Waverley Library (Octavo Edition) (no. 96) (1886 03 23)
The text was read from the page scans by machine (OCR), so it has mistakes and its columns may run together. See the pages · About this title · At the Internet Archive
Page 1
SRV TAARS UE] yk Copyrighted, 1836, by BraADLe aND Apams, Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class Mail Matter. Mar. 23, 1884, $2,50 PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY BEADLE AND ADAMS Price, VOL. VII « a Year. No, 9% William Street, New York, ‘ Five Cents. No. 96. THE GATE WAS REACHED, THE LAST GOOD-BY WAS SAID, A BITTER MISTAKE: cloud of discontent which overshadowed the ’ face of Penelope Heatheote. Although the mes was Pasha J a Ber ame in the air ers Ld er shiver, and a ari ing rain caused all ob- Or, A YOUNG GIRL’S FOLLY. jects in the streets to assume the dejected ap- BY AGNES MARY SHELTON. pearance common to things, animate and inan- imate, on a rainy day in Camden. Moreover, CHAPTER I. the large but not scrupulously clean kitchen in THE ECCENTRIC BOARDER. which she stood, with the handful of fire in the TuerE was certainly some excuse for the rusty stove and the square of torn carpet in
Page 2
A BITTER MISTAKE, the center of its flooring, forcibly reminded her of the poverty which had beeu her portion for so many years; but for all that she bad not yet learnt to endure the latter with equani- mity. The tone of Penelope’s mind was generally in indignant protest against Fate; and as she carefully smoothed the creases out of her brother Bertrand’s only coat—a garment that had seen much service—she looked so grim that the little maid of all-work who waited on ibe Heatheotes and their boarders opined that ‘*missis was in one of her tempers,” and fol- lowing the teachings of experience, was careful not to intrude upon her notice. Penelope was a tall, straight, rather mas- culine looking woman of nine ani-twenty, with an aquiline nose, thin compressed lips, thick black brows, almost meeting above eyes of a curious reddish-brown hue, which, when she was angry, seemed to emit sparxs of fire; but, when she smiled, danced with a vivacity whica illumed her whole countenance. Her coarse, dark bair was drawn back from her forehead, and fastened into an untidy knot at the back of her head, while the defects of ber angular fizure were rendered more apparent by the ill- fitting calico wrapper she wore, Penelope made no attempt at improving ap- pearances, either in berself, her dress, or her surroundings. “Milly, have you taken up Mr, E’lerton’s tea?” she asked, sharply, breaking che long silence. ‘« Yes, Miss Penelope, more than half an hour ag.” “Did he seem better than he was this morn- ing?’ ‘He looked awful bad,” answerel Milly, pausing in her task of clearing up the kitchen, in order to give emphasis and solemnity to her words, ‘He was sitting in his arm-chair a- trembling and shivering with cold, though he was close to the fire, and he hadn't. touched no dinner, ner taken his medicine, I’ve been thinking, Miss Penelope, the old gent may nos get over this stretch.” Before her mistress could reply, the hell of a room above rung violently, and Miss Heath- cote, well accustomed to similar impatient summonses, quitted the precincts dedicated to domestic duties, and ascended to the sittiag- room. “You know I hate to sit moping here all alone!” exclaimed her brother, peevishly, as she entered. “ What have you been doing?” “Trying to make you look a little more presentable whon next you dine with your pa- tron, Mr. Harbury,” she answered; “but this coat is so shabby it defies all my efforts at im- provement,” “ And that fellow, Fitwell, positively re- fuses to make another until I settle his ac- count,” observed Bertrand, moodily. “ But it is of no great, consequence, for inasmuch as I have quarreled with my patron, as you term him, it is not likely that I shall again be in- vited to partake of his hospitality.” “ Quarreled! Ob, Bertrand, how could you be so foolish? I thought Mr. Harbury had commissioned you to paint him another pic- ture,” “T believe there was some half-promise of the sort; but the man was so dictatorial, be- sides being niggardly, that I could bear his whims no longer.” “Then how are we to live?’ questioned Penelope, sternly. ‘‘ You know he has always given a fair price for any picture that took his fancy; and you know how difficult it is to please the regular dealers, not to mention the hard bargains they always drive. \,hat do you mean to do, Bertrand?” “T have not yet had time to give the mat- ter a thought,” he rejoined, affecting an air of indifference, “Will you give drawing lessons if I can find you pupils, Bertrand?” “Certainly not. I should not bave patience to direct and lecture a set of tiresome schooi- boys who have no taste for art, aud girls are not much better. What a pity it is that there sbould be any necessity for working! Labor destroys all enjoyment of life, and this per- petual obligation of studying ways and means to provide bread and butter weighs down one’s spirits to a point that is most often too heavy to bear up under.” “Yet such will be our destiny to the weary end,” said Penelope, frowning at once at her brother’s speech, and grieving at the unpro- wising prosp.ets which now presented them- selves to her, “Perhaps not; we might become pcs:essed ‘fa fortune; in which case I would have a luxurious bome, replete with every comfort and attraction wealth could furnish; while you would marry Walter Maxwell, and, of course, be happy ever after.” A cold, half-sneering smile curled on his sister’s lip as she answered, “I am efraid that while you are building castles in the air Walter and I must grow oid and gray. Our engagement bas already lasted several years, and we are pre- maturely aged by trouble and afxiety. Only to- day I noticed a few siiver threads in my hair; and when I remember that I shall soon be thirty years of ege, it seems as if I were even now too old for love, hope, or kappiness.” “You are, no doubt, losing fast all your good looks,” observed Bertrand, with thet brutal candor brothers sometimes affect. ‘If Walter were to cry off, one could scarcely blame him, I warned you long ago that a lengthy engagement is risky for a man, and suicidal for a woman. One or the other is sure -/ — ae
Page 3
A BITTER MISTAKE, 8 to grow tired of waiting, and only quarrel and part when it is too late to form new ties,” “What could we do?’ she asked, after a gloomy, mental survey of this disagreeable picture, ‘ You know Walter has been unfor- tunate in business, and was glad to receive a clerkship of six hundred a year. Would you have me marry upon that?” “Certainly not,” was his bitter answer; ‘you would be committing a folly which is generally punished more séverely than a crime In your ¢ase, Poverty would wield the scourge to frighten away Cupid. Now if you had only had the good luck to attract some rich man’s fancy when you were young, how dif- ferent things might now be with us both!” “T should not have loved him so well as Walter.” ‘That matters little. I would marry one of the Gorgons if she possessed a comfortable indepeudence; and even in your case I believe that common: sense in such an emergency would have caused you to give up the chance of love in a cottage for a more brilliant match, But, unfortunately, you have never been tempted in that direction.” Penelope’s eyes flashed fire. Though her faults were many, she was a woman of strong affections, and had a capability foc loving that her brother did not possess, She was slavishly faithful to Walter Maxwell, and would not have deserted him to become the sharer of a throne, Though stung for the moment, she was too much accustomed to her brother’s taunting speeches to attempt recrimination; sc after a short pause, she adroitly changed the subject of conversation. ‘Old Mr. Ellerton seems very ill, Bertrand,” “What, our first floor—the mysterious man, who came three months ago, paid in advance, gave no references, and seems to have no friends? Well, Pen, it he is going to die, per- baps Le will first make a will in our favor.” The lady tossed ber head contemptuously, ‘‘We should not be much the gainers. Ho is poorer than we are, with his shabby clothes and frugal meals, for which he daily doles out a few cents to Milly, giving her strict injunc- tions to make no extravagant purchases. In- deed, I have been anxious to speak to you on the matter, and to ask your advice. Suppose the old man were to be laid up with a long ill- ness, Which terminated fatally, and did not leave enovgh money to pay all the expenses, should we not be in an awkward position ?” Bertrand stroked his long, fair mustache meditatively, and assumed a thoughtful expres- sion which, by so doing, made his resemblance to his sister, whose junior he was by several - years, all the more striking. His hair was several shades lighter, his skin paler, being al- most cadaverous in hue; but the flickering eyes beneath their beetling brows, the long, thin mouth, and well-shaped nose and chin, were like Penelope's. “As you say, it might be awkward,” he as- sented, at length; “yet the old fellow, so far, has paid regularly, so I am loth to give him notice. ShballI go up-stairs and pay bim a visit? I might manage to gain some knowl- edge of his pecuniary affairs, or at least find out whether he bas any friends to whom we could apply in case of need.” 4 “‘Just what I was about to suggest, Ber- trand. He surely cannot be quite alone in the world.” . “We must endeavor to find that out; your hints have alarmed me, We must not allow curselves to be put to the trouble and expense of nursing a sick pauper: so if there is any cbance of our being out of pocket by Mr, Eller- ton, he will have to go.” Saying which, Bertrand arose from the ecuch with an air of decision, which was in striking contrast to his former languor. The prospect of bis boarder falling into arrears, perhays dying on the premises, dispelled his dreamy indolence, and startled him into vigor- ous action. Bertrand Heathcote was not disturbed hy scrupulcusness. He was full of that self love which rarely or never regards the claims of others. What mattered it to him how long or how much others might suffer, provided he himeelf escaped annoyance and injury. He went up the narrow staircase, and knocked at the door of Mr. Ellerton’s room, It was the first-floor front, and for years had been let by the Heathcotes to eligible single gentlemen, whose payments were found con- venient in assisting to pay the rent of the small, dingy bouse in Budd street, Camden, A high toned, quavering voice bade him enter. The old man had drawn his chair close to the fire, and the ruddy blaze shone full upon his meager form, which was wrapped in a faded dressing-gown; upon his wizen, sharp- featured face, long white hair, which nearly reached his shoulders, and into his wandering eyes of Jightest blue. A gray, unkempt beard, hanging down upon his breast, gave him a venerable, though scmewhat weird, appear- ance. Iv his younger. days he might have been tall of stature; but he was now so bent by age and ill-health, that it seemed a» effort to raise his head and look with inquiring scrutiny upon his visitor. ‘*Good-evening, Mr. Ellerton!” began Ber- trand, slightly disconcerted by his earnest gaze. ‘‘My sister tells me you are unwell, and—” “Ah, yes, Mr. Heathcote; to be sure! T did not recognize you at once, for my eyes are - failing, though my hearing is as good as ever. So you came to ask after my health? That ig
Page 4
4 A BITTER MISTAKE, failing, too. I am not the same man IT was even six months ago. You must excuse me for not being in the humor to entertain visitors.” Bertrand, in no way discomfited by this speech, sat down, uninvited, and glanced fur- tively round the room, thinking be might thereby discover some indication of his board- er’s pecuniary condition. A sea chest, which seemed to have seen rough service, and a bat- tered valise stood together near the window; but their contents were invisible, and no other vestige of Mr. Ellertou’s personal property re- warded his scrutiny. “You should have medical advice, sir, from some clever practitioner,” he recommenced, blandly. “There is a doctor living in this very street. You may have noticed the red lamp over his door. I can highly recommend him.” : ‘*Povh!—nonsense! I want no long doctor’s bills! The bottle of medicine Milly brings me from the druggist round the corner is just as efficacious, I dare say, as if it were prescribed by a regular physician, while it saves at least a dollar.” “ But for the satisfaction of your friends?” ‘‘Friends! Why, I have none! I sm an old man, and have outlived all that were worthy of the name, I have been absent fiom America nearly fifty years, Mr. Heathcote. I have traveled half over the world, seen many strange sights, and have had all sorts of cu- rious adventures. As you may imagine, [ now find myself quite a stranger in my own country.” “Yes, indeed; that is a long period to be a wanderer,” said Bertrand, hoping to win his way by degrees into the old man’s confidence, “ You must have undergone many vicissitudes.” | You may wellsay so. Why, sir, I was in the wilds of Australia when fortunes were made in a week, and when the man who often arrived a beggar left and went home, before many years, a millionaire. Not that I was so fortunate myself, though at one time I had no reason tocomplain; but if I won at one time, I lost at another, and this went on year after year, until, tired of it, 1 went to Brazil to try my luck there.” “ And there?’ questioned Bertrand, eagerly. “T did well-—very well; but I placed too much confidence in my partner, who turned out arogue and a cheat. I quarreled with him, and grew tired of the country; so off I wus | again, and after munch travelling by sea and land, once more put fortune to the test at the African diamond fields.” “ Where you were successful, I hope?” said Bertrand, interrogatively. “ Ah, there is nothing like enterprise!” was Mr. Ellerton’s rather evasive answer. serves success. Men who pass their lives at “Tt de- | home labor incessantly, and are only just able to keep the wolf from the door. The digger is always sustained by the hope of being raised to the pinnacle of bis ambition by a lucky chance. If he has patience to wait and work, sooner or later comes his reward.” When Bertrand retired it was with a strong suspicion that his boarder was an eccentric being of miserly habits, who, having amassed wealth, loved to hoard rather than to spend it. From his own account, ha was friendless in the world; so who would those hoards ultimately enrich? If any persons, sufliciently alive to their own interests, studied Mr, Bllerton’s whims, and ingratiated themselves in his good graces, they might be his heirs, and have a goodly reward for their trouble. From that day a perceptible change came over the Heathcotes’ behavior toward their boarder. They ministered to the old man’s wants and wishes with praiseworthy assiduity. Penelope smoothed her ruffled brow as she busied herself in giving bis apartment a more comfortable homelike appearance, while her brother would relieve the tedium of illness by half an hour's friendly chat or reading aloud the evening newspaper. Nor were their efforts altogether unsuccessful. Mr. Elierton grew accustomed to their pres- ence, and was inclined to be sociable. Some- times, however, he would repulse their ad- vances without reason, and would iscase him- self in an armor of reserve just at the moment they fancied they had secured his favorable regard. He would have fits of distrust which Le did not attempt to conceal, and would ab- ruptly interrupt a conversation that was grow- ing confidential with hints as to the propriety of every reasonable man keeping his private affairs locked in his own hreast. Brother and sister would occasionally lose hope, and relax their exertions, when a chance word from Mr, Eilerton would brace them up to fresh endeavors. CHAPTER II. ENID’S HOME, Far away from muddy Camden, near a small town in the Berkshire hills called Dale- bury, stood a low-roofed white house of some pretensions, which was approached by a car- riage-drive, and ‘boasted of a well-arrange'] flower-garden and smoothly-shaven lawn suit- able either for lawn-tennis or croquet. This was Sunnymead, the residence of Mrs. Ormes- by, widow of the late rector. One morning she, with her daughter Jessica, lingered at the breakfast-table, though the morning was already far advanced. Mrs. Ormesby was a stately, imperious woman about forty years of age, exhibiting the re- mains of great beauty, which her daughter had partially inherited. But Jessica would —
Page 5
A BITTER MISTAKE. 5 never boast that mojestic hight and well- developed figure, nor was she possessed of those lustrous orbs and exquisitely-chiseled features which bad once caused the fame of her mother to be spread throughout the county. “Well, Jessica,” began the elder lady, as she slowly sipped her chocolate, ‘‘ you are strangely silent this morning. I expected you would give me a full account of the birthday party yesterday at Mrs. Brooke’s, which I was | unfortunately prevented from attending in consequence of a wretched headache, Did it go off well?” “Very well, mamma. “You danced a great deal, of course, and had agreeable partners?” “Oh, yes!” “T suppose Basil Clifford was there, and helped to make the evening pass pleasantly?” ““We danced together once or twice.” “Jessica, do not be provoking,” cried the mother, with some irritation, ‘‘You give me no particulars when you know how anxious I am,” ‘““ Why are you so anxious, dear mamma?” asked tbe girl, with assumed simplicity. ‘That you should one day be Mrs, Basil Clif- | ford, of the Hall,” answered Mrs. Ormesby, slow- Jy and impressively. ‘I have planned for you that future, my child, and I am inclined to | fancy that the dictates of your own heart ap- prove my conduct,” A bright blush dyed the girl’s face, rising even to her broad, Jow forehead. “T fear—I mean I think that will never be,” | she faltered, “Why not, Jessica? Iam not apt to form plans which are not to be realized. You and Basil were playfellows in childhood, and even then I encouraged bim, and smiled to hear him call you his little wife. Sinee then you have been thrown much together, and I have noticed *with pleasure that the childish friendship has suffered no diminution as the years have passed on, but rather has steadily progressed.” ‘* Friendship is not love, mamma,” hazarded the girl, timidly. ‘‘ With young folks itis hard to say where ths line is drawn,” remarked Mrs. Ormesby, with a complacent sense of her own sagacity. ‘‘ Believe, me, my love, I have had some ex- peiience in such matters, and do not doubt that the day will come when | can congratulete you on your conquest.” There was a moment’s hesitation. ‘Perhaps Iam mistaken; but sometimes the fancy crosses my mind that Basil is in love with Enid,” replied Jessica, < Mrs. Ormesby gave a little scream of indig- nation, “What! in love wich that pale-faced, silent, dreamy-eyed child, when he has had the oppor- ! tunity of seeing, associating and of conversing with you, Jessica?” ‘*She bas greatly improved during the last two years. I have several times lately heard it remarked that there is something in her face more striking than regular beauty. Then that pale golden hair, which gleams in the sunshine like threads of light, and ripples all over ber head, defying band or comb to keep it in per- fect order, is a great attrection. Indeed, mamma, itis no use shutting our eyes to the fact that Enid is a dangerous rival.” The elder lady remained silent for awhile, evidently in deep meditation. She was anx- ious that her daughter should marry well, and | years ago settled in her own mind that Basil Clifford would be an acceptable son-in-law when Jessie wasof an age toumarry. He was young, handsome, with a fine estate and an extensive income, Clifford Hall wasatno great distance from Supnymead—in itself a recommendation to a mother in selecting a husband for her only child, Altogether she had grown so familiar with the idea, and liked the plan so well, that she was resolved not to accept defeat, especially from a girl like Enid Lisle, an orphan niece of her late husband, the rector, to whom he kad given a home, after her parents had died of fever within a few days of one another, ‘* What has given rise to your wild supposi- tions?” she inquired, after mentally deciding that she would not submit tamely to bave her schemes frustrated, but would endeavor to lead Basil and her davghter to that happy future which, unaided by her, they might never reach, ‘It is preposterous to think of Enid as mis- tress of Clifford Hall; and surely Basil has not spoken to you on the subject?” “Of course not, mamma; and I may be wrong. Yet he seemed so disappointed that you had not allowed ber to accept Mrs. Brooke's iuvitation for last night, and was so eager to know whether he might expect to meet her at the Greys’ musical party next week, that I felt sure he prized her society highly.” Mrs. Ormesby gave a sigh of relief. “Your opinion rests on a poor foundation, my dear,” she said, lightly. ‘You know that some people think Enid has a fine voice, so Basil might look forward with pleasure to an opportunity of hearing her sing at the Greys’, without any feeling of which we might disap- prove.” She smiled encouragingly at Jessica as she rose from the table, the matutinal meal having now been over some time, and Jessica faintly returned the smile. Yet an inward monitor told her that she was right in her belief, and must relinquish the hope of having her first love-dream realized. Meanwhile Enid Lisle, unconscious that she
Page 6
A BITTER MISTAKE. had proved such an interesting topic of con- ver ation to the ladies of Sunnymead, had wa'ked briskly down the quiet road leading to Daletury, in order to execute a commission which Jessica had given her the previous day; to-wit, to order some materials for fancy-work, and to try tu match some trimming, when she had leisure; and the young girl, scorning to ask for the use of her aunt’s pony-phaeton, had set off on her expedition, before either Mrs, Ormeshy or her daughter had descended to the the breakfast-parlor. To her it seemed pleasant to have the fresh, cool air playing on her cheeks; to listen to the song of the robin amid the thick green foliage waving overhead. Sometimes a butterfly flit- ted across her path, or a wild flower of more than ordinary beauty tempted her to gather it. On reaching town, Enid quickly completed her purchases, and was about to turn her steps homeward, when she noticed Basil Clifford standiag by her side, “T thought I was not mistaken,” he ex- claimed, joyfully. ‘‘You passed Mapleton’s while I was buying gloves, and I burried to overtake you. How fortunate that we should happen to meet!” Sbe gave bim her hand, and for an instant they looked into each other’s eyes. In Enid’s beamed shy happivess, in Basil’s ardent love. “You are going home, I presume; may I walk with you?’ be asked, persuasively; and although the girl was conscious tbat her aunt would disapprove, she had not the courage to deny his request. “‘T was disappointed at not seeing you last night,” he said, as they walked on together. ** What is tbe reason you so seldom accompany Jessica into society? Do you dislike parties aud dancing?” ‘Not in the least. On the contrary, I like them very much; but aunt Ormesby raises many objections. In the first place, she says I am almost too young; next, that my uncle had scruples concerning various amusements, and that, had he lived, he would be sure to have disapproved of my participating too freely in county gayeties. Dear uncle! either living or dead, his wishes are sacred to me, for he was al- ways kind and loving!” “Mrs. Ormesby is not so conscientious with Jessica,” he remarked, rather bitterly. “Ty would be unreasonable to expect her to be influenced by: my uncle’s opinion, since she was only his step-daughter,” said Enid, with decision, “You must not be offended if Tack you a question most young ladies would think impzr- tiuent,” he began, after a short pause, smiling upon her under his thick mustache. ‘1 should not be so rude, only [perceive your aunt treats you as a child, while I have reasons for wishing you to grow quickly into womanhood. How old are you, Enid?” “ Kighteen on the twenty-first of next’ Octo- ber,” she answered, demurely. “And we are now in May. Not much longer than five months to wait before I shall claim a precious gift from Mrs. Ormesby. If she consents to bestow on me the treasure which I crave, I shall come to you for the ratification of the bond, Enid.” He looked down from his stately hight on the slight petite figure of the girl beside him, who, with her lovely flowing bair and unadorned dress of simple gray, looked even younger than she really was, They were silent for awhile. Enid’s mind was in a sweet tumult, for even her girlish in- experience and simplicity could guess a mean- ing in the young man’s words—words which thrilled her heart with joy; while he, still un- decided whether or not the important words should be spoken, walked on beside her, content to watch the color rising on her cheek, and the flickering smile on the sweet sensitive lips, which he took as a token that she understood his allusions, and at least in some measure re- turned his affection. “Would it make you very unhappy to leave Sunnymead?” he asked at length, “Oh, no,” sha replied, innocently; ‘for though aunt Ormesby is kind, I often feel I am an intruder in the house where she and Jessica might be happier without my continual pres- ence. Itis bard to deseribe exactly what I mean, but there is no real sympathy between us, Oh, if my own dear mother had but lived, i should have been a happier and better girl.” “ Happier, perhaps; I will not hear of your being better. You are quite good enough for this work-a-day world.” “You do not know me thoroughly. I am often willful and obstinate, apt to act upon the impulse of the moment without calculating the consequences of my rash folly; and then, when too late, I abase myself in bitter repentance, making all sorts of good resolutions—resolu- tions, however, which are unfortunately oftener broken than kept.” “ You underrate your own good qualities,” he answered, smiling, ‘and exaggerate your toults. Thoughtless you may be—I, who am nearly nine years older than you, sometimes do things of which my better judgment disap- proves—but I will not believe you are willful and obstinate unless I obtain ocular demonstra- tion of the fact.” She shook her pretty head gravely. “T can assure you that Iam not taking too harsh a view of my failings, Even unele, dear, indulgent uncle, used to scold me occa- sionally; and nurse Rachel, who is so very,
Page 7
A BITTER MISTAKE, . T very old that she remembers my grandmother when she was a little girl, says I am like her both in face and disposition.” ‘““Was your grandmother, then, a very head- strong old lady?” asked Basil, laughing out- right. “She never lived to be old,” answered Enid, with a pensive air. ‘‘ She died of consumption a few years after her marriage, and though she left a kind husband and two little children, she was quite willing to go. Rachel says that she was never the same girl after ber parents forbade her to think any more of young Eller- ton, but fretted and wasted away, so that her health was quite broken when at last she was persuaded to marry grandfather.” ‘““Who was young Eilerton?” inquired Basil, with but faint interest in this story of proba- bly over fifty years ago, yet liking to hear Enid talk so earnestly. ““He was her father’s clerk, and she loved him, though he was very poor, and altogether unsuited to be the husband of a wealthy mer- chant’s daughter. She was wayward and headstrong, refusing to be advised by those who were older and wiser than herself. So her parents sent her for a while to a convent, and her lover emigrated to some outiandish coun- try and was never heard of more.” © Quite a romance of the olden time,” smiled Basil. ‘I wish it had ended more happily.” **So used I to wish; but Rachel says a re- bellious spirit is never contented in any condi- tion of life; therefore, things might not have been much better if Enid the first—her name was the same as mine—had been allowed to follow ber own inclination.” “Would you, then, Enid, tamely submit to be separated from the man you loved? Nay, you need not answer in words; there is a flash of indignant dissent in your eyes that sufli- ciently settles the question, May you be as tender and true as your namesake, but far more fortunate; and may the happy man who wins your hand be the possessor of your heart’s best love!” A turn in the road brovght Mrs, Ormesby and Jessica in sight. The beauty of the niorn- ing had tempted them forth for a constitu- tional. Jessica looked grave, and the elder lady accosted her niece with an air of frigid displeasure. “T am surprised, child, to see you out at this hour of the morning when you should be practicing your music and drawing. Pray lose no more time, but hasten home as quickly as you can. I like young persons to be dili- gent in their studies.” Then, fearing lest Basil might not be in- clined to relinquish his position as escort, she added, “I think, Jessica, we will not continue our walk, as I am rather weary; so you and. Mr. Clifford can talk over Mrs. Brooke’s party while I give Enid directions regarding the em- ployment of her time until luncheon, Come, my love,” turning to the latter, “you look warm and tired, and will be glad to walk at a slower pace.” So Mrs. Ormesby enjoyed the satisfaction of watching her pretty daughter laughing and talking gayly as she moved onward beside her companion, who politely exerted himself for her entertainment, though his heart lingered with Enid. CHAPTER IIt. OLD ELLERTON’S HEIRESS. In the course of a few weeks, Bertrand Heathcote became quite intimate with his somewhat eccentri¢ boarder. He would sit for hours listening to the old man’s rambling con- versation, which often turned on deeds of past prowess, culminating almost invariably in an encounter with some busbrangers or wild beasts, wherein Mr. Ellerton performed prodi- gies of valor and put his enemies to flight. Fortune was at a low ebb in the bouse in Budd street. Bertrand idled away his hours, producing occasionally a water-color sketch which brought in small gain; while Penelope, always most industrious and energetic, found time to instruct a few yupils in music. Thus they struggled on, managing to make enough to supply their daily wants, But it was a weary, anxious life, and Bertrand had some excuse for his earnest longings after the riches in perspective, which he fancied might one day be the reward of his attention to old Bllerton, Meanwhile, the invalid rallied considerably —perhaps the extra care and kindness gave fresh vigor to his nearly worn-out frame—and regained a modicum of strength. When the weather was propitious he ventured forth upon long, solitary strolls, refusing all companion- ship. This was rather annoying to bis self- appointed proiector, wko was jealous lest Mr. Ellerton should make any new acquaintance who migbt rival him in the old man’s favor. One evening, on paying bis usual visit, Ber- trand found Mr, Ellerton seated at the table with a desk before bim full of papers which he was examining and sorting. He looked more than ordinarily bright and cheerful, and greet- ed his friend with cordiality. “Sit down, Mr. Heathcote—sit down; you do not disturb me. I am always glad to see you. Iam making the most of my time now that lam comparatively strong and well, set- tling all my affairs, and seeing that everything is ship-shape and as it should be, This im- provement in my health may not last long. What can a man expect who is over seventy years of age, and has led a hard life? Never mind, we shall all take our turn, and now my
Page 8
8 : A BITTER MISTAKE. heart is at ease, for my task is accomplished, and my will has this day been proper'y signed and attested,” Bertrand flushed with excitement, and list- ened eagerly for further revelations. ‘“*You may not suppose me to be a wealthy man,” continued his companion, ‘ because it is my whim to live quietly, without show or osten- tation, Money can do wonders. I love it asa mi- raculous power tbat can remove difficulties, and gives us in many cases life’s choicest blessings. For me it came too late! How happy a por- tion of the gold I now possess would have made me years ago, when wy frame was strong, and my heart lighter! I could then have had a blissful home, the sweetest and dearest of women for my wife, perhaps cbil- dren prattling round my knees, to be my pride and solace. For want of money that hope was crushed. I have passed through life alone—a solitary, disappointed man!” “You can still enjoy the sweets of friend- ship, sir,” observed Bertrand, blandly. “ Both my sister and myself have the highest regard for you.” “Thanks, thanks!” he muttered, mechani- cally. Then, fumbling in his desk with feeble hands, be brought forth a faded miniature, on which he gazed with evident gratification, “Tf many years would roll back into the past, and Enid Vere come to life again in her well- remembered loveliness, I would lay my fortune at her feet, and tell her how I struggled to win the gold which would have purchased her father’s consent to our union, Work—good Heavens, how I worked!—although my early efforts at money-making proved futile, and al- though long before I scored my first success I learned that she was married,” ‘Women are proverbially fickle. It is strange how often they repay our love with falsehood,” observed Bertrand, anxious to ap- pear sympathetic. The old man turned on him almost fiercely. “False!—who told you she was false? One might as well suspect an angel of treachery! No; she was cajoled or forced into a marriage from which her heart revolted. It was no wonder she died so young!” “She has, then, been dead for many years?” ‘ * Yes, yes; it was the very summer T se- cured that grant of land from the Mexican Government which preved such a good invest- ment that I saw the announcement in a news- paper that had made its way out to the diggings. Took on her sweet, pure couvtenance, young man, and never more associate with falsehood the name of Enid Vere!” Bertrand took the miniature held out to him with some curiosity. It was the likeness of a wvman who had inspired this enduring passion wh of a lifetime. He saw a slender figure, clad in a short-waisted white gown, with a blue scarf thrown lightly around it. The face was refined and delicate, her eyes were pensive, and there was a profusion of light golden hair, arranged in a quaint, old-fashioned style, Bertrand, who preferred showy, black-eyed beauties, piquante, striking, with an expression of pertness rather than melancholy, inwardly marveled at his taste. “You have now some notion of Enid’s beauty im her youth,” said Lionel Ellerton, compla- cently, as he received back his treasure, and careiully deposited it in a drawer of his desk, “‘Tt was ber farewell gift, and has accompanied me over Jand and sea, You cannot even guess how I have prized it!” “You were speaking about business mat- ters,” hinted Bertrand, anxious to bring back the discussion to the point whence it had strayed. “Can I be of any service? Have you been well recommended to the lawyer to whom, I pre- sume, bas been intrusted the drawing up of your will? Excuse my interference, but I am anxious for your interests, and there are so many rogues in the profession,” “Thank you; I have my own lawyers. When I returned from the Cape I brought a letter of introduction to a respectable firm, whom I authorized to undertake a case which I had much at heart. They have acquitted themselves of their task entirely to my satis- faction, and enabled me to carry out my whim.” This speech sounded somewhat mysterious, and Bertrand waited impatiently for the next. “There are many charitable institutions I might have benefited,” pursued the old man; “but I prefer settling the bulk of my wealth upon one who will cherish my memory with tenderness and gratitude. Two hundred thou- sand dollars is a large bequest to a person in no way related by blood to the testator; is it not, Mr. Heathcote?” Bertrand assented, and his heart seemed beating as if it would burst during his brief agony of suspense, The sum mentioned ex- ceeded his wildest calculations; and as Mr, El- lerton had no friends, and did not intend mak- ing charitable bequests, surely the future inheritor would be himself rather than Pene- lope. “ You must understand,” continued bis com- panion, with the provoking deliberation, pecu- liar to age, “‘that if my relatives were living I should not consider myself justified in mak- ing such a will. But Tam the last of my race, and free to act according to my pleasure. My heiress will be Euid Lisle, now residing with a Mrs. Ormesby at Sunnymead, near Dalebury, Mass., grand-daughter and only surviving de- scendant of the woman I loved.” Bertrand had difficulty in preserving an out-
Page 9
A BITTER MISTAKE, 9 ward appearance of composure. have liked to lay violent hands on the venera- ble graybeard, and accused him of a heartless deception, ‘The girl is very young, I am told,” pur- | sued the unconscious cavse of his disappoint- ment, ‘and may by chance resemble the sainted lady whose name she bears, My heart yearns toward her.” 1] wonder how you got to know of the girl’s existence wben you had been half a century absent from the United States,” said Bertrand, | petulantly, for his vexation was too great to} *¢ How did you ferret be concealed altogether. ber out?” “The lawyers managed that matter for me. I commissioned them to spare no expense in making inquiries, although all was to be done quietly and without publicity. Of course, it was a work of time, for many changes had tuken place—marriages, deaths, and removals complicated affairs, and raised difficultiés. Finally, however, they were successful in their quest, and to day the document was signed that makes the second Enid my heiress.” “Ts sho to be made aware of her good luck?’ inquired Bertrand, moodily. Mr. Ellerton pondered before answering. “Well, no, I think not; when I am gone it will be time enough. She may not resemble my lost love in face or character, so it would be a disappointment if we met, and I would not like to disturb the portrait I have formed of her in my imagination. Uvless my plans are somehow altered, I donot mean to see her; but I have written a letter which will be forwarded, when the proper hour arrives, by those who will inform ber of my death and of the will I have made in her favor.” There was silence for a moment; the aged man had an opportunity to brood over his own thoughts; but suddenly he burst out intoa loud, triumphant laugh. “Ha, hal Itis amusing to reflect that old Vere, who was too proud to let me marry his daughter, died a ruined bankrupt; while the last of his line will wear diamonds a duchess might envy, the gift of poor Lionel Ellerton, whom hescorned and contemned. You little thought, Mr. Heathcote, that in the sea-chest yonder is an iron box containing stones of such value that if they were in your possession you would be independent for life,” He looked up and met the full gaze of Ber- trand’s eyes fixed upon him—eyes gleaming with bungry eagerness and greed for wealth, Perhaps the old man was struck by the revela- tion so obtained of his companion’s nature, and began to distrust him; or he may have become conscious he was talking wildly. Whatever was the reason, he paused abrupt- ly, and passed bis band across his forehead, as if to chase away the shadows from his brow. He would His next words were uttered in a tone quite | different to that which he had used during his late excitement. “Tam growing rather tired, Mr. Heathcote, and shall be better alone. I think, too, my }mind bas been wandering a little—indulging, in fact, in flights of fancy. We old travelers, you know, get into bad habits, and you must not believe all we tell you, Good-evening— good-evening.” Betrand had no resource but to take his leave, and seek Penelope, whose sharp eyes soon discovered there was something amiss. She listened in silence to her brother’s ac- count of his recent interview with their | boarder, and the disappointment of bis hopes. “T think the old man is mad!” she exclaimed, contemptuously, ‘I always doubted him.” * Because you have no insight into charac- ter. For my own part, I am convinced not only of Ellerton’s sanity, but that his wealth is as great as he represents it to be, I discovered the moment when his suspicious nature reas- serted its influence, and when he would have given worlds to retract bis words, but it was | then too late,” “At any rate, it is clear we have not a chance of being a cent the better for all these boasted hoards,” rejoined Penelope. “That remains to be seen.” ‘* How perverse you are, Bertrand! Did he not tell you that he had willed away his money?” ‘‘But a bright idea has just struck me, I will not relinquish the prize for which I have striven, and may possibly win it after all,” “What is your brilliant project?” sneered Penelope. “Tf this girl, Enid Lisle, is an heiress,” he answered, impressively, ‘“‘she will be able to enrich the husband of her choice.” “Well, what then?” “Why should I not marry her?” Penelope stared at him with open-mouthed What | astonishment. 4* Marry a girl you have never seen! novsense you are talking!” ‘*T mean toseck her out without delay. The idea is plausible; at all events, it is worth while spending some time and trouble upon it before giving it up asimpracticable. If I woo, win, and wed Miss Enid while she is uncon- scious of the impending change in her fortunes I shall obtain the character of being a disinter- ested lover, and afterward reap the reward of my devotion.” “Ts it likely her friends will consent to such a marriage, even if the girl approves? You must own, Bertrand, you could not be consi- dered an eligible match.” “‘They may not bave the opportunity of re- fusing. Young girls are romantic, and do not object to an elopement with an ardent suitor
Page 10
10 A BITTER MISTAKE. who pleads bis cause well. If she is poor— living in dependence upon relatives or friends —she will not have been pestered with wooers, and I shall have less difficulty in persuading ber to lis'en to my vows,” ‘Your plan seems to me beset with dangers and difficulties,” observed Penelope. ‘I frankly confess I do not like it.” “What special apprehensions assail you, sis- ter mine?’ “The old man may linger on for years, and alter bis will at last.” “We must run a risk, like all otber specu- lators. If bis frai! life was all that stood be- tween me and the wealth I crave, I have a presentiment be would not linger long.” “ Bertrand!” * Well, Penelope, why do ycu look so scared? Presentiments do not always come true; ‘and if mine did, you would be none the poorer. You should have a dowry of ten thousand dollars when you married Maxwell, if I were master of old Ellerton’s money.” “Hush, Bertrand! We will not discuss the subject further. I fancied just now I heard a step on the landing outside. Perhaps Milly is listening.” But if the household drudge. had been diver- sifying her menotonoxs labors by applying her ear to the keyhole, she managed to dive down stairs in time to escape detection, for when the door was opened, and Penelope looked over the balusters, all was glcom and silence, CHAPTER IV. MRS. ORMESBY'S MANEUVER. Enrp Liste sat near the window of the morning room, looking out upon the sweet- scented garden, where countless roses opened to the sunshine, and filled the sir with fra- grance. Her eyes, however, were apt to stray in the direction where she could catch the first glimpse of Basil Clifford if he approached the house. % Nearly a week bad elapsed siuce his last visit, and a week seems like a century toa love-sick maiden whose beloved is absent. Generally Basil was able to find some plausi- lle excuse for calling regularly every day. There was sure to be a book eitber to lend or borrow, a duet to practice, or Mrs. Ormesby’s co-operation to obtain in some plan of amuse- ment. He was always cordially received as a favored guest, so Enid felt a vague sense of uneasiness, both at his continued absence and the silence preserved on the subject by her aunt and Jessica. “Again idling away your time, my dear Enid!” sighed Mrs. Ormesby’s voice behind her. ‘‘The task of training you to habits of industry is beyond my strength. I relinquish it in despair!” “Indeed, aunt, I only came here five min- utes ago, and have done all you bade me.” “My dear, you are an incorrigible idler! Do not contradict me by denying the fact. I wish I did not feel so acutely the responsibility laid upon my sboulders; but it is my nature to endeavor to perform even unpleasant duties to the best of my ability. You must be aware, Enid, that your education is not so thorough and complete as your dear uncle would have approved.” : “T did not know—” began the girl, then stopped, embarrassed by the stern, judicial gaze fixed upon her, Mrs. Ormesby gave a frosty smile. “Of course not, my Gear; you are only a child, It is for your elders to judge of such matters,and remedy that deficiency. I have lately given much thought to the important subject, and have made arrangements which I trust your good sense will recognize as satis- factory. What say you to a twelvemonth passed at Maduine Belleville’s establishment for young ladies in New York. a “Oh, aunt,” exclaimed Eaid, in consterna- tion, “you would not send me away from Sunnymead! I have never lived among strangers. Their ways will be new tome. I shall be always regretting the home and friends left behind in dear Dalebury.” “Very natural and proper, my dear; but these home-sick feelings will soon pass away. Both Jessica and I will miss you; but we must stifle our selfish sorrows in the reflection that She brief separation is for your welfare. A year soon slips away. You can then return with your education finished, and be ready to be introduced into society.” Enid knew it would be useless to rebel against an arrangement ostensibly made for her own benefit, though the prospect was de- sidedly disagreeable, She did not at the moment conjecture that Mrs. Ormesby was desirous of removing her out of Basil’s way as a dangerous rival to Jes- sica. She had even a vague idea of enlisting his sympathy ani persuading him to intercede on her behalf. He was such a favorite at Sunny- mead that he might be able to induce her aunt to change her mind, and not insist on carrying out this unwelcome project. This hope lightened her trouble. She dashed away the gathering tears, and said, half smiling, ‘‘ At least I need not make my- self miserable until the hour of departure ar- rives; that wil) be time enougb.” ‘“‘T am glad you are so reasonable,” observed the elder lady, surprised as well as gratified at ber niece’s ready acquiescence, ‘To-day you , an.
Page 11
Aact A BITTER MISTAKE. i Se a ea Ee ie et may employ in packing such things as you desire to take with you, though Mada.ne Belle- ville has instructions to attend to your ward- robe, and to provide all that is necessary. We start for New York by an early train vo-mor- row.” “To-morrow!” Enid could only repeat the word that sounded the knell of her hupes. ‘‘Why not?’ inquired her aunt, sharply. ** We are not going to take a voyage round the world, that a month need be spent in prepara- tion. The journey is a mere trifle, and I shall place you myself under madame’s charge.” “T should like to wish my friends good-by,” murmured the girl. “TI will give them your adieux and mes- sages, People will understand that you bad no time for leave-taking.” “Do you think Mr. Clifford will call to-day?” asked Enid, carelessly, though her face was suffused with crimson, and tbe hand that put back an intrusive spray of honeysuckle, which persisted in looking in at the window, trembled as it performed its task. ‘‘ What an extranrdiaary question!” remark- ed her aunt, severely, ‘‘I never thought that you would feel interested in the young man’s visit when matters of far more importance claim your attention. But I must tell you that he is not likely to return from the Highlands urtil bis friend is out of danger.” “The Highlands! Is he there? Oh, aunt, you never told me!” “Pray, Enid, do not get into a silly way of repeating words and asking idle questions. It is excessively ill-bred. Basil is at present up the Hudson, whither he was summoned to the sick-bed of a friend, who met with serious in- juries in a railway accident. They had been schvol-fellows and college chums, or something of the sort, and as the poor fellow’s relatives are abroad, Basil has decided to stay wth bim while he can be of any use.” “You knew all this, aunt, while I was won- dering as to the reason of his long absence!” Jane Ormesby’s large, dark eyes flashed with wrath. The audacious girl dared openly to proclaim her interest in the young man’s move- ments. She would have liked to sbake her, yet she controlled all outward display of anger, and answered with an air of indifference, ‘*1t would have been strange if Basil had not enlightened me as to the object of bis sud- den journey, since I disapprove of a direct correspondence with Jessica until their engage- ment is made public,” A mist arose before Enid’s eyes, and the sound of rushing waters was in her ears. Mrs. Ormesby secretly enjoyed her manifest confusion, ‘¢ 1 did not know he was engaged to Jessica,” said Enid, in a constrained voice, “‘Oh, it was a settled thing months ago. But I cannot consent to part with my sweet child at present, nor permit the whole town to gossip over her intended marriage until the day is absolutely fixed. Jessica is so shy and sen- sitive that she dislikes any allusion being made to the subject; therefore, I warn you, Enid, not to repeat what I have told you.” Enid made an inarticulate response. Her heart was now the prey of love and jeal’usy. Why had Basil dealt so treacherously in winning her affection when he was pledged to: another? It did not occur to the maiden of seventeen’ that her aunt was capable of overstepping the: boundaries of truth. Although she did not- love the austere lady who exercised a stern guardianship over ber, she respected her tco much to believe her guilty of uttering a willful falsehood. The ordeal at length was over. Mrs. Ormes- by swept her silken draperies out of the room, and Enid, thankful to be alone, stole quietly to her own chamber. She could not have pre- served the semblance of composure a minute longer, but must have given vent to her grief, shame, and anger. -So great was her cortempt for Basil's conduct, that she almost hoped her love would turn to aversion. If he intended to marry Jessica St. Aubyn, why had he neglect- ed Mrs, Ormesby’s daughter so frequently in order to seek the society of her bumble little cousin, with looks and words no unfettered heart could withstand? She paced the small apartment, blaming, by turns, her own folly, her lover's perfidy, and her aunt’s cruelty in banishing her from home, Madame Belleville’s “ finishing school” was a large square house, with extensive gardens in the rear. It had long narrow windows, with green shutters, and a sort of court-yard at the side, to which admission was gained through a tall iron gate, whose repellent aspect was in- creased by being studded with rusty knobs, as if intended to witbstanda siege. There was an air of conventual seclusion about the place; the windows commanding a view of the street had their shutters closed and barred, while the foot of man was never allowed to tread the pre- cincts where madame superintended the edu- cation, health, and morals of her youthful charges. Enid Lisle, transplanted from Sunnymead ta this large, dull house, where everybody sur- veyed her with critical eyes, and no one offered a kindly word of welcome, felt her heart sink with despondency. Mrs. Ormesby had driven away with inward relief now that her task was finished; and Enid, sensitive and impulsive, felt like a prisoned
Page 12
12 A BITTER MISTAKE, bird, powerless to try its wings, longing for liberty, yet condemned to pine in captivity, and sing only at its master’s will. As days lagged slowly on, the monotonous routine of school life, to which she had never been inured in childhood, became more uvnen- durable. Her mind was restless, her temper irritable. She could not forget Basil, and pic- tured him often by Jessica’s side, paying her lover-like attentions and basking in her smiles, while she, with»whom, for pastime, he had flirted, was scarcely honored with a passing thought. There was a girl at the school, whose name -was Rosetta Marsden. She was a short, plump damsel, about sixteen years of age, with an cquable temper, and a capability of being, like the immortal Mark Tapley, ‘‘ jolly under any circumstances,” It is not surprising, then, that Enid and Miss Marsden soon became constant companions, if not friends. “You are positively growing quite thin, nid!” exclaimed this lively maiden, as they walked side by side out of the recitation room, “‘Your cheeks have a washed-out appearance, as if they were never to be revisited by a tinge of color. I believe you are homesick, Why not follow my example? Make yourself as comfortable here as madame’s bad temper will permit, and look forward hopefully to a future which cannot be long in coming.” Enid’s answer was cold and brief. “JT am not homesick, nor can 1 look forward with hope, for the future will bring me no happiness.” ‘Ob, my dear, it is very bad to give way to such gloomy thoughts! No wonder your spirits are depressed. I shall begiv to imagine you have been crossed in love,” “You are quite mistaken,” said Enid, stiffly, elevating her proud young head in anger at the suggestion. ‘‘And, Rosetta, you know madame would be very angry if she heard us talking in study hours.” “Oh, I am not to be silenced so easily! Sbe would find it difficult to make me hold my tongue if I wanted to speak. Besides, I did nol mean any harm, only I thought if you bad querreled with your lover, and knew he was now anxious to see you and make it up, you would be ever so much happier.” ‘*T cannot understand you, Rosetta,” said Enid, her heart beginning to throb wildly with undefined hopes. “ Well, he is a fine young fellow, with a mustache which makes you remember the Spanish proverb, ‘A kiss without a mustache is like an egg without salt.’ He has followed you from Massachusetts, and bung abcut the house, having found out, goodness knows how, wkere you were living; so, out of common g altitude, you ought to reciprocate such evi- . dent attachment,” “Dear Rosetta, do be serious if you have really anything to tell.” “Anything to tell! I like that! Why, it was quite an adventure, and adventures are scarce enough at Madame’ Belleville’s, I can see by your blushes that the hero of my ro- mance jis a favored swain, soif you are very good you shall hear the story.” Glancing slyly into Enid’s face, to which alternate hope and fear lent an ever-varying expression, the girl continued, ‘‘ You know that I spent yesterday, being a holiday, with my friends the Banks. As the day was fine I persuaded them to take me to the Park, Ob, I had such a fine time! I only wish you had been with me! Such gayly-dressed crowds, laughing aud talking, and the driving! But there! I see you are growing impatient, so I will tell you about them another time, We had not been long in the grounds when I noticed a tall, gentlemanly man was eying me with great attention, and following our party at a respectful distance. I thought I had made a conquest; but I was never more deceived in’ my life, for though I was the object of attraction, it was noton my own account. In the museum I got separated from the Banks, and, to my consternation, found my supposed admirer was making his way toward me through the crowd, In vain I looked round for Mrs. Bank’s white-plumed bonnet or Marie’s smiling face; they had disappeared, and the intrusive stranger was at my elbow. His first words, however, told me the real object of his interest in me. He asked me if [ were not a pupil of Madame Belleville’s, and if a young lady named Enid Lisle was in the same establishment.” “ What did you answer?” asked Enid, almost breathless with anxiety. “At first I was inclined to seck refuge in dignified silence; but he pleaded his cause so well that I was induced to relent. It seems he bad fallen in love with you before you left Dalebury, and had taken no end of trouble to follow and find out whither you bad gone. ‘ust Sunday he happened to see us coming out 4t church; but of course we were chaperoned by the ugliest and most grim looking of the teachers, so he dared not approach. He recog- nized me as your friend when he saw me in the Park, and took courage to speak. Ob, Enid, it must be charming to have such a devoted lover; and now that you know he is fond and faithful you will no longer wear such dole- ful looks, but be as happy as the day is long.” In the joy of believing that Basil Clifford loved her, and bal taken the only means of communication that lay in his power to assure her of that love, Enid at first forgot her jeal- ousy of Jessica. It returned now with full force, and she said, coldly;
Page 13
“Tf this mysterious stranger is the person whom I suppose, he owes me an explanation, without which I could not receive any pro- fession of love.” ‘He said he could explain everything,” cried Rosetta, eagerly, delighted with her role as confederate, “if you would only grant him an interview.” “That seems impossible,” said Enid, thought- fully. ‘‘Do you think madame wou!d allow me to see him if he called?’ “T am certain she would not. Madame ob- jects to gentleman visitors even if they are re- lations; and unless she had special directions from your aunt to relax ber rules in your favor, your friend would have no chance of gaining admittance,” “Then I cannot seo him,” said Hnid, in a dejected tone. ‘You kuow we are never al- lowed to go out alone,” **Pooh! nonsense! —you are easily disheart- ened, I have been at school much longer than you, and know there are means of eluding the vigilance of madame and her spies.” “Tell me, Rosetta, what to do, and I will follow your advice.” ** Suppose, then, you make up your mind to meet your bandsome adorer at the foot of the garden when all the rest of the household have | retired, night.” ‘* How could I leave the house when all the doors are securely fastened?” asked Enid, trem- ulously, almost determined: to run any risk ratber than lose the promised delight of a few minutes’ conversation with her lover. ‘You can descend from the window of our sleeping-room, which luckily happens not to be very far from the ground, and has a friendly tree standing close at hand, whose strong branches will serve the purpose of a ladder. I promise not to tell.” “It would be so bold, so wrong!” stammered the poor girl, troubled by conflicting feelings. “There is nop much harm. ‘ Love laugis at locksmiths,’ they say; and if madame is cruel enough to attempt to separate two confiding hearts by arbitrary rules and regulations, it is necessary, in self-defense, to resort to artifice. Think of the poor young fellow scrambling as he best can over the high fence, and standing in the dismal garden counting the moments un- til his lady-love appears! What would be his dis- appointment if he did not see you? He would make up his mind that you were quite indiffer- ent to his devotion.” Enid, after a sharp struggie between duty and love, yielded, in defiance of her better judgment, to these specious arguments, Hoe told me he would be there to- A BITTER MISTAKE. 15 CHAPTER V. A YOUNG GIRL’S FOLLY. Tam night-wind was whispering amid the trees, the moon hung clear and bright in the summer sky, when Enid stood in her quiet room, looking pale and agitated, but withal resolute, as she gazed out into the night. The other inmates of the bouse had long been sleep- ing, except Rosetta, who remained awake to see the fun, as she phrased it, or give any as- sistance her friend might need. A ecburch clock chimed forth the hour of the intended meeting, yet Enid lingered, ‘‘Bnid,” murmured Rosetta, from her little white bed at the further end of the room, ‘did you not hear eleven strike? Are you not going?” Enid turned a pale face toward her. ‘You are positive that he really wishes to see me, and said this would be our only chance of exchanging a few words?” “Don’t ask such silly questions! Of course Tam certain. His entreaties were quite heart- rending; and you must be cold as an icicle if you disappoint him.” At that moment a tall, manly figure was seen moving amid the shadows cast by a group of trees at the end of the garden. Jt was un- recognizable, owing to the distance and partial darkness; but Enid’s last scruples vanished at the thought of her lover’s presence, Slowly and noiselessly she opened the window, and, standing on the sill, her heart beating quicker than usual, prepared for the descent. She was soon seated on a strong branch capable of bearing twice ber weight, and it was not long beforeshe reacked the ground. From the shadows the tall figures stepped forth to meet her, and she stood face to face with—Bertrand Heathcote! A low ery of terror and dismay escaped her | lips at the sight of this stranger instead of the familiar form of him she loved, Taintness crept over her, she tottered and would have fallen had not Bertrand caught her, ‘‘My dear Miss Lisle, pray be composed,” he whispered, in honeyed accents. ‘It is so kind of you to meet me here!” His voice and touch roused her more quickly than the most reviving cordial. She extricated herself hastily from his arms, and exclaimed, with flashing eyes, “There is some mistake! What brings you to this place?’ Why did you dare send a message to me—a stranger?” ‘Because I love you, and have followed you from your home to tell you of my love,” an- swered Bertrand, with well-feigned warmth, “Sweet Enid, do not look on me so coldly, [ hoped for a kinder reception,”
Page 14
k A BITTER MISTAKE, ‘*1 never saw you before,” she stammered, in bewilderm: nt, ‘‘ But | have seen you, and fallen a captive to the power of your beauty. Did not your good-natured little friend repeat the message I sent you yesterday—else why are you here to- night?” ‘*T expected to see a very different person.” ‘Ab, I can guess his name—Mr, Basil Clif- ford,” Enid started. Had this strange man come as embassador from her lover? Was she mis- taken in supposing he pleaded his own love? In ber confusion, nothing seemed too wild or improbable for belief. ‘Has he sent you %” she faltered, “‘T do not hold my services at his disposal; but as I have lately come from Dalebury, I can give you tidings of your friend. I warn you, the news may not be agreeable; so, if you pre- fer, I will keep silence,” ‘¢ Anything is better than suspense,” she mur- mured, inwardly. ‘Speak on, sir, if you have aught to tell me,” she added, aloud, ‘You know that in a country town people will talk when any special event is likely to take place. A grand wedding, for instance, is always the subje«t for gossip, particularly when bride and bridegroom are well known and respected.” ‘Ts Basil married ?’she questioned eagerly, forgetful of all else but this threatened death- blow of ber hopes, “Not yet, but I believe the day is fixed. Do ‘you wish to know the name of the fortunate fair one ?” “T can guess.” ‘No doubt your suspicions are correct, for it seems an oldattachment, Miss Jessica St. Au- byn, the late rector’s step-daughter, will be envied by many of the ladies in the county who might desire to rule over Clifford Hall.” Enid made an effort to rally her spirits, and hide all outward sign of suffering. “J wish them every happiness,” she said, firmly. “They are both my friends, and I trust have a blissful future before them.” “ You are courageous, Miss Lisle.” remarked Bertrand, with deliberate emphasis. ‘* You bear the news well; yet I have been told that you were sent away from Sunnymead. because you threatened to become your cousin’s rival, Mrs. Ormesby was too shrewd a mother not to observe your partiality for her daughter's be- trothed.” Enid looked almost with fear into the calm face before her, and to which the moonlight gave a ghastly pallor. “ How have you learnt all this? ‘You are to me a stranger, yet seem to know what I thought to keep secret from the prying gaze of those who can have no interest in the matter.” “My interest is in you, Enid. Have I not said I loye you ?” “ Leave me,” she said, proudly; ‘‘your pres- ence is an insult; your protestations of love in- credible. I have been weak and foolish to come here to-night; but you will let the mad folly of which Iam guilty be buried in oblivion if you are a man of honor.” ‘*One word of kindness would purchase my secrecy more effectually than these airs of cold disdain. Even from you, Enid, I will not brook a command, although your smile might bend me to your will.” : “You would not betray me?” she faltered, “Only think of the temptation!” he returned, with a mocking smile, ‘I should be able to boast that Enid Lisle, the lovely niece of Da’e- bury’s late respected rector, met me alone at midnight while her worthy teacher slept, never dreaming of ber pupil’s escapade, But we will not speak of this now. Rather let me tell you how you may show your aunt and Mr. Clifford that the knowledge of this approaching marriage gives you no pain.” * Ab, if I could only die!” she said, bursting into a flood of ‘passionate tears. ‘‘No ono lovesmre, 1am forsaken and despised by those whom I most trusted.” “Do not talk of dying; you must live to forget the past, and enjoy a future which shall be made happy by the devotion of a constant heart. Waste not another thought on Basil Clifford. Then seizing her hand, he poured forth im- passioned vows of love, and told the false story he had concocted concerning a first meeting at Dalebury, where he kad been struck with her beauty, though himself unnoticed, and how that from that hour he had lost bis heart, He of- fered to take her away from the hated school, and bear her to a pleasant home, where, as bis beloved wife, she would no longer be depen- dent on Mrs. Ormesby’s bounty. “Tam but a poor artist, dearest,” he said, ‘and our home will have few luxuries; yet you shall be happier than you have ever been before. My life will be devoted to shielding you from every care; and my sister Penelope, a noble-hearted and amiable woman, will re- ceive my young bride with open arms,” While ha thus spoke, Enid, at first indignant and wrathful, became gradually calm; and it must be confessed that, in her state of mind, the picture he drew was not devoid of charm. She was reckless as to her own future, but re- joiced in imagining aunt Ormesby discomfited and Basil’s vanity wounded when they should hear that she was married, It is not to be supposed the girl deliberately consented to marry Bertrand during this first interview, but she listened to his pleading more patiently than was prudent, and was at length
Page 15
A BITTER MISTAKE. 15 prevailed upon to walk in the garden at a cer- tain bour next day, for the purpose of pickiug up a letter which should explain more fully than time just then permitted the aspirations ot her new lover. When they separaied, he was justified in considering he had made good progiess. “T shall succeed in winning her,” he thought, “though I wish it were possible to get posses- sion of her fortune without the accompanying incumbrance, She is rather pretty, but too pale and lackadaisical for my taste. I wish she were more like Rose Burton, the variety ac- tress, She is a fine woman, and no mistake! Ther this Enid is evidently over head and ears in love with the fellow of whom Rachel told me, Indeed, I may thank that gossiping old woman for all her correct information regard- ing ber former nursling. A little money ju- diciously bestowed, and a great deal of ‘soft sawder,’ work miracles.” In pursuance of this resolution, Bertrand continued the campaign with dogzed perse- verance, Noknight in days of chivalry fought more energetically to win his fair lady. But the weapons used were neither sword nor spear; they were skillful probing of human weakness, falsehood dexterously insinuated, or truth suppressed. Before starting for Dalebury he had raised a sum of money by borrowing from a loan office and selling bis watch and chain, also a few old- fashioned trinkets belonging to Penelope; so he had plenty of funds to carry out his scheme. He managed not only to live respectably, but to secure allies even in Madame Belleville's strict establishment by liberal bribery. Sym- pathetic domestics were ready to oblige him by taking letters and messages for a suitable recompense, and to assist him in his romantic love-affair. Meetings were arranged by the exertions of Rosetta, who coaxed her friends, the Banks, into becoming promoters of the match. It is scarcely wonderful that Enid, surrounded by these influences, gave way to the impulse of her own undisciplined nature, and before a month was over became the promised wite of Bertrand Heathcote. CHAPTER VI. AN UNPLEASANT SURPRISE, PENELOPE HEATHCOTE, as we have seen, was at the best a person of gloomy and anxious temperament, ever prone to see gathering clouds in the distance, which foretell the speedy departure of those interludes of sunshine that are mercifully allowed to brighten the most troubled lives. One particular afternoon toward the close of August she seemed more burdened than usual with the weight of care, now pacing the room with feverish energy, now casting herself into a chair; and burying her face in ber hands, while she gave way to a train of reflection, evidently the reverse of soothing. ‘“Why does he not write?’ she said, half aloud, apostrophizing her absent brother. ‘It is of the greatest importance that he should learn what has happened, yet I know not where a letter would reach him,” As if in answer to ber impatient speech, she heard the slight noise made by a latch-key turning in the lock of the outer door, followed by a familiar footstep in the hall, Bertrand walked into the room, alert and smiling, tri- umph impressed on every lineament, “Well, Pen, I am at home at last. How have you been getting on since I left you? I canuot compliment you on your appearance; you look wretchedly ill, As for me, I have succeeded almost beyond my expectations. You may congratulate me, my dear. Behold in me the bappy bridegroom of old Ellerton’s heiress.” ‘Surely you are not married?” “No wonder you are astonished. I can searcely believe my own good luck. It required a good deal of tact and finesse, I can tell you, to bring matters to a satisfactory conclusion in so short a time. What falsehoods I was obliged to tell—what bribes to bestow in or- der to stimulate the zeal of those who assisted me! I will not bore you now with details of the manner in which I overcame difficulties which seemei insuperable, Suffice it to suy that Enid Lisle, the beiress, bas been converted into Mrs, Bertrand Heathcote,” , Penelope made no answer, but sat rocking herself to and fro, like one in pain. “How glum you are! Is Maxwell ill, or have you got the toothache? You might con- gratulate a fellow on his marriage, I should think,” said Bertrand, in an injured tone, “* Where is your wife?” questioned Penelope, evading a direct reply. “J; bave placed ber in a cheap boarding- place for the present, until I decide what is to be done. So far I have prospered, but much depends on the next move. Old Ellerton’s death would simplify matters, as there would be nothing to do then except to claim tbe money. Isthere any chance of sucha consum- mation? I bave not yet asked after the old gentleman.” “How can I tell you?’ faltered Penelope, despairingly. “Tell me what?” A vague yet terrible fear caused his face to become almost livid. He had cast his all upon that one die, and if he lost it would be ruin! ‘Speak woman! do not torture me!” he cried, roughly, clutching her arm until the pressure gave her pain, *‘Ellerton has gone—left the house}” ‘*Gone where?” 4
Page 16
A BITTER MISTAKE. “T do not know.” An oath escaped Bertrand’s lips. What with rage and impatience, his countenance assumed almost a fiendish expression as he stood before bis sister looking engerly down into ber face. * You have more to tell me. Goon, go on, before I wring the truth from you!” “* Yesterday,” replied Penelope, ‘‘I went out in the morning to do a little shopping. When 1 returned Milly told me that almost immedi- ately after my departure our boarder sent her for a back, in which he drove off with his valise, giving her to understand that she was not likely to see him again.” * Bertrand looked slightly relieved. *T always knew he was an eccentric indi- vidual, but we shall hear from him soon, At all events I have married the girl he bas made his heiress, and if it is necessary to cortfess the fact we shall soon persuade him to give his blessing on the union.” “* Ah, my dear brother, you are ever too san- guine and rash. Remember I always had my doubts, The man I believe to be animpostor!” Bertrand stared at her in amazement; he was stricken dumb. ** When I went into his room,” she continued, “T saw a paper, on which he had scribbled in pencil a few lines addressed to you, lying on the table. I ventured to glance over it, and thus was prepared for the worst. His great sea chest was open and its contents scattered about the room—a few old clothes such as a Jew clothesman might buy for a trifle, and the famous iron box, in which, instead of diamonds, were pieces of broken glass and valueless crys- tals. Ah, Bertrand, you Lave been cruelly de- ceived. If the man is not an impostor, he is a raging lunatic!” “*Give me the note!” said Bertrand, hoarse- ly. She took it from a little drawer in her work- bex, and gave it him without a word, eying him, meanwhile, compassionately. As we have said, she loved her brother dearly, and in his disappointment forgot her own. This is what he read:— “Mn. Bertranp Hratacorr:— “T have thought fit to leave your house without giving the usual notice, but as I always paid a month in advance, you are no loser. The contents of my chest, which are at your disposal, I consider a fair equivalent for any inconvenience you_may sustain through my unexpectel departure. You are also welcome to the diamonds which I told you were in- tended for my heiress. I really think that you be- lieved my flights of imagination and that my castle- building was not in the air. The shrewcdest are mistaken sometimes; why not you as well as the rest? Itis probable we shall never meet again, I may go abroad, and die; it is almost time I did. Thanks to you and Miss Penelope for your disinter- ested kindness, Yours, IJONEL ELLERTON.” Twice did Bertrand read over this strange eyistle, Then he crushed it in his band, and Pome flung it violently to the other side of the room, “IT have been duped by a madman!” he cried angrily. ‘Fool that I was not to de- tect the vagaries of a crazy brain in the old idiot’s rambling statement concerning his’ pre- fended wealth! I must have been only a trifle less insane than he!” “‘T warned you to be careful,” sighed Pene- lope, who derived some solace from recollecting that she had never entirely shared her brother's confidence in tbeir eccentric boarder. “ Hold your tongue, or utter somethirg more sensible than that parrot-like ery!” exclaimed the enraged young man. And hurrying from the room he strode ap- stairs, and entered the vacant apartment where he bad dreamt such golden visions of prosperity. More than an hour he remained there, turn- ing over and examining the articles Mr. Eller- ton had left, in the hope of finding some clew to the mystery. Every pocket was ransacked, every garment unfolded, but no old Jetter or addressed envelope came to light which would enable him to follow up the old man’s track in order to find out the cause of his strange be- havior, As to the value of the threadbare, old- fashioned raiment, Penelope’s estimate was undoubtedly correct; and the rusty old cash- box, which Bertrand’s too vivid imagination had beheld as the chosen receptacle of priceless gems, contained hoards of rubbisb such as only a child or a madman would care to amass. ** And for this you have burdened yourself with a wife!” said Penelope; ‘‘a foolish, head- strong girl, no doubt, or she would not have been in such haste! Old Ellerton’s heiress, indeed! Why, the man has nothing to be- queath! His wealth is a chimera, for which you bartered liberty!” “You need not remind me of my bondage!” retorted ber amiable brother, ‘‘1 own I have been a fool, Let that avowal do once for all. Do not twit me again with my folly. As for Enid, I must bring her here.” “Phis is a shabby home for a young bride, brother.” “It is the best I can give her. I wishT had never seen her pale face, nor listened to old Ei'erton’s falsehoods.” They were silent for a time, for this was in- ceed a crushing blow. Bertrand, who fancied that he bad wealth, and the advantages which accompany it, in his grasp, found himeelf poorer than ever, since he must repay bis loan with exorbitant interest, besides having an unloved and unloving wife tied to him for life. He always reckoned on not having long to wait for Ellerton’s demise, Perhaps the dark thought crossed bis mind that, if need be, that Sted "ha.
Page 17
“> A BITTER MISTAKE. 17 feeble existence could he easily extinguished; a friendless cla man boarding in his house, waited on chiefly by his sister, was almost at his mercy. ‘‘ What are you going to do now, Bertrand?’ asked Penelope; for the silence was growing oppressive. “T shall fetch my wife. for ber reception.” With a scowling brow, be strcde cut of the hous2, crossed the ferry, and was soon at the house, where, he bad taken Enid on their ar- rival in Philadelphia. Enid was reading in a small but cheerful room; the tea articles were ready for use, and she had placed a bow] of late roses on the table. The young bride was striving with all her might to perform her duty as a wife, and to reciprocate the affection which she imagined her busband felt for her. ‘*Had he not overcome obstacles,” she thought, ‘most men would have found insur- mountable to woo and win her? Yes, there- fore she must be grateful for such love, and endeavor to repay it.” So she decked her table with roses, wore her prettiest dress in anticipation of his return, and now greeted him with a smile which, if not vright and loving, was still very winsome. ‘*{ have been waiting for you so long, dear, Bas anything detained you?” . He flung himself on a chair opposite to her, His visage now wore an expression she had never before seen there. The veneer of ten- derness and general amiability had given place to the natural moroseness and cruelty indica- tive of a depraved nature. She was alarmed at the sudden transformation. “Get on your things,” he said, abruptly. ‘We must quit this place. It is too expensive for beggars like you and me, I shall take you home at once.” “Do you mean to your sister Penelope? Oh, Bertrand, Iam so glad! I never had a sister of my own; but now I shall feel the loss no longer. Do you think she will like me?” “T cannot tell. Itdoes not much matter, She will have to put up with your society.” His voice was harsh, his manner brutal, and Enid looked at him with amazement. “T think something has happened which I ought to know,” she said, with quiet firmness. “You bave been away only a few hours, and have returned thoroughly transformed, What has effected this sudden change? Does your sister disapprove of our marriage?” This was the only solution to her perplexity which presented itself to her mind. Her calm, somewhat dignified, demeanor rather shamed Bertrand, and he attempted a feeble imitation ot bis former manner as he. answered, ‘* You must excuse me, my dear, I have been much Get ready a room annoyed about business matters, which you do | not understand, and my temper being irritable, ° I canuot always keep it under contro!. We shall understand one another better by-and- by.” Enid sighed. It was so-soon to receive a revelation of her husband’s character, Her anticipations of wedde1 bliss were, of course, not brilliant, for she was conscious that Bertrand did not possess ber heart; but she had looked forward to a life of calm content- ment, relying on his promise to devote himself to the task of trying to make her happy. “Are you going to stand there until night- fall?’ he cried, impatiently, breaking in on her refl-ctions. ‘You have not much baggage, and it will not take long to put on your bon- net. Go up-stairs at once; I wi:l settle with the Jandlady,” Sorrowfully she obeyed his mandate, casting a lingering glance at the tastefully arranged tea-table, the appointment of which she had | superintended with all the pride of a young wife anx ous to try her skill in domestic duties. She saw Bertrand take up her admired bow! of roses (purchased on the street at a somewhat extravagant price) and fling the flowers out of the window, with a muttered romark that * their strong odor made his head ache.” She did not attempt remonstrance, though her heart sunk within her, Already she began to realize that she bad found her master, Such of her smull possessions as had been un- packed were soon replaced in their various receptacles, and, hastily assuming hat and wrap, she descended to the parlor, where Bertrand, still sullen and frowning, hai be- guiled the last quarter of an hour in drum- ming impatiently with his fingers-on the table, and anathematizing the dawdling propensities of womankind. Enid had barely time to bid the landlady good-by (the latter was a kind-hearted crea- ture, with daughters of her own, and bad been inclined to make much of the pretty little bride) when she was hurried away. During the journey Bertrand maintained almost per- fect silence, and Euid was not in a mood for conversation, Sunk back in a corner, she fell into a reverie, which lasted until Bertrand in- formed her they had arrived at their destina- tion. Very dreary and comfortless appeared .the house in Budd Street. Enid, who had no prae- tical acquaintance with poverty, shrunk back aghast at sight of the dark, narrow hall where Milly stood, with her coarse bib-apron, un- washed face and tangled bair, innocent of brush | and comb. Her husband took her hand and led her into the sitting-room, “Here is my wife, Penelope,” he said, care- lessly. Enid, in timid awe, raised her eyes to the
Page 18
A BITTER MISTAKE. tall, dark woman who towered far above her. To her Miss Heathcote looked harsh-featured, middle-aged, altogether unprepossessing, and different to the creature of her imagination; while Penelope regarded contemptuously the fragile form and fair, delicate face of the child- wife who bad already turned out a failure. “What a wife for Bertrand! A woman without beauty, manner—above all, without money!” was Penelope’s mental comment. There was no sisterly greeting, no kiss of welcome. Fenelope’s cold fingers just touched Enid’s hand, then, turning to a fair-haired, good-natured-looking young man who had risen on the bride's entrance from bisseat nsar Pene- lope’s, the introduction was formally made, “Mr. Walter Maxwell—Mrs. Heathcote.” “Delighted to make your acquaintance, madam! This isan agreeable surprise. I had no idea until ten minutes ago that my friend Bertrand had stolen a march upon us and got married,” He gave Enid’s hand a bearty sbake, and the poor girl's heart went out to him in silent grat- itude for his friendly reception, Under otber circumstances she might bave considered him ordinary in person and vulgar in manner; but at this moment she only noticed that he had a pleasant smile and that be surveyed her with an air of respectful admiration. * Milly will show you your room,” observed Penelope, coldly. ‘* You have come so unex- pectedly that I have had no time for prepara- tion; but I trust you are not over-particalar?”’ **Oh, no!” Enid glanced once more at the barsh, un- smiling countenance. Could this be the wo- man whom she had been promised would take her to her heart with more than sisterly affec- tion? Preceded by Milly, and followed by Bertrand grumbling, Enid ascended to the rovm recently occupied by old Ellerton. How little she guessed what strango influence had altered the tenor of her life! But for this man, whom ske had never seen, and whom she had heard of only in records of the past, which to her girlish fancy seemed as remote as if cen- turies had rolled away since all they told of had happened, she would have been still in Madame Ballville’s seminary, undisturbed by the atten- tion of Bertrand Heathcote. “A poor, white faced, delicate thing is Ber- trand’s wife, to my fancy!” observed Penelope to her betrothed when they were left alone, ‘‘T fear my brother will learn to repent bitterly his bargain,” “Tm sure I don’t know why you should think so,” replied Mr, Maxwell, ‘She seems a pretty little creature, and the color of her hair is posi- tively beautiful!” “T did not know that you admired fair wo- men!” said Penelope, coloring with anger. ‘Every man who is not blind must know a pretty woman when he sces her. And she looked quite trim and smart, too, with the blue ribbon in her hair, and a hat with a jaunty feather! I think, Pen, you must profit by your sister-in-law’s taste, and let her smarten you up a bit.” . Penelope bit her lips. ‘“*T thought you liked me as I am, Walter.” ‘So I do, of course, dear, or I should not have kept true to you all these years, Youare a clever woman, strong-minded, and an excel- lent mavager—just the partner a poor man should choose to help him fight the battle of life! Bertrand’s wife looks as if she must be petted aud cherished, or else the fairies would carry her away.” “You are growing quite poetical!” she re- marked, coldly. ‘You mean I am generally such a prosy fel- low. Well, never mind, Pen; we shall be well matched—a regular steady going, matter-of- fact couple!” Penelope did not answer. Her bosom was often greatly agitated by jealousy when Walter Maxwell (who, by the way, was several years younger than herself) expressed his approval of any other lady's charms; and now his praise of Enid had provoked a more angry feeling within her than she ever before had experi- enced, She could see the sharp contrast between the girl-wife and herself. And what was more, sho knew tbat Maxwell was conscious of it; and al- though he had clumsily attempted to pay her a compliment, it was plain that he regarded Enid as the more attractive and lovable of the two, Penelope from this moment began to hate her brother’s wife, CHAPTER VIL BROKEN TIES. Te cloud which hung over the little house- hold in Budd street on the evening when the bride came home showed no signs of disappear- ing; on the contrary, it rather threatened to increase in density and gloom. Bertrand, soured by disappointment, threw off altogether the mask under which his real character had been studiously concealed, and treated his wife with cruel negiect. Forgetting that his own greed for gold had wrought all the mischief, he vented upon her defenseless head the misfortunes he had en- countered in consequence of old Ejlerton’s du- plicity. In his own mind, though most un- justly, he blamed her for everything that had happened. He was in great financial straits, and instead of workiug at bis pictures to re- lieve himself, he wasted his time either in idly meditating over his troubles or searcbing for his former boarder. But as he could not afford to emply a detective, and in the city rer)
Page 19
A BITTER MISTAKE. 19 of Philadelphia there are many old gentlemen with gray beards, long white hair, and shabby brown coats, his quest was fruitless. More- over he was not now quite clear as to the ben- efits that might accrue should the search prove successful. Lionel Ellerton always seemed childish and weak-minded, and he bad in addition, some years before, suffered from a sunstroke, His appearance and style indicated poverty, and he could not forgive himself for the folly of listening to the inventions of an old man’s di-eased brain, Enid, in ber misery, had no sympathizing friend to offer her sympathy or support, since Penelope’s dislike was most pronounced, and Walter Maxwell dared only treat her with cold civility, for he dreaded greatly the dis- pleasure of his betrothed. After much anxious thought, Enid resolved to make an effort to restore happiness and unity between her husband and _ herself, Though she bad been married scarcely a month, yet a lifetime of sorrow was crowded into in that short period, How bitterly she repented her foolish step! To her mind already the conventual seclu- sion of Madame Belleville’s establishment seemed a Paradise as compared with her pres- ent abode, Bertrand was smcking in the dingy, bare, untidy-looking room he called his studio, when Enid timidly entered, <A glass of brandy-and- water stood beside him, which had been emptied and filled so many times in the course of the evening, that the effects, although not out- wardly perceptible, produced in him an acer- bity of temper, and raised up in his mind an exaggerated estimate of his own wrongs, which boded no good for the success of the young wife's mission, Indeed, she could hardly have selected a more inopportune moment, but with her inex- perience of mankind as represented by such worthless rogues as Bertrand Heathcote, she was not likely to perceive this until too late for remedy. The slight rustling made by her dress made him aware of her presence; yet he did not turn his head as she advanced to the faded lounge on which he half-reclined, and laid ber Land upon his shoulder. “Bertrand, I must speak with you; I can- not longer lead this life without telling you the suffering it costs me. In what have I dis- pleased you? Why am I treated with this persistent coldness and cruelty ?” ‘No reproaches, if you please,” he answered, turning upon her fiercely; ‘‘my temper will not stand them, It is enough ‘to be tied for life to a fretful, sad-faced girl, whose indiffer- ence for me equals mine for her, I will not be bored with her complaints,” “Why did you marry me?’ she asked, with indignation, ““Beeause I was an idiot, and thought—but that is vo matter. I made a terrible mistake, for which we must both suffer.” ‘You said you loved me,” she said, timidly. **T said anything that was likely to attain my end.” “You do not, then?” “Since you force me to speak, I must say no. I am not over susceptible; if ever I did care for any woman, it was for a certain hand- some, dark-eyed witch, who had a heart to give the man who should marry ber.” “ And you are shameless enough to confess that you love another?” ‘*'That speech does not come with a good grace from your lips, my young lady; you only married me out of pique, becanss you were so madly jealous of Mr. Basil Clifford. I mean to pay you off now for your want of taste, I was obliged to fawn and flatter, and tell lies by the dozen before I got you in my power, My turn bas corne at last. As for that young man, you may set. your mind at ease, for though it was rumored at Dalebury tbat Mrs, Ormesby was anxious to secure him asa hus- band for her daugbter, the gossips all allege that be showed no inclination fur gratifying her ambition.” “Then you have deceived me!” burst out Enid. A loud and mocking laugh was her only answer, Tu her despair, reproaches, wild and violent, were poured forth upon the man who had so deeply wronged her. From tbis moment she lost all fear of Bertrand, all restraint over her- self, and remembered only her wrecked life and her forfeiture of all happiness, These upbraidings exhausted the scanty rem- nant of Bertrand Heathcote’s patience. Pale with passion, he rose from his seat, and in another instant Enid was lying unconscious on the ground, felled by a stroke of his powerful arm, A strange sense of bewilderment, a feeling of weakness, then memory gradually returned, and like the vague fantastic images in a dream sprung up the recollection of the scene which had taken place in the studio, She was now in her own room, with the sun shining brightly in at the open window, and a bird, putting ber in mind of the feathered songsters that warbled among the trees near Sunnymead, perched on the window-sill, with his head on one side, and a knowing expression in his beady eyes, as if he wondered why she lay so still and pale, while the rest of the world were either at work or play. Penelope sat near her, darning stockings,
Page 20
20 A BITTER MISTAKE. Her lips were compressed and her countenance severe, Had the needle she was plying been a dagger making its way to the beart of a foe, she could scarcely have worn a more appro- priately tragic expression. Enid noticed all this, but she did not speak, for her head ached, and the sound of her own voice would, she fancied, make it worse. Bet- ter lie there, enjoying the brief interval of peace, until she must again take up her burden of care, It was not long, however, before Penelope finished ber stocking, and happening to glance at the bed, saw that the light of consciousness had returned to Enid’s eyes. She rose and ap- proached the bedside, “So you are better now? I was beginning to wonder when you would come round.” “Yes, I am better, Have I been ill long?’ ‘“‘Not more than a fortnight. You have had a kind of low fever, and were delirious most of the time. You had better. not talk before you take some nourishment.” Without the slightest show of tenderness, Penelope administered a few spoonfuls of some dark and greasy fluid, the product of Milly’s culinary skill, which was not at all calculated, eitber in taste or appearance, to tempt a sickly appetite. She preserved, meanwhile, the same grim and inflexible deportment, as if she were acting under mental protest, “1 fear that I have given you much trouble,” Enid said with hesitation, Miss Heathcote only sighed, but it was so deep-drawn and significant a sigh that words could not have been more expressive. She looked searchingly into the cold, set face; she wondered whether Penelope knew all that bad happened between her husband and herself, or whether she guessed the nature of that deadly breach, which no time or penitence could heal? ‘Where is your brother?” she asked at length; for worlds she could not at that moment call him husband. “T have not seen him since the night of your quarrel, Enid; you have driven him from home and to an untimely death!” A fit of trembling seized the poor girl, and she clasped her hands imploringly. “Penelope, do not speak so cruelly!” “T cannot hide the truth, Enid, even al- though it be unpleasant. Every one could see that Bertrand was not happy in bis married life. It might be either bis fault or yours—I am no judge of such matters, though naturally I take my brother’s side. One thing seems clear—your mutual dissensions have led him to a dreadful doom!” ‘“ Surely he is not dead?” cried Enid, wildly. ‘What else can I think when he disappears, and his hat and cane are found on the bank of the river.” ; There was a long silence. Enid, weakened by illness, could scarcely realize what Pene- lope’s words sought to convey. A great awe and horror fell upon her, ‘“You mean that Bertrand has committed self-destruction?” ~ “Spare me; I am his sister, and loved him better than his wife did,” said Penelope, coldly. “ He may live; we cannot tell ” “As he took no money, nor even a change of clothes, with him, you may easily imagine that he had no intention of journeying either by land orsea; while the articles found on the river’s bank are, to my mind, conclusive evi- dence of the fate that has befallen him.” She moved away from the bedside, as if she wished to say no more upon the subject, and Enid, stricken with awe rather than sorrow, lay quivering in every nerve. Tears at Jast relieved ber overcharged heart, and she wept until exhaustion caused her to fall into a state of half-sleep, half-stupor. As the days passed slowly away, Enid’s health slowly improved. Her youth and sound constitution triumphed over all disadvantages, and though ber spirits were depressed and her mind full of anxiety, she was wel! enough to leave her room and even to resume in a meas- ure her usual avocations. “Ts there any news?” she daily asked Pene- lope, to whom she clung in despair, notwith- standing that lady’s frigid and repulsive man- ner. The answer was always in the negafive. ‘‘Have you caused inquiries to be made? Perbaps the police cvuld help you to find Ber- trand, or, at least, give you some proof of his death,” urged Enid, one morning when her question bad received the same reply as usual. ‘Mr. Maxwell has done all that is needful.” “T thought he was away from the city just now, on business connected with the firm,” re- marked the girl, innocently, but that observa- tion roused Pene!ope’s displeasure. “You are mistaken, unless you are speaking out of pure vindictiveness. He has been exert- ing himself, although unsuccessfully, to. the ut- most in this melancholy affair; that is the reason we have not seen him lately.” “And the river has been dragged?’ hazard ed Enid, timidly. “ Have I not told you that Mr, Maxwell has spared me the painful duty of directing meas- ures for the recovery of the body and of listen- ing to detailed accounts of their failure in the searches which have been instituted? I wish you were as considerate, Every reasonable person must feel that all hope is over of Ber- trand’s safe return.” Enid sat grave and silent, troubled by a vague self-reproach. Could it possibly be, as Penelope affirmed, that she was in any way responsible for having sent the man to whom ~~
Page 21
— A BITTER MISTAKE. 21 she had given her hand at the altar to a sui- cide’s doom? Surely, in their last altercation, she had been more sinned against than sinning, She began, however, to realize that her con- duct had not been such as her now awakened conscience could approve. Putting aside the ingratitude and disobedience she had shown toward her aunt by eloping from the school where she placed her, nothing could excuse the step of forming a loveless marriage. It was wrong both to Bertrand and herself. But the past was irrevocable, as she acknowledged, with a sigh, and she had not yet begun to con- template the future. “Ts there not a particular style of dress for widows?” she began, with hesitation, thinking it. would be necessary to show at least the or- dinary outward signs of respect for the de- parted. ‘Have you ordered our mourning, Penelope?” ‘Mourning is expensive, and we are very poor. Your marriage has not been announced to your friends; therefore I advise you to keep it a profound secret, and return home without loss of time,” ° Enid stared at her in amazement. ‘‘But I cannot! My aunt will have learnt that I quitted Madame Belleville’s, and will re- quire an explanation.” “Tell her you were unhappy at school, so ran away and entered the service of a lady who brought you to Philadelphia.” Evidently Penelope had given some thought previously to the subject. ‘She would ask all kinds of questions, and I could not weave a tissue of falsehoods,” said Enid, disconsolately. * Then say whatever you please; but I give you fair warning you cannot remain here much longer.” ‘Ob, Penelope, what will become of me?” She was scarcely more than a child, and had always hitherto had a home, protection, and a due amount of the comforts if not luxuries of life. She now found heiself estranged from her friends, almost penniless, about to be cast from the shelter to which she clung, not be- cause she loved it, but because she dreaded being tbrown on the tender mercies of a cold world ever ready to neglect the claims of the poor and helpless, The prospect was appalling, and even Penelope’s hard heart was touched by her appeal. “You had better take my advice, and go back to Dalebury,” she said, in a gentler tone; “for you would find it difficult to get em- ployment without references. You might be suitable for a governess or companion if you were a few years older; but ladies are apt to make so many inquiries, which you might find it difficult to answer. But you must do some- thing, as my small stock of money has nearly run out. The landlord presses for rent, and threatens to seize the furniture, so we have no choice but to separate.” ‘What do you mean to do yourself, Pene- lope?” ‘‘Oh, I shall manage well enough. I may marry Water Maxwell. It is time I settled in life; or if we decide on waiting awhile longer, I could get au engagement as house- keeper. You have been brought up a useless fine lady; but my habits are active and in- dustrious, so I can always gain my living.” Enid, who was plunged for a time, in medi- tation, at length said, decisively, “It way be after all, best for me to return to Dalebury, where I bave several friends who will no doubt interest themselves on my bebalf; but I shall not disown my marriage.” Penelope's reddish-brown eyes seemed to emit sparks of fire. “You will repent your obstinacy,” she said, in a menacing tone. ‘Tam older than you, and have advised you for the best. Once let folks know that you eloped with Bertrand, and questions would be asked, disagceeable rumors circulated, and people might even doubt whether you were legally married.” “But I could show them my certificate,” said Enid, triumphantly. “TI have got it; at leest,”—recollectiug herself— not I, but Ber- trand took charge of it.” **T have looked carefully among my brother’s papers, without discovering the least trace of such a document. Do not imagine I wish to east the slightest slur upon his memory or your character; but it is unfortunate —very unfortunate.” This sounded terrible to Enid, who, like most girls of her age, was totally ignorant of all legal matters. Had she been older and wiser, she would have been aware that a copy of the cert ficate could be easily procured by application to the proper quarter; but not knowing this, she picturel the doubts and sneers with which aunt Ormesby would receive the intelligence that she was a wife and widow, without any proof except her bare word. She began to ponder over the advisability of con- cealing all about it. “Will you be ready to-morrow?’ asked Penelope. “There is a morning train at 12.30, which you bad better take to make a connection in New York. “Yes; I will go to-morrow,” she replied, meekly, “That is well. Whatever really has to be done is Jess troublesome when there is no un- necassary delay. If I were obliged to swim through a river, I would rather plange in at once than wait about shivering on the shore, Suspense is worse than reality.” In the prospect of her sister-in-law’s almost
Page 22
22 A BITTER MISTAKE, immediate departure, Penelope's spirits became lighter; and Enid soon after heard her speak- ing to Milly in the kitchen with a cheerfulness which was quite surprising in one who pro- fessed such deep regret for her brother’s un- timely end. When the day was drawing to a close, and twilight’s gray vail descended on the streets, Penelope assumed walking attire, and telling the little handmaiden she was going for a short stroll, and would return shortly, took her way out a country road, It was nearly dark, and the place looked comparatively deserted; but she had not pro- ceeded many yards when footsteps sounded be- hind her, and a man, wearing a broad-brim- med bat pulled down upon his brows, and a wrap round bis throat, arranged so as to bide the lower part of his face (although the weather was not cold), came up and touched heron the elbow. Tt was Bertrand. Penelope did not faint por scream, neither did she give vent to any rapturous expressions of joy; on the contrary, she seemed as little discomposed by his sudden appearance as if she expected to meet him, which perhaps she did. “Well, Penelope, what news? Have you spoken to Enid as | directed? Is there a chance of my getting rid of her without any unpleas- ant exposure?” “ She leaves for Dalebury to-morrow.” ‘Good news, indeed! And you really be- lieve she thinks me dead?” *¢ Tf she does not, it is no fault of mine.” “Thanks, Pen! You are a ciever woman and a stanch ally. Have you persuaded her to keep our marriage secret?” “T scarcely think I should have succeeded if you bad not prudently retained possession of the certificate. Armed with that knowledge, I was able to manage her.” “Then I am, to all intents and purposes, a free man once more, and not hampered with a dull, unloving wife, who would hang like a stone around my neck, dragging me down to ruin. As my creditors are troublesome, I am better out of the way. Perhaps I may emi- grate, and try my fortune in one of those happy places where money is made with greater ease and rapidity than in overcrowded cities.” Sanguine as ever, Bertrand. Will expe- rience never make you wise? Remember, you would not have fallen into this scrape bad you possessed common prudence.” “Don’t preach, Pen, I shall come out of it all not much the worse.” But the poor girl?” Even Bertrand’s hardened conscience felt a slight sting. ‘*T know she has been badly treated, If she loved me, I could not doit, base though my morals may be; but she only married me to spite that fellow down at Dalebury, and for aught I care he is welcome to her now.” After a few minutes more, spent in conver- sation, the brother and sister parted, and as Penelope wended her way homeward she mur- mured to herself, ‘‘Much as I love you, Ber- trand, I would not aid you in thus breaking your fetters if I did not feel that Enid’s baby- face and affected sweetness was winning from me the affection I prize above all else the world ean bestow. Walter’s eyes kindle with admi- ration when they gaze upon ber, while I sit by neglected. Let ber then depart and leave me the lover of my youth, whose allegiance to me never swerved until she came between bimy and me,” The autumnal sky was gray and chill, while asharp wind reminded those passengers who passed out cf Broad street depot, bound ona journey northeast, that summer*had departed and winter was drawing near with rapid, though stealthy strides. Enid, ensconced in a corner of a seat, of which she happened to be the sole occupant, put aside her vail to let the breeze play upon her face. She bad so long been immured in the close, dark bouse in Budd street that the pure air appeared to have the invigorating qualities of a reviving cordial, which refreshed her frame and raised her spirits. A faint rose-tint crept over her cheek, and her eyes iost their heaviness and languor as she was whirled onward from the smoke, and dust, and dirt of the city out into the open country, where the grass still looked fresh and green, though the trees began to lose their foliage. She did not wish to become dependent on her aunt’s bounty—if, indeed, that lady was willing to condone the past, which was more than doubtful. But Mrs. Brooke had shown ber great kindness, and was renowned for her untiring benevolence to all in whom she took an interest. b What was more likely, then, than that she should be able to find some situation for Enid, whether as teacher in a humble school, or an assistant in a store or work-room, where she might earn her bread honestly and keep her secret to the end? She had reached a station where the train stopped to take in more passengers, An old gentleman, with a long, gray beard, and rest- less, ligbt-blue eyes, was standing among others on the platform. He started as his glance fell on Enid’s face, and made all haste that his age and infirmity would permit to enter the car where she was seated. Once settled in the same seat, his scrutiny became almost embarrassing; yet such an expression of intense pleasure flitted over his countenance, he seemed so childishly happy in —_
Page 23
——s A BITTER MISTAKE. 23 scanning her thus curiously, that she scarcely could imagine him to be actuated by deliberate rudeness, Suddenly he stretched his trembling hand toward her, and as if obeying an irrepressible impulse, murmured: “ Enid Vere, bave you forgotten Lionel Ellerton?” A remembrance of nurse Rachel’s stories of bygone times like a ray of light began to dawn on the girl’s mind, By intuition she knew that her strong resemblance to one now moldering in the grave had brought back to her ques- tioner the vanished past, causing the aged man to forget the lapse of years, and to believe he saw before him the unforgotten love of his “youth, “T am Enid Lisle,” she said, gently, ‘‘ Re- member that Enid Vere, had she lived, would be an old woman now. Iam her grandchild, but I know who you are, for nurse Rachel has spoken of you often,” The shadows cleared from old Ellerton’s weak, bewildered brain, He knew he had found the girlin search of whom he was at this moment on his way to Dalebury. And here it may be as well to explain the motive which led this eccentric gentleman to leave the Heathcotes in so strange a manner, causing them to believe they had harbored an impostor. On the evening when, in a fit of unwonted confidence, he had chanced to communicate to Bertrand his intention of making Enid his heir- ess, he was struck by the expression of eager cupidity on the young man’s face while the latter listened to his narration, A feeling of regret that he had reposed so much trust in a comparative stranger, mingled with vague suspicions that the Heathcotes might devise some plan of robbing him (through his own imprudence they had become aware of the valuable property in his posses- sion), caused him to form a resolution not quite compatible with strict notions of honor, though Mr. Hilerton considered he was only using pro- per precautions. Bertrand would doubtless, so he thought, take Penelope into his confidence, and he deter- mined to overhear what was said upon the subject. Very softly be stole down stairs, and applied his ear to the crevice of the parlor door, By that time the brother and sister had been some minutes in conversation; but though too late to hear of the conspiracy against Enid, he gathered sufficient to warn him of danger in re- maining longer under their roof. “ |f bis frail life were all that stood between me and the wealth J crave, I have a presenti- ment he would not linger long.” This was what the old man had heard Ber- trand tell his sister, and no wonder he affixed to it a fearful significance, The next day Bertrand had left home—os- tensibly on business, but in reality to come mence his designs on the supposed heiress, Mr. Ellerton determined not to await bis re- turn; aud asa grim kind of practical joke, as wellas to prevent any chance of pursuit, he wrote the letter which entirely misled the Heathcotes, and substituted worthless imita- tions for real diamonds, Having thus in his own estimation turned the tables on his enemy, he quitted Budd street with all his valuables, and after awhile deter- mined to travel to Dalebury to make Enid’s acquaintance, He had once started on his journey, when excitement and unaccustomed exertion brought onan attack of illness. He had seemed in such a dangerous condition, that when the train reached the next station, he was removed by the railway officials to a hotel, where he Jay for weeks under medical treatment, thinking his last hour was at hand, But he had recovered, and was resuming once more his interrupted journey, when the sight of Enid made him her fellow-traveler, and resulted in mutual recognition, It may have been a proof of Mr. Ellerton’s eccentricity, or only the natural consequences of a passion cherished through life, but be who had ama-sed and hoarded a large fortune, be- grudging every quarter spent upon his own re- quirements, was now prepared to lavish wealth upon the girl who so forcibly reminded him of his early love, Enid was to be his adopted child, the joy and pride of his age. If she could only bear with an old man’s whims, and bestow on him some share of affection, he would be amply repaid for all the advantages he was ready to give. He told her of his disappointed youth and struggling manhood; bow at last, when age and infirmity stole upon him, and he could nolonger hope to add to his store, be returned to his na- tive land, and took up his residence with Ber- trand and his sister, nid’s heart sunk within her when hoe spoke of his recent sujourn beneath their roof, and the causes which led to its abrupt termination, “The man was a scoundrel—an assassin!” he concluded, with perhaps ° justifiable wrath. “Sooner than he should be enriched by me, I would have flung my money into the river, I can fathom now the depths of his mean nature, He suspected me to be rich, and tried to wbheedle himself into my favor; and when he found there was no chance of inheriting my gold, I believe he would have murdered me for the sake of the diamonds, I can only pray, Enid, my love, that he may never cross your path when Iam no more, for be is just the cring- ing, pitiful knave who would resort to any artifice or any crime for the sake of marrying an heiress,”
Page 24
She could not tell him now; the words died away on her cold Jips, a mist obscured the wrinkled, kindly face before her; but she un- derstood the plot to which she bad fallen a vic- tim, and its presumed failure. “Why need she speak? Bertrand was dead, so would never trouble her again; and Penelope, living in Cam- den, absorbed in her daily cares, need never Jearn that the despised girl whose marriage she pretended to doubt was prosperous and happy. What made her most uneasy was the thought of how to parry aunt Ormesby’s curiosity con- cerning events subsequent to her flight from school, which she had doubtless learned from Madame Belleville; but, as if in answer to ber uneasy reflections, at that moment her self- constituted guardian calmly inquired why sho was not wearing mourning for thse rector’s widow, whose death from bronchitis he bad seen announced in the newspaper some weeks ago. “T was very ill myself, child, then, and it grieved me more than I can tell to learn that you had lost your protectress and relative, while I was unable to beof any use. The news made me worse, and I had a kind of relapse, that left me quite prostrated for atime. But now I am strong again—at least, as strong as a man of seventy five can expect tobe; and it shall be my care that your new home shall not make you regret having left Sunnymead.” It was fortunate for Enid that Lionel Eller- ton’s intense satisfaction made him so excited and garrulous that he scarcely seemed to ex- pect her to take much part in the conversa- tion. When she briefly stated that being unhappy at the school, she left it without her aunt’s per- mission, and placed herself under the care of a lady who brought her to Poiladelphia, an in- vention prompted by Penelope, the old man rubbed his hands ard chuckled, applauding her spirit, and launched forth into reminiscences of his own school life and its exploits. Enid was grateful that be asked no particu- lars, not even the lady’s name, but at once took it for granted that she was only guilty of a girlish escspade, and was now returning to her friends at Dalebury. So the Rubicon was passed, and from hence- forth her short married life must be a folded page, never to be reopened to mortal eyes. CHAPTER VIII. SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. NEARLY a year had gone rapidly by since the meeting in the railway train. Summer was in its prime. On the outskirts of Newport the glorious sunshine (which perhaps played somewhat too warmly on narrow city streets A BITTER MISTAKE, or dusty country roads) was tempered by fresh breezes, which blew steadily landward. There, over the glittering waves, white winged gulls were skimming; an occasional pleasure yacht or fishing-smack, gliding over the broad ex- panse of waters, gave life and variety to the scene, while the intense blue of the sea was equaled only by the cloudless azure above, Two girls were walking down a narrow pathway leading from che cliffs to the beach, They were talking and laughing gayly, for the weather and scene were both exhilarating, and youth is quick to feel all outward influences, Besides, why should they not be bappy—being young, pretty, beloved and loving? The taller and darker of the two was attired in partial mourning; but the younger looked charming in a dainty costume of white serge, with a sailor hat resting on luxuriant braids of golden hair. The sea-breeze tinged her cheeks with unwonted color, and ber eyes were lumi- nous with hope and happiness. In the atmosphere of love, Enid had ripened into beauty far surpassing the promise of her girlhood. “Was I not right, Jessica, in persuading guardy to take Seaview Cottage? It is sucha dear, romantic place, and I am never so happy as when looking out upon the sea,” ““You are a fortunate girl to have every whim gratified. Mr. Ellerton seems never so happy as when ministering to your wishes. I wonier you can bring your mind to leave such a guardian even to marry Mr, Clifford.” “Tam not going to be married for a long time yet.” ‘But in your case there is no reason for de- lay, and he tells me heisgrowing impatient. I do not care much for a long engagement; al- though as regards Charlie Denham and myself, it is far more prudent to wait until his uncle takes him into partnership.” Charles Denham was a nephew of the prin- cipal banker if Dalebury, and the accepted suitor of Jessica St. Aubyn, who had long overcome her girlish predilection for Basil Clifford, “ After all, Jess, we may be married on the same day. I do not think Basil will disregard my desire to defer our wedding at least some months longer.” She was not smiling now, and her voice bore traces of sadness, She was thinking how little her friend Jessica suspected she was urging on the second nuptials of a ten months’ widow, There would have been no happier woman in the world than Enid could she have forgotten the past. The rich old gentleman who had adopted her as his daughter esteemed no lux- ury as being too rare, no dress or ornament as being too expensive, if they could only afford her pleasure. By his request Jessica bad been invited to reside with them as Enid’s friend
Page 25
A BITTER MISTAKE, 35 oe\ ts to aa eet oi ee and companion, a desire which she was nothing loth to gratify, for owing to her mother’s ex- travagauce she had been Jeft in rather strait- ened circumstances, and was very glad to find a home until Charlie was ready to begin bonse- keeping. The two girls, rid of Mrs. Ormes- by’s interference, lived harmoniously together, and were fast friends. Then, to complete Enid’s felicity, she re- ceived from Basil, soon after her return to Dalebury, an assurance that his heart was hers solely, and as he bad never contemplated mar- rying any other woman, she alone could make him happy. Mr. Ellerton approved the match; Enid her- self was more than willing. It was only that grim secret which upreared its shadowy form across the course of ‘‘true love ’—sometimes presenting the appearance of an insurmount- able barrier, sometimes receding almost out of | view in the golden mists of present happiness, -* There is Mr. Clifford on the lower ridge of rocks,” said Jessica, suddenly. ‘‘I dare say he is hunting for the rare specimens of sea-weed you were wishing for yesterday. He sees us and waves his hand. No doubt,’ smiling arch- ly, “it will not be long before he joins us.” Already was the young man leaping over the rocks toward them, He too was staying at this fashionable wa- tering-place, the attraction being in his case the society of -his fair betrothed. The young people walked and chatted to- gether until they remembered dinner hour, and discovered that Mr. Ellerton would bave rea- son to complain of their want of punctuality if they did not make great haste. While they.were returning up the path by which they had descended—a path so narrow that it allowed only two to walk abreast— Jessica, who knew from experience that a third party is not conducive to the happiness of lovers, tripped on lightly before them, and made her disappearance uhder the plea of dis- liking to be hurried while performing the im- portant duties of the toilet. Thus left alone together (Enid’s small band resting on his arm, her blue eyes upturned to his, and beaming with love and trust), Basil svized the opportunity of alluding to the sub- ject he had so much at heart. “Darling, when are we to take the vows which will bind us to tread life’s path side by side?” “Not yet, Basil—not yet.” “But why are you so obdurate, since you confess that you love me? Ob, Enid, it issweet to know that I am the first you ever.loved, and that when you are my wife I need not fear that the memories of some unfortunate rival will share your heart with me!” A pallor crept over her face. It was true she never loved Bertrand Heathcote, yet she a had been his wife; the ring he bad placed on her finger was even now reposing in a secret drawer of her writivg-desk, where she depos- | ited it on the morning of her departure from Camden. If Basil knew all this, how his con- fidence would be shaken! Never could he for- give her, or take her to his beart again. ‘““We are very happy now,” she faltered. ‘Why should we desire a change?” “Because until the knot is tied that shall unite us forever we never can feel certain that some cruel blast of fate may not drive us far asunder. I cannot forget what 1 suffered when you were at school in New York, I fancied you would be carried off by some one, and be lost to me.” “But you see that your presentiment was unreasonable. I came back to you again,” “Ah, yes!"if you bad not I should have be- come a misanthrope, hating the whole human race, and envying those lovers who were more fortunate than I.” “Then it is fortunate I saved you from such ; a fate?” She was trying to speak playfully, though every word he uttered gave a fresh sting to her already sorrow-punctured heart. “Tt was indeed fortunate!” he answered, in agrave tone. ‘* Nothing can be more sad than to see a man’s whole life wrecked through a disappointment in love, He may battle against his trouble, perhaps succeed in hiding every outward token of regret, and mingle in scenes of pleasure, apparently the gayest of the gay. He may at times pose as a cynic and an unin- terested spectator of the varied sceres which make or mar our lives. He may boast of bis bachelor freedom, and affect to scoff at his much-married comrades. Yet, Enid, how deeply ought we to pity one who lives and dies yearning for, yet unknowing, the sweetness of domestic ties—who has never clasped to bis heart as a wife the one faircreature who alone in all the world was endowed with the power to make him happy. “ Well, dearest,” he continued, after a short pause, “Jet us be grateful for the knowledge that our love will havea fortunate termination in matrimony. By the way, dearest, do you ever correspond with the lady who befriended you when—poor liitle waif!—you’ so sadly wanted a friend? You should write and tell her of your approaching marriage, Where is she living now? What is her name?” Eoid, with a hasty movement, withdrew her haod from his arm and walked on a little in ad- vance, “Do not let us speak of that time, Basil. The recollection of it is hateful! I suffered so much!” “TI have noticed, and so has Mr, Ellerton, how strongly you dislike talking upon the sub- ject. After all, itis only very natural; still,
Page 26
ie possible, I should have liked to be able to show my gratitude to this Mrs,—” She perceived that he paused, as if to afford her an opportunity to supply the name. “Mrs, John Smith,” she answered, quickly. “T bave lost ber address. It was somewhere in West Philadelphia. You must not be vexed with me, Basil. Iknow it was stupid, but I was so flurried at the time we parted.” “Poor child!” he said, compassionately. It was lucky he could not obtain a glimpse of her face at this moment, They reached the cottage—a handsome, roomy residence, surrounded by gardens and pleasure-grounds, part of which extendel to the beach. Mr. Ellerton only rented this place for the summer, while its owner was abroad. His permanent place of abode was to be at Clifford Hall. It would have seemed cruel to Basil to separate the old gentleman from his adopted child. At dinner and during the evening Enid was feverishly gay. A red spot burned on either cheek, and her laughter rippled forth so mer- rily that none guessed the uneasiness she really felt. To love, and yet to deceive—to be trust- ed, and yet to repay that trust with treachery, are actions alike repulsive and contemptible to all. So thought Enid, who began to perceive that to frankly confess her error and its conse- quent punishment, and not to betray the confi- dence of her lover, would have been a much wiser course to pursue. All this time Mr. Ellerton, who was not gifted with much power of penetration, was rejoiced over her apparently high spirits. “Why, child,” he said, laying his feeble hand upon her golden ‘head as she knelt beside him, ‘‘ your gayety is quite infectious! TI shall give you the name of ‘Little Sunbeam,’ for you shed light and cheerfulness everywhere around you!” It waslate when Basil rose to go. He was staying at one of tha hotels, for he did not care to take up his quarters for an indefini‘e period with Mr, Ellerton. The night was beautifully warm and fine. Only a passing cloud obscured the silver moon. The rich odor of many roses made the air heavy with perfume. The waves rippled on the sands with a soothing murmur. Enid could see the liquid undulations gleaming in the moonlight as she stepped with her lover through one of the long French windows out upon the garden-path. They lingered alittle on their way, as lovers are apt to do; then the gate was reached, the last good-byes were said, and Enid, after watch- ing the beloved and retreating form until it was long lost in the darkness, turned back to- ward the house, A BITTER MISTAKE. “So I have found you at last, Mrs. Bertrand Heathcote! I hope it will be a pleasant sur- prise to you to discover that you are not a widow, after all.” The harsh, mocking, yet familiar voice issued from the shadows cast by a large elm tree, under which, upon a rustic garden-seat, a slouching, ill-clad figure half reclined in the in- dolent fashion she remembered so well in con- nection with the man she believed to be dead and buried. It was not the fear of a ghostly visitant or haunting specter that made her heart sink and her limbs tremble. Sbe knew at once that her husband still lived, and that he had now come to claim her. “The pleasure of finding me again seems al- most too much for you, sweet Enid. Come and sit beside me; let us talk qwetly over our affairs.” He put his arm around her waist, and drew her down upon the seat. Perbaps it was as well that he did so, as otherwise she might have failen to the ground. ‘She told me you were dead,” moaned the uphappy girl. “Who? My sister Penelope? Then sho made a great mistake. You should not have believed her. In truth, my dear, after our little quarrel, I thought it wiser to keep out of the way for awhile, untilall unpleasantness bad blown over. When I returned, you had gone; and it is only lately that I discovered your good fortune in being the adopted child and the heiress of the wealthy Mr. Elierton.” “That knowledge has brought you here to- night,” she said, bitterly. ‘‘ You deserted me because I was poor and friendléss,” “My sweet girl, do not be hard upon your wedded lord, who desires a reconciliation, and will even forgive your unfaithfulness to his memory, as so recently evinced by the tender parting with Mr. Basil at the garden-gate.” “T know you now as you really are—the most base and contemptible of men!” she cried. “ Penelope doubted whether I was legally your wife, and if I am not, any attempt to fetter me again will be useless,” ‘Be under no uneasiness upon that score. We were lawfully united in the bonds of mat- rimony. The certificate is in my possession, to be produced for instant inspection if any one dares to cast suspicion on the fact. ful to provide myself with the document, think- ing that Mr, Ellerton and Basil Clifford would wish to see it before my claims were ad- mitted.” She was beginning to gain some measure of ber self.possession. To plead for mercy from this man would be to plead in vain, but she might appeal successfully to his self-in- terest, I was care- - —,
Page 27
—_, A BITTER MISTAKE, 22 a cr ‘Tf you wich me to be turned penniless from Mr. Ellerton’s door, without a chance of inber- iting the least share of his wealth, you will ab- ruptly proclaim our marriage,” she said, ironic- ally. “I do not kvow whether it would suit your finances to maintain a wife whose con- tempt for and hatred of her busband will be her only dowry.” He was about to speak when she silenced him with a gesture, “You think, perhaps, that my guardian would accept you as the husband of his heiress —that under judicious management he might be induced to receive you into his favor. You are deceived, Bertrand Heathcote! Mr. Eller- ton overheard, in the parlor at Budd street, a conversation between you and your sister which was never intended for bis ears, He learned your designs against him, and was able to judge correctly of your character. No money of his wil! ever, with his sanction, benefit you; andif he should discover the deception which, to my shame, I have practiced upon him, he will de- stroy the will which he bas made in my favor, and leave me to the misery and want which I deserve,” : Bertrand thoughtfully stroked his mustache, It was possible her views might be correct. “Perhaps he would pay me a handsome sum if I consent to keep out of the way,” he said, meditatively. ‘You ought to bave an immense influence over such a weak-minded old simple- ton as he is, and be able to mold him to your pleasure, although he was sharp enough to ‘spoil my little game,’” he added, recollecting himself. “You overrate my influence,” observed Enid, coldly, gaining courage from his per- plexity. “Look here, Enid,” he recommenced, after a long pause, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the ground. “Iam going to make a rational pro- posal, Sentiment and romance are not in my line, as you are aware, Now, I am regularly down upon my luck—never was worse off—so, on one condition, I will leave you in peace. Give me a written promise that three months hence you will pay me the sum of ten thousand dollars if I keep our mutual secret. With that paper in my pocket, and a few dollars for pres- ent necessities, I will set off for New York be- fore this time to-morrow.” “ Where am I to get the money, supposing I agree to your proposal?” “From your guardian, I should think, or ”— here he lifted his eyes to her for a brief scru- tiny of her face—‘ from Mr, Clifford. Why should you not marry bim, when I am out of the way, and, of course, be happy all your life after? As his wife, you will have plenty of money at your disposal, and then it would be worth your while to bestow a portion on me.” Enid had believed it impossible for Bertrand to descend to a lower depth in her estimation; yet now, when he made this shameless pro- posal, she folt that she had only imperfectly gauged the depravity of his vile nature, “Thank you,” she said, coolly. ‘I bave no taste for committing bigamy; still less would I cause an honorable man to sink into the de- graded condition of your slave and victim through my sin. I understand your aim clear- ly, and how skillfully you would work upon Basil’s love for me and bis regard for the honor of his name. Had you waited a little longer, we perhaps might have been in your power, but it is now my privilege and duty to save the man I love from sharing my own wretchedness and disgrace, Act as you please, Bertrand Heathcote; Mr. Clifford sball not be drawn into your toils through my wickedness, To-morrow I shall make bim understand I cannot be his wife, and shall bid him farewell forever!” He ground his teeth vindictively as he gazed at ber, and saw thet she meant every word that she uttered. “T will break your spirit yet, my lady!” he muttered. ‘‘As you confess you are my wife,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, ‘Tf will assert a husband’s authority. You roust either return tomy protecticn, or make it worth my while to Jeave you here. If you have no money, fetch me the diamonds which the old dolt that calls himself your guardian has given you.” {| would freely render up to you the mines of Golconda were they in my possession, if that would cause my being rid of you,” she cried, passionately. ‘But you are wrong; I have no diamonds,” “Old Ellerton told me that bis heiress should wear jewels which a duchess might envy. You are trifling with me, Enid. Beware! I ama desperate man, and will make you repent!” ‘*T have told the truth, The diamonds have not yet been through the jewelers hands; they were intended by Mr. Ellerton as his gift when—” “ You married Basil Clifford I suppose?” in- terrupted Bertrand, as she paused, ‘ As that ceremony is not likely ever to take place, I may as well have them myself.” ‘“They are not mine to give away. Mr. Ellerton keeps them, with other valuables, in the turret-chamber and he alone has the key.” “Enid! Enid!” cried Jessica’s voice, issuing from the direction of the house, ‘‘ where are you! Mr. Ellerton says you will take cold if you loiter any longer in the night-air.” “T must go,” murmured Enid, starting from the seat. ‘* What would she think if she saw me here?” “You must meet me here again at the same time to-morrow, or I will force my way into the house.”
Page 28
She broke away from bis grasp, and hurried into the house, where her guardian received her with mild expostulations on her impru- dence. Jessica was more energetic in her re- proaches, “T expect, Enid, you will awaken with an influenza to-morrow. It was thoughtless of Basil to detain you when you were wearing such a thin dress, and you had no shawl. You are shivering, too, and your lips look quite blue. It cannot be so warm out of doors as I fancied.” Enid made no attempt at self-defense, though she thought Jessica looked at her rather sus- piciously, CHAPTER IX. HIS LAST VENTURE. Ir was yet early on the following day when Enid sat alone on the beach gazing listlessly upon the foam-crested waves that advanced and receded with a soothing murmur, and scat- tered gayly-tinted seaweed or glistening psb- bles. How could she best break the news to Basil? What would he say? Above all, how would he bear this terrible downfall of his hopes—this cruel blow dealt by the hand he loved? These questions occupied ber mind, and evoked no satisfactory answer. But she must try to put aside, for that day at least, such depressing thoughts, and, like many others of her sex, wear a sunny smile to hide an aching heart. For it was Mr. Eller- ton’s birthday, and, at her own desire, a din- ner, followed by tableaux vivants, was to cele- brate the event, How light-hearted she had been while the preparations were in progress; helping Jessica and the others to choose the scenes and p'an the dresses; laughing sometimes at Basil’s awkwardness as stage-manager and general superintendent of rebearsals. Surety the thun- dercloud which burst yesterday effaced that bright, happy Enid from the face of crea- tion, leaving a dull listless shadow bearing her name, “nid, my darling,” cried Basil, who un- noticed had made down to the beach and now stood beside her, ‘Jessica told me I should find you here, Are you not rather cruyl to wander away alone, when every one at Sea- view Cottage is in the highest state of excite- ment, and your opinion is required on many points connected with to-night’s arrangements? Are you already tired out, love, that you look so grave?” His light tone jarred upon her nerves, A lump rose in her throat which would not dis- perse. Then hot tears gushed forth. ‘Dearest, are you ill? What has happened? Has any one vexed you?” he cried, in alarm and perplexity, as he took his seat beside her, A BITTER MISTAKE, There would be no better opportunity for speaking without fear of interruption, and the impulse came over her to postpone no longer her confession. ‘Basil, Iam very miserable, for I must say that which you will find hard to forgive, Remember, dear, whatever pain may be in- flicted by my words, it will recoil with tenfold power upon my own heart.” “ T could forgive you anything—everything!” he replied, wonderingly. ‘‘But, darling, you have never wronged me; you are the personi- fication of goodness and womanly sweetness, It cannot be”—struck by a sudden thought, while his face grew grave and anxious—“ that you have ceased to love me?” “‘T never loved you so dearly as at this mo- ment, when I am about to say that Ican never be your wife.” “You do not mean to say that you will break your promise?” “T dare not keep it. It should never have been made,” “ Wnidt? : “Ob, do ncé look at me so reproachfully! It is not thrvagh ecaprice or unkindness that I tell you we must part, but because my mad folly in tue past has placed a gulf between us,” * You must be dreaming, Wnid, or laboring under some strange delusion. I have known you from childhood, Your life has ever been pure and spotless.” He stopped abruptly, remembering Enid’s flight from the school, which had always ap- peared rather a mysterious proceeding to her friends at Dalebury. The letter in which Madame Belleville announced the news arrived at Suonymead on the day of Mrs. Ormesby’s unexpected decease, and was subsequently burned with other useless papers before being read, Yet, although it was supposed that only a short time elapsed between her disappear- ance from that select establishment and her arrival at Dalebury accompanied by Mr. Eller- ton, some spiteful rumors had been circulated, Then, Basil Clifford scornfully rejected them as venomous calumnies unworthy the trouble of a refutation; now, they recurred to his memory, “Tell me the worst | ; a am
Page 29
A BITTER MISTAKE, to muster courage to enable me to confess to you, but my heart failed me.” His stern look changed now into prefound compassion, ‘“‘Enid, Llove you so dearly that I cannot desert you. You will want’a friend—a bro- ther—to deal with this man, and to turn aside as well as may be his weapons of attack. No longer must I regard you as my betrothed, but I may still protect you as a sister.” He tried, though his efforts were not very successful, to inspire her with some degree of hop3 and cheertulness, and they at last decided that all further discussion on the topic should be reserved until the day, with its long-antici- pated festivities, was over. Toney could neither bear to disappoint Mr. Ellerton, as be had been looking forward with almost childish pleasure to seeing his dear Enid the central and most-admired figure of the brilliant entertainment. “Let us return to the house now,” said Basil, at length. ‘To-day we must show the courage of endurance for bis sake; to-morrow may show the necessity for action.” He pressed her hand, not with the lingering, caressing touch of a lover, but with the cordial clasp of a friend, and a'most in silence they walked up the path leading to the mansion, The drawing-room, glittering with light and gay with ladies’ bright attire, rung with plau- dits as the curtain disclosed each successive scene, mostly taken from Shakespeare’s plays or Sir Walter Scotit’s novels, interspersed with an occasional tableau from some old fairy tale, to give lightness and variety to the eutertain- ment, Everybody agreed that Enid had never looked more lovely. Whether she wore the rich dress of Amy Robsart, or the Venetian costume of .Desdemona, or the poor peasant dress of Cinderella waiting for ber fairy-god- | mother, ber beauty shone alike through each, and Mr. Ellerton rubbed his hands in unfeignea delight as his ears were greeted at every turn by praises of his adopted daughter. Jessica made an attractive Beatrice, while ‘Basil was a courtly Hari of Leicester; but though they had their share of admiration, the chief honors were reserved for Enid. There was a pensive shade upon her counte- nance, but which only served to enhance her beauty, and if noticed at all by the spectators, was imagined to be assumed for the more per- fect portrayal of the heroine she represented. ‘* Miss Lisle’s ability is perfectly wonderful,” said one lady tober friend, ‘She reveals none . of the self-consciousness and difficulty in keep- ing a composed countenance which usually mar attempts of this kind but thoroughly identifies herself with the character.” It was growing late, and the room was crowded to excess, for by Mr. Ellerton’s orders the servants were allowed to assemble behind the seats upon which the guests were ranged, so that they might see the final tableau of Cin- derella at the ball. Enid, in an exquisite dress of some gauzy white material, spangled with silver, took ber place in the front of the stage; and as the cur- tains drew slowly ayart, found her eyes fixed upon a sea of faces. Suddenly she saw, or thougbt she saw, among them the scowling visage of Bertrand Heathcote. It vanished immediately—so quick- ly that the thought occurred to her that her too vivid imagination had conjured up the person she most dreaded. The momentary shock, however, caused her to lose her presence of mind, Her countenance changed, and the hand which had been so gracetully outstretched was pressed to ber beating beart. “She was over-tired—perfectly cxhausted with excitement!” people said, as the crimson draperies closed hastily and hid her trom their view, At length all was over—the music, the com- pliments, the glare, the beat. Evid had re- ceived the congratulations and thanks of her friends with forced smiles, inwardly rejoicing when the last carriage drove away, She was soon at liberty to retire to her own chamber, weary both in body and mind. Yet she could not sleep, even when her maid had been cis- missed, and the profound silence reigning over the bouse hinted that all its other inmates save herself were sunk in slumber, She was haunt- ed by terrille thoughts, which she eculd not banish, Some misfortune was close at band, involving those she held dear. Bertrand, in his fiendish malice, wculd wreak vengeance not only on her, but also on Basil or upon ber guardian. Had she really teen him in the house that night, or was it an illusion? Even then a stealthy footstep seemed passing her door—a footstep that sounded familiar. Was that, too, only a fancy, or a strenge reality ? Unable to banish these vague alarms, she arose, hastily threw on her dressing-gown, and looked out. into the hall, The mocn sheda pale, ghastly light through the window oppo- site, but there were dark shadows which her sight could not penetrate. She listened, There was again the sound of some one moy- ing about cautiously and deliberately, and her eyes becciming accustomed to the partial dark- ness, she discerned— What was that? The figure of Bertrand Heathcote was surely gliding toward the room where Mr. Ellerton slept! Then she bad not been deceived when she thought she reccgnized her husband among the spectators of the last tableau. | She could not conceive for what purpose he , had come, or why he was now alert and wake-
Page 30
30 ful when others were sleeping; but as cne would instinctively distrust a wild and savage animal, she felt certain he was a dangerous man, and that he must be watched. She dared not raise an alarm—not so much ‘from fear for ber personal safety as from a de- sire to avoid the degradation she must endure if he claimed her before the assembled house- hold as bis wife, which he would doubtless do if driven to extremity. Quietly, therefore, she followed him, She was afraid to venture too near him, lest he should bear her steps and turn upon her. At last she saw a faint streak of light issuing through the crevice of the door, and she knew he had entered Mr. Ellerton’s apartment, She paused an instant, to nerve herself to meet the worst that could possibly happen. She now recollected having told Bertrand that the diamonds were kept in the turret-chamber, and she much repented of her folly. It was possible, she thought, he intended to secure the keys, of which her guardian always retained, pessession, and to rob him of the jewels. At all risks she must prevent his purpose, or she would be an accomplice in his guilt. Bertrand had left the deor open wide enough to admif her slender figure. She entered and stood at the threshold. There was her husband, bend- ing over the bed with a cushion upraised in his hands, contemplating his unconscious victim ere be pressed it with stifling violence upon his face. ‘“‘Help! help!” shrieked Enid, wildly. The unexpected sound startled the would-be assassin and awoke Mr. Ellerton, The old man, who had passed a lifetime in half-civilized countries, where it behoved him to be incessantly on his guard against the ‘at- tacks of desperadves, had never once for fifty years slept without a loaded revolver within easy reach. Awakening suddenly, he snatched up the weapon, and presented it full in the in- truder’s face. Bertrand was a coward, as most rogues are; and the sight of a loaded revolver, even in the feeble hand of Mr. Ellerton, and the cries for help which continued to echo throug the room and corridor, struck terror to his soul.’ Ignominiously he turned, and pushing aside his wife, while he uttered a fearful impreca- tion, fled toward the staircase, Basil Clifford who slept in the house that night, had, with Charles Deuham and several of the servants, been awakened by Enid’s cries, and they came hastening from all directions, Bertrand bad no time for reflection. He might still have made his terms with those who loved Enid. A murderer at heart, he feared for his own paltry life, and his theughts became merged into a wild desire to escape, While flying with the swiftness that fear gives, A BITTER MISTAKE, he missed his footing in the darkness, and fell headforemost down the long flight of marble steps. Lights were speedily brought, and he was discovered lying insensible and motionless. His skull was severely fractured, and his left arm broken, A surgeon was sent for, but long ere his ar- rival Bertrand Heathcote had expired, and Enid was indeed free! No one ever exactly knew how the would- be robber managed to conceal himself in the house so as to elude observation. Doubtless he had found it easy to obtain an entrance among the crowd of visitors, many of whom were strangers, who passed to and fro in the houss that evening. His principal design was to steal the diamonds, which he had always craved, and to attain that end he had provided himself with skeleton keys and other imple- ments used by professional burglars. But he was seized with a sudden temptation when he discovered how easily he could gain access to old Ellerton’s apartment. At once he saw that he might gratify bis spite against the man who had deceived him, and enrich himself for life. He would only have to wait until Enid secured her inheri- tance, when he should make himself its lawful possessor, So the cruel resolve was taken, The aged sleeper was sure to prove an easy victim, and the would-be murderer dared to hope his crime might be ascribed to the visitation of apo- plexy. Who will regret thaf such hopes were fallacious, or that Enid arrived just in time to save that venerable life? Some folks wondered why Enid’s marriage with Mr, Clifford was being deferred so long, and some of them uttered all sorts of dismal prophecies because a year had glided away without any preparations being made for a bridal festivity. But whatever people chose to imagine, no one save two persons kuew the true reason, or suspected that the death of the stranger who slept in the quiet churchyard near the sea had had anything to do with the puzzling mystery, Only Mr. Ellerton and Basil knew the his- tory of Enid’s error and bitter repentance; they only were aware that the man whom she had prevented from committing the crime of murder was her husband, She did not mourn him—who could?—but she forgave him, for no sensitive heart bears enmity against the dead, And although her widowhood was unknown to the world, she de- termined, witb Basil’s concurrence, to take no second vows until the fitting tribute of respect was paid, not to Bertrand, but to the promises once made at the altar, promises which she _-
Page 31
A BITTER MISTAKE, $1 now felt had been too lightly uttered and never rightly fulfilled. One lovely morning in early autumn, when the fields were yellow with ripened grain, and when nature wore the as; ect of a bounti- ful mother lavishing good gifts upon man- kind a gay procession drove up to the ivy- covered church, where there was solemnized a double marriage—Enid being at last uvited to ber faithful lover, and Jessica and Charlie Denham forming the second happy pair. Lionel Ellerton gave away the brides, His wedding present to Enid was a parure of diamonds. We must leave Mr. and Mrs, Clifford to their domestic felicity, and turn to a different picture. In the dreary garret of a tenement-house sits a gaunt, faded woman, whose hair is white as snow, although, judged by years, she is not old. It is Penelope Heathcote. The night is far s;ent, but she stitches pa- tiently on, for she cannot expect to taste food on the morrow unless that work is finished and carried to the fac'ory, where her task will re- ceive a scanty recompense. Weary and hope- less, she plies her needle, though her back aches and her eyes are dim, Where is Walter Maxwell, that be comes not to the aid of this forlorn creature, strug- gling so feebly for a bare subsistence? Alas for Penelope! her one friend has for- saken her! After Enid’s departure from Budd THE street frequent quarrels arose between the be- trothed pair. Penelope could not forgive her lover’s persistent inquiries after Be tiand’s young wife, or his almost openly-expressed disbelief in the disparaging tales by which she tried to deceive him. Yor the first time, he discovered her violent temper, and’ understood her jealous, exacting disposition, The process of disenchantment once begun, every meeting brought a new revelation, and almost before Penelope fully realized the dan- ger which her own conduct had raised up, Maxwell transferred his affeetions toa younger and a fairer rival, who eventually became his wife. . As to Rosetta Marsden, through whose ro- mantic folly Enie yartly owed her misfor- tunes, she has long since left school, and has married, It is noticeable with regard to this young lady, that since the consummation of the Jatter event she has lost all taste for match-making, and refers to Jove and lovers as ‘‘ delusions of the youthful mind;” from which we may infer that her choice of a husband has not been un- exceptionably fortunate. All is therefore now told; and it only re- mains to be remarked, finally, that if Evid’s error was great, it is now almost forgotten in the sunshine and happiness which illumines the path of her who committed such an error— Basil’s devoted wife—old Ellerton’s heiress, vy
Page 32
PUBLISHED EVERY TUESDAY. Waverley sist f WN / THIRTY-TWO OC% ‘AV O PAGES. 1 A, Bride of fy Day ; or, The Mystery of Winifred ; 46 The Three Sisters. By Alice Floming. . By | Crowell, 4; The Creole Sisters. By Mrs. Anna E. Porter. he True and the Falae., By SA Marriage of « D By Sura Claxton, . : she W o y an Lewis. q Collegians and Sweethearts. By ‘ , y Arabella Southworth, » Turner, M.D. Astray. 4 Married i y Rett Winwood. seas} or, Two Orphan Girls in New York. By & WIL She iti or, The Masked Bride, Albert W. Aiken, By Mrs. Mary Reed Cri The Maniac Bride, By Margaret Blount. 6 His Lawful Wife; or, Myra, the Child of Adop- Pledged to Marry. By Sra Claxton. tion. By Mis, Atin S. Stephens, | Cecil's Deceit. By Mrs. Jennie Davis Burton. 7 A Fatr Face}; or, Out in the World. By Bartley l. | 56 Beatrice, the Beautiful; or, His Second Love. Campbell. By Arubella Southworth. 8 A Mad Marriage; or, The Iron Will. By Mary Without Mercy. By Bartley T. Campbell. A. Denison. The Baronet’ Secret. By Sara Claxton. 9 A Daughter of Eves; or, Blinded by Love. By | 59 Agnes Hope, the Actress; or, the Romance of a Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. Kuby Ring, By Win, Mason tur er, M.D. 10 The Broken Betrothal; or, Love versus Hote A Widow's Wiles. By Rachel nhardt. By Mury Grace Hulpine. 31 Bid Me Love Her? By Pa Mey 7. Campb il, i The Bride of ot me ors 4 eA a from Home. Imoxt in Hix Power. By Lillinn Lovejoy. 3v the Author of * ve in the Wor ules : = 12 A Pair of Gray Eyes. By Row arivede » Did Not Love Him. | By Arabella South 18 Without a Heart. By Col. Prentiss Ingrahom, | ge 3 » Win. 14 Alone in the World; or. The Youn Maui's Ward, Raymor,, the. Wark, fle By .m By the Author of * The Bride of mn ctor,” ete., ete. 4 & Motherless; or, The Furmer’s Sweetheart. By Col. | 88 To graham, Secret Marriage. By Sara Claxton. ar against Sister; or, The Rivalry of Hearts, Irs. Mary Reed Cr i. § to Heart. | vbella Southworth, 9 Sold for Gold, By Mrs. M. V. Vict r. 20 Entangled; or, A Dangerous Games ly Henrietta Ts Altice Fleming. inna Dickens.. By Arabi oithworth, The Only Pavghbter. By Alive ning. Why I Married Him? By S ri Claxton. Honor Bound. by Lillian L y. A Man’« Sin, Py Rett Winwood, His Own Again, By Arabella Southworth, Adriy, the Adopted. } univ Davis Burton, A Brother’s Sin, Py hel Pernhardt. Eeccnause She Loved Him, — By Alice ue A ranee Marriage. By L linn Love) For the Woman He Loved, By Agnes M. Shilton. Forbidden Bans, By Arxbella Southw: rth. a . ee amning 25 The Country aGourtn. By bs ’ | aro, Sang Gre a secee nuctlh belt beh: Pte Badd Chowell.- aU cSiarra ree geet! | 3% A Woman's Witchery. By Sarw Claxion, 27 Flirtation 3 or, ‘i irl’s Good Name, By | A Scathing Orderl. Py Mrs. Georgiana Dickens, Jacob Abarbune traiph Royal), , Se ee ie Hepes = 28 Now and Forever; or, Why Did She Marry Hint? | | Uutx itted by Herself, By Asabs lia Southwortts. By Henrietta Thackeray. > What Jealousy Did. By Alice ming. 29 on, eon: the Orange Girl; or, the Lost Heir. | 86 A Woman’s Maneuver. By Lillian Lovejoy. Agile Penne : 80 Charlotte Temple. By Mrs. Rowson, | ®Y A Fateful Game. By Sara Claxton, 81 The en pee ffelress. By Mra. Mary 4, Denison, 8 A Ministering Angel. By Georgiana Dickens, 82 Leap ¥ ear; or, Why Sh “wed. By Sura Claxton. 4 sn a a\ Manin 88 In Spite of Herself’; or, Jvanetie’s Reparation, apna ne ged ee tn By S. R. Sherwood, uying a cart. y Lillian Lovejoy. 84 Wer FaceW «Her Fortune, By Eles ine. ’ ane . G » By Arubella Southwo BD The Cuba iress, By Mra, Me iy | si seeps nase § acy S u f a, Soukb oe orth 86 Only a Schoolmistress, By Arubell) nT Wwordiis Under a Cloud, ly Sara Claxton, 87 The Winged Messenger: or, Risking All for a The Cost ofa Felly, Py Georgia a Dickens. Heart. By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. a Me Nok 3B tas GOMES 88 Was She 2 vee ette? or, A Strange Courtship. ~ 4 Mk a RS ae ee yy Her ta ‘Thre Agy bia £9 One Woman's Heart. By George S. Kaime, \95 W Hin She Cost Him. By Arabella Southworth, 40 Love-Maid; or, Be pee a Married, Divorced and— y March 18. By Wm. Mason’Turner, M, D. E pens Tae Rape i; 41 For Ner Dear Sa .” By Sara Claxton. A, Bite Mistake By Agnes Mary Shelt n 42 The Bouquet Girl, By Agile Penne, . En iagg ~ 43 Mariana, the Prima Donna. by Arabella Southworth. Parted by eachery. By Harriet Irving, 44 The Ebon Mask; or, The Mysterious Guardian. Rendy Mare By Mrs. Mary Reed Crowell. 98 Tempted Through Love. By Lillian Lovejoy, 45 Lucy Temple. Daughter of Charlotte. | Ready April 6. te i Y- 21 Sybil € hase; or, The Gambler's Wife. By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, vr Not; or, A True Knight. By Margaret sg 7 potete terete tetoro ts) € 21 A Loyal Lover. By Arahe AFP AIP wn eae oe TheWaverley Library is for sale by all newsdealers, five cents per copy, or sent by mail on receipt of six cents each. Geadle and Adams, Pablishers, No. 98 William street, New York. PPA L LEP LPP LPL LI IIIA AN Ore