that? Give it ' me at once!” she exclaimed. x “TJ could not help seeing it—indeed I I did not know that it was wro But do you not want it bi to uncle Henry? It is addressed to him not?” ‘No; the package is mine, not Sir He “But [am sure it is directed to bim! ought to have it.” ree ‘‘Hush! that is my affair, not yours.” “Here is your money, Miss Tremayne,” Mrs. Grantham, appearing at the door « room. ‘“‘ But what did I bear Janie ‘s not. passage.” ; Janie hung her head, and did not.reply. “T insist on knowing! Speak this mome Janie!” egy 6: “Only a little parcel, mamma; thought I saw uncle Henry’s name on | : ‘Ts that it in your hand, Miss Tremay Ss “Tt is,” Janie answered. ero “Give it to me!” ’ 2 ‘Eva had not power-to resist, and hand to her. : “More mysteries!” exclaimed Mrs. tham. “ What is the meaning of your hay this in your possession?” ia “My father gave it to me when he wv ing.” % “To give to Sir Henry?” “ Ye y ” “« And why have you kept it all this ‘‘T am not obliged to give you my reas Mrs. Grantham.” SPR ‘‘ Well, you must give them to Sir Henry. cc FP will.” oy “Come, then,” Baas “Where?” “To Sir Henry.” : Eva followed her back to the libr full of childish curiosity, accompanyin; Sir Henry was in the same place on the still a prey to the violent emotion caused t Lord Cosgrave’s revelation, act >
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an Nee => eS re tah _ BECAUSE SHE LOVED HIM. Mabel sat near him, pretending to read, ‘ile Philip stood movdily beside the win- Wey . “Without giving Mrs. Grantham time to speak, Eva knelt down beside the Baronet, and said, quickly: “Sir Henry, | have something to tell you. When my father was dying, he gave - methisfor you. It is the written account of his crime. ‘When be reads it, he will curse . meas I deserve to be cursed, and my name will be branded with infamy,’ be said. And _ —oh, Sir Henry!—I loved my father dearly, and could not bear to give it to you; so I hid way, and meant to keep my secret—not for 7 sake, but for his. My father said also that mm this confession he bad taken care to secure y future, and that I should be rich and spy; but Idid not want to gain wealth at price of his good name. As I told you be- , [had not an idea what was that crime Lord Cosgrave declared it. There can- be much more to learn; still, you may as read what my father says. But remem- that I do not intend to reap any advantage yatever from it.” ir Henry took the package, and slowly _ + opened it. There was a little missive directed jo himself, a small locket attached to a gold - ebain of exquisite workmanship, and a soft “flaxen curl, He opened the locket. Jt con- tained two portraits—his own, as a gay and man, and that of the young mother, vhose likeness hung in the small room off the ‘picture-gallery of TLe Ems. : aes Then he broke the seal of the letter; but a , mist had gathered on his eyes, and he could not _ distinguish the contents. “Read it, Philip—read it aloud,” he said, ding it out toward his nephew. ‘They heard so much, they may as well hear the d, and read: ’ “Henry Tremayne, a life, stained with guilt, re- venge, and pemior is nearly at an end. My hand is ‘8 te and trembling that I have scarce ‘power to old the pen; and yet I must write to you, and con- «ss all. You know how we last paried. You may a ill remember what bitter words passed between = is, though I see now that the fault was mine, and je Bean at yours. I was a poor man before the lawsuit; rit, 1 was completely penniless. For myself i did not care. I was accustomed to live from hand to ‘mouth; but I had a wife and child to think of and to af e for. My wife was a frail young creature, unfit to rough it with a poor man. ‘ When I returned to the little French town where ad left her, I found her very ill. There was a celebrated doctor in Paris, who, every one said, pens re her, and she begged me to take her there; but I ‘no money, and no way of obtaining any. _ $he fretted and pined. ‘It is hard to die,’ she used Beg m8 eee cured if we had any money 0 to Lars. ee ink I was mad then—yes, I must have been. 1 so harrowing ig wate vher, and Jisten to ber ginis. And so sh re ait nh — 2 ig € died cf poyiiig, Pmay say, Ww ou, Henry, were rolling in wealth—wealth to pape e which | believed 1 bada claim. And 1 hated you for being rich and kappy, while I was so poor and miserable. I returned to England, to The Eims; but you were not there. They told me that you were in Devonshire with your wife and child—wife and child—wealth and position. You had every- thing, while I had nothing; and when I thought of that, my hatred increased tenfold. I followed you to Devonshire, and walked up the clift one aiter- noon, close to the place where I heard you were stopping. Suddenly I arrived near a lady whe had evidently come out there to read; but the book had dropped from her hand, and she had fallen asleep. She was your wife, I saw at a glance. I had 1 et her once or twice at the time of the lawsuit. Her child was playing about near her, and I coaxed it to me. It came at once, and I tock if in my arms. “Now was the moment for my revenge. The cdce of the cliff was near. I had but to dash it over; but it looked at me and smiled—I could not do it. would take it far away, where you would never hear of it again. kes ge its hat and some of its clothes over the precipice, I left the place, as I supposed, unseen by any. ft was not until three year's ago that I discovered that there had been a witness of s my theft. I was in a gaming-house at Latins acre 3 when I detected false cards in a bh hand. accused him of cheating. He dared not deny it, but he whispered into my ear that he not only knew ny real name, but also what I had done with your chiid. I withcrew my charge, and in a few minutes had formed a plan by which I might discover how much | he knew, and then effectually silence him, I Henry—I could not. hurried home, and fetched Eva. We watched for him as he was leaving the gaming-house; then I bade her go and tell him that a countryman of his needed him sorely. Poor child! she believed that she was speaking the truth, and had no difficulty in inducing him to accompany her to our house. He had seen me take the child, and believed that [had killed it. Isucceeded in convincing him that it still lived, Then he said that I should restore the child to you; but Irefused, and threatened that, should he take any steps in the matter, I would prove that he had followed a course of systematic cheating that evening. A sharp altercationtook place. Hecalled me several insulting names. A large knife was ly- ing on the table. Iwas mad with rage, and, seizing it, rushed onhim. At thatmoment iva dashed into the room. She grasped Ha arm, and he escaped. I never heard anything of him after that night; for his own sake he would naturally keep silence as lon betray him. ‘There are witnesses enough to the truth of what I say without him, **Tenry, the child which +o haveso long mourned as dead, still lives. When I took it away that after- noon my design was to leave it at some place where no one could possibly suspect whose it was. But tho ; littie innocent wound itself round my heart, and I longed to be able to bring it up with my own child. Alas! I did not then know that I was never to seo my little girlagain. When I reached my desolato home, I found that she had been laid beside her mother, That decided me to keep your little daughter with me; and, had she been my own, I could not have loved her more than I did. Sho was the only one in the world who cared for me; and, as she grow up, we became all in ail to each other. I knew thai Iought to restore her to you, but could not do it, My life would not be a lon one, 50 I resolved not to part with her as long asi tasted. But now you shall have your own again. The girl who will place this package in your hands is liva 'fremayne, your daughter, and not miné.” There was more writing on the paper, but Pailip did not procesd with it further,
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-- Eva was already clasped in her father’s a arms, and the young man signed to his mother and sisters to come with him and leave them alone... CHAPTER XIII. Wuat a change for Eva! One hour the de- spised, insulted governess, her only inheritance a father’s infamy; the next, the daughter and heiress of Sir Henry Tremayne. _ The Gipsy’s prophecy had come true, the _ clouds had lifted, the sun had shone out, and a bright, happy future lay before her. Proofs of her identity were not wanting. Mark Tremayne had taken care to give the names of several persons who knew of his own child@’s death, and who remembered how he had arrived a few days afterward with the lit- | - tle stranger, and how angry he had been when he had heard her lisp the name of Eva Tre- mayne. In collecting these proofs, Lord Cosgrave’s baseness was revealed in its fullest extent. © ‘In every quarter where inquiries were made, it was discovered that his agents had already been at work, and no one could doubt what his _ true motives were in wishing to make Eva his _ wife, That plan having failed, he had sought , to bo revenged, never dreaming that there was _ a possibility of the truth being discovered. | : What his subsequent history was, no one | ever knew. | He left the country a disgraced and ruined man, and was never heard of again, Sir Henry was perfectly happy. Every day Poth dt ingale, hidden away among the trees do but a few days before, she had refus THE END, is ieee for his. recovered treasure increase. “How was it possible that Ag did - ) nize her before?” he would ask himse and again, ‘Is she not the very image of mother? Why did I not guess that she ° eg child that first day she came to The I when she sung for me in the gloaming?” — - And Eva gave Sir Henry a daughter's tenderest love. Still, the past was not forgotten. The cf him whom she had so long believed to b father never passed her lips; but there w bitterness in her beart when she thought « 0! wiong he had done het Hvening shadows are falling; the ‘soft, cool breeze is gently creeping in through the o windows of the old paneled drawing asst The Elms, Silence reigns all around,broken only now then by snatches of rong from a solitary the side of the river. In the same room, on the sams3 spot w ' stands Philip, and with him Eva. B ot silent. Their happiness is far too deep words. They know that nothing can come bi tween them now; that all doubt, fear, ae picion are over forever. 3 He had loved her nobly and truly; } willing to make any sacrifice to win ing nothing for the shadow which rested nm name, . ‘That shadow has vanished now and A true, pure love is reaping its just rev
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1A Bride ofa Day; or, sh Mystery of Winifred * 1 Leigh. By Mary Reed Crowe & 2 The Girl Wife} or, The True and the False. By Bartley T. Campbell. y 8 Was It Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Win. Mason Turner, M.D, x 4 Married in Maxte. By Rett Winwood. & Will She Marry Him? 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 Fatr Face$ or, Out in the World, By Bartley T. Campbell. * 8 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison. pi 9A Daughter of Eves or, Blinded by Love. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell, x 10 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hate. By Mary Grace Halpine. 141 The Bride of an Actor; or, Driven from Home. : By the Anthor of Alone in the World,” ete., ete. 112A Patr of Gray Eyes; or, The Ewerald Necklace. . By Rose Keunedy. 18 Without a Heart, By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 14 Alone inthe World; or, The Youny Man’s Ward. 4 By the Author of The Bride of an Actor,” etc., ete. 15 Motherless; or, The Parmer’s Sweetheart. By Col. ; Prentiss I-graham. = * 16-The Secret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. 17 Sister against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts. BY Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 18 Heart to Weart; or, Fair Phyllis’s Love. By Arabella Southworth. 19 Rane nOr, Gold; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs, M. V. jet ir. 20 Entangled s or, A Dangerous Gamé. By Henrietta a Thackeray. RL Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. By Mrs. _ * Ann §. Stephens, ‘22 Trust Her Not s or, A True Knight. By Margaret Leicester. 28 Sinned Against, By Clara Augusta 24 A Loyal Lover. By Arabella Southworth. 256 The Cou niry Cousin. By Rose Kennedy. 26 Wis Idol; or, The Iil-Siarred Marriage. By Mrs. : Mary Reed Crowell, . 2% Flirtations or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By f Jacob Abarbanell (Ralph Royal). 28 Now anid Forever; or, Why Did She Marry Him? 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; or, Under a Clouds By Mrs. _ . Mary 4. Denison, 82 Leap Year 3 or, Why She Proposed. By Sara Clax- On. 88 In Spite of Merself’; or, Jeanette’s Reparation. oe BY 2 R. Sherwood. 84 Wer Face Was Her Fortune. By Eleanor Blaine. 85,The Cuban Heiress. By Mrs. Mary A, Denison. +4 Only a Schoolmistress, By Arabella Southworth. 87 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for a mn Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. _ 88 Was She a Coquette? or, A Strange Courtship. By Henrietta Thackeray. 89 One Woman's Heart. By George S. Kaime, 40 Love-Mad; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and— By Wm. Mason Turner, M, D. 41 For Wer Dear Sake. By Sara Claxton. Whe Waverley Library is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents cach. THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 28 William street, New Ycrk. 42 The Bouquet Girl, By Agile Penna, 48 Mariana, the Prima Donna, by Arabella Southworth, 44.The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 45 Lucy Temple. Daughter of Charlotte. 46 The Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming. 4i The Creole Sisters; or, The Mystery of the Perrys. By Mrs, Anna E. Porter, 48 A Marriage of Convenience. By Sara Claxton. 49 The Wife’s Secret. By Col. Juan Lewis. 50 Sir Archer’s Bride ; or, The Queen of Hearts. By Arabella Southworth, 51 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 52 Womeless 3 or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W. Aiken. 58 The Maniac Bride. By Margaret Blount. 54 Pledged to Marry. By Ssra Claxton. 55 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. By Mrs, Jennie Dayis Burton. : 56 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth, 5b? Without Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. 58 The Baronet’s Secret. By Sara Claxton. 59 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, the Romance of a Kuby Ring. By Wim. Mason lurcer, M. D. 60 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Vengeance. By Rachel Bernhardt, , 61 Did We Love Mer? By Ba tley T. Campb ll. 62 Almost in His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. 68 She Did Not Love Him. By Arabella South- worth, G4 Bessie Rayner, the Work Girl. By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. 65 A Brave Girl. By Alice Fleming. €6 Lord Roth’s Sin. By Georgiana Dickens.. 67 A Wie ed Hearts or, the False and the True, By Sara Claxton, : 68 Wis Heart’s Mistress 3 or, Love at First Sight. By Arabella Southworth. 69 The Only Daughter. By Alice Fleming. tO Why I Married iim? By Sara Claxton. V1 Wonor Bound ; or, Sealed tor Secrecy. By Lillian Lovejoy. 72 A Man’s Sin; or, His Lawful Wife. By Rett Win- wood. 8B Wis Own Again; or, Trust Her Not. By Arabella Southworth, 74 Adria, the Adopted. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Bur- ton. ?5 A Brother’s Sin, By Rachel Bernhardt. %6 Because She Loved Him, By Alice Fleming. Ready Noy. 3. ??% A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejoy. Ready Nov. 10. %8 For the Woman He Loved. By Agnes Mary Shelton. Ready Noy. 17. 4