Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 78) (1885 11 17)
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Copyrighted, 1885, by BeapLe AND Apams, Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Nov. 17, 1885, $2.50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS, Pri VOL. VI. a Years No. 98 William Street, New York. ‘ Five Cents. No. 78. hy a fi Y hake aa AON 4) bs t ' be SS Vk AL, 2A Bie rN Sess; NA INN eee WB Y E SHE STOPPED BESIDE THE PROSTRATE FORM OF HIM SHE SOUGHT. VERY PALE AND STILL HE LAY BENEATH THE CALM EVENING SKY. FOR THE WOMAN HR LOVED “ house, built of red brick, and almost covered | ’ with ivy, which clung around its stone portico, and, when ce wind was ret ba Ae ee by with ghostly fingers, agains e long, narrow Or, FA TE FUL LINKS. wAndows. Both outwardly and inwardly the once handsome mansion bore traces of neglect BY AGNES MARY SHELTON. sera sce ae : fj and decay, indicating either poverty or parsi- CHAPTER I. mony on the ae of its owner, Mr, Matthew AN ILL STARRED ADVENTURE. Gunthorpe. The garden resembled a wilderness, and within doors such of the rooms as were not \ RAVENHURST was a large, low, rambling nee —— a"
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4 ae FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. shut up, but reserved for family use, looked dull and cheerless, with their faded carpets, old- fashioned furniture, and general absence of all usual ornaments. The day had been lowering and chill, al- though the season was spring; but now, as evening approached, the sun struggled out from between masses of gray clouds, and shed a few | bright rays into the small apartment specially dedicated to the use of the master of the house, There he sat at his writing-table, sorting papers, making up accounts, and glancing over business documents, occasionally ceasing his Jaborsin order to exchange a few sentences | with his sister Sophia, a spiuster of uncertain age, who for many years had been his chief confidant and adviser. Matthew Gunthorpe was over fifty, and look- ed even more advanced in life. His thin, sallow face was worn and furrow- ed, his scanty hair, once the deepest of fiery auburn, was thickly sprinkled with gray, and these rival hues also contrasted strongly in his long, straggling whiskers and unkempt mus- tache. One of his small hazel eyes had a cast nearly degenerating into a decided squint, and the two were placed rather closely together under over- hanging brows. In spite of these drawbacks, however, Mr. Gunthorpe was not an exceptionally ill-favored man. If his countenance had had either an amiable or intellectual expression, his general appear- ance would have passed muster. Unfortunately, however, his prevailicg char- acteristics — intense obstinacy, distrust and sreed—were written too plainly in every line of his visage. Suddenly he closed the ledger he had been consulting with a sharp snap, and irritably pushed it frown him. “Things are going badly with us, Sophia— very badly!” Miss Guntkorpe laid down her knitting, and looked at her brother with some anxiety. ‘¢ You surely do not mean that those Arizona mines, from which you hoped so much, have turned out failures?” “‘The shares have fallen low, and an oppo- sition company has started. But that is not the worst. One or two still larger speculations have turned out ill; besides, I have lost several thousands by the failure of Grantley’s bank. In short, Sophy, unless a tide of prosperity soon sets iw my direction, I must sell Raven- hurst.” Sophia held,up her bands in horror, “Sell Ravenhurst, that bas been in the % | family for years? Mat, you must be dream- ay eee ing!” he ‘ *¢T wish you were right, for then I might awake to find luck bad turned,” he retorted, with a bitter smile, ‘‘ But if I can neither raise another loan nor refund those already ad- — vaneed, what else can be done?” ‘“‘There is Nerissa’s money,” observed Sophia, hesitatingly. | ‘© You may be sure I have thought of that; but it is so securely tied up by her father’s will _ until she is of age or marries, that I should find ' it very difficult to borrow anything on it, even though I could obtain the consent of Colonel Lascelles, my co-trustee, who is at this moment with his regiment in Indian Territory. “Tf Nerissa were of age we could easily persuade her to give whatever pecuniary as- sistance is needed. I often wonder what she will do or say when she discovers she is an heiress, for she isso heedless and void of sense that I question whether she bestows a thought on the subject, and you warned me it was © best to keep her in ignorance.” | ‘J did, for the reason that a girl’s head be- comes turned when she knows her own im- portance,” he said, testily. ‘‘She would think of nothing but dress, gayety and lovers. Our | quiet: home would grow dull and distasteful to her; she would yearn for a season in New York and opportunities of making an eligible mar- riage. No, no, sister; it is well that Nerissa | Marsden should blossom here like a wild — gathers in the woods to form her sole adorn- ment.” Miss Gunthorpe regarded her brother with an air of amazement, ‘Good gracious, Matthew, you are growing quite poetical! Just fancy the folly of com- paring Nerissa to a flower! A careless chit, running wild all day about the grounds, with tangled. hair, a ragged frock, and a hat with the brim half torn away! If she resembles a flower it must be the ragged robin.” ‘You women always run down one an- other, Nerissa is very beautiful.” «To those who admire a baby face and sun- burnt complexion, with tawny hair and eyes of an indescribable tint, neither blue nor gray. | I cannot see any attraction in her.” | “Tt is quite unnecessary that you should do | | flower, beautiful and innocent as those she | | so,” said Matthew, with bis cynical smile. | “But bas it never struck you, Sophia, that Nerissa’s fortune, although not large, as for- tunes now are reckoned, would be of consider- able service to a needy man?” | T suppose it would. I only wish that it was yours in this emergency.” | « Why sbould it not be?” “Only a minute ago,” observed Miss Gun- thorpe, sharply, ‘‘you talked as if you were powerless to touch a dollar.” ; “And so I am.” Here he paused and co- ee a
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vertly glanced at the spinster’s firm, severe countenance, as if doubtful how she would re- ceive his next sentence. ‘You know, Sophia, ‘that when Nerissa marries, not only will she have control over her property, but her hus- band, if he is a cléver fellow, can also get a goodly share into his own hands.” A red flush rose in Miss Sophia’s face, man- tling even to the tip of her long, thin nose, as she comprehended the drift of her brother’s speech. Ever since his wife’s death, some fifteen years ago, she had reigned lady paramount at Ravenhurst. It was not likely sbe was going to resign that supremacy withous a struggle. st FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. | the wealth for which his soul craved and not-. ‘Do I understand you aright, Matthew?” | she asked, with icy majesty. “ You, a man of mature years, who since poor Arabella died have never shown the slightest inclination to mar- ry again, are now thinking of marrying a harum-scarum girl, who ever since she came from the West, nearly ten years ago, has been ithe plague of my life!” “Softly, softly, Sophia. You take too se- vere a view of a young girl’s whims. Remem- ber, we have found the liberal sum awarded by the late general to those who should take charge of his daughter during her minority extremely useful. Some persons might be ill- natured enough to hint that Nerissa’s faults and follies are owing—I do not say to the training and education you have given her, but rather to the absence of those essentials for forming the youthful mind. Confess, my dear sister, you have a little neglected her.” Miss Guntborpe turned a still deeper red at this implied reproach. “You are unreasonable, Matthew. I am sure that during her childhood I tormented my- self with hearing those wearisome lessons day afier day, while that half. hour’s superintend- ence of the practice of those interminable scales turned my hair gray at least five years before the proper time. I did it all for your _ sake, to save the expense of a properly-quali- fied governess, and this is my reward!” “1 was only joking. Sophia.” “T believe the girl has bewitched you,” she grumbled, “although you pretend that her money is her chief attraction.” He made no answer. Indeed, he scarcely knew clearly whether love or avarice was the basis of his strong desire to make Nerissa | | ness, others worn and anxious. Marsden his wife—Nerissa,.a gir] young enough to be his daughter, beautiful, lively, and im- pulsive, a very type of innocent maidenhood, besides possessing the solid charm of an inherit- ance which would enrich the husband of her selection. With Matthew speculation had become a mania, He looked upon it as the high road to withstanding repeated disappointments, wes — ever ready to fling fresh gold into the vortc:x that long ago had swallowed up his own small means. General Marsden could scarcely have chosen a less trustworthy guardian for his only child, but the gallant officer did not know. He and Mat Gunthorpe had been college chums, and had corresponded. at intervals during his long years of service, Miss Sophia's virtues had been duly extolled in her brother’s correspond- ence, so the general might’ be pardoned for having considered the pair fully qualified to undertake the charge of his most precious treasure when be was removed, = » on. Pe. se q' 2 .
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b 4 Puff. puff! The train was rapidly advancing, and she _ stood still to see it pass, wondering whether it | would ever bear her to the great metropolis— | the unknown world where so many marvelous | sights were to be seen. ane A sort of commotion on one of the platforms attracted her attention. What are those men doing? They are struggling—fighting. As she gazed, to her horror and amazement, one of them either leaped from the train or was thrown out of it. The iron horse dashed on at full speed, while the slight, dark figure rolled down the FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. » She knew not whether his brain wandered, or what answer to make. ““You have had a severe fall. You are alone with me. Had you any friends on the train?” she said, hesitatingly. **T recollect all now,” he murmured, passing — his hand across his throbbing brow. “I must not linger here, or they will be on my track, and I shall have risked my life in vain.” ““Whom do you fear?’ she asked, as he at- | tempted to rise, and fell back again with a | groan. “Dear lady, may I trust you? You have a ' kind face, and will not betray me, I am charged with a crime of which I am guiltless. steep embankment, and was lost to view, A ery of horror rose to Nerissa’s lips; her heart throb‘ed violently. The train was already nearly out of sight, leaving behind this stranger, who might, she thought, be dead, or at least seriously injured. Intently she watched to see whether he would again become visible, and strained her ears lest _aery for help should be vainly uttered. All was silent save for the twittering of the birds in the trees, and for the lowing of cattle in a dis- tant field. She could not bear to leave the place, even to | summon assistance, for he might die unwatched and alone before her return, a thought that made her shudder. Impelled by pity, flavored by a slight tinc- - ture of womanly curiosity, sbe at last hastened toward the spot where he must still be lying, making her way amid the long grass, pushing aside shrubs and brambles that impeded her progress, until she stopped beside the prostrate torm of him she sought. Very pale and still he lay beneath the calm evening sky. A tail, dark-haired man, whose age might be afew years over twenty, with a well-chiseled face, down one side of which blood was slowly trickling from a wound on the temple, inflicted by a sharp stone. Nerissa knelt down beside him, and, conquer- ing her nervous fears, laid her hand upon his heart. It was beating still, and with renewed hope she hurried to alittle brook that ran at no great distance, and dipping her handkerchief in its clean waters, returned to the unconscious man, and gently wiped the blood-stains from his brow. Then, remembering that Miss Sophia’s scent- bottle, which she had been desired to bring down-stairs for its owner’s use before she start- ed on her ramble, was still in her pocket, she ap- plied the strong essence to the young man’s nostrils. It seemed to revive him. He opened his eyes, gazed about rather wild- ly, and said, in an agitated voice: ‘‘ Have those ‘men gone?—ath I free?” Yet, in order to shield one whom I love, I dare _not make my innocence apparent. I have just escaped from the hands of the police. In the | railway carriage I managed to slip my hand- cuffs and make a last effort for liberty. You | will not give me back to a fate worse than death?” i Breathlessly he poured forth the words, lift- | ing imploring eyes to Nerissa’s face; and the girl’s impulsive feelings were strangely stirred, “What can I do?’ she faltered. ‘‘I would | help you if I could.” “Thanks for those gracious words, They give me fresh courage. I find that I have sprained my ankle, It is intensely painful, but I must manage to drag myself to yonder woods, which, perhaps, will afford me shelter for the night. To-morrow I must think what can next be done, Lady, if inquiries should be made, you will not breathe a word of hav- | ing seen or spoken with me? You will keep | my secret, will you?” pleadingly. | ‘*T promise,” she answered, with a firm de- | termination to keep ber word, | Slowly and painfully he arose, and dragged ' himself a few yards onward, Nerissa watching him with an ever-increasing compassion, | Poor fellow! he was weak and suffering, and wrongfully accused by his enemies. If, for the sake of some beloved friend, he had taken a burden of guilt upon his own shoulders, it seemed to her the perfection of self-sacrifice. . When he disappeared among the trees, she went slowly home to the oak-paneled parlor, where Matthew generally dozed over his news- paper, while Sophia knitted stockings or played “solitaire.” In the tumult of her mind she did not no- tice that her guardian and his sister were em- barrassed and ill at ease, sometimes glancing at her askance with strange scrutiny. She knew not that, after a stormy debate, they had succeeded in amicably settling their differ- ences, end arrived at the conclusion that, after all, Matthew Gunthorpe could not do better than espouse ‘‘the insignificant ehit,” Nerissa Marsden, and her fortune, _ eh? Tie e,,
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So, in happy unconsciousness of the coming , struggle, she sat in her favorite corner by the window, listening to the wind moaning amid the trees as evening shadows gathered, and wondering how the unknown fared in those dreary woods, with no other canopy but the | injured! It really makes one shudder.” heavens above him. CHAPTER II. THE STORY OF A LIFE. Nurissa passed a sleepless night; she felt as though burdened by fate with a heavy respon- sibilty. This stranger had been thrown in her path. He was suffering and oppressed. Was she not bound to succor him? Had she been older or more experienced she might have looked upon him merely as a criminal fleeing from justice; or at least have weighed the probabilities of his guilt or inno- cence. As it was, she implicitly believed his assur- ances, though she could have given no satisfac- tory reason to account for her conviction. She resolved to visit the woods next day, taking with her a basket containing such pro- visions as she could abstract from the larder without rousing the suspicions of Miss Sophia, or Hannah, the cook; and as she was accus- tomed, when the weather was fine, to spend the whole morning out of doors, rambling about the woods, her absence from bome would riot excite observation. One thought trouble’ her. Perhaps the fugitive had been again seized, and conveyed to that dark and loathsome dungeon which was Nerissa’s idea of a prison cell. The sun, which was peeping brightly through the curtains, dispelled this gloomy reflection. She sprung from her couch with alacrity, and throwing open the window, looked out upon the thousand natural beauties of a fine spring morning. The dewy grass sparkled in the sunbeams; the tangled flowers of the neglected garden had beautiful tints and rich perfumes. A few bright-winged butterflies were already skim- ming through the air to pay morning calls upon their floral favorites, and the birds greet- ed day with a harmonious concert. Nerissa became more cheerful. Sbe sung her gayest songs while completing her toilet, and entered the breakfast-parlor so bonny and blooming, that Matthew Gunthorpe's small eyes twinkled with new light as he thought that this fair young creature was marked for his own. Miss Sophia presided as usual at the table. She svarcely noticed Nerissa’s greeting, 80 much was she engrossed by the news, just heard from one of the servants, which she was retailing to her brother, \ \ FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 5 eee toe Sec oe ea “Such a terrible catastrophe! And its oc- curring so near seems to make it worse, thouga I don’t exactly know why. Just fancy, Mat- thew, four’ cars broken into splinters, nine passengers killed, and I know not low many “‘ What has happened?” asked the girl, with a vague impression that anything new and startling must have some connection with yes- terday’s adventure. - “© A railway accident, my dear,” explained r. Gunthorpe, attempting’ to blend in his manner the character of both guardian and — lover. ‘The 6:30 express from Bridgeport to New York:came in collision with a number of freight cars, that by an unfortunate mischance were left upon the track. The result would have been still more fatal had not the train been slackening speed at the moment; but it is | bad enough as it is.” “I think so, indeed!” chimed in Miss Sophia. “Engine-driver and stoker not expected to live; poor Jones, the grocer, killed—he was a civil man, though I sometimes complained that he gave short weight; then there was a. woman and her baby, and, what was strange, two policemen and their prisoner.” spor ‘‘Was the prisoner killed?” asked Nerissa, doubtfully. ‘‘Have I not said so?” was the sharp re. joinder. ‘‘His features were so crusbed and mutilated that they would not be recognizable — by bis nearest friend; but he was close beside the other men, and people remember having” seen them enter the cars at Bridgeport.” “Perhaps they are mistaken,” murmured Nerissa; then stopped, confused, on observing the eyes of her companions fixed on her sur- prise; while Miss Sophia remarked, in re- proachful accents, “that it was wonderful | how fond some persons were of Contradic- — tion!” As the meal progressed, Matthew addressed 4 a few remarks to his fair ward with a sort of clumsy gallantry which sat ill upon him; but her mind ‘was so preoccupied that she did not notice the change in his manner, She was the first to rise from the table, im- patient to set forth on ber mission, but Mr. Gunthorpe laid a restraining hand upon her arm. “Can you spare me half an hour, my dear Nerissa? I wish to speak to you on a subject of the deepest importance.” Never before in her remembrance had ber guardian desired a tete-a-tete. Her heart began to flutter. Perhaps he had ‘ heard what bappened on the previous evening, and was about to vent his indignation upon her. “T hope you are not going to scold me,” she said.
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6 FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. i ala acne ed “‘Scold you, my dear girl? I prize you far : husband. The marriage shall take place , too highly, love you much too well, to do that. shortly.” : __ How fortunate I should esteem myself if you | No, no!’ she cried, vehemently, as he at- would only let me devote my life to making | tempted to place his arm around her, ‘TI will you happy!” not be forced into an engagement from which Sophia had discreetly withdrawn. Mr.Gun- | my heartrevolts. You never can persuademe — _thorpe seized Nerissa’s hand, gazing upon her | to marry you!” with lover-like tenderness: whils she, althcugh “ Obstivate fool!” be cried, losing his temper. _somewhat startled at the sudden transforma | “ Do you think I cannot bend you to my wiili? tion, in her simplicity had no suspicion that | You depend on me for the very roof that ‘she was about tu be honored by her first offer | covers you, as well asthe bread you eat! What of marriage. will become of you if I turn you from my “Do you really wish to make me happ\?’*) doors?” a she asked, after a short pause, wherein her ‘Heaven will raise up new friends to help pe ‘mind revolved all kinds of agreeable possi- | me!” exclaimed Nerissa. bilities. i “You are brave because you have never mesa “Tt is my dearest hcpe, sweet Nerissa.” _ known real trouble; but do not think you will ofr “Then perhaps you would not mind asking | escape me. I am a firm man; my enemies ‘Miss Sophia to get me one or two new dresses | call me obstinate. We shall see whether the ~~ *I want them so badly. I hear, too, that a | strength of my will cannot conquer yours!” traveling circus will give a performance in| ‘At least, you cannot drag me to church!” _ the village to-morrow, Will you let me go. said the undaunted Nerissa, as, anxious to _ there?” terminate the discussion, she hurried from the ~ You do not understand me,” he interrupt- | room. ed, impatiently. ‘Such things as you men- ‘Before half an bour was over sho was on her tion are mere trifles unworthy of a momen‘’s | way tothe woods, where she supposed the fugi- As sonsideration. The happiness to which I re- | tive was still hiding. It cannot be denied that ferred would last through life.” Mr. Gunthorpe’s declaration had made her un- «was afraid you would refuse,” sighed the | comfortable; but she was far from being sub- _ girl, who hoped that in her guardian’s present | dued. Sbe marveled that a man at his age state of mind he might be induced to grant | could so degrade himself in the eyes of a girl one or two small favors. ‘I have so little | young encugh to be his granddaughter’. amusement.” Yet there was something ludicrous in the “Tt would be different if we were married,” | notion of a gray-haired man choosing a giddy he answered, eagerly. ‘‘I should be so proud | girl of seventeen for his wife; and when she of my pretty young bride! Be my wife, Ner- | thought of Miss Sopbia meekly surrendering issa, and I will take you abroad—to London, | the housekeeping keys, and taking the second _ Paris, wherever you care to go, You shall | place in the household, scandalized by the ex- — have fine dresses, jowels, anything that takes | travaganceand mismanagement of her brother’s your fancy, Ah, my sweet one, you shall | bride, she laughed outright. never repent being Mrs. Matthew Gunthorpe!” Reaching her destination, she had hardly en- — _ “TJ your wife!” she exclaimed in consterna- tered the woods when she perceived her new _ tion, forcibly withdrawing her hand and acquaintance limping toward ber. In the, springing to her feet. ‘‘Mr. Gunthorpe, sure- bright morning sunshine he looked haggard ly you are not in your right senses!” | and worn, but his face lighted up when he saw ei 3 His brow knitted into an ominous frown. Nerissa, whom he welcomed with many ex- oie “This is a strange reception of my proposal, pressions of gratitude. -‘Nerissa.” “I scarcely dared hope to see you. Yet = “Not stranger than it deserves, Whyshould there was such a gleam of compassion in your I marry unless I fall in love?—and of course I eyes yesterday that I could not help believing | -eannot fall in love with you!” that you would come to my aid. All last And ~why should we not be very happy night I lay in the hollow of a tree, far in the even without that ridiculous passion which is depths of that forest; and before I slept, I talked of more often than felt? If I made an _ prayed, as I once did as a child at my mother’s indulgent husband you would have noreason knee, that you might be rewarded for your to complain; and, young as you are you would charity, But now what am I to do# My ~~ soon learn to perform your duties as a wife. ankle isso painful that I cannot walk far. If | -_-You like me already, Nerissa, do you not?” I go into the village for food, people may look ie “Yes,” very hesitatingly. ‘I could not suspiciously upon me, a stranger. Iam already dislike poor papa’s friend.” half famished.” ' Pe, “That is sufficient for the present! warmer “I have brought you food,” she said, dis- eae - feelings will comd by-and-by. The affair is playing the c ntents of her basket. settled. You must regard me as your future While he, seated upon the trunk of a felled _
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A een le repens sis eet = tree, made a hearty meal from the viands she _ had brought, Nerissa gave him the news of the railway accident. ‘* Fate is kind,” he said, ‘‘in removing these men at such a critical moment. I: must have been through their signals that the train slackened speed. Death frustrated their de- termination to pursue and recapture me. So perish al] the enemies of Everard Vaughan!” Nerissa was shocked, ‘‘These were not your enemies!’ she said, indignantly. “They were only doing their duty.” “Ah, do not turn ageinst me,” he mur- mured, in a soft, melodious voice. ‘‘ You have been my friend, and, outcast as Iam, have won my eternal gratitude. Pardon me if I have spoken bitterly; believe me, I have been se- | verely tried. Accused of a crime which I never committed; the woman whem | dearly loved lost to me forever; do you wish me to turn hypocrite, and use smooth words, when the language of demons would not express the bitterness I feel?” The tide of pity surged once more about Nerissa’s héart. He was so young to undergo such troubles, the more so when they were un- _ deserved! “Take heart,” sho said, softly; “‘all may yet be well.” : He shook his head despondently. ‘Something has gone out of my life which cannot be restored to it. —all have vanished.” In spite of dusty clothes, disordered hair and | haggard visage, Everard Vaughan was still re- markably handsome; and, say what we will, the feminine heart is peculiarly susceptible to the influence of good looks in the opposite sex. Nerissa might not have taken the same inter- est in the confessions of an older and plainer man; but, gazing at that slender, well-knit frame, and those velvety dark eyes, she longed to hear the story of his life. He seemed to read her thoughts, and re- marked: “It is only right 1 should tell you something about myself and the crime with which they charge me,” he said. ‘You would scarcely suppose, seeing me here in misery and degradation, that I come of a good family. ‘My father was the third son, and being ex- travagant, soon ran through his moderate in- heritance. “He died when I was alad of eighteen, leaving me nearly penniless. “Through want of means, I was not educated for any profession, and my father was too proud to let me learn a trade. “How could I get my living? ‘CA bright idea struck me, “T had always a predilection for the stage, so my mind was made up to become an actor, Hope, love and trust | = ae a ee FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 7 an engagement at a minor theater, but either I wanted taleut or perseverance, and made no great hit. ‘‘ But the turning point of my life now ar- rived—I met her who was my fate.” ‘“‘-You fell in love?” cried Nerissa, deeply in- terested. ‘‘ Was the lady beautiful?” : ‘In my eyes she possessed more thi ortal beauty.” “> “Was she an actress?” : ‘‘-Yes; and her husband joined our company after making a successful tour through th States.” , Nerissa’s countenance fell, ; “Then shé was married, and yet loved her?” “*T could not help it. gled against my passion; but all in vain.” “ She was a tair, queenly creature, born to rule over the hearts of men; she soon totally subjugated mine, . “ Her husband was an idie, reckless fellow, who passed his leisure time in haunts where his wife could not penetrate, where the bottle was circulated too freely. sha ‘On such occasions he would return home i a morose and savage humor, and she was made = . .
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8 FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 2 “Why did you flee, when you are inno- cent?”. ** Because I dared not face the terrible array of evidence against me, and 1 could not di- vulge the truth. I was suspected and hunted down, felon’s doom loomed darkly before me. Careless whether I lived or died, I made gall And here I am!” T on his words, and strange though his narrative was, she was forced to believe him. “Who, then, took the life of the unhappy man?” she asked, in an awe-struck whisper. ‘‘Ts it possible that he committed self-destruc- tion?” . “Do not let us talk of him longer. Your girlish heart should not he saddened by tales of sorrow orcrime, I cannot tell you more than I have done.” Everard Vaughan now began to speak on the subject he bad most at heart—that of escaping from the clutches of the law. He was doubtful whether the detective who tcok bim on the platform of the Bridgeport station had had time to telegraph to Piukerton’s; and even if the authorities there knew of his arrest, they might suppose he had met the fate of their subordinates. He proposed to conceal himself in the wood, ove. ait was strong enough, and be could travel on foot to some seaport town, whence he could work his passage on board some ship bound for a foreign country. /-@ Hog freedom—anything rather than the He had managed to secrete a small store of | money, but if he appeared in the village to purchase the necessaries of life lame, heggerd, | and wretched, he might excite attention, and finally suspicion. Throwing himself at Nerissa’s feet, he im- plored her to finish the good work she had be- gun. It was only for a short time, he urged, that | he should trespass on her goodness—a few days —a week or two at most, and he would trouble _ her no more. His entreaties did not fall upon deaf ears. Before Nerissa left him to return to her ae gloomy home, now even more distasteful to her, she promised to continue her visits to the wood at certain intervals,and Everard Vaughan knew he could depend upon her word. CHAPTER II. A FATAL STEP, _.. On the border of the woods which lay to the west of the village stood a solitary, low-roofed hut, inhabited by an ancient dame named - Dorothy Trent, Her once tall figure was bent half-double by rheumatism even more than age; her snow- white hair was loosely twisted under a black mpress of truth seemed to be stamped | ck with summer foliage, uniil his ankle | silk handkerchief, wreathed turban-fashion | round her head, whence escaped long tangled locks, framing a shriveled visage, with a rather malevolent expression. It was well for Dorothy that she lived in times when the belief in witchcraft is confined to a few of the most ignorant, or she might have been offered as another victim upon the shrine of superstition. As it was, people shrunk from her pathway when she walked | through the village muttering to herself. She was very deaf, which might have accounted for the habit. Some pronounced her to be | crazy; others alleged that she had ‘ the evil eye.” In reality the old woman was neither mad nor gifted with supernatural powers, although. | somewhat eccentric from having lived so long | alone and having seen much trouble. Nerissa had met her when quite a child in some of ber | country rambles, and attracted rather than daunted by her strange appearance, made overtures toward acquaintanceship, at first by gifts of flowers and fruit, and afterward by small presents of money. Old Dorothy did not repulse her advances; so it happened that for several years Miss | Marsden had been a frequent visitor to the dilapidated cottage, where previously visitors were as things unknown. It was a sultry day in the beginning of July _ when Nerissa entered the low-ceilinged room | where Dorothy sat close to the fire, which even _in the warmest weather was essential to her comfort. “We have been expecting you these last He has been weary- _ two days, Miss Nerissa. ing for you to come,” ‘‘T could not get away before; you know I ; am not free now to come and go exactly at | may own pleasure,” ‘Ah, poor bird! clipped at last.” ‘“‘How is your patient?’ asked Nerissa, changing the subject. ‘Getting well by degrees, though he has had a sharp attack of fever, mind you; and [ scarcely thought to bring him through it. If he had died I might have got into trouble—all on your account—for not calling in the doc- tor. “Well, never mind; Dorothy, since all has turned out well. Your decoctions of herbs have proved as efficacious as a doctor’s pre- scription, and I told you at the first that my friend had a perfect horror of doctors.” “So you did, Miss Nerissa, and it was no business of mine whether he lived or died.” * “Surely you are glad to have been the instrument of saving a human life?” “T am glad to have been able to oblige you, Miss Nerissa, though I am thinking that your guardian would not be best pleased to your wings have been A
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ae FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 9 7 4 looking young friend of yours!” E This speech, uttered meaningly, brought no blush to Nerissa’s cheek. “He can scarcely be called a friend,” she said, quietly, “but I pity his forlorn condi- tion, When he is well he will leave Bridge- port, and we may never see him again.” A click of the latch; Everard Vaughan stood -in the doorway, attenuated by illness, tall and gaunt. His careworn face brightened as he took a seat near Nerissa. ‘‘T thought you were forgetting me. But no; I will not wrong you by a doubt—you have proved your goodness. And now do you not see how strong and well I am growing? Soon you will be rid of me forever.” She smiled, but her smile was followed by a sigh. He noticed her usually rosy color had faded, and her eyelids bore traces of recent tears. “You areill!” he exclaimed, anxiously. “« Not ill, but very unhappy.” The ready tears rose in her eyes. She had been harassed and tormented lately almost beyond endurance, and the sympathy Everard evinced found its way to her heart. ‘Yet there is no reason why I should keep - my troubles secret,” she said, “ and Ihave no » one to guide or advise me. You may have forgotten my telling you that I had a guardian, an old, grumpy, disagreeable man, whom I never liked, and now thoroughly detest. Well, he insists that I shall marry him.” She said this with stich a tragic air that Everard could scarcely avoid smiling. ‘‘ One cannot be surprised at his desire; but if you do not share it, why, dismiss your im- portunate suitor.” “Oh, if Ionly could! You do not under- stand. When he found that fair words would not move me, he had recourse to menaces, even to violence. I have bruises now upon my arm caused by his cruel fingers when he forced mo to stay and listen to him. His sister is just as bad. They threaten to keep ‘me a prisoner in my own room until I promise ~ to marry him.” ‘‘'The monsters! But have you no relative or friend who could interfere on your behalf?” She shook her head sadly. “Tam the last of my family. There is an- other trustee somewhere in the West, but Mr. (unthorpe takes care never to let me know his address. 18 me secluded; so I have no friends.” a a ee ill forth into the world alone,” he said, glancing at her fragile form and child-like face, “or I know what an interest you take in this good- He and his sister have always kept | | paced the room in agitation. “You are too young and pretty to venture , ‘You could be a governess.” : “T am afraid I am not clever enough. Miss Sophia has never sent me to school. Then I am not skillful with my needle, like some girls. I could not be a milliner or dressmaker.” “Could you go upon the stage?’ he haz- arded. But the very notion was distasteful to the unsophisticated girl, who considered a first ap- pearance in public only a shade less terrible than marrying Matthew Gunthorpe. iad For the moment, Everard had no other al- ternative to offer. “Tama bad hand at giving advice worth © taking,” he said, smiling; ‘(but if your aver- sion to your guardian’s wooing proceeds frdm a preference for some more favored suitor, why not marry him at once, and thus settle the question?” ‘J have no lover!” sbe answered, petulant- ly. ‘‘I hate all such nonsense!” ‘‘Then you have never known life’s sweetest joys and keenest sorrows.” ‘‘One may know a great deal of happiness without being in love,” said Nerissa, wisely. “T was happy enough with my pet birds and flowers, although I used sometimes to want a little change and amusement, until Mr. Gun- thorpe began to pester me with his absurd love- making.”’ ‘“‘ You will one day change your mind.” ““Why should I? I like my freedom.” He swiled a little sadly as he looked upon this young, untamed thing rebelling against — the very thought of bondage. Would she ever become amenable to love’s soft discipline? “T am very selfish to stay here talking about myself,” she resumed, more brightly. ‘‘ And, oh, Mr. Vaughan, I had nearly forgotten to — give you a piece of news I overheard Miss Sophia ‘telling her brother yesterday. Inquiries have been made concerning, the man who was killed in the railway accident.” “You mean the man whose corpse was sup- posed to be mine?’ he interrupted quickly, turning a sbade more pale. “Yes; but his clothes and watch have been identified.. He had been for the last four years in Australia it seems, and his family did not know until lately that he had returned. Poor | fellow, it was indeed sad to lose his life when | within so short a distance from home and friends.” a - Everard Vaughan rose from his seat that this dis- and -* Do you not see, Miss Nerissa, covery increases my danger?” “No one would think of looking for you should say be independent, leave their house, #here,” she replied confidently. and, if necessary, earn your own living. ty “ But how?” she demanded, anxiously, “We cannot tell. These men employed to hunt out criminals are like bloodhounds on the
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i et, See eo ma bs 4 ‘ee “th 10 | FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. pet track; no possibility escapes them. I must dis- guise myself as well as I can, and leave this neighborhood.” The clock in the chimney-corner struck the hour. It was later than Nerissa sup- posed. She bade brief adieux to Everard and old Dorothy—the latter had been dozing over the fire, since her deafness made the conversation | inaudible beyond a few stray sentences—and | was soon hurriedly making her way home- ward. In the gloomy avenue of elms Jeading to the principal entrance of Ravenhurst she met her guardian, grim and severe of aspect, his small eyes literally ablaze with indignation. “‘T was coming in search of you, Nerissa. How dare you absent yourself from home without either my consent or that of Sophia?” “TJ have never been kept a prisoner,” replied the girlsullenly. ‘‘For years I bave passed hours out of doors daily, neither you nor your sister troubling yourselves whither I went or when I returned, so that I was not in your w Rid All is different now,” he answered, his bony fingers tightening on her wrist until she could have cried aloud with pain, ‘‘ You were then a child, and we allowed you a child’s freedom; now you are a woman, and my drs- ae ete tined wife.” . “That I will never be, as I have often told ee ey Ou)” eS “T pay no attention to your caprices. It is but a question of time when I will make you submit to my fixed determination, and become my own for life.” Suddenly she stopped, and addressed him with quivering lips and’ eyes that gleamed brightly through rising tears. “Mr, Gunthorpe, why should you ‘desire to - condemn me toa miserable future? I cannot love; if I were your wife I might learn to hate you. My dear father trusted you as a friend; do not let bis child have reason to regard you esanenemy. Let me have the money he be- I know not whetber the sum it will be enough to afford me subsistence. Then I will quit Ravenhurst forever, and you shall soon for- . « Bet me.” _ She had never before referred to ker father’s will, or shown any knowledge of the inheri- tance which one day must be hers. +“ ¥ou will not be of age for full three years,” he said, doggediy; ‘and until then you are under my coutrol. I decline at the present time to even attempt a settlement of the trifling property Jeft by my friend Mars- é It was to be invested for your benefit Fa queathed to me. wiil be great or small, but _ suitable person. Yow shall have the paltry 5 sum when you marry me, a ; ies eae : % f Scant 7 el ’ Cae ; y - « PE WTE en. . meray if 6 | ney util you were twenty-one or got married to 4 ‘¢ And if I chose to wed any one else,” ' she asked, defiantly, ‘‘it would equally be mine?” ‘‘Nerissa, you talk like a child. Do youim- agine that Iam such a weak fool as to allow you opportunities to obtain a lover or husband? I will immure you in yonder house as if wn were in a convent cell. I will watch over you as jealously as a jailer, until, worn out and weary, you will give your consent to our union. Then, Nerissa, the stern guardian shall give place to the adoring husband, for I love you.” And, placing his arm around her shrinking form, he forced her toward the house. That evening, when the sky had darkened | over with clouds, and thunder rolled in the | distance, Nerissa came through the pelting rain—a forlorn, bedraggled little figure—to Dorothy’s cottage, and had a second interview with Everard Vaughan. | Long and earnestly they talked together. | The young man expostulated, the girl persisted. Her eyes were glowing, her hands were burn- | ing with fever; see had the distraught air of one driven to desperation. ‘ ‘‘If you consider you have cause to be grateful to me,” she said, “you will not re- fuse to do as I wish.” “ But I fear you may repent taking such a | rash step, Miss Nerissa,” | “No, no; it is you who are unwilling to | barter your liberty. ‘Yet if you have really loved, and she whom you love is lost to you forever, I do not ask a great sacrifice. See, I have brought some trinkets that belonged to my mother. They are of no great value, but may raise sufficient money to carry you away from America. As forme, I remain here un- til Matthew Gunthorpe gives up the money that I can then force from him,” ‘‘ Nerissa,” he said, gravely, as he watched her excitemsnt with the compassion a man must ever feel for a weak woman’s folly, ‘‘I warn you that you are running a great risk without gaining any compensating advantage. If I am married to you by the justice of the peace at Bridgeport disguised and in a feigned name, do you imagine that your guardian would at once cease to annoy you, and yield up what- ever property may be yours under your late father’s will?” ‘He must. He owned to me this morning that such were the conditions.” |. “But I could not bear to leave you to his fury When he found himself baffled.” | JT do not suppose that he will kill me,” said | Nerissa, reflectively; ‘‘and as he struck me this morning—yes, with his hard, cruel hand! | —I have no greater indignity to fear. Go through the ceremony, and give me the cer- tificate which will vouch for my marriage, and \ Pere eee
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a a nes V a then we will say good-by, never, most likely, to cross each other’s paths again.” Everard Vaughan was an unscrupulous man, vof no fixed principles, but he fejt a twinge of conscience in agreeing to Nerissa’s desperate proposition. Yet, after all, not much harm could come of it, since such a marriage would constitute no real bond between them; while the reward of- fered for his compliance—namely, those few old-fashioned trinkets worn by a happy wife in days long passed away—would smooth away his difficulties, and provide means for his jour- ney to some distant country. Young and beautiful as Nerissa was, he had no wish to persuade her to link her fate with his and leave Bridgeport in his company. The embers of a former passion were not quite extinguished, and he could love no other woman save her who had enslaved him. He had fully performed his duty in his own esti- mation by cautioning the headstrong girl to pause before she perpetrated an act of reckless folly; if she chose to disregard his warning she must suffer the consequences. ‘Tt shall be as you wish,” he said. And Nerissa smiled her thanks, already, in imaxination, gloating over Mr. Gunthorpe’s discomfiture. Early one morning a lady and gentleman left the Bridgeport railway station arm in-arm, and choosing the most quiet and unfrequented | streets, made their way toward the office of the justice. The lady was plainly dressed, and wore so thick a vail that her features were not distin- guishable. The gentleman had a long black peard, concealing the lower part of his face, a quantity of straight black hair hanging down over his coat collar, and blue spectacles. His figure, too, was not at all prepossessing, as he was extremely round-shouldered. This pair were, of course, no other than Everard and Nerissa. “¥ scarcely knew you,’”? she whispered, as they walked swiftly on; “although you told me what disguise you had prepared, I had no idea it would be soeffectual. D» you not feel very strange with your padded shoulders and false beard?” ‘““You know I have appeared in this guise once or twice already when I went to the office to give the necessary notices, so am be- ginning to be reconciled to the inconvenience it entails. I have chosen Mr, William Lee for my ali s, because it is common and unassum- ing.” “One name is as good as another,” she re-— plied, carelessly. ‘“‘ How astonished my vener- ated guardian and his sister will be when they find I am a married woman]” FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. ‘‘By the way, how did you manage to elude their vigilance?” . 7 ‘Nothing was easier. Mr. Gunthorpe started yesterday for New York, where, fortun- ately for me, he had some important business to transact, and Miss Sophia was left in charge. This morning was devoted to making up her housekeeping accounts, so as she wished not to be disturbed she Slyly turned the key in my door, imagining that I was in safe keeping. But Hannah, the cook, isa dear old soul, and I bribed her with kisses and ribbons to set me free whenever Miss Sophia makes me a prisoner.” 4 ‘So Miss Sophia does not suspect that her bird hasflown? But bere weare! Once more, Nerissa, are you bent upon this folly?” “A thousand times, yes! It is my revenge on Mr. Guntborpe for his cruelty. He shall be made to feel that his firm will cannot subdue — ‘ mine,” 5 They passed into the office, which looked dark and dismal after the sunshine in the streets. : | Nerissa’s heart began to beat violently, and for the first time a suspicion that this reckless _ ‘step might one day cause a bitter repentance crossed her mind, ee | But it was too late to retract. Sheheard — ‘like one in a dream a strange voice asking — “questions to which she gave the answers re- — quired, BFE ti The final declaration was made, thair names / were signed in the registrar’s book, and witha — start, as if awakened from a troubled sleep, Nerissa Marsden heard herself addressed as — Mrs, William Lee, while the marriage certifi- ‘cate, which she had risked so much to gain, — was placed in her hands. . ea She trembled so violently, and her face bore such a ghastly hue, that Everard feared sho — was about to faint, so be hastily led her into the street. The fresh air revived her, and she _ smiled faintly. Nags ah “So itis over, and I have had my willful re way!” 3 ety ‘“‘Nerissa, your courage is failing already, — I regret that I ever agreed to carry out your — whim,” ae ae *« Whatever happens, you were not to blame; — the fault and punishment will both be mine, « We musi not stay here longer; I shall lose the -- train that takes me back to Ravenhurst.” = Everard murmured a few incoherent words of farewell as he pressed her unresisting hand, _ then glided swiftly away down the narrow street, in search of some secure hiding-place — _where he might remain until he could startlid for New York by the mail train. ~ Nerissa was left standing there alone. She felt more friendless than ever, now he had ~ _ gone, and dreaded, more than she could have é
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See 3 | 12 Y FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. 4 supposed possible, the consequences of the com- munication she was about to make to her per- ‘sistent wooer at Ravenhurst. Only one thing ‘was clear to her perturbed mind, and gave her comfort, Mr. Gunthorpe would find that his ‘schemes had encountered an insurmountable ‘Obstacle, as he could scarcely expect her to ‘commit bigamy even for his sake. se ¢ CHAPTER IV. A FRIEND IN NEED. In a quiet New York street, at some dis- | tance from the fashionable quarters of the | town, stood a large*but unpretentious-looking _ house, with a board placed in a prominent po- | pecion over the door, bearing the inscription, | “Temporary Home for Destitute Women.” Here, gathered together by the hand of | rity, were females of all ages, some bowed | by years and’ infirmities, others scarcely more | than children, but all bearing the stamp of | ‘poverty, combined in many cases with sick- | ss and misery. The ‘“‘Home,” was sup- pried by. eubscription; and subseribers only had the privilege of recommending deserving ases which were brought under their notice. ither vice, therefore, nor confirmed mendi- | cancy were likely to find admittance. In the matron’s room—a small apartment, ly furnished, but with some regard to | fort—sat a young girl, thin even to attevu- ‘pale and ill-clad, yet bearing that unmis- ~~ able impress which marks those who have en well-born and bred. The shabby dress worn by Nerissa—for it s she—had been carefully mended, and was on neatly, while her golden-brown hair, -and luxnriant that a queen might envy | crown, was wreathed around her smal ith unstudied grace. | Miss Wilton, the matron, looked at her ing face and delicate hands, evidently d to labor, she understood that this girl history. { a Dastor Treherne will be here presently,” | id, glancing at the timepiece. ‘I think | 1 find that the improvement in your is maintained and you are already or.” wnks to his kindness and your care,” re- Nerissa, gratefully. ‘Indeed, madam, nk the cause of my falling into the swoon h alarmed my landlady in Blank street want of food. She did not know that for s I subsisted upon the most coarse and snty fare; I bad spent my last dime, and saw ‘ate before me but death by starvation!” My poor girl, if you had come to such a , the workhouse would have received you!” would have died rather than entered it!” 1 Nerissa, with a shudder, ‘In that case it is lucky that you me y Doctor Treherne. He subscribes liberally to our funds, and since he came into a for- tune he has devoted a goodly portion to pur- poses of charity. Ah! there isa ring at the outer door, and no doubt it is he.” The matron’s surmise was correct, for almost immediately the expected visitor was ushered into the room. He was a tall, dark-complexioned man of about eight-and-twenty, with an intellectual rather than strictly handsome face, illumined by black-fringéd eyes of grayish blue. Thee was something peculiarly winning in the sweet. grave smile which often irradiated his features, and his voice was mellow and pleasing. : Miss Wilton received him with the respect due to a gentleman who gave his bank-notes freely, and his services as medical attendant to the institution without fee or reward, “T perceive, Miss Wilton, that under your care my patient is rapidly improving,” he re- marked, taking the offered seat near the two, “T trust ”— this was to Nerissa—“ that you now excuse me for insisting as I did on your removal from the small, unhealthy rcom where you lodged?” ‘‘T can only thank you for bringing me here, ’ she avswered, with a flickering smile; ‘‘aud look back with a shudder to the miseries of | Blank street.” ‘¢-You must never live in such a place again; the houses are not fit for human habitation.” “Poverty cannot choose its home,” she answered with a sigh. : «But we must find means to help you. You “are an orphan, you say, without any living relations?” ““T hase not a friend in the world,” “And you came to New York to seek em- ployment?’ he continued, pursuing his in- quiries. “Ah, New York is a cruel place!” sighed the girl. “I walked all day for weeks in ' search of work, but people looked at me sus- | piciously because I was a stranger; and when T told them they must take me withouf reference as to character, turned away from | me with a sneer and shrug of the shoulders.” ‘¢ But is there no one to speak a word in your favor?” She shook her head. ‘‘ Few are in such an isolated position, unless they have forfeited the esteem of their friends,” observed the matron, pursing up her lips. Alaric Treherne’s penetrating but kindly eyes sought Nerissa’s countenance. Her color rose beneath his scrutiny, and she found cour- age to rebut the matron’s insinuation. ‘““Do not misjudge me, madam,” she said, firmly but not disrespectfully, ‘‘ because I can- ~ not explain the reason why you see me thus deserted and friendless, For no fault of mine I have been persecuted by those who should
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FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. a oy: : = #. Fa have protected me, and have become a beggar and an outcast. Dear madam, poor and ab- ject though I be, I still can dare say that Iam not unworthy the sympathy of a pure-minded woman, nor the assistance of a true-hearted map.” : “And that assistance I will give,” said Alaric, warmly; ‘‘or, what will be better still, my aunt Pennington shall help you. I know I can interest her in your favor. She has a good heart, as you are aware,” he continued, turning to Miss Wilton; ‘“‘and ever since my cousin Muriel offended her by making an im- prudent marriage, has led a lonely and se- cluded life. I have often heard her express a wish. for the society of some young girl whom she might love and treat as a daughter. Why should she not take Miss Marsden under her protection? At least, I can make the propo- sition.” i Miss Wilton looked dubious. Her benevo- lent instincts did not go quite so far as Doctor’ Treherne’s, but then perhaps Nerissa’s beauty could not exert so great an influence over her feminine heart. When Alaric left the ‘‘ Home,” he deter- mined upon rescuing Nerissa from the deplor- able condition in which he found her. He was rich now, but in early youth had felf the sting _ of poverty, and that experience softened bim | toward those who were wallowing in that slough of despond. ; He had been brought up to the medical pro- fession, and loved it too well to abandon it when it was no longer necessary as a means | of gain; but he practiced most among the poor, refusing payment for his services, and leaving wealthy patients who could afford high fees to his more impecunious professional brethren. Tt was while attending a consumptive mason who occupied a room in, the house where Ne- rissa dwelt, that he was summoned to the miser- erable garret where the young girl lay swoon- ing from weakness and inanition. Perceiving the cause of her illness, she was, at his request, admitted to the inst.tution over which Miss Wilton presided. Nerissa had fied from Ravenburst in a par- | oxysm of terror caused by her guardian’s fury | when, on the next occasion of his pressing his | suit, she told him she was married, and to go- and satisfy himself of the fact at the office of the Justice in Bridgeport. So great was his rage that she fancied her life was in peril, so took flight from the house with nd other property in her possession than such articles of clothing as were crammed into her small black valise; enough money to take her to New York, aud her father’s gold watch, which she had now disposed of in order to provide food and Jodging. As Nerissa fell asleep that night in the long, whitewashed dormitory where so many com- creased than diminished, and she realized that ‘her dream was but a reflection of the truth, | | shrieked wildly for help, and increased the gen- , caused by advancing flames. | the window, but a dozen rough hands wer | ing her short sojourn at the Home, showed t at | | beneath an unprepossessing exterior. . horses mingled with the yells of the crowd. panions in misfortune found temporary refuge, — her last waking thoughts wee of Alaric Tre-_ herne, She knew that he trusted her, and al-j though he was a comparative stranger, the knowledge somehow compensated for all she had undergone of late. — ; Suddenly she awoke from a fearful dream, } wherein Matthew Gunthorpe and Everard Vaughan were draggivg her to the mouth of a { furnace, whence leaped fiery tougues of flame { ready to devour her, while in the distance the | young doctor stretched out his hand to aid; but, | despite her struggles she was unable to reach — him, : i a The smoke from the furnace seemed still in her mouth and nostrils, as she sat upright in her narrow bed, palpitating with fear. Though fully awake the suffccating sensation rather in- — and the house was on fire. With trembling hands, which alarm rendered — almost powerless, she hastened to pul on her her clothes. She could hear the hoarse mur- — mors of a gathering crowd outside, while the ~ inmates of the dormitories, roused from sleep, — eral confusion, Doors were thrown open, admit-— ting fresh volumes of smoke and the dense he: Terrified wom climbed upon window-ledges, and prepared to cast themselves headlong to the ground, being © only restrained from doing so by the excited | cries of the crowd, who urged them to wait f< the fire-escape. The heat became unendurab! Nerissa, panting for breath, attempted to reach ready to thrust her aside, for the atmospher was suffocating, and the women fought for life,” At such a moment, forbearance and courtesy had no place, The strong triumphed over the the weak. rg One woman, however, whose coarse featur. and loud, harsh voice had repelled Nerissa du a warm heart and unselfish nature lay hidden , Taking} tho girl’s arm she forced her forward until ber” sufferings were relieved by a breath of the coo) 5 night air, while with almost motherly ter ness she bade her take courage. “Poor child! You are sore afraid; bu brave and have patience; we may still saved.” The flames were rising higher, and sp: f with rapidity. Nerissa gave herself up for | lost. But now were heard the tramp of ‘ ) The fire-engines were coming, and the ruddy ; glow of that dreadful blaze shone on the helm-— ' ets of thosé brave men, who soon were seen — darting hither and thither, intent upon the ex. — ecution of their duty, “Oe
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| + z LS) « 14 The water played upon the burning building, - the escape was raised, and from the lower floors many were rescued, while Nerissa snd her companions awaited in an agony of impa- tience the moment when their turn might ar- rive. Suddenly arose a shout of consternation. The escape is injured by the flames, and will act no longer. Can'the power of man save those who still entreat for aid before they are ingulfed by advancing waves of fire? At this juncture Nerissa’s despairing eyes -fall on a tall figure of a man pushing his way * amid the crowd with the determination of approaching close to the house, and a thrill of FOR THE WOMAN Ht hope strangely disproportioned to ifs cause | goes through her heart as she recognizes Alaric Treherne. Policemen bar bis passage with vaiu remonstrances as to possible dangers; he thrusts them aside, and stands beneath the | _ window where Nerissa’s ghastly face lights up - at his approach with a gleam resembiing joy. Already she bas learned totrust him. Involun- tarily he stretches his arms toward her. She mistakes the gesture for a sign that thus he can save her, and disregarding his warning cry, springs lightly upon the window-ledge, and takes the perilous leap which will bear her ‘to death or safety. By a superbuman effort he succeeds in catch- ing ber; but his shoulder is dislocated and he suffers acute pain. He scarcely feels it, how- ever, as he gazes on the sweet unconscious face, and knows that she has escaped all seri- ous injury. He refuses to goin search of surgical aid until Nerissa is taken into one of the neighbor- ing houses, where, carefully tended, she soon - recovers ber senses. By this time the other inmates of the Home have been rescued in various ways by the fire- men and eager crowd, the roof has fallen in with a great crash, and the building itself bids fair to become only a heap of smoking ruins. CHAPTER V. THE RETURNED PRODIGAL. “T Am glad, aunt, that you are so pleased with Miss Marsden. I always said that you required a cheerful young companion to keep up your spirits, and now you see I was % ‘ae right.” _ “You generally are, my dear Alaric;” and the speaker gazed affectionately at her young relative, as they sat together in the Juxurious- ly-furnished room she called her boudoir, en- joying a confidential chat. Mrs. Pennington was tall and thin, with an appearance of delscate health, both in her pale complexion and the deep lines around her “mouth and temples. She was simply dressed ' the ladies were charmed with him, LOVED. nk ti, ming or ornament, relieved by p'ain linen col- lar and cuffs; while her dark hair, thickly streaked with gray, wes plainly braided under a cap which owed little to the milliner’s art. She was a rich woman and spent money lavish- ly on art or charity, but on her own adornment she practiced the strictest economy. ‘“‘Miss Marsden seems happy here, I sup- pose?” said Alaric, interrogatively, after a slight pause, “She bas recovered the shock caused by the fire?” ‘She is well in heaith, but sometimes rather pensive. It is mysterious, Alaric, that so charming a girl should be without a single friend, and I cannot induce her to speak of the past.” ‘‘ All in good time, my dear aunt,” said the young man, soothingly. ‘‘When you have been lunger acquainted, she will be anxious to confide her secrets to you.” “‘Do you think her pretty?” “More than pretty—beautifnl!” was the em- phatic answer. “Yet she is not like Muriel,” ‘‘Not in the least.” Muriel was Mrs, Pennington’s daughter, and six years ago, when a girl of eighteen, the be- trothed of Alaric Treherne. : ‘I wish, Alaric, that I had the power to forget things as easily as you seem to do,” said the lady, with some asperity, ‘You talk as calmly of my child as if you had not been playmates together, friends and lovers until that ever-to-be-regretted day when she an- nounced her intended marriage with George St. Aubyn.”’ ‘¢- You do not blame me, I suppose, for re- nouncing all allegiance to another man’s wife?” remarked Alaric, quietly. ‘“ When Muriel changed her mind, and gave me to understand that I was no longer an acceptable suitur, would you have me pine away because she was fickle?” “You never really loved her!” exclaimed Mrs. Pennington, unaware, however, that in her words a germ of truth lay hidden. ‘““My dear aunt, why need we recall the past, with its mortifications and disappoint- ments? If Muriel had married me, I would have tried to make her happy; but she pre- ferred the handsome and fascinating George St, Aubyn to the plodding doctor. 1 think all Muriel ‘among the rest, on the evening we saw him first at the dramatic entertainment given at the armory. He was rather a stick, in theatri- eal parlance; but then, as they said, he was so good-looking.” ‘‘T fear be was a worthless scamp!” sighed Mrs. Pennington; ‘‘yet, Alaric, I sometimes find myself wishing that 1 had borne his inso- lence, and not allowed him to find a pretext in some clinging blagk fabric, without trim- for estranging wy daughter from me. Had
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* eas as SN 8s SL ee ee oh ey we not quarreled, he must have permitted ber to write or visit me occasionally; now I kuow not what bas become of her.” ‘Muriel should never have forgotten her mother’s claims!” said he sternly. ‘‘ ven duty to her husband cannot excuse neglect of that sacred tie.” “‘ My dear boy, you are so severe!” remarked Mrs, Pennington, deprecating bis indiguation, Nerissa’s entrance was a seasonable inter- ruption to a subject which usually gave rise to a decided difference of opinion between aunt and nephew. The roses of health were again revisiting the girl’s cheek, and her form showed the roundness of youth in its graceful curves. In a dress of blue serge, with a clus- FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. ter of scarlet geran‘ums fastening the creamy | lace which encircled her swan-like throat, she brightened the room like a gleam of sunshine, and Mrs. Pennington cast aside her despon- dency, and welcomed her with a smile. “Well, my dear, you seem the better for your morning stroll. You look quite bloom- ing.” ‘*T mean to get rid of my pale cheeks now, | and become bright and rosy,” returned the | girl, playfully, ‘‘since I have met with kind ’ friends and a happy Lome.” “Then it is a happy home to you, Nerissa?” “ How can you doubt it?” And she seated herself on a Jow stool at the feet of her benefactress, and stroked her thin, white hand, “J cannot remember my mother —she died while I was an ivfant. Had she lived, I can scarcely believe she could bave been more kind and tender than you have been to me.” “ You do me good, too, Nerissa. I was often dull and moping until you came to cheer me.” ‘It is pleasant to hear you say that I have done you good,” cried Nerissa, joyfully. ‘‘ But T must not forget,” she added, ‘that I owe all this happiness to Doctor Treherne. Had it not been for his kindly interest I should long ago | have perished in that miserable room where he first found me.” “Do not let your mind dwell upon sorrows which are best forgotten,” he said. ‘You have now a fond protectress in my aunt, who | views you as a daughter, while you may re- + gard me as a—” He was about to say a brother, but it struck him suddenly with a feeling of surprise that he was glad Nerissa was not his sister, So he substituted the word ‘‘friend,” and the mo- mentary embarrassment caused a shade of red to appear upon his generally colorless and dark- complexioned face. A servant entered at this juncture and an- nounced, “Mrs. St. Aubyn.” The mother’ started wildly from her chair with aery of delight, and in an instant had clasped her arms around a tall, slender lady, _ with my aunt as companior = 4 PUA poet Pate cad z 15 dressed in deep mourning, who had advanced with the uncertain air of one not quite sure of her reception. : ‘Muriel, Muriel, my cbild, why have you treated me so cruelly? I have béen hungering for the sight of your sweet face, the touch of ~ your soft hand!” “Tt was not my fault, mother.” Muriel St. Aubyn gently disengaged herself from. that clinging embrace, and offered her hand to Doctor Treherne. P.0 ‘We are friends, cousin Alaric, are we not?” she asked, with a winning smile; “though I own that I treated you very shabbily.” “That is forgiven and forgotten years ago, Muriel.” a ‘‘ How noble of you to say so! Then you are glad to see me again? And this lady?” she added, turning to Nerissa, who stood, near, con- fused. ‘‘ Will you introduce us?” “This is Miss Nerissa Marsden, who lives ae “Indeed!” she interrupted, without waiting for the introduction to be completed. ** But I have come home now to be always with mam- ma—that is, if she will forgive my apparent neglect and receive me again,” She cast an appealing glance from eyes of a deep sapphire blue at her mother as she spoke. ‘My child, you are welcome as a bird to its. nest! But what will your busband say?” “Do not let us speak of him during these joyful moments of our first reunion. He is dead. These mourning robes are worn for him. ‘Yes, dearest mocher, you have back with you a widowed child, who has regretted often | thut she did not allow herself to be guided by Ab, Alaric!”—once more her sparkling orbs lifted to his face—‘‘ a wom. — an who forsakes her first love is never really your good advice. happy.” ; Nerissa stole from the room, Surely sbe was pot wanted during the progress of such confidential communications? “Tf am glad she bas the sense draw,” was Muriel’s comment. “We can now feel more at ease. Mother, bow could you let this stranger take my place?’ She spoke re- proachbfully. : ‘Tt was a place you voluntarily resigned,” observed Doctor Treherne. took charge of Miss Marsden at my request. She wasa stranger in the city, poor and unpro- — tected. I attended her professionally, and was glad to secure for her so unexceptionable a sit-_ uation.” “J suppose young doctors always take an interest in their pretty patients,” remarked Mrs. St. Aubyn, with an assumed simplicity which concealed a covert sneer, ‘‘ But, dear- est mother, I had great difficulty in finding you out. I could uot believe that the rich lady, Mrs, Pennington, of Madison square, 7 to with- : “But my aunt ie } / i a
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16 FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. a was the same who used to economize so pain- fully in the dingy house at Harlem. I sup- pose that, contrary to all expectation, that seemingly interminablé lawsuit is at last con- cluded?” Was she telling the truth in pretending that her desire for a reconciliation preceded her knowledge of the change in her mother’s cir- cumstances? Alaric had his suspicions, but Mrs. Penning- ton embraced her daughter all the more fondly for believing that she would have been sought ought in her poverty as eagerly as in her. wealth, There was something so winning in Muriel’s manner that .a harsher critic than her mother might have been led to forget the delinquen- cies which in the past gradually raised a bar- rier between them. The clandestine meetings with George St. Aubyn when she bad been engaged to her cousin Alaric, the obstinate resolution to marry the former, notwithstanding all warnings and entreaties, with subsequent unkindness and neglect, were allowed to sink into oblivion un- der the influence of that captivating smile and ¢aressing touch, “JT must send for my baggage, and make myself at home again,” she said, with Mrs. Pennington’s hand clasped in ber own, “ And, mamma, you must let me have the very next room to yours, as I used to when I was a child, will you not?” “ Certainly, my love—that is, you shall have it soon, but at present it is appropriated to Nerissa Marsden.” A shade passed over her fair face. “‘I sball be jealous of your , rotegee, Cousin Alaric.” “Such jealousy is unworthy of a noble nature,” he replied, gravely. ‘You should not malign yourself, Muriel, even in jest.” “ Alaric will lecture you again, my dear, as in the old days,” said the mother, fondly smil- ing; * bat you will not mind granting him the privilege.” Already it seemed as if the last six years were a dream, and Muriel had never left her. Then the thought flashed through her mind that, after all, her dearest hope might have been only deferred instead of abandoned, and the two she loved best—her daughter and nephew—might at length unite their destinies, and be happy togetber. Perhaps Alaric’s reproof had a good effect upon his cousin; for when she met Nerissa - ‘again she greeted her with a friendly warmth which effaced from the girl’s mind the unplea- sant impression made by their first introduc- tion. It was evident, however, that Mrs. St. Aubyn had learned from ber mother how little the latter knew of the antecedents of her young companion; for Nerissa scon found extrem®é— difficulty in parrying her apparent by guilele questions. When it was impossible, to frame answers without danger of betraying her secret, she took refuge in silence. F: Muriel did not appear to notice her embat) rassment, but chatted on with a confidential air. ; “‘T am determined that you and I shall be great friends,” she said; and Alaric, who stoo G near, heard that remark, and smiled kindly upon her, They all dined together, and the evening passed pleasantly away. Muriel was sentimental and gay by turns, She sung splendidly, in a fine contralto voice, which contrasted strangely with the sweet, un: trained notes of Nerissa. It was late befure Alaric departed, and the ladies retired to their own rooms, It was a wild night. The wind in heavy gusts shook the windows and whistled down the wide chimney, Perhaps the noise it made caused Nerissa to be wakeful, for she lay thinking over the events of the day, and wondering whether this unex- pected return of the daughter of her kind friend would cause her expulsion from the home whicP she dearly prized. Sbe should not sink agail, into the condition whence she had been rescued) her confidence both in Mrs, Pennington and Dr. become attached to her friends and their sur roundings, so the idea of being sent among strangers was unwelcome. / | A heavier gust of wind than usual prevented j her from hearing the slight noise made by tbe opening door, but happening to turn upon hef pillow, she saw, with some alarm, the tal slender figure of a woman, bearing a shadeé lamp, moving at the further end of her cham’ ber. Swiftly but silently it made its way towaré a side-table, where Nerissa’s workbox, writing: case, and a few favorite books were neatlj placed in order, and the gazer recognized, wit! surprise, Muriel St. Aubyn, She wore a long, loose dressing-gown of r cashmere, and her dark hair, released from it fastenings, fell, in uncurled masses, over he? shoulders, + As she turned her pale, eager face toward , the bed, perhaps to make sure that her entran0? had not aroused the sleeper, Nerissa uttered het name, She started, but in a moment her light lau echoed through the room, ‘“‘Miss Marsden, you look quite frightened Iam afraid I have alarmed you. The truth} that I could not sleep owing to the excitemeD”. of to-day, and I remembered bearing you that you often rose early to read or study, thought you might have some book with whi¢
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——— _ FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. T could while away the wearisome Aonihonss Is there one here that you can recommend?” She scarcely waited for an answer, but tak- — ing up the volume which lay nearest, bade Nerissa good-night, and left the room. “T must be more careful in my next at- tempt,” she murmured, as she passed along the corridor; ‘‘ but I will never rest until I have discovered this girl’s history. Her keys were on the table, and her desk—a gift of my mother’s most likely—was close at hand. There may be in it letters or papers which will give the clew I want to find. If I discover any secret which does not redound to her credit, I | will not hesitate to make use of it. Itisin vain she lays her snares for Alaric Treherne!” When Nerissa arose the following morning, almost the first object that caught her eye was a white card lying ov the carpet where Muriel stood only a few hours previously. . Thinking it must have fallen from her drawer or work- box, she picked it up, and was surprised to find that it was the photograph of a young man in a kind of fancy dress, A second glance, and her heart beat fast, for a closed page in her past life seemed reopened. It was the likeness of Everard Vaughan. Yes, there could be no mistake; the face and figure both were his, though he did not wear the depressed and melancholy expression which, during their brief acquaintance, had been stamped upon his lineaments, He stood smiling, a gobleé uplifted in his hand, his lips parted, asif giving vent to some mirtbful sally, or song in praise of rosy wine, Yet it was Everard—her husband, At the remembrance of that hurried scene in the magistrate’s office, a faintness as of death stole over her. Then, panting for freedom from Matthew Gunthorpe’s addresses, she had joyfully raised an irrevocable obstacle to the furtherance of that gentleman’s plans; now she began to realize the extent of her folly. Mar- ried in a false name, was she legally bound for life to one man, when it was possible that she might one day fall i in love with another? Nerissa was not lawyer enough to decide the | question. These were her first thoughts as she stood gazing on the photograph; then she began | to consider how it came into her room. Cer- tainly it had never been in her possession be- | fore; and with a thrill of dread she began to imagine that Mrs. St. Aubyn knew her secret, | and adopted that measure for making her aware of the fact. Suspense was terrible; she must learn the worst without delay. Hastily finishing ber toilet, she descended to the breakfast-room. Muriel was standing near the window, very fair and graceful in her long black robe, but her face flushed a deep, dull crimson as Nerissa offered her the photograph, ae | | | represents, ‘gists in making itself heard. «You must have Sapa! this in my room last night Mrs. St. Aubyn.”. It seemed at first asif she were about to deny it, but after an instant’s pause she sad, ina careless tone: “Ob, yes; it i mine, I ws looking over the photogr aphs of some achare and actresses as I was unpacking Jast night, IT am so fond of the stage, Miss Marsden, and this — must have caught in my dress. I forget who it or why I bought it, but he has rather a nice face, has he not?” She slipped the photograph into her peeket, 4 and began to talk upon another topic in a man-- ner which set Nerissa’s heart at ease. CHAPTER VI. A RECOGNITION. WINTER had set in with severity—‘ fine, sonable v eather,” ’ 80 the skaters said when * cold which braces a young, Beaty: co tion, to those less richly endowed by» brings suffering, disease and death, Thus it proved with Matthew Gunthorpe severe cold caught dur ve long exposure to snow-storm resulted in a serious illness: symptoms appeared, and it became evident life for him would soon be over. . Sophia was an indefatigible nurse. Shek her brother all the more because their ch ters were similar; and what would hav felled others only brought them closer toge She sat by bim now in the gray twi watching every change in bis countenan striving to hope, although the doctors to all hope was vain. Matthew tossed uneasily on his pillow, tering a few disjointed words, whose sense caped her. are ‘What troubles you, my dear bret Bee asked, soothingly. de My mind is weighed down by a den,” he answered, feebly. ‘It is only > a man is stretched upon a sick bed from whi he may never rise again that conscience per I have on turned a deaf ear to its whispers, but: Aa loudly to-night.” | ‘But, Matthew, you talk as if you I committed some great crime!” “T have wronged the orphan child of dead friend; I have driven a thoughtless, i perienced girl into making a rash marriage. which she may long ago have bitterly repented Where is Nerissa Marsden, whom her fathe committed to my care? Is ‘she alive or dead?— prosperous or penniless? Sophia, unless thes questions are answered how can I die in peace’ His weak voice rose in sudden passion, §c¢J phia attempted to calm him, “0
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a oe OR THE WOMAN HE LoVE “Dear brother, do not make yourself un- easy. No doubt she is with her husband ~ the ‘husband whom she preferred to you. Remem- ber her deceit, ingratitude, and obstinacy, and you will no longer condemn your own short- comings.” He knew the casuistry of such reasoning, and groaned aloud in perturbation of spirit. “¢Oh, Sophia! would that I could be blind to the unwelcome truth! It was our ill-treat- ment that drove her to desperation. And yet I loved her—loved her even when I was most cruel.” ‘‘ She shculd have felt honored by the offer of your hand.” LA: thought so then, but not now. What was I, a manin the sere and autumn of life, fe expect that bright young being to link her fate to mine? Beauty and youth were her at- » tractions, which rekindled in my heart a fire that had long sunk into ashes, What had I to offer in exchange?” ‘“‘You could have given her a good home, -and—and—” ‘Miss Sophia paused, for she suddenly recol- ee Jected that Nerissa was no portionless damsel, ~ and Matthew had et not only a wife but . Shey fortune. i Bs “There is one reparatigs T.can make for all | - ghe has suffered through my foolish scheme,” | _hecontinued. ‘Things have prospcred with "me strangely lately. I scem to have had tho gift of Midas, for all I have touched has turned ; : gold, The small sum of money belonging to Nerissa which I managed to get into my - possession formed the nucieus of a large for- oy ‘tune, I will provide for you handsomely, So- = ~ phia—it i is your due, for you are my only sis- ter; but Ravenburst and the largest share of = the ‘recently-acquited property will go to Ne- » rissa.” Miss Sophia tha startled. At first ber feel- ie were outraged by the notion that her claims were ignored for the sake of “ that re- - pellious, obstinate chit,” who had given so _ much trouble. But Ravenhurst was a rambling, gloomy ~ mansion, and she was fast becoming old. A home less pretentious might be made would amply supply her wants. E “Let it be as you wish, if it makes you hap- __ pier,” she said, calmly. ’téNerissa will be in duck, for I suppose she comes to ber own for- tune as well?” “Yes; the girl was right when she claimed it on her marriage, for by her father’s will her choice was left absolutely free and unfettered. ‘If her husband had shown bimself a man, and asked it at my bands, I must have yielded it up or faced the consequences. He must be a ees, sneaking cur to beep in the back- ‘ ; more comfortable, and a moderate income | pnts and not come forward boldly to claim his wife. Sophia, there is some mystery about this William Lee. I could find no trade of him beyond the signature in the register.’ “Tt cannot matter now,” ted Sophia, who had often vainly pondered on the sub- ject. “You areright. She isa wife—that is all- sufficient for legal purposes. “‘Her father made a great mistake—” began Sophia, wken ber brotber’s gesture stopped ber in the middle of a sentence, “Sister, my business is to repair my own faults, not to condemn others, I shall put the matter into the hands of my lawyers, Quill & Steele, at Bridgeport. They will see Nerissa righted when I am gone,” Matthew Gunthorpe passed away that night, but not before be made his atonement. His will, properly signed and attested, was in the lawyer’s possession, who pi omised to use his utmost endeavors to carry out the wishes of his respected client. He also managed to scrawl a few farewell words to Nerissa, asking her forgiveness. If the excitement and exertion consequent on these efforts accelerated the end, at least they rendered it more peaceful, Christmas was over, that season of good cheer, holly-berries avd general festivity. In Madison square it was spent quietly, yet with all due observance, and when the New Year came, and was welcomed, as Dickens has writ- ten, “like an infant heir to the whole world,” the three young persons who were assembled under Mrs, Pennington’s roof to hear the bells | | ring in its advent, bad.no premonition it would bring so many changes with it. “Aunt Pennington,” said Alaric, as they sat round the fire, a sociable family circle, “I am going to ask of you a favor,” ‘“What is it, my dear boy?’ “T have taken a box for to-morrow at Nib- lo’s, to see the pantomime everybody is talking of as a triumph of scenie art. It is dull work to sit in solitary state, so I trust that you, to- gether with cousin Muriel and Nerissa, will oblige me with your company.” “‘T do not care much for the theater,” said Mrs, Pennington, smiling; ‘‘ yet I cannot re- ject your offer.” “That is fortunate! ladies?” He turned toward the girls, who were sitting side by side, each co beautiful, yet so unlike. ‘“We shall be charmed!” exclaimed Mrs, St. Aubyn, for herself and companion, “But, my dear child, in your deep mcurn- ing!” ‘Now, mother, do not throw obstacles in the way of my enjoyment. Why should I not And you, young
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iy . fied, she was unable to command his undivided (a eed, ft Re ae en eh DS eae - FOR HE WOMAN HE LOVED. 19 is ean Pa Nate have a share in the gayeties of the season? [— can sit well back in a private box, so that no one need be scandalized by my presence.” Alaric would have liked some sign from Nerissa showing thatthe proposed errangement was agreeable, but she was looking in an op: posite direction, and appeared to think that her companion had answered for both. He thought, with regret, how seldom she spoke to him, unless directly addressed. In- deed, sometimes it appeared that, far from taking pleasure in his society, she rather avoided him than otherwise. Yet she had gradually become very dear to him, a thousand times more dear than Muriel had ever been, even in the days when, from being constantly thrown together, he believed he loved her and she could make him happy. Now the illusion was over, and not likely to be renewed. Muriel might look ber loveliest, and smile her sweetest; she might even sigh | pathetically while referring to their early love, and the blight which fell upon it. He could not forget that, when bound to him by | the most. sacred promises, she listened to George St. Aubyn’s wooing, and jilted him for the sake of a man who, judging by the slight reverence she paid bis memory, could never have been really loved? When Nerissa descended the next evening to | the drawing-room, dressed for the theater, she looked charming in Alaric’s eyes. Ne occa- sion hitherto had arisen for any extra display of the toilet in Mrs. Penuington’s quiet family circle, therefore the flowers nestling in the girl’s hair, the pretty though inexpensive orna- ments which brightened her dark silk dress, tho slender throat and rounded arms, not quite so closely vailed as usual, struck him with admi- ration. He scarcely glanced at his cousin, who noticed his indifference,-and frowned until her straight brows almost met. Nor was this her only mortification, Mrs. Pennington was a woman of the old school, -and as such a great stickler for propriety; so, through her mother’s prejudices, the young | lady found herself compelled to sit at the back | of the box, while Nerissa was placed in front, where many wandering eyes were attracted by her fair face. Alarie often leaned forward to speak to her, or listen to her criticisms upon the perform- ance; therefore, although Muriel was his next neighbor, and as such should have been satis- attention. The pantomime, like most others, was a suc- cession of scenes more or less gay and glitter- | ing. There was the usual display of spangles, | | twinkling feet, hideous masks, and the army | | of svpernumeraries that throng the stage on | every available opportunity. i 'so he had assured her often, his lifelong — ‘the smooth greensward seems like a velveh Norissa never knew when first she began to _fancy that the figure and movements of one of these men were familiar, but she caught herself .watching for his appearance | either as a deamon in the Palace of Discord, a soidier in the most impossible of regiments, or a courtier to the most wonderful of kings. _ Whenever he entered, in spite of grotesque masks and outrageous dresses, her thoughts flew back to her old home at Ravenhursi and | Everard Vaughan, By degrees it seemed that this man, whoever | he might be, watched her too, She could not é see his eyes, but the face was always turned toward her, eee At length, whether by accident or design, A his mask slipped aside for an instant. Shewas right. Everard was before her, and ee nS nized her. a She experienced a strange conflict of feeling, She had befriended the unfortunate youug man | when he was in a grievous strait, and earned, gratitude. Her interest in him was still so great, that she would have rejoiced to hear of his welfare in some distant land, whither he intended to de- part when they last met. But seeing him now : brought forcibly to mind her anomalous posi- tion. She pictured Mrs. Pennington’s conster- nation, Alaric Treherne’s amazement, if they : ever learned that she and Everard Vaughan had +) called one another by the sacred names of hus- _ band and wife. oy She was thankful when the nadeaubee wand had wrought its last transformation, and the clown executed his final somersault, when the dark curtain was drawn dow.: over the lime- — x lighted scene, and she was able to shrink ial ee the darkest corner of the carriage which con- sg veyed them home, and brood over memories — of the past. _—__ CHAPTER VII. HER UNTOLD SECRET. Every New Yorker knows and loves Cantar Park in summer, when the brightly tinted foliage softens the too glaring sunshine, and © : carpet to tired feet weary of the hard pave- ment and dusty roads. : But on a bright winter day, when the leaf- E less trees are clothed in a mantle of snow, and = the robins chirp their loudest on the boughs or vee hop sedately across the quiet paths, it is not Faia without attraction. So at least thought Alaric Treherne, as, ‘idl with skates in hand, he walked briskly away __ ‘from the ornamental water (where he had been enjoying an hour’s healthful exercise) in the direction of one of the park entrances. There had lately been a decided change in | Alarie’s mode of life. He had relinquished his
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ean practice to a rising young medical man with | whom for years he had been on intimate terms, and he removed from his apartments in the neighborhood of the ‘‘Home” where Nerissa once found shelter, and took rooms near his aunt’s residence, so that, without in- convenience, he could be a frequent visitor. He still spent a good!y portion of his income on philanthropic works, but was scarcely so lavish in expenditure as formerly, remember- ing that the time might come when his ex- penses would increase, while his leisure was much absorbed by a thousand trifling duties which devolve upon those who find their chief delight in ladies’ society. In truth, Alaric was deeply in love, and things which once most interested him now seemed dull and vapid, for his whole heart was set upon winning Nerissa for his wife. At an abrupt turn in the path he saw her walking at a short distance before him. It was a golden opportunity for putting his fate to the test. He accepted the good omen, und, quickening his pace, a few moments brought him to her side. He noticed the vivid blush with which she greeted him, and how her small hand fluttered in his broad palm, Although he was no cox- comb, he could not help fancying that such maidenly embarrassment augured well for his Sere Suit, After awhile, as they walked slowly side by - side under the spreading branches, he managed to stammer forth a few incoherent words declaratory of bis love. Nerissa, her eyes swimming in tears, laid her hand upon his arm, and murmured: ‘““Pray, Doctor Treherne, say no more, I cannot—indeed I cannot be your wife!” ‘Do not decide tvo hastily,” he urged, deep- ly wounded. ‘ You may not have thought of me except as a friend; but now since you know how fondly I love you, you may learn in time to reciprocate my affection. 1 will be very patient, and not press for an answer unti] you are ready to give it, only do not quite reject me,” “To do so is the truest kindness,” she fal- tered. ‘‘Do you then so utterly hate me that under no circumstances you would consent to become my wife?” “Oh, Doctor Treherne, you must know that ‘I do not hate you!” “‘Indeed! Of course I bave no right to ask the question I am goivg to put to you, but my life’s happiness is at stake! Nerissa, do you love another?” ~ “No,” she said, glad to be able to give him even this poor consolation; ‘‘I have never loved.” ‘“‘ Then. dearest, I cannot relinquish the hope “ a FOR ran WOMAN HE LOVED, of winning you! Tam content to bide my tieak) strong in the belief that devotion and constan- cy will bring their reward, and tbe girl I love — will be my own dear wife!” “That can never be!” she answered, ‘¢ But why, Nerissa?” : His persistency distressed her. Tears, which would be restrained no longer, coursed down her cheeks, “‘ How selfish I am, my darling, to vex you with my importunity! me so en- friends. You do not dismiss I will accept my dis-~ appointment mavfully if we may still be tirely that I may not dare to approach you, ~ | Nerissa?” She faintly smiled through her tears. “jf you will be friendly, it will make me very happy. I have not forgotten all your goodness, and what you suffered to save me from a terrible death! I should have lost my life the night of the fire had not your strong arms been outstretched to save me!” They walked home in silence. He left her at the door, for he was in no mood for society, and went bis way very sad and downcast. He did not notice Muriel’s form, half-hidden by the curtain in the dining-room, as she watch: ed him from the window, Nerissa locked herself up in her own cham- ber, and indulged in the feminine luxury of a good cry. This oceypation becoming at length monot- onous, it occurred to her to ask herself why it was she wept. Did she love Alaric Treherne? She, a girl of eighteen, inexperienced in the ways of the world, having no one from whom she could seek counsel, yet the wife of Everard Vaughan! Durivg her isolated existence at Ravenbwi st: she had not dreamed of either love or marriage until Matthew Gunthorpe had suggested the subject to her. Now she recognized the error she had committed in marrying Everard — Vaughan. Notwithstanding Nerissa had put a period to the aspirations of Doctor Treherne, by telling him point-blank that she could not marry him, he did not discontinue his visits to his aunt’s, On the contrary, be called more frequently; but he directed the greater part of his conver- sation to Muriel and his aunt. Muriel die not -~ love her cousin, but her vaia, coquettish nature » could not endure the pang of seeing herself supplanted in his affections. Once she was dear to him, she knew; anda marriage be- tween them was in every way desirable, so that — the newly-acquired fortune might be kept in the family. One evening sbe met Alaric in the vestibule, and with a mysterious air invited him to come -
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into the library, where they could speak with- out fear of interruption. A smile of triumph curled ber full red lip. _ The night before she had paid another secret visit to Nerissa’s chamber, and this time her =e had been rewarded. The room called the library, although it scarcely merited that ambitious designation, was ove of the most cheerful and comfortable “in the house. There were cushioned chairs and couches, inviting to luxurious ease rather .than study; a long table, upon which lay magazines and writing materials; pictures upon the walls, and rich crimson curtains vail- ing the long windows, Muriel seated herself by the brightly glow- ing fire, and Alaric stood near her, wondering what communication she had to make which demanded so much privacy. ‘‘Dear Alaric,” she began, “‘I am about to take you into my confidence. As my cousin ‘and early friend, it is natural that I should come to you in my little difficulties.” He bowed his head in assent. ‘“‘You must promise, however, to preserve an inviolable secrecy regarding what I am about to tell you.” Of course, Muriel, I sball respect your con- fidence,” he answered, rather stiffly. ‘Pray do not keep me in suspense any longer.” “‘ Well, then, to begin at once, 1am jealous and angry in noticing the influence which this girl who calls herself Nerissa Marsden has ac- quired over my mother.” “Muriel, why do you speak thus slightingly of Miss Marsden? There is no reason why she should not be a favorite with my aunt.” _ “J fear,” returned Muriel, pursing her rcsy _ lips, and striving to look grave, “that she bas entered the house under false pretenses, It is dreadful to think of, but she is an impostor, without even a right to the name she bears.” ‘“t How do you know this?” he asked, in great agitation. “My dear cousin, please do not ask me to _ give you my authority, for honor compels me a keep silence. All I know is, that this girl ‘who pretends to be guileless—” He interrupted her wildly. “Tt is no pretense, I would stake my life upon her innocence and purity!” “« Good gracious, Alaric! You need not ex- aJaim so vehemently, as if I were abvut to take away the character of a woman who is noth- ing to you, I was about to remark, if you ' had let me finish my sentence, that she is mar- i) She thanked him with a look of gratitude. Never had he seemed so dear as now, when she thought of the love that might have made her happy had she been free. “‘- You will not, then, refuse to give me your advice?” she said meekly, as, advancing to the table, she placed before him a copy of the H rald, and laid her finger upon a certain para- graph. ‘This advertisement must refer to me. I noticed it this morning, and knew it was vain to think of keeping my secre} any yor | 7 “ier > pea se!
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longer. No doubt Mrs. St. Aubyn sawit, too.” Alaric took the newspaper, and read aloud: “Tf Nerissa Lee ei Marsden) will call at the office of Messrs. Quill & Steele, Attorneys at Law, Bridge- port, Conn., she will hear of something greatly to er advantage, under the will of the late Matthew Gunthorpe, Esq.” “He was iny guardian,” she said, in expla- nation, ‘and did not treat me well. I fled from his house to New York, where you came to my succor.” That was all she would tell him about her husband. Nerissa felt bound in honor not to give the slightest clew by which William Lee could be associated with Everard Vaughan, who was still wanted by detectives on a war- rant charging him with murder. CHAPTER VIII AN UNHAPPY DESTINY. 4 himself into communication with the lawyers on behalf of Nerissa, and as there was no one to dispute her claim, the business formalities were soon settled. Early in the spring Miss Sophia vacated Ravenhurst, and Nerissa was installed there as mistress, Familiar as the lawyers were with strange clients and curious family histories, they were heiress, who was neither wife nor widow, and would tell them nothing regarding her past life. But it was no business of theirs, this mar- riage with a sort of phantom bridegroom, | who seemed to have departed without leaving a trace behind. They must act according to their instructions; and as General Lascelles, the co-trustee, had died in the West a few _weeks before Mr. Gunthorpe, there was really nobody who hai any right to pry into her af- | fairs. Society, however looked very coldly upon Mrs. Lee when she came back to Raven- hurst. Nerissa, who had been accustomed from her childhood to lead a secluded life, did not per- ceive the coolness of her neighbors, or have any idea of the scandal which was circulated at her expense, up her abode fora time at Ravenhurst. Mu- riel accompanied her, for she was inquisitive in regard to everything that concerned Ne- rissa, : A great deal had to be done in the way of repairing and adorning the grim old mansion. Workmen were employed, and upholsterers consulted, Any one who saw Nerissa busily engaged in the pleasing duties of ordering new furniture, or deciding upon improvements. buying dresses and jewelry for herself and presents for her friends, might bave envied ber good fortune, In reality, however, she ee Pe a a ‘ FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. was often restless and miserable. She knew that Alaric suffered. Although he never spoke of love, or behaved in a manner inconsistent with the friendship which could’ be the only bond between them, she saw the struggle it.cost him, and would have given worlds if she could have been free to reward his constancy. Nerissa had her old liking for solitary ram- bles; and in the lovely summer weather, when earth and sky wore their most becoming attire, scarcely a day passed that she did not wander for hours through the garden and grounds, But she no longer skipped blithely along, singing as she went. She had grown grave and thoughtful. Her wayward girlhood bad | been left behind, and love had matured her into a woman, enduring the trials and anxieties which are the heritage of Eve’s daughters, One day, as she issued from the lodge-gates, ' Dorothy Trent AbARIC TREHERNE lost no time in putting , > ent stepped teres oe _ puzzd at the reserve of Matthew Gunthorpe’s | “‘Good-marning, my pretty Miss Nerissa— or Mrs. Lee, as they call you now! It isa long time since I saw you last at my poor cot- tage. Welcome back to Ravenhurst!” “Thank you, Dorothy. You must drink my health.” She drew out her purse, and placed a gold- piece in the shriveled palm held out so eagerly to receive it, “ That is a gift worth the having; and now that you are'a rich lady, and can do what you like with your money, you will often remem- ber to reward poor old Dorothy for saving your husband’s life?” ee: The old crone chuckled and leered; while | Nerissa winced in finding from the woman's | manner that the old hag was conscious she | held some sort of power over her. | Dorothy. “You need not frown, my lady,” continued “JT was not so deaf but that I heard you plan that journey to Bridgeport; | but I am not going to chatter, so you need not be afraid. Ihave been waiting bere more than an hour for the chance of seeing you. I dare | not come to the house, lest servants might | talk.” “What did you want with me, Dorothy?’ “‘Me? I wanted nothing. It was him who one ' sent me,” Mrs. Pennington had been persuaded to take | ‘Whom do you mean?” ‘You know the one I mean, He came only yesterday night. I was standing at my cottage door, watcbing the moon rise over tbe hill yonder, when I saw the figure of a man coming through the darkness. I thought it must be a tramp or beggar, he seemed so foctsore and weary; but as he got. nearer I knew my old lodger. He asked if I would take him in again, and I said yes, for of course you will not let me be a So he is now at my place; and you are oser. to go there without loss of time. He wants to see you most partickler,” . ee vi
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- a ‘Wes that the message?” inquired Nerissa, while her pride 10se at the imperious sum- mons. ; Dorothy nodded knowingly; and without waiting for further converse, hobbled away in the direction of home. Nerissa stood reflecting for a moment, then followed the woman slowly. Through the well-remembered wood she went where she and Everard talked together, he all gratitude and submission, she moved by womanly compassion. Were their positions now to be reversed, and the suppliant to be changed into her mas- ter? Very dimly this notion dawned in Ne- | rissa’s mind, only to be dismissed with scorn, At last she reached the lonely hut, which ‘looked more miserable and dilapidated than when she saw it last. Two or three panes in the casement windows were broken. As she loitered, with a strange foreboding that some fresh cloud was about to darken her destiny, Everard appeared on the threshold, How gaunt and ill he looked! There were dark circles round his eyes, his cheeks were hollow; his shabby clothes hung about his emaciated form, many sizes too large, But she was most impressed by a subtle change in his countenance—a smoldering fire in his large dark orbs she had not hitherto noticed. “So you have come, Nerissa. That is well,” ' he said, leading the way into the little silting- room, “Why are you here?” she asked, as she sunk upon the rough settle. “It was agreed be- tween us that you should leave America, with the funds I provided you, more than a year a 0.” “SoIdid. I kept my promise to the letter, and started for England two days after we parted. But I could not remain there, A barfd seemed to beckon me toward the country where niy happiest days bad been passed, It was the hand of destiny. I could not resist its influence; so bere I am onca more on Yankee soil.” “You have not prospered since last we met,” she began, timidly, remembering she was now rich, and could afford to give him sub- stantial pecuniary assistance. He interrupted her roughly. ‘‘Prospered! How could J, when I was always forced to be cautious, and could never stay long in the same.place or under the same name? For hersake, lam a hunted man, and have enemies ready to gloat over my ruinif f am not very careful and cunning. You are wealthy, Nerissa—at least, I guessed as much from the advertisement which appeared in the Herald soon after I saw you at Niblo’s—and that wealch you must share with me,” She began to tremble, He was altogether - FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. ar! Ae different from his former self—a man who could inspire her with fear. : ‘‘T will give you a handsome sum,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, ‘ though it was arranged that neither of us had any future claim upon each other. Everard Vaughan, you know not how bitterly I repent that mockery of a mar- riage. If it could be annulled, I would give half my fortune!” With clasped hands, she looked pleadingly in his face. ‘ ts: a He gave asmile of derision. oa | Such links are not easily broken,” he e answered. ‘s a “T know—I know; yet ours could scarcely — _ have been a legal marriage, since the name you is gave was not your own, Oh, Everard, set me free, and I will bless you!” r He lavghed outright. ‘ ty | So it has come to this—and so soon! ‘Yes; ' those tears and blushes tell their own story! — | You are in love, madam! It is well for youT ‘am not jealous!” You have not yet given me an answer.” ‘¢ Because your appeal is too exacting. Am : I to thrust myself into the felon’s duck to suit = your convenience? You married me for your own pleasure, and my safety requires that I do not intrude myself upon public notice.” “Yet surely it could be managed? I am prepared to give whatever you demand if you assist me in regaining my liberty.” “No, no!” he answered, roughly. “ My plan is something very different. You are my wife, You shall come with me to some country i far away, where you will teach me toforgeb — the past and be happy. You are very beauti- ful, Nerissa. Come, my wife; let me kiss you, That pure kiss will chase away those memories that are driving me mad.” Sa He tried to seize her in his arms, The glare of insanity was in bis eyes. = The overwrought brain, which had struggled so long against adverse fate, was giving way at last. ot With a cry of terror, Nerissa broke away from him and burried from the cottage. . And now the punishment of Nerissa’s folly ; became a burden almost too heavy for endur- ae ance. .- Day after day she was haunted by the witch- like face of Dorothy Trent, who appeared at untimely hours and unseemly places, either ‘with imperative messages from her lodger or appeals on her own account for money, which appeals often degenerated into threats of ex- posure. Dorothy was no simpleton, and more than suspected that there were strong reasons why Everard should so lovg remained hidden, as it were, in her poor cottage. Nor was she the visitor Nerissa most dreaded fo see, = A, A en ita ;
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24 . - In the gray twilight, when night begins to cast the vail which affords a friendly shade to those who dare not to venture among their _ fellow-men in the broad light of day, Everard Vaughan would steal through the gather- ing gloom toward Ravenhurst. If Nerissa strolled out upon the terrace, or stood under the veranda which sheltered the front of the house, she would hear a voice that would fill her with unutterable fear, or see two gleaming eyes watching every movement. Once or twice she had spoken with him, "offering exorbitant sums if be would only leave her in peace, but the arguments and en- - treaties were alike wasted upon a madman. i “ He was lonely and friendless,” he told her; “hunted from place to place by enemies who ; had sworn to have bis life. Her presence é ‘would shield him from their persecutions. She ‘saved him once when he was most hardly 9 pressed; could she vot be his guardian angel to the end?” - Then, after talking thus pathetically, his mood would chan:e, and she would shrink from the fury expressed in every word and goasture, Although in great perturbation, she was her- self watched by a foe whose vigilance never _ slumbered. _ Muriel soon suspected that some new turn of events had taken place, and hinted her suspi- ! ions to Alaric. _ “Dear Nerissa seems often melancholy,” she said to him one day when they were driv- ing through the lanes in the pretty pony-car- riage recently purchased for the ladies’ use. TACT is strange that row she is rich and inde- pendent, able to lavish money at her own ca- _ price, she is more sad and tr oublei than when "she was merely my mother’s companion,” “You forget, my dear Muriel, that she is - strangely situated, An unbappy marriage overshadows a whole lifetime.” _ ‘AsI have found,” she murmured, with a half-supressed sigh. ‘ Alaric, you can pity _ Nerissa. Have you no compassion to bestow on me?” “The two positions are not analogous, Death Kas taken your husband, and you are at liberty to form another marriage if it be your pleasure, WNerissais evidently united to one ‘who is totally unworthy of ber. She knows not when he may come to claim her.” “Ys it not curious that*he should leave his wife in undisturbed possession of so much prop- erty? Most men would expect a share.” _ Alarie twitched the reins rather impatiently. There was no conversation more distasteful to him than speculations regarding Nerissa’s husband, “Do not be angry..with me, Alaric,” she continued, in the soft, cooing voice she usually adopted in addressing her cousin, ‘ But I ; les"? FOR THE ose LOVED. a cannot help fancying | that we may be misled in imagining that the pair are entirely sepa- rated, They may meet occasionally, although for some inscrutable reason their interviews are kept profoundly secret. O1ce or twice in the gloaming I have seen’ the dark figure of a man lurking about the house near the west wing, where Nerissa’s apartments are situated.” “One of the servants’ lovers, most likely.” “JT searcely think be wonld ‘have the bold- ness to come so near the quarters assigned to the mistress of the bcouse; surely he would loiter in the rear, where his sweetheart would probably be found. ud “We cannot tell; besides, we have no right to pry into secrets which are not our business.” “You are always right, dear cousin! Only it is unpleasant to know that a strange nian is in the grounds when we least suspect his presence, who may be either a rustic swain, a burglar, or Nerissa’s husband!” And she laughed lightly, as if she were half in jest. Alaric was silent. He still loved Nerissa, ut lately he felt alienated by her want of con- fidence. Why could she not trust him entirely? Surely s:e could rely upon his discretion. He might have forgiven the concealment of ber marriage in the first instance; but now that it was owned, why preserve such an obstinate silence upon all things connected with the event? He could have borne to see her a happy wife, loving and beloved, while he pur- sued his course alone, or sometimes basked in : the sunshine of her presence as a sort of br other | was to be distrusted. and counselor, but what he could not a. 4 And then he would wonder whether dec was a natural comyonent of the female mind, and would be inclined to forgive his cousin Muriel tor jilting him so long ago. The latter was not more vain and frivolous than the rest of her sex. ing voice again addressd him, he listened to its soft cadence as he was wont to do when Muriel | had bern doubly bound to him with the ties of © cousin and promised wffe. They had spent many happy hours together — long before Gecrge St. Aubyn came between them, and he loved ber; not with the passion- ate devotion he could have given Nerissa, but with a quiet affection more ¢ ated, per- haps, to promote matrimonial felicity. Alaric began to wonder if he were wise. in so persistently ignoring the fact that a renewal of those half-forgotten feelings was now his best chance of a happy future, - CHAPTER IX, MURIEL’S TRIUMPH, Ir had been raining, all day, and clouds, looking very black and threatening, were stil] : 5 <i ails £ ‘ 5 5 ee ania So when the caress- | art
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ee FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. scudding across the sky. Muriel St. Aubyn . turned away from the window, and seated her- self upon a low stool close at her mother’s knee. ‘‘How gloomy everything looks this even- ing, and it is positively cold!” she remarked, with a shrug of her dainty shoulders. Mrs. Peunington laid a caressing band upon the smooth, dark braids. “T am afraid that this place is dull for you, my child, and that Nerissa’s low spirits will prove infectious, If it were not that I am anxious she sbould have companionship, we would return without loss of time to our own comfortable home. Muriel sighed deeply. “Dear mother, go where I may, I shall carry with me the cause of my despondency. You know not how hard it is to bear Alaric’s continued indifference. I had hoped that at least our old friendship would revive, and in time he might forgite me; but I see that in his eyes no contrition on my part can blot out the memory of his wrongs.” ; Mrs. -.Pennington closed the book she had been reading, and her countenance assumed an expression of lively interest. Like many worthy matrons, she was at heart a match-maker, and it was once her dearest wish to see her child united to Alaric Tre- herne, That ‘wish had been thwarted when she thought matters were progressing to perfec- tion, and her disappointment was severe. ‘Muriel’s affections, however, seemed now to pees into the right channel, and she could not bring herself to believe that Alaric would remain obdurate. » ‘¢ My dear, you are too sensitive,” she said, tenderly. “Iam sure Alaric is your friend, and is too manly to esteem you less because, like many other young girls, you were dazzled by brilliant external qualities, and, indeed, hardly knew your own mind.” “You call him my friend,” she returned, - jn a scornful tone, “and speak of bis esteem! Mother, those are cold words, and fall like ice upon my heart. I wish to have his love!” She lifted her beautiful face, glowing with fervor, and Mrs. Pennington’s maternal par- tiality could not doubt of her success in win- ning back the heart she had rejected. “My child, 1 cannot help feeling that you are not a woman to be easily forgotten, al- though Alaric’s pride may render him reluct- ant to let you suppose that you are still dear to him,” doubly interesting. Pity is in some natures dangerously akin to leve, and a beautiful gir] - in deep distress can scarcely be bebeld with in- difference. 1do not conceal from yu, Muriel, that once I was reconciled to the probability of love springing up between the two, but then | Ibad no idea that Nerissa was already mar- “T have sometimes fancied that Nerissa is ' the object of his admiration.” . «He admires her no doubt,” said Mrs. Pen- nington thoughtfully. “She was thrown in his way under circumstances which to a man of Alaric’s enthusiastic temperament made her So. ie . ~ ie eG ~ ried.” “That discovery has scarcely removed my rival from my path; for if Alaric prefers her to me, he may not transfer bis affections, al- though it is hopeless for him to think of marry- ing her.” "hat ““My dear child, do not be so despondent, You must have more patience. LDesides, it is somewhat premature to think of forming a second union; you are yet in your early widowhood.” ‘‘My husband died more than a year ago,” she said, coldly. ‘I have no reason to mourn his loss beyond the usual period.” ‘‘Pardon me, my poor girl, for alluding to former troubles, It is strange that both you and Nerissa should bave suffered from ill-as- sorted unions; yet it ought to create a bond of interest between you.” “Do not compare me to her!” cried Muriel, with sudden fury. ‘I hate her!” é Mrs. Pennington stood aghast. ; Jealousy, she was aware, had occasioned that sudden outburst on the part of herdaugh- — ter, and she sympathized with the love which might be unrequited. “Be calm, my dear, and trust to me,” she whispered. ‘Perhaps I can help you,” An hour later, when Alaric came to make his usual call, he found her alone in the draw- ing-room. Nerissa was in her own apartments, and Muriel had a headache, and was lying on the couch in the library. She would join them presently, when she hoped to be better. “Ts Muriel ill, then?’ asked Alaric, struck with an indefinable impression that something was amiss more serious than a headache. of Then Mrs. Pennington began to plead her — daughter’s cause, not quite openly, but in half- vailed hints that Alaric could not fail to com- prehend. She expatiated upon Muriel’s al tered looks and. unequal spirits; reminded him of the proverb, “We returm always to one’s first love;” gave — him to understand that being cured of her youthful frivolity, there was no. reason why the once fickle girl should not sober down into an excellent wife. ‘‘] will not affect to misunderstand * you, aunt,” said Doctor Treherne gravely. “ You would have me ask Muriel to renew the en- gagement which by her own act was broken??? “TJ think you would both be happier, my dear boy—indeed Ido. Iam growing an old woman, and should feel satisfied if I could > e ‘ge a ate el
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6.” : leave my only child to your protection when my time for departure arrives. Muriel isa creature of impulse. She requires the guii- ance of a firmer mind than her own. That guidance you are capable of giving her. And she loves you; surely that should cover many imperfections in your eyes.” “Can she really love?” murmured Alaric, thoughtfully. ‘We deceived ourselves once; and now I hope you are again mistaken.” “‘ You are not very complimentary,” replied Mrs. Pennington, with maternal warmth. “« My dear aunt, I hope you believe me when . I say tbat no one estimates Muriel’s attrac- re tions more highly than I do. She is a charm- ing, accomplished woman, as worthy of admira- tion and love as she was six years ago when I bowed at her shrine. But the play is played out and the fire is extinguished. Now I could only offer her a divided heart.” “You need say no more, I can guess the rest,” said the lady, deeply mortified. ‘ You love Nerissa!”’ “ And can you wonder? When I met her first the wounds inflicted by Muriel’s perfidy __-were nearly healed, yet I retained a dread of all coquettish beauties who play with men’s hearts as children with their toys. But this girl, so suffering and uncomplaining, stole into my heart during our first interview, and on the night of the fire the pang of mortal fear which I experienced as. she leaped from the flames into my arms warned me of my danger. Then came a brief, sharp struggle. “But Love conquered, as it always does ag “<5 ~ article. So I resolved to woo Nerissa, and win her if I could. She was coy and reserved; sometimes she appeared to avoid me, But I never guessed that in honor she was bound to shun those vows I anxiously longed to plight. “Infatuated, I disregarded the tokens by which she would have warned me, and offer- ing her my hand, met with a prompt refusal. Since then I have schooled my heart until it beats for her with tender friendship rather than with love. If she were happy, I at least could be contented. <¢ And now that I have told you all, do you still believe that my marriage with Muriel could secure our mutual felicity?” Mrs. Pennington considered for a few mo- ments. - #rankly, Alaric, Ido not see why this van- ished love-dream need interfere with your fu- tare, or prevent you from having a wife who loves* you. ‘You acknowledge that friendship has superseded a warmer feeling for Nerissa. In that case you are free to wed apother.” There was a long pause. “You said Muriel was in the library,” said _ Alaric, at length. ‘Haye I your permission pet FOR TH WOMAN HE LOVED. make an attempt at thrusting bis ilk when it is real the thing, and not a spurious | ‘the utmost rigor of the law! ' plunder?—that even now to seek her there, and offer such love as I have to give?” She extended her hand and pressed the young man’s warmly. “ Go to her, dear Alaric, with my blessing and best wishes,” she said. The library at Ravenburst was one of the lower rooms in the west wing. As Alaric went slowly down the long corri- dor leading to that part of the mansion, he saw coming toward him a tall, shabbily- eh eae man, who was no member of the house- old, He must just have descended tho staircase, which was seldom used except by Nerissa and her immediate attendants, as it led to a suite ~ of apartments specially appropriated to her , private use. The man was a gaunt, ill-favored fellow—at least, so thought Alaric, for his long shaggy hair and untrimmed beard gave him a neg- = lected, half-wild agpearance, which was not belied by his glittering eyes and scowling brow. In his hand he held a purse, evidently con- taining gold, for it chinked as he tossed it with the sound given forth by that precious metal, while his other hand clutched fast a pearl necklace and gold chain, both of which Alaric remembered to have seen Nerissa wearing. The doctor concluded, of course, that he was a burglar, especially when he saw him booty into his breast. Alaric seized him by the collar. ‘““Who are you? What are you doing he said. wee The dark eyes glared fierce'y; no answer, “You have no need to speak. Y thief, a burglar, who shall be prosecut EE Lae te % but the money and those ornaments! Ho! ) The man began to struggle viclevt Alaric being tallerand more muscular in | succeeded in holding him fast, in spite o frantic efforts to gain his liberty, A faint cry was heard, an excla: distress, and Nerissa rushed down th and, paleasa lily, clung ‘‘Let him go!” she gasped “Tet him go?’ he repeated “Svrely you do not know tl upon him, both money and jev “Yes, yes; I know!” me : z. Involuntarily his grasp loosened, and th other, profiting by the chance, | xterously _ wrenched himself free, and dashed down the — corridor. ; Alaric would have followed in hot pursuit, but Nerissa’s arms were around him, and the thrill of that first embrace—though thoughts — eh : i
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¥ . | FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED, eee of love were furthest from her mind—re- strained him as powerfully as fetters of iron. -“* He has gone;” said he, as she released him. “Nerissa it was your fault; you should have let me follow him. What mistaken motives of compassion made you spare a thief?” : ‘He is no thief!” ‘‘ What is he then?” he laughed mockingly. Her face drooped upon her hands, a “ Alaric, he is my husband!” As he stood looking down upon the slender ee ae Ter surged over his heart, s he thought, to be linked to the man who had but ’ a minute before broken from his grasp than to be friendless and alone, as he saw her first in the great city. ms Was she united to some escaped convict or notorious criminal, that he visited her thus secretly? He longed to know, not from curiosity so much as kindly interest, but could not summon the courage to frame the question. “You will not mention this encounter to your aunt or to Muriel?” she said, anxiously. “Certainly not, except with your consent.” “Thanks, Doctor Treherne.” “But, Nerissa, do not be offended if I plead Tt was worse for her, | the household. Your fair fame might suffer. ‘Uf he is your husband why should he not visit you aly, not like a thief?” ws here are reasons which you cannot guess.” “Ob, Nerissa!sif I could only persuade you to in me entirely, I might be able help you, for I know you suffer. Cast your doubts, and let me know the Ae. oy Phan? , bis visits will be more fre- ght to share your fortune, ‘cannot overcome. house before, and say too much. “He moved away coldly. “JT see you prefer keeping your affairs Pons * figure now convulsed with sobs, a great pity ° with you as a friend to grant no more secret : interviews to this man unknown to the rest of ; overty, but now that wealth has — SAR Oe Ne see SARs ol on —, wrapped up in mystery, and I am apt to forget that I have no right to m<«ddle between man and wife. Excuse my pertinacity, Mrs. Lee. This is your own house, and you have a right to choose your own visitors, I will not detain’ you longer.” Sadly she turned and ascended the wide staircase. The cherubs painted on the old- _ fashioned ceiling seemed to look upon her com- passionately, as if they longed to cast down the wreaths they carried, so that a few flowers might mingle with the ‘thorns besetting her — path. F Alarie pursued bis way to the library. When he opened the door Muriel rose from the couch where she was half-reclining, with outstretched hands and a bright glance of wel-_ au: come. Tf her head ached it did not affect the bril- liancy of her beauty. damask roses at the bosom, and another was ‘placed with assumed negligence. in ber braided | hair, | Something in Alaric’s face assured her that | triumph was near, and she rejoiced in the com- ing victory. | of wooing. her brain at such a minute? . ing up one of the most bewitching smiles, mur- mured an acceptance of Alaric’s suit. CHAPTER X. THROUGH DARKNESS TO LIGAT. autumn, There was no reason for delay. and even hinted at the expediency of deferring "his happiness until the second year of Muriel’s widowhocd was over. Pennington. whose health was delicate, eap- peared anxious that the union upon which her heart was set should be solemnized without un- , due delay. “Who ean tell how short my time may be?” — she said, with a sorrowful smile; “ yet I do | not wish to depart without being assured of _ your future happiness,” To win was Muriel’s proudest ambition; to” despise her rival when won, the natural out-— come of a nature at once shallow and fickle. Fiven when, seated by her cousin’s side, she listened to the words which would have caused = another woman’s heart to beat with fond emo- — | tion, she was inwardly criticising his manner — Cold and measured seemed his affectioncom- pared with that which bad been lavished upon her by another, whom, she thought, she might have really loved had fate been kinder. reg Oe Why did the recollection of him flit across She dismissed it with a shudder; and, callk Tae wedding was to take place early inthe Alarie, indeed, was no impatient bridegroom, — But the lady smiled at his scruples, and Mrs. Her black dress was set off by acluster of
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rw! re ~*~. le . 5 28 Te IO Bh aN tl _ FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. It had been a hard task for Nerissa to offer her congratulations, which Alaric received with a constraint which made it more embar- rassing. Muriel, on the contrary, was never tired of talking over every plan connected with the forthcoming auspicious event whenever she was in the society of her sweet Nerissa, for whom she warmed into a sudden affection. Of course, sho must be married from her mother’s house in the city. The wedding must be quiet, for such was Alaric’s desire, and sbe liked to defer to his opinion; yet she was anxious to be dressed well and becomingly, so that she might’ look her ‘best in his admiring eyes. How shameful it was that people would ‘stare if she appeared attired in white at her second nuptials! White suited her so well, and gray satin looked too old and matronly for a bride of four-and-twenty. To such discourse Nerissa listened patiently _ for many weary hours, bravely trying to hide her wounded heart, and to assume an interest in the commonplace matters which to Muriel - were of the highest importance. When Alaric happened to be present, she even more’ inclined to discuss the bridal apgpen's, which, however, did not pre- vent her from keenly watching both him and Nerissa, whose unhappiness she more than sus- ; ted. nis looks like a bride herself,” she re- marked one day when, the weather being warm, the young girl appeared in a dress of filmy texture and the pure hue of the lily. “Only faney, Alaric, if she were so attired on our wedding morning; you might make a mis- take, and carry her off to church instead of _- your own destined wife! Tell me now, would you be pleased or disappointed when you dis- covered your error?” “Tdo not care to jest on serious subjects,” answered he, frowning; while Nerissa turned away with an unwonted color on her cheeks, and a firm resolve to wear dark colors only until Muriel left Ravenhurst. And now the last day of the prolonged visit was drawing to a close. Early on the next morning Mrs. Penning- ton and her daughter were to set out on their journey to New York, whither, of course, Alaric was to escort them, The three were walking on the lawn in the * moonlight, enjoying the balmy freshness of the ~ summer breeze, and talking over the amount of business which, in the lalies’ opinion, must be transacted before the wedding could take ' place. , Nerissa, after presiding at dinner, had left them to their own.devices, feeling, perhaps, an that a future in which she bore no part would Pot ee ee ae ey | is be more conveniently discussed in her absence, ae so Alaric was forced to give undivided atten- tion to details concerning millinery, upholstery, wedding-cakes and breakfasts, with other mat- ters still more void of interest to his masculine mind. Muriel was just enunciating her sentiments upon the absolute necessity of securing a house so near the park that she could ride or drive there every day during the season, when one of the women-servants came running | toward them, with a white, scared face and dilated eyes. ; “Oh, sir!—oh, ma’am! Such a dreadful busiaess. I never was so upset in any re- spectable situation before. The police js in the house, and are going to search every room until they find him!” “Wind whom, woman? Speak plainer!’ cried Alaric, impatiently, though his fears presaged the worst. ee “T can’t remember the name—I never heard — | it before; but I think they mean mistress’s hus- — band. And, oh, Mr. Treherne, it seems he committed murder ever so lovg ago,and they’ve got a warrant out againss him!” “T always thought there was some disreput- able story connected with that man,” remarked > Muriel, spitefully; ‘‘aad it wouldmot have sur- | prised me to hear that he had for; or embezzled money, or something of the but really I did rot suspect it waS so | this.” os ee “Where is Mrs. Lee?” asked Alarie.? <= “She is in her room in the! west*wing.” ae . “These men will not i trudé upon Bit ae there!” sents eR “They said they wera going to sea house,” persisted the excited domes the man—has been followed here; what a dreadful thing this to hap family where a respectable girl is under-housemaid.” =’ “Tet us go to Nerissa,” exclaimed the your man, hoarsely. ‘‘She may want her frien around her.” Nae They were not long before they reached house, where awe-stricken faces confror them, and a general panic prevailed. i The detectives had already se principal lower rooms, and insi trating to Mrs, Lee’s priv where the fugitive was sup} cealed. By patient investigation succeeded in tracing the Vaughan, under the alias Wi They had discovered the mar port, the subsequent voyage and retur America. Then they bad followed his ¢ first as a billiard marker in a low tavern, ward as supernumerary in the pantomime, | at aod until, often disappointed, but never quite los- — Ak a ing the scent, they found he was sojourning wes ea a és Peg ee ie 8 I
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FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVED. Dorothy Trent’s cottage, and in constant com- munication with the mistress of Ravenhurst, who was identified as his wife. When Alaric and his companions reached the elegantly-furnished boudoir where Nerissa spent most of her leisure time, they saw her standing pale and erect before these respectable but determined-looking men who invaded her eee armed with.the dread powers of the w. Her face brightened when she beheld Alaric. ‘‘ Doctor Treherne, will you send these men away?” she said, with the girlish simplicity ) which believes everything is possible to him sbe loves. ‘‘They demand the right to search my ~ apartments, which I emphatically refuse.” , “We have our warrant all regular,” re- marked the foremost stranger with composure, _ offering the document for Alaric’s iuspection. _ “Lady is naterally put out—most of ’em are / when it comes to the point; but we have only _ todo our duty.” “J am afraid, Nerissa, we cannot defy the aw,” murmured Alaric, with white lips. “And surely Mrs, Lee can have no desite te _ shield aman who is accused of having com- mitted murder?’ observe Muriel, in her clear, musical tones, while her eyes shone with ma- .* lignant triumph. _ «Immediately the sound of struggling, anda .. confused murtiur of voices, was heard pro- _' eeeding*from the inner chamber. be door was. flung open, and Everard ighan stood upon the threshold, old Doro- thy. clinging to his arm, and vainly striving to » restrain him. *_ de Muriel, Muriel!” he cried, wildly, ‘I have ired to see you onee more before I died, and ire ig now fulfilled. Oh, my beloved, he ruin you have wrought with a r of pity, and I will make no sign, fully lay down my life for your threw himself on his knees at her feet, iried his face in the folds ot ber dress. “movement bad been so sudden that one stood transfixed with wonder. ~ every ery d’s eyes literally blazed with frenzy. Sbe remembers the old rd, when we acted together, - She had a husband then, now no other man shall jleoe but he is dead, anc come between us!” The detectives raised the wretched man, and clapped handcuffs on his wrists, “ Come, we've had enough of this, Once be- a > ~ | fore you gave us the slip. “Ygu’ll not have the | chance of doing it a second time.” ; | “The poor fellow is mad!” exclaimed Doro- _thy Trent, as they led him away. “T knew his brain was turned ever since the fever. ‘That was why I followed him to-night when~ | he rushed out of the cottage in one of his fran- | tie fits. I thought barm would come of it.” Pale as marble, with lips firmly compressed, Muriel stood statue-like where Everard had — left her. rt Alaric took her hand, and it was cold as ice. “ Muriel, did this man speak truly? Has he ever been ove of your friends or acquain- — tances?” Sire With a desperate effort, she found voice to answer. “T have seen him before. And, Alaric, I never liked to tell you, for it was so sad, but my husband died no natural death, Everard Vaughan killed him.” ‘ She quailed and shivered under the horror- stricken gaze ben} upon her; then, gathering courage, continued in a firmer tone: : “Yes, they quarreled, and George St. Aubyn was slain. account given in the newspapers; but the names being different, prevented recognition You know that in the theatrical world actors — are seldom known by their real appellations, — and-in our case a change was especially neces- s sary, as George was always in pecuniary dif- ficulties, and we wished to avoid being It was under the name of George place. : he was passing when he met his Trevelyan that death.” 4 The cold, hard accents suddenly ceased, the forced composure gave way, and Muriel fell senseless at Alaric’s feet, like one dead. - trial. Death had long hovered over him, mind and body being alike diseased. He was spared the mournful alternative of enduring the ter- rors of the law or lingering out his existence as a confirmed lunatic : Toward the end his mind grew more clear, and he wrote to Muriel St. Aubyn, desiring to see her. | This summons the lady thought proper to dis- regard, and. thus committed an irreparable blunder. : ? Stung by her cruelty, Everard, in a fit ¢ jealous rage, summoned Nerissa and Alaric to his bedside, and confessed the secret he had guarded at the peril of bis life, ; “Muriel has dared to disown me!” he mur- mured, in his weak, fast-failing voice, ‘‘Sho refuses a few parting words to a dying man; but she shall repent of her inhumanity. ‘¢ Listen, both of you. You have possibly read the tee followed 0 : by our creditors as we moved from place to~ — Everard Vaughan was never brought to ag AAS may, | eS by ide Al? a, We eee rary: a3] ej 3 . 36
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bot Twel.w!.. = ‘© A word fréfn me would censign ber to the | prisoner’s cell, for by Her hand St. Aubyn was slain! “‘He treated her cruelly, shamefully, until she learned to hate him. But he was jealous all the same; and though he ‘made her go upon the ‘stage, was forever on the watch lest anotber _ might win her favor. ' “$he and I often acted together at the Standard. _ “ George distrusted me—not without reason, a I passionately loved his beautiful wife, and fancied that her affections were mine. One evening she came © secretly | to my boarding-house in deep distress. Her husband had ill-treated, even struck her, - in his anger. There were bruises on her deli- cate face. She came to warn me that he threatened to inflict condign punishment upon vo me that very night in the green-room of the theater. She had scarcely faltered forth the | words when we heard his foot upon the stairs, and, with savage imprecations, he vowed to break open the door if I did not allow him to enter. Muriel, terrified at his violence, con- -cealed herself behind the window curtain, and b let him in. It seemed he had tollowed his ife, and seen her enter the house. He de- ded to know where she was, and I was ‘ced to stoop to falsehood, and deny baying | en her. From words wa soon came to blows, fought like wild beasts together, St. Au- , byn was a taller and stronger man than ibs After a sharp struggle he flung me to the | i, and, rushing to the window-curtain which his wife cowered, dragged her | 8 How can I tell the rest? I saw 1 snatch up a dagger, which lay with other things of mine upon a side-table—a | ae th quaint old cagger, which I had purchased at a curiosity- -shop as being switable for a part I __was then playing—and in another moment St. Aubyn fell to the ground with a deep groan, ‘What have I done?’ cried Muriel, in an agony | = of fear. ee We heard voices outside. The people of the ouse were alarmed. The police would soon he upon us, “¢You will be iaspected, Everard, ? cried Muriel. ‘Let me hasten away through that door yonder, whence I can easily reach the landing and escape.unobserved. You will not betray me, and it can never be known that the guilt is mine. Come what may, Everard, if you really love me, keep silent.’/ “ Her ee selfishness and utter cele ag of { opened re hee indifference, for bad she not un- - concernedly given me up to a felon’s | é, "perhaps ‘ FOR THE WOMAN HE LOVE which earried a full corroborati doom, to a shameful death to save nerselé > RG at he ae eee ee ee from seal I, ei fled, for nature revolted eee ainst the risk I ran by remaining with the © c orpse of the murdered man until the officers of justice came to seize me, ‘*But not for long did I elude their vigi- lance. “ Arrived at Bridgeport, whither I had jour- neyed on my way to Boston, I was taken into custody, and once more, in desperation, at- tempting to escape, was for the time sheltered through the compassionate kindness of this amiable girl.” He pointed to Nerissa. Then, after a short pause, addressing her, he said: “Very badly have I returned your kindness lately. But try to forgive me. My head — seemed ever aching and throbbing beneath the pressure of a heavy burden. I scarcely knew what I did. “Dorothy Trent, too, was eager for money, and binted that if she were not well bribed it might be worth her while to tell all she knew, If the authorities had offered a reward for my ap- prehension that woman would long ago have — betrayed me. But now it is beyond the power of man‘to harm me, Nerissa, you were never really my wife, for, with your concurrence, I married you under a feigned name. .. “ But it matters little now. “Death will set, you free sooner than the law.” Alaric would not have felt justified i in be- -lieving bis betrothed had committed so serious a crime on the unsupported testimony of.poor, ~ -half-mad Everard Vaughan; but Muriel, when — | she heard of the interview, lost her ee mind, and began to defend herse in a f her for- mer lover’s statement. Of course she could not expect to be ‘Alarte’ oe ‘ wife now be had once listened to this dreadful charge; but if he promised never to divulge it to any human being she would go abroad and ~ trouble him no more. She had been a deeply- injured woman, and | now her cousin and betrothed husband was se- ' eretly rejoicing that he had adecent excuse for breaking his.word and marrying Parise “ng after she started vith: hee r mother upon, a n to her native sbores. If the virtues of womanhood girl’s folly, Nerissa faults os the past, ; ; ; know ha and her husbands alls her a perfect wife. on Trent did a long enjoy her ill- — gotten gains. ne night, in a state of semi-intoxication, she happened to set her clothes on fire, and be- fore assistance arrived was burned to death. s THE END.
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es Sr rs: hes io 2 45 Motherless; or, The Farmer’s Sweetheart. PRARL AL AL 1A Bride ofa Day; or, The peer of Winifred | 42 The Bouquet. Girl. a ie tWwites k ites > 2 e Girl e3 or, The T; Bertey 7 Gansttele rue and the False. By 8 Was li Love? or, Collegians and Sweethearts. By Wim. Mason Turner, M, D, 4 Married in Haste. 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 Fair Face; or, Out in the World. By Bartley T. Campbell. 8 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary A. Denison, 9A Daughter of Eve; or, Blinded b 46 ry "8. Niary Heed stowolh : ee eee roken Betrot 3 or, Love v an Grace SRR se ies leet 1 e Bride of an Actor; or, Driven Soin Home. a 5b oa ‘Author of Alone in’ the World,” etc., ete. AA ‘air of Gray Eyes; or, The Hinerald Necklace, By Rose Kennedy. 18 Without a Heart. By Col. Prentiss Ingraham. 44 Alone inthe World; or, The Youn Man’ 3 Ward, e By the Author of “ The Bride of an Actor,” ete, ete. By Col. ae tiss Ingraham. $ 46 The is eel bat sep a ho eee Claxton. - s er ains ster; or, The Rivalr By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell i, ny of Baarts, 18 Menrt to MHeart; or, Fair Phyllis’s Love. By Arabella Southworth. 19 ae for Gold; or, Almost Lost. By Mrs. M. VY. T 20 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Game. Thackeray. 21 Sybil Chase; or, The Gambler’s Wife. Ann 8. Stephens, 22 Trust Her Not; or, A True Knight. Leicester. 28 Sinned Against. R24 4% Loyal 4OVver. 25 The Country Cousin. /26 Wis Fdols or, The Il-Starred Marriage. Mary Reed Crowell. 27 Flirtation; or, A Young Girl’s Good Name. By Jacob Awards anell (Ralph Royal). 28 Now and Forever; ae Why Did She Marry Him? By Henrietta Thacker 29 Orphan Nell, the Agile Penne, 80 Ghavintte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson. 81 The Little Heiress; or, Under a Cloud. Mary A. Denison. 82 ie Year 3 or, Why She Proposed. By Henrietta By Mrs. By Margaret By Clara Augusta. By Arabella Southworth. By Rose Kennedy. By Mrs.’ Bingo Girl; or, the Lost Heir. By Mrs. By Sara Clax- 88 In ‘Spite of Herself; or, Jeanette’s Reparation. By S, R. Sherwood. 84 Her Face Was Wer Fortune, By Eleanor Blaine. BD The Cuban Weiress, By Mrs. Mary A. Denison, 86 Only a Schoolmistress, By ‘Aeubell Southworth. 87 The Winged Messenger; or, Risking All for s 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 Léve-Mad; or, Betrothed, Married, Divorced and— By Wm. Mason Turner, M. D. Al For Her Dear Sake. By Sara Claxton. PUBLISHED E VER XS a nate us THIRTY-TWO OCTAVO PAGES. By Agile Penne. he Prima Donna. By Arabella Southworth, § Mariana,t Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian, aA The Ebon By Mrs, Mary Reed Crowell. 45S Lucy Temple. Daughter of Charlotte. 46 The Three Sisters. By Alice Fleming, . 4¢ 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. By Arabella Southworth, 51 Led Astray. By Octave Feuillet. 52 Homeless; or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By Albert W, "Aiken. 53 The Maniac Bride. By Margaret Blount. 54 Pledged to Marry. By Syra Claxton. 55 Cecil’s Deceit; or, The Diamond Legacy. Jennie Davis Burton. 56 Beatrice, the Beautiful; rj His Second Love. By Arabella Southworth. - Bb? Without Merey. By Bartley T. Campbell. 68 The Baronet’sSeeret. By Sara Claxton. By Mrs. Kuby Ring. By Wim. Mason Sur 60 A Widow’s Wiles; or, A Bitter Rachel Bernhardt. 61 Did We Love Her? By Ba tley T. Campb: Il. 62 Almost In His Power. By Lillian Lovejoy. 68 She Bid Not Love Him. By Arabella South- worth. 64 Beasie Raynor, cops Work Girl. By Mason Turner, M. 65 A Brave Girl. 66 Lord Reth’s Sin. 67 A Wie ed Heart. 59 Agnes Hope, the Actress; “a eg of ss : geance. By Win. By Alice Fleming. By Georgiann Dickens. By Sara Claxton. 68 His Meart’s Mistress. By Arabella Southw orp ge 69 The Only Daughter. By Alice Phen ing 70 Why I Married Wim? By Sara Claxton. 21 Honor Bound; or, Sealed to Sec ecy, By Lillian Lovejoy. 72 A Man’s Sin; or, His Lawful Wife. wood. 78 Wis Own Again, By Arabélla Southworth.” V4 Adria, the Adopted. By Jennie Davis Burton, th A Brother’s Sin. By Rachel Bernhardt. %6 Because She Loved Him. By Alice Fleming. 7% A Strange Marriage. By Lillian Lovejoy. ?8 For the Woman He Loved. By Agnes Mary Shelton. 79 Forbidden Bans, By Arabella Renting rth. Ready Nov. 24, i 80 Two Young Girls. By Alice Homing. Ready Dec. 1. By Lilian sae 81 A Point Mer, Wonor. 82 A Woman's Witchery, oe: ton. Ready Dec. 15. 3 By Rett Win- Ready Dec Whe Waverley Library is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Beadle and Adams, Publishers, No. 28 William street, New York. F |